#rowhouses lifts

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

☈ your bones singing into mine ii

one - two

nikto x gen!bio-weapons engineer reader (no use of y/n) 3.4k words cw: honestly just the relationship being dysfunctional, also like warlord sugar daddy overtones, but that's just how this cookie is gonna crumble Nikto has swept you out of the darkness, and into an intact world burning full of ugly lights. He meets your every need as you work to create weapons to supply him an armory of shock and awe. He buys for you a place in Bruges, a rowhouse right on the water, and your only desire is a romantic dinner with him. He does not have it within himself to deny you.

Nikto brings you out into a world that is bright and burning, but mostly whole. He tells you that things are tied on a shoestring of balance, that any strong enough blow of breeze could tip the whole house of cards, and he has a look in his eyes that names himself typhoon. 

He is one of the most complex and deeply locked men you have ever met in your life, and you have met a great many men with secrets that could turn cities into subatomic particles in a blinding flash of a second. He wants to father a new world, a savage paradise, and, yet, he holds you in the palm of his velvet-covered iron fist as his finest treasure.

Penthouses are cleared out for you–places high in the sky, in any number of cities, so far away from the ground and the dark. He pours money into your comfort like hemorrhaging, and he cares not that his funds bleed, because he can always dump more into the wound. 

It’s a wound he wants to sustain, because he likes to see you clean, and comfortable, and sparking electricity as you work. He provides makeshift, mobile labs for you. Thousands upon thousands of dollars for computers, and programs, and security. Though he lifts you into the light, he makes you a small space of darkness, allowing you to run and return to your work.

He begins to call you Spider, or Pauk, depending on whether his English is dropping your name like a threat, or if his Russian is soft and trying to entreat you.

There is a place in Bruges, right on the water, that he pulls together for you. It is smaller than your other hideaways, cozier. Bulb-lit with warm wooden flooring and tall walls. He walks stiffly through the halls, watching for your reaction, and his shoulders relax when you turn from the window watching boats on the water to give him your cracked grin. 

“It’s out of a book,” you say, “the buildings are such bright colors. How is this real?”

“It’s always been this way here,” he tells you. He shuffles a moment, bringing his clasped hands from his back to his front, before he adds quietly, “We’re glad that you…find it acceptable here.”

Surely he is remembering the blocs he grew up on, all the colorless brutalist construction from the Soviet era. Houses for workers, starvation in the streets. You wonder if his place had heriz rugs all over the floors, to insulate sound and cushion steps and provide color. 

You press your fingertips into the cool glass, looking at him, wondering about him. You’d like to see his face, though he’s told you that it is a nightmare. You’d like to kiss him. You know he loves you, just as you love him.

“It’s perfect. I’m going to like it here,” you tell him, and your heart swells and patters when his shoulders raise a little bit, proud of himself for his pick. With his hidden face, you’ve become an expert in his body language. All his little tells become clear to you, the more time you spend with him.

He is slow with you, cautious. Not as if approaching a wild animal, he would never treat you with such base suspicion and wariness, but as if he is the animal, well-aware of exactly how powerful his bite is. He treasures you too much to damage you. 

Such brutality is held within this many-faceted man, vast and damning. He is a gentleman though, through accident or practice, and he puts that hardwork into effect with you.

It causes you to make the first move most of the time. 

“I want you to have dinner with me tonight,” you say, tapping your fingers against the glass, feeling the condensation cling to your fingerprints. 

He shakes his head. “Your value is too high for us to allow you out of the flat, Pauk,” he says gently, misunderstanding, as if reminding you. There are so many beautiful homes he has carved out for you, but you’ve never stepped foot outside of them. 

He thinks you want to, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The reality is that you are brimming with hatred at the fact it still stands. That your suffering was for nothing, and the apocalypse still lies dormant but rumbling, a stalled birth. You love your closed spaces and your blackout curtains that hide the world and your tall walls and bright lights.

“We can have something ordered and brought to you,” he continues, trying to soothe the blow that never landed.

A grunt of annoyance snaps out of your throat, hand pressing flat to the glass. “Nooo,” you draw out, turning to face him in full. “I want you all to eat here, with me. Only us, none of the guards making all that fucking noise with their heavy boots. And I want to pretend that we’re all just having a nice night. And there are no contagions or stadiums or belt-fed guns.”

In shame, his head drops a degree, arms tightening in front of him. The supple leather of his gloves creak. “Apologies, Pauk.” His head remains that one slice lower, but his eyes flicker up like a bird’s from beneath his rippy lashes. “We…” he pauses, trying to formulate the words, “we will put that together. For you. What do you want to eat?”

Your hand comes away from the glass, and you press your palms together like a prayer, holding the sides of your hands to your lips. “I want something bloody and buttery. Something good made by someone that doesn’t love me.”

A small noise like a laugh sounds behind his heavy mask, and his neck relaxes. It puts together a picture of thought: it’s a good thing we do not cook for you, then. “We will find something.”

+

Neither of you cook. It’s a sad reality. You were too built up for epidemiology and plague-practitioning to have the room or time to learn the skill, and Nikto readily admits that he’d long ago lost his sense of smell. “Nova gas,” he explained, funnily enough. “That was your grandfather’s work, yes?” It was. He and his team. You are a legacy leper-making, just like God and all of his followers.

The sun has settled fully in the city of Bruges, and the light of street lamps, the running lights of boats on the water, and fairy lights around shopfronts make the water glitter. It is warm here, with all the brick and cobblestone soaking up the yellow light, and for once you are fine with the curtains open.

Nikto has spoiled you rotten with clothing, all of it fine and soft and rich. You dress comfortably, beautifully, and wander the flat, looking over things leftover from past tenants, waiting on his return. He always leaves you with a guard when he is gone, and tonight it is a short but sturdy woman from Montenegro who does not speak. She sits on the small leather couch in the living room, reading a book with horses on the cover, rifle across her lap. You do not bother her, but you cannot wait for her to leave.

When Nikto arrives, it’s with yet another guard, this one in plainclothes, carrying two large paper bags in their arms. It’s always seemed funny to you that he just goes out in the mask, nightmare beneath it or not, and that people must have reactions in public. But, you don’t think Nikto travels anywhere that people would dare comment on it. He has lackeys for embarrassing, mundane duties. 

He takes the bags from the second guard, and dismisses the woman on the couch, letting you approach to lock the deadbolts on the back of the door when they’re out. It is your comfort and your right, he will not interfere with it.

Meeting his eyes, you grin a cracked grin at him. “Smells good. What is it? What was the restaurant called?”

He makes another laugh-noise, looking skin-close to bashful. “We do not know. We sent Dejanović to get it, he knows the city.” He peers into the bag. “He said foreign dignitaries enjoyed the place. We don’t feel like that always speaks well to quality.”

You try to take the bag into your hands, but his arm tightens. He does not like you doing menial tasks. He likes it only when you are free to tend to your work and whims. It is much preferable to him that your needs are met, and he is glad to tend to those tasks when he is with you.

“If it’s all rot and garbage, we can make zakuski instead, and wash it down with vodka,” you tell him, swaying a little, hoping the promise pleases him. “Tahumi brought me a can of caviar, and even found a mother-of-pearl spoon for it.”

His eyes grow hard at the mention of Tahumi giving you a gift. That is another thing that heckles him. He does not like others knowing about you, much less providing for you. That is his honor, and an honor he thinks it is.

Your mouth starts to curl. “Don’t eat yourself with knots,” you instruct him, but his eyes only grow harder, his posture stiffer. “I wanted it, and Tahumi saw it, and he bought it. He did it to please you, because you are so here-and-there with your underlings. Your favor can’t be curried because it doesn’t exist.”

“They are warm, walking corpses, and nothing more,” he says, stone-solid, cold. “We don’t need them for anything more than catching bullets and carrying out orders. You are not a tool to buy their way into security. There is none, and you–you’re–” 

He turns his head and breathes out hard. His body is held so tightly it paints pain on the walls behind him. His molars squeak as they grind together, trying to collect himself, but he is upset.

“Andryu,” you say, pulling his diminutives, trying to pluck the chords that will bring him back to you. You bend your body to swerve, attempting to capture his eyes. “Andryusha.”

There is a little break in the armor, a crack where you can push your fingers in, to find contact with him. There is a little light in his eyes. “We cannot allow you to be taken advantage of. Your wholeness is…” he trails off, struggling, and you provide him the territory to prowl, find his words. He turns and meets your eyes, and there is his passion. “Our last shred of warmth is you. If you are pained, or used, or discarded–it is a blow that would destroy the last human thing in us.”

And, here, your scant humanity answers his. You fold, slope, ease. You nod in agreement. “I know, Andryu, I do. But all of you know where my loyalties lie. You know I wouldn’t hesitate to find you if I felt targeted.” You want so horrendously to reach out and touch him, but you don’t. You have to allow him to initiate, otherwise he cannot handle it. “My lot is in your lot. I go where you go. Everyone else is a corpse that forgot to lie down and die.”

Using his language in ways that he understands it unlocks him to you. His gloved hand comes up, hovering just to the side of your jaw. But he doesn’t touch, he only traces the air in a line down the bone structure. 

+

He allows—or, rather, you give him no in allowing you to stand in the kitchen as he unpacks your meals to plate. It could be call an awkward affair, if either of you had the social graces to register that feeling in your minds. 

He’s taken his gloves off and swatted at your hand trying to take the paper bag for recycling, giving you a sharp look borne of the love he holds. Again, not allowed to lift a finger. 

There are faded Cyrillic characters tattooed across his knuckles, the black ink bloated and faded to blue. SOS across three fingers: either spasi, otets, syna or Suki Otnyali Svobodu. Save me, father, your son. Bitches robbed my freedom. 

He’s never told you which in specific, though he’s offered both as options. Tattoos are carved into so much of his skin, and he’s given you brief walking tours of them when he’s stripped down enough for them to appear. A warping on Russian prison tattoos, repurposed for the Spetsnaz. 

Epaulets on his shoulders—horses die from work. Devils just below those, oskals, hatred of authority. ‘I Fuck Poverty and Misfortune’ in Cyrillic, riding his Adonis belt. A lighthouse on his forearm, yearning for freedom. His skin tells his story, hard-lived, a language known to few. 

His plating skills are what cause him minor self-consciousness. He’s not an artistic man, and he has no eye for aesthetics. The blood-rare ribeyes are just placed and pushed to one side of the plate, crumbled blue cheese dumped artlessly on top. Creamed potatoes end up slopping over roasted asparagus, and he growls in his throat, frustrated. He is trying incredibly hard to make it pleasing. The more he moves it around, trying to be careful, the worse it looks. 

He wouldn’t care if it was solely for him. His frustration is because you will not be eating something pretty. In his mind, the only things you deserve are pretty and perfect. 

His hands stop fussing, resting on the edge of the counter, glaring down at the plates. “It looks like shit,” he renders his verdict. It sounds like he is considering throwing it away and ordering something else.

“Pelmeni look like shit. So does poutine. But it all tastes good, so we still eat it,” you push back. “No one eats shiny plastic or tinsel.”

He grunts again. “People eat shiny plastic and tinsel all the time, because they are fucking stupid.”

“If any of you are insinuating that any of us are fucking stupid, you’re being a fucking child.” Despite the content of your words, it is not said with heat. It is an olive branch, trying to reach him across the expanse of his dissatisfaction. You’re not sure you’ve made contact until his fingers start tapping on the counter, and he hums Krokodil Gena’s Birthday Song deep in his chest. He is calming, rectifying reality with himself. 

After a few, long moments, he picks up the plates, nodding at you, and carries them to the dining table outside the kitchen. It is situated in front of a set of big picture windows that he honestly does not like you standing near, ever, but it is for the sake of the evening. He sets your plate down, and pulls out your chair for you, before he seats himself. There are already sets of silverware and water on the table. A bottle of vodka, and two small glasses to drink from. 

You start by pouring two sips of vodka, offering him one. A toast falls out of your mouth, unthinking, and he clinks your glasses together in agreement. When you put your shot back, he hands you his glass, and you shoot that, as well. He has not removed his mask. He will not. But he overturns his glass next to yours.

It’s an odd affair, how the meal goes. Conversation picks up, on plans and your work, on the state of the world as it stands. That will run out, and you will both turn to other topics. Books, movies, cars. Oh, Nikto has such a soft spot for cars–he could talk about them from dusk until dawn. Luxury cars, supercars, performance and rally cars, working vehicles, even an astonishing breadth of consumer cars. He has opinions that stretch the globe, and you soak it up like a dry sponge. 

The oddest thing is that you eat, and he does not. He keeps his hands resting on either side of his plate, guarding it as if he was a prisoner, but he does not once touch his silverware. He won’t eat in front of anyone. He can’t, not without taking the mask off. It’s something he didn’t have to explain to you, you just understood it by studying his patterns. It’s something that made him even softer toward you. 

You finish, part of your steak left–you intend to slice it up and put it on some grilled crusty bread with piles of caramelized onions later–resting your fork and your knife on the edge of your plate. “That was good. Despite the dignitaries and dog shit. I want a copy of their menu, to tear up and eat bit by bit. I want all of you to have more dates with me, this one dripped romantic. All the seams were splitting up, and it went drop by drop by drop.”

“Date?” he queries, looking at you across the table as he reaches for your plate.

“Date.” You nod once, emphatically.

He shudders, smothering something that sounds like a sigh, averting his eyes. “We…will make sure there is a menu for you, next time,” he starts, unphased by your request. “Roses, if you like.”

You shake your head. “No use for roses, they wilt and die. Flowers all-wilted smell like the dark parts of the bunker, and my stomach eats and eats away at me because of that smell.”  You send an apologetic look across the table, thinking. “I’ll take tokens in trinkets. Whenever you bring me jewelry, I don’t take it off.”

As if in example, you pull up your sleeves, showing him the bracelets he’s brought you, left for your discovery on desktops and dressers. Next, you tug at your collar, showing him a pile of necklaces. 

His fingers twitch, looking at you helplessly. Not even he can prevent the swallow that goes down his throat, when he sees that you hoard the fine things he brings back for you.

Another long moment passes, and he is hoarse when he agrees, “Jewelry. We will bring you jewelry, then.”

In as much of a rush as you’ve ever seen him, he collects your dishes, and the bottle of vodka, storming back through the kitchen door. It doesn’t latch behind him, and you know he will be a while. It feels dirty, destructive and found and deceitful, but you sneak up to the crack, wanting to watch him.

His back is turned, his mask removed. Hair so deep in darkness it shines white under lights sticks up from his head at all angles, some of it missing from the side of his skull, along with an ear. He eats quickly, in clipped bites, gorging himself, stopping only to tip back the vodka bottle. It’s almost an ugly display, brutal necessity, and you know as well as you know the own pounding of your heart that he is uncomfortable, that he hates this. He hates to be bare.

You cannot see his face, and you would not try to see it. You want to see it someday, and that will only happen when he is ready to show you. You will not steal that freedom from him. You will not sneak looks when he is unawares. It is the same courtesy he has afforded you, and you are hellbent to pay it back in kind.

With that prickling your skin, you back away from the door, allowing him his needs. 

When he returns, sitting next to you on the couch, he is warmed-through and softened by the alcohol and food. He takes hold of your ankle, pulling it into his lap, rubbing the knob of your bone with his bare fingers. His masked head tips back, resting against the back of the couch, and he heaves a heavy sigh.

Your stomach clenches, and your heart races. There is so much love between the two of you, so impossibly massive that it cannot ever be feasibly dealt with, and that is something you are fine with when his eyes meet yours in a crinkled smile. 

Perhaps your union will kill the world as it stands, but you don’t particularly mind. His hands are warm against your bones, reaching deeper than any other human possibly could, and he looks at you as if you are his only purpose in life, even if that is not true.

“Andryusha,” you greet him quietly, turning your leg in his touch so he can have more skin.

Another small noise, pleasure, and he rubs deeper, followed by a soft, heartsick request, “Say it again, Paukya.”

[rullakebu]

Soft punishment (F/M, Tickling, Fur fetish)

"I guess this is it", Tom thought to himself when he reached the foot of the two-story rowhouse. This address was supposed to undergo a small-scale renovation, and the day's agenda was to take pictures of the inside of the apartments for the project.

He read the name on the door of the first apartment: Cassidy. Tom knocked lightly on the apartment door, and a gently smiling woman opened the door. The woman was about fifty, a brown-haired beauty with blue eyes. She wore a white mohair sweater and relaxed jeans, creating a carefree yet stylish look. Her face was decorated with glasses.

"Hello", the woman greeted kindly.

"Hi there. I’m supposed to come in there to look at places for the renovation", Tom stated a little shyly.

Tom was only in his twenties, but had taken a liking to older women. Tom thought the experience and elegance they bring was sexy. The woman was also wearing mohair, which was one of Tom's fetishes. He felt a pulse downstairs, but still managed to pull himself together so as not to be embarrassingly exposed.

"Yeah, come in", she answered.

Tom entered the house and the woman closed the door behind her.

"Somehow that young man seems nervous, cute," Miss Cassidy said and bit her lip.

"I-I-I hope I'm not a nuisance, Miss Cassidy", Tom apologized.

“Call me Isabel. Not at all. Pretend I wasn't here at all," the woman smiled and winked.

Tom photographed all the rooms downstairs and it was time to move upstairs. It seemed that the bedroom was the first door on the left. That's where Tom decided to start.

He opened the door and entered the bedroom. The room was bright and spacious, soft daylight flooded in from the large windows. There was a stylish bedspread on top of the bed and a few decorative pillows completed the look of the room. There was also a fur rug at the head of the bed that looked like it was real. Tom approached the bed and touched the rug with his hand. It was genuine and impossibly soft. The investigating man felt the flow again downstairs as the fur fetish was unleashed in Tom's head.

He glanced to the left and noticed a large wardrobe. Tom looked towards the door to make sure Isabel hadn't come. Tom slowly walked to the wardrobe and opened it. Tom couldn't believe his eyes. The closet was filled with the softest furs and accessories he had ever seen. There were fur coats, soft stoles, a fluffy boa and mohair clothes.

Tom started stroking them all eagerly. This was the best day ever.

"Do you like what you see?" a woman's voice came from the door.

Tom quickly turned and turned ghost white. He froze and couldn't get the words out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried. The sly woman smiled as she leaned against the door frame.

"Now don't be quiet," Isabel laughed and started walking towards Tom.

She reached into the closet and started stroking the furs herself. Tom's heart pounded like a marching band bouncing to the beat in his chest as she looked at him again. His throat felt dry, and he clenched her hands nervously.

"Yes, I like... I really like them," Tom stuttered at last, trying to keep his voice even and restrained.

Isabel looked at him, a small twinkle playing in her eyes, which made Tom's emotions go haywire. "Aren't they lovely?" she said, pulling the soft fur closer to examine it more closely. She put on a coat made of silver fox and stroked the coat. Tom's crotch really started to tingle when he saw the soft coat on Isabel.

"Fox is the best kind of fur of all," the woman stated.

She reached into the closet and pulled out a double sided blue fox stole. She threw it around Tom's neck and began to pull the ends one by one. Soft warm fur tickled Tom's neck as the silky fur stroked back and forth. Tom got chills and shivered clearly. Isabel giggled and lifted the stole from Tom's neck and put it on herself.

Tom's erection was really hard to hide anymore. The young man noticed and quickly blushed. Isabel moved her gaze to Tom's lower body and by chance her hand swayed to touch the bulge in his jeans.

"You really like furs, don't you?" she whispered in Tom's ear.

The warm breath gave Tom goosebumps.

"Y-y-yeah," he nodded.

The woman laughed and grabbed the end of the stole. She picked it up and tickled Tom's chin with it.

She whispered again in Tom's ear:

"What if... you take off your clothes... and we find out how soft my fur is?"

Tom froze as hard as a rock and shook in place.

"Well?" the woman inquired.

Tom undressed, his member standing there, begging for attention. The fur-clad beauty walked behind him and pushed him onto the bed.

"Put your feet and arms straight," Isabel ordered. Her voice was sensual and soft, yet commanding and domineering.

Tom did as ordered and the woman attached them to the already installed ropes. When she finally caught them, she sat on top of Tom and started stroking his sides with the soft sleeves of the coat. Tom's whole body tingled as the silky tickle of the fur caressed him gently.

"Hmm, I have more in store for you", Isabel whispered.

"Tell me of course," Tom answered.

Isabel moved her hands to Tom's armpits and began to caress them gently. The surprisingly intense feeling made Tom giggle.

"Did you really think I wouldn't punish you for snooping into my stuff?" she looked serious now.

She began to skitter her nails in Tom's armpits faster. Tom's muffled snickering now turned into laughter as the woman's nails began to tickle in earnest. The surprised man began to wiggle in his bonds, but they were tight, and the tickling Venus in furs sitting on top of him didn't make moving any easier.

“WHAHAHAHAHAHAT? LET ME GOHOHOHOHOHOHO!” Tom commanded.

"I don't think so. You should learn not to snoop around. Tickle tickle tickle!” Isabel teased.

The tickler now moved her hands to Tom's sides. Claws skittered around the sensitive skin, causing Tom to shriek and squirm in desperation. When would this torture end? Tom was afraid that he would never get an answer. He would die laughing when Isabel wouldn't stop tickling him in time.

The tickler decided to mix things up and moved one hand to tickle Tom's stomach while the other remained at his side.

"NO! NO! STOP IT! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Tom prayed.

"Poor you, you’re so terribly ticklish. Luckily, all you have to do is laugh. Oh, and we can't leave the other side jealous, can we?" the tickler replied and switched hands.

Isabel watched Tom's reaction with a smile, as if enjoying his suffering. There was a playful twinkle in her eyes and she looked completely devoted to tickling Tom to no end.

As Tom tried to squirm and pull away, the fur-clad tickle demon only added to the tickling, her fingers tickling Tom's sensitive spots. However, she stopped in the middle of everything.

"Don't go anywhere," she said gently, glancing behind him.

Tom held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next. His heart was still pounding and he was breathing heavily from the tickling torture as Isabel walked over to the closet. She dug for something and took out a box and a mohair scarf.

After a while, Isabel returned with the things, which she placed at the end of the bed. She opened the box and took out a feather duster. Isabel wiped it against her palm and winked at Tom. The woman sat down on the bed and moved to lay down next to him. She reached under Tom's neck and arm so that his head rested on the coat sleeve and her hand was near his armpit. Tom glanced at Isabel, who was smiling slyly and waving the duster in her hand.

Isabel began to tickle the armpit and brush the oh-so-soft duster around Tom's sensitive exposed skin. The soft touch of the ostrich's feathers felt wonderful, but it admittedly really tickled. The duster combined with the chaos wreaked by the claws in Tom's armpit created a powerful tickling combo that would make anyone squirm.

Tom soon felt the feathers coming close to his inner thighs. Despite the tickling, Tom's erection had not subsided at all. Soft feathers covered Tom's genitals as Isabel chose her next tickle target. Tom's sounds turned into a mixture of laughter and moans as the soft caress of the duster caused him immense pleasure.

"Tickle tickle," Isabel whispered and blew into Tom's ear.

Tom's crotch disappeared into a sea of soft feathers as Isabel tickled him and tickled him. Tom felt he was close. He wouldn't need much more and just as he was done, Isabel stopped as if at a wall and moved the wand aside.

"Please! Please!” Tom asked.

Isabel just giggled to herself and moved back to the box. She picked up the soft mohair scarf and stroked Tom's cheek with it before tying it over his eyes. Isabel's whispers and tickling made his body vibrate with desire. He was like a bow stretched to its limit waiting to be released. But at the same time, confused thoughts were running through his mind, it was hard for him to focus on anything other than the tickling and the impending climax.

When the mohair scarf was placed over his eyes, Tom was in the embrace of darkness for a moment. But at the same time, he felt even more sensitive and vulnerable to anything Isabel was willing to do to him. His body tensed with anticipation and his mind was full of mixed emotions.

Soon Tom felt something wet, baby oil, being rubbed onto his feet. Was Isabel going to give him a foot massage? So what was he blindfolded for? Isabel rubbed the oil all over Tom's feet so that not a single spot would be without it. The massage felt good and Tom enjoyed this treatment. A little pampering after the tickling torture was nice.

However, Isabel stopped again. Tom even started to get a little mad. Damn, all good things always come to an end suddenly. Isabel started to dig something out of the box again. Tom felt Isabel grab both of his big toes in her hand.

"Now it’s about to really tickle!" Isabel stated.

Something began to rub rapidly along Tom's oiled and surprisingly sensitive feet. Isabel had grabbed a hairbrush. Tom lunged into the air in his bonds, screaming. How could something tickle so much? Tom's screams filled the room as Isabel continued to tickle his feet with the hairbrush. He tried to wriggle and kick back as best he could, but the bondage held him firmly in place. The tickling felt like electric shocks that ignited with every touch of the hairbrush.

Isabel's giggles filled the room as she enjoyed Tom's reactions. She was like an evil magician who had conjured up a powerful tickling attack. Tom tried to beg for mercy, but his words were drowned out by laughter and shouting. It was hard for him to think about anything other than how to end this torture.

Isabel let go of Tom's toes and continued to brush Tom's left foot as her tickling nails hit the right foot. Tom exclaimed in surprise and tried in vain to pull his leg further, but his efforts were futile.

Tom felt completely helpless. Every touch felt like an electric current on his sensitive skin. He laughed and laughed, begging Isabel to stop, but at the same time his erection continued to live with no end in sight.

His senses were on overload and his mind was filled with nothing but tickling and a desperate desire to get rid of it. But at the same time he was as if under a spell, unable to resist the call that made him want more.

Isabel's giggles once again filled the room as she continued to tickle Tom's feet. She was like a playful cat that had caught its prey and enjoyed torturing it.

"Oh my tickle slave. Do you want me to stop?” Isabel teased.

Tom tried to keep his wits about him, but the tickling was stronger than he had ever experienced. He screamed and laughed, completely out of control as his emotions washed over him. He was like a pawn in Isabel's hands, completely under her control.

Isabel threw the brush away and continued with her nails. The oil was diabolical. It made Isabel's nails slide down his feet at lightning speed. Tom felt every movement more strongly and sharply than ever before. The sensitivity added by the oil made the tickling almost unbearable.

Isabel decided to slow down and let Tom breathe and he gasped for it. The almost non-stop tickling had made him almost pass out. The member of the tickling slave was at a throbbing standstill, dripping with excrement.

Isabel took the scarf off Tom's face. His face was tomato red and his eyes were wet with tears of laughter. The tickler stroked Tom's cheek gently as he collected himself. Isabel seemed to think about something for a moment before she smiled at Tom. She made continous eye contact with the tickle victim as she moved to sit on her legs.

She took the soft blue fox stole from her shoulders and wrapped it around Tom's throbbing cock. The fur felt lovely against his sensitive throbbing penis. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself sink into the feeling.

Isabel pumped the soft Fur slowly up… down… up… down… It was wonderful. The fur tickled, but in its own gentle way. The soft and fluffy stroking felt heavenly. Tom gave himself completely to this sensation and moaned gently.

"I hope it doesn't tickle that much," Isabel smiled.

Isabel got the idea from the statement she had made. Her gaze shifted to the fluffy feather duster that was still lying next to Tom. She picked it up and began to gently tickle Tom's balls and taint. Tom opened his eyes momentarily and flinched.

"Shh, just enjoy," Isabel urged gently.

The fusion of fur and feathers was inexplicable. The man had never experienced such a wonderful feeling. He began to moan louder and Isabel slowly increased her treatment. Tom started to tremble a little. He was close.

"Cum when you're ready," Isabel urged.

It didn't take long for Tom to shoot his load. His back came off the bed as warm cum gushed out forcefully almost touching the ceiling. Tom felt every muscle in his body tighten as he reached orgasm. Tom screamed out loud with pure pleasure. Good if the neighbors didn't hear.

Tom was lying on the bed panting, wet with sweat. Isabel stroked his hair.

"Are you sure you’ve learned your lesson now?" Isabel asked.

Tom didn't answer, but nodded. Isabel came to his ear.

"Call in sick tomorrow. I have other plans for you", Isabel whispered and kissed Tom's cheek.

What could tomorrow bring?

[treeservicecompanypa]

Tree Removal in Confined Spaces

Homeowners residing in homes with small yards or homes near other residential properties often worry about trees falling on surrounding individuals and assets. Such concerns are especially valid for those who lack experience in the field. To avoid these issues with tree removal in confined spaces, employ the services of a professional when removing a tree. In confined spaces, precise cuts are vital and require specific skills and knowledge.

If you have a tree in a confined space and want to ensure you and your property are safe, contact a professional tree service company with the right equipment and know-how to efficiently handle tree removal in narrow or difficult-to-reach areas. Professionals do the job with a keen sense of safety, ensuring their crew’s and surroundings’ safety.

What Constitutes a Confined Space?

A confined space in tree removal refers to any site that is difficult for crews and equipment to access. Walking the tightrope of confined spaces becomes even more critical when dealing with foot traffic or the risk of damaging surrounding property.

Common examples of these confined spaces include narrow gaps between buildings, easements between structures and the street, areas near power lines, terraced yards, and spaces that equipment like our spider lift or a stump grinder may be unable to pass into.

When Tree Removal in Confined Spaces is Necessary

Some situations make tree removal in confined spaces necessary to consider. Some examples include the following:

Branches start rubbing against structures, creating potential property damage

The tree receives substantial damage

The tree is leaning precariously, threatening nearby structures

Broad trees with dense foliage are causing debris problems

Tree branches are in danger of contact with power lines

How to Remove a Tree in a Confined Space

Tree removal in a confined space varies according to the situation. One of the approaches we use for tree removal in confined spaces involves using a spider lift. The spider lift is compact enough to be positioned in many small areas. Tree care and removal specialists are safely lifted to remove branches, then remove a section of the trunk at a time. If even the spider lift is unable to be moved into the space, our specialists are trained to climb using harnesses and cables. Either way, the tree is cut down in sections, starting from the top and working downwards. First, branches are removed, then the trunk is cut into smaller sections, usually with ropes or a speedline to guide its descent and ensure the pieces fall in a safe direction. Every member of the team is aware at all times of their location in relation to the work being performed in order to avoid accidents.

Tree removal is a complex and often dangerous operation that requires specialized tools and training. Attempting to remove a tree without the proper equipment and knowledge can lead to severe injury or even fatalities. Therefore, make sure that you have a fully licensed and insured professional tree removal company to ensure the job is done safely and efficiently. In addition to their training and experience, a professional will have the specialized equipment required to remove trees from confined spaces. These may include tools such as cranes, grapple saws, chippers, and log trucks, each serving a specific purpose in tree removal.

Recent Tree Removal Job in Inner City Wilmington, DE

We recently did a challenging tree removal job in Inner City Wilmington where the only access available to us was through a 30-40 foot long tunnel. Local residents may already be familiar with the layout of yards in the rowhouses in Inner City Wilmington. If the house is not on the end of the block, the homeowner is required by the city to have a second way out in case of fire. Sometimes there is a 2-3 foot wide walkway in between the yards that run the whole length of the block. If that is not the case for whatever reason, like if the house is on a hill with a big retaining wall, the second form of egress is the tunnel out to the front.

Homeowners in this situation may have the front door that is often 6 steps above the sidewalk level, and then the back door goes into a 20×20 ft fenced in yard with no way out in case of a fire. The way they would have to get out is through the tunnel: down under the house and then back out front again. That’s the only way into and out of the back yard except through the house, and homeowners would prefer we take the tree out through the tunnel than through the house. In this situation, our team went through the long tunnel, and since the spider lift was unable to fit, they climbed the tree and just had to cut small enough pieces to fit through that little tunnel.

Crane Limitations

As in the case of the rowhouses, some trees that need to be removed are in very confined spaces where a crane or lift are unable to go or even reach from outside the area. In cities, one of the challenges with the crane is the spiderweb of wires overhead. The crane might be able to put its boom straight up between the wires, but to actually swing around and maneuver a tree is another story. For example, if we could get a crane into a space like this, the crane may have to reach over the house 100 feet to tie into the tree, then we do the cuts and pick the pieces up. The crane still needs 50-80 feet of arm swing in a radius to bring it back down to the street.

When we say spiderweb of wires, we mean the situation would really make you think of spiderwebs. Consider how a rowhome set up could be. A block may have 4 telephone poles: one on each corner and 2 in the middle of the block, one a third of the way, a second 2/3 away and the other at the other end of the block. The wires that feed the houses come off each pole then fan out to 4-5 houses each. So we really have a spiderweb of wires above our heads.

Contact Stein Tree Service for Tree Removal

These types of jobs have a higher level of difficulty and take longer to complete. They require help from a tree service company that has professionals who can climb trees and cut the tree into small enough pieces for them to carry out of the yard to the chipper. Some companies are unable to do this type of job because they have no climbers, but at Stein, we are equipped with the tools and the staff to perform tree removal in confined spaces. We are also insured, so homeowners and specialists have protection if an accident should occur. Contact us today for a free consultation.

Blog is originally published at: https://www.steintree.com/tree-removal-in-confined-spaces/

It is republished with the permission from the author.

[jetelevator3]

Home and Residential Lift Manufacturers in Mumbai, India for Duplex, Villas, Bungalows, Row Houses.

Jet Elevator - Offering Home and Residential Lifts Manufacturers For Duplex, Villas, Bungalows, Row Houses And Pent Houses in Mumbai, India.

[blankdblank]

Piggy Banks

...

Not sure if I’ve written this before but you shall read it again if I have. It’s too adorable to keep in my head right now. :)

@devilishminx328 @theincaprincess @lilith15000 @jesevans

...

...

Dain’s visit had been the talk of the mountain and all you had heard was it’s rude to not have a gift to welcome him. A complete stranger. You didn’t have many strengths, but one you did have was to be able to carve things. Well, one thing.

Back home before you fell here you had a thriving business that kept you fed, clothes and housed tolerably well, piggy banks. Numerous styles and for a modest extra charge you could make custom piggies aside from the seasonal styles you offered for chunks of the year to keep things spiced up and draw in some fresh eyes and return visits to see which piggies were up for sale.

So much so you had a newer concept of adopting out piggies for cheaper prices people traded their old ones in for newer models. Few people had taken to that but still it made for a new fresh link for people to peruse while on your page to see what piggies were up for adoption and the summaries you had given each of them to spark humor and intrigue.

Much like you hoped your new try and stained glass doored pig shaped candle and incense holders you were trying your hand at to bring in spare funds as your roof was hinting it was readying to strike back at you for keeping you dry for so long without some sort of repayment from your selfish tiny self and the neighbors who were just as undeserving of a dry place to live according to your landlord who refused to keep up maintenance on the rowhouses they owned.

So with a log of clay instead of the modest block you had asked for a trio of models of armored boar piggie banks and the frame for a lantern were made, amply pudgy while ferocious to be intriguing if anything to the visiting King. Layer by layer the mold was laid and pinned to be filled with some of the melted brass from the allotted supply for your project and shop Thorin had promised you to see just what his one day hopefully intended could craft to make her own way inside of this vast keep and gain respect by trade and means of gaining your own income aside from what you were allowed to gain from your contract to regain the mountain.

.

Out of a carefully padded box the curious Iron Hills King the four objects were brought out to have him a bit confused at the painted, polished and decorated boars presented to him with astonishing gashes open in the backs of the smaller three and plugs clearly seen on the underbellies of their adorably pudgy and meant to be protected selves, not mixed for slaughter like these.

An insult loud and clear that had him ready to shout at Thorin for allowing him to be disgraced in such a way as his love and that of his people for boars was known far and wide to many races until you smiled saying, “Piggy banks, and a lantern.”

Right up his brow twitched asking, “Pardon, Lass?”

“Piggy banks. The boys said in their youth they were granted wooden till boxes for their small quantities of funds, but in my world children and adults use these for spare funds at home.” Out of your pocket you brought a gold coin and dropped it through the slot in the back and demonstrated in a lift of the largest piggy, “And you just twist this and you can empty it. Adorable and functional. Thorin said you love boar, clearly, and I figured some boar decorations might be welcome. The lantern can be used for oil and candles, you just twist knob in the saddle top, like this, and vents open and close.”

Just as if you lit a match instantly his eyes lit up and an enamored smile spread across his face as he detailed each and every one of them to the final detail and for the openest show of pleasure for the gift and blessing for your eventual welcome to the clan he embraced you so tightly you started seeing dots and gave a wobble upon release. Sure the trick was to smile after, but you did have to feign a trip to relieve yourself as the next gifts were presented to have you get a chance to sit down and get the room to stop spinning as the pain from your ribs and back throbbed duller and duller.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Notting Hill AU Snippet #5

Lena's waiting for her by the time Kara comes down to the lobby. Her vest has been traded for a velour coat in maroon, nearly matching the color of her lips. Her hair, last seen flattened by the horror of facing an impromptu press junket, is revitalized and styled into 1940s waves. Kara smiles at the sight of her, and the way Lena's entire countenance seems to warm at the sight of her.

Unsure of the dresscode for the night, Kara had settled for a satin paisley button down, made more casual by braiding her hair across her head in a crown. She'd debated taking it down as soon as she'd finished, but when Lena doesn't make a crack about her looking like a swiss miss, Kara's glad she left it.

They take a cab from the hotel, and though the conversation is stilted, Kara can tell that Lena's nervous. When they finally arrive, Lena pauses them at the doorway, and levels a solemn look at Kara.

"There's just one thing you need to know before we go in," she says.

Kara stares at her. "Which is?"

"I am so, so sorry."

With that, the door bursts open and a large form comes barreling out to swallow Lena in a giant bear hug.

"There you are!" the figure growls playfully, resolving into a bald, broad-shouldered man in a button down with the sleeves rolled up and a frilly pink apron.

"Can't... breathe..."

"Yeah, yeah, likely story." Kara presumes the man is Lena's brother, confirmed when he releases Lena only to trap her in a headlock and give her a knuckle rub. "And who's the poor hapless prey you're impressing this time, huh?"

The man stops short at the sight of Kara.

"Holy shitting fuck."

Kara braces, but then the man blinks and the moment passes, his attention returning to his prisoner, who extricates herself with a sigh and a shove against his shoulder, smoothing her ruffled hair.

"Kara, this is my prat of an older brother, Lex. Lex, this Kara. My date."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Date. Come in, come in, you're letting all the wonderful smells out!"

He ushers them all inside, and while he's right the house is filled with smells, not all of them are wonderful. There's mish mash of aromatic spices that Kara detects, but there's an undercurrent of something just slightly burnt wafting beneath it all that makes Kara concerned for the unattended stove.

Before she can worry further, a woman comes bustling in, tall and gorgeous. "Lena, darling, it's so lovely to see you."

Kara watches Lena melt into a smile that makes Kara's heart skip a beat. "Hello, Drea. Glad to see my brother hasn't poisoned you yet."

"Oh, hush," the woman, Drea, responds giving Lena a kiss on both cheeks. "Of all the vices he could have, his passion for bad cooking is one I can live with."

Drea's gaze then turns to Kara, and while Kara can see the moment recognition hits, the woman covers it graciously with a smile and an outstretched hand. "Hi, I'm Andrea. Andrea Rojas."

"Kara," she responds, well noting the way the woman rolls her Rs and speaks like words are honey. No wonder Lena melted. "Thank you so much for having me. Your home is lovely."

And it is. Where Lena's flat is cluttered and marked with signs of both age and use, Lex's rowhouse is clean and modern, full of smooth lines and cool colors. She suspects Andrea Rojas had something to do with that, judging from her silk blouse and pencil skirt, accented with classy jewelry.

"Thank you so much," Andrea returns, "you're too kind. Here, can I get you something to drink before my husband's cooking ruins your sense of taste completely?"

"I'm telling you," Lex cuts in, offended, "this one is the winner winner chicken dinner!"

Kara laughs, and just like that, the ice is broken. She relaxes, but sticks close to Lena, reveling in the easy comfort that fills the home. It feels... nice. Real. Unlike anything she's had in the past ten years.

She has a sister. But her sister is also her manager, and Kara can't remember the last time she and Alex just sat and talked like this, trading jokes and playful barbs around the dinner table. Even when Lena's roommate Querl and his girlfriend Nia arrive, the atmosphere remains easy and warm.

Kara's defenses relax, until it comes time to fight over the last brownie for dessert.

"And the last one goes as a prize to the poorest sod here."

"Ooh!" Nia chirps. "Hand it over!"

"Oh please!" the table choruses. Someone throws a wadded up paper napkin at Nia, who bats it away.

"Come on!" she exclaims. "Just look at me! I'm fresh out of art school with zero prospects, zero job, and I'm dating this guy." She jabs a thumb at Querl, prompting a round of laughter even as Querl doesn't seem to register the playful insult.

"Well," he says, "I've been making a fool of myself asking for grants from an institution with no imagination and no desire to seek the answers of the universe!"

"Weak!" Lena boasts. "I've got a shop so deep in the red I'm practically swimming in it, and my last girlfriend of five years left me for her male yoga instructor saying her experimentation phase was done."

That shocks Kara. Her gaze flickers to Lena, and despite the veneer of good humor, she can see the hurt underneath. Five years isn't an experimentation by any stretch of the mind. To be told that's all it was... Lena's entire world must have been turned upside down.

Still, Andrea Rojas isn't a woman to be beat.

"Well, how about being told in no unequivocable terms by your boss that there's no way to make partner unless you fuck him?" There's a bitterness in her voice that makes the table go quiet. "And on top of wondering what you've been doing with the last ten years of your life, you find out you've given those assholes your best egg laying years because now, suddenly, your doctor says you're too old to have children?"

Kara shoots a look around the table, as does Lena. Their eyes meet in the middle, before Lex wordlessly hands over the plate.

"Hey!" Kara blurts. "What about me?"

"What about you?" Nia retorts irreverently. "You think YOU deserve the brownie to saddest sod?"

"Well, I'd at least like a shot at it."

"Okay," Lena returns blithely. "But you're going to have to work for it. It's a very good brownie."

Kara nods. "Sure. My earliest memory is being spanked by my mother for ruining a take by crying. I've slept with a director for a role I didn't get anyway, and I've been on a diet for my entire acting career, meaning that this is my first time eating a brownie. Ever."

A beat of silence follows.

"Well, shit," Nia quips. "Give the woman all the brownies, then."

Just like that, the suddenly somber atmosphere lifts back to its previous humor, as Querl adds his own two cents. "I life without brownies is a life not worth living."

"Cheers to that, bro," Lex concurs, lifting his glass before chugging it.

Kara savors her brownie in small bites, trying not to blush under Lena's gentle gaze.

previous / next

[pedros-mustache-main]

the arrangement

summary: it is all clear and simple—until it isn’t.

word count: 6.6k+ 

warnings: sugar daddy relationship, age gap (john is ~35, reader is ~23), angst, language, innuendo, suggestive themes & moments (not 18+ but be mindful—probably more so than with anything i’ve written!)

a/n: for the sake of this fic, veronica et al. don’t exist. i refuse to write infidelity. okay i hope you enjoy because i am very upset about the cottagecore!brian fic that i wrote which was eaten unceremoniously by the monster living in this website. xoxo!

1986.

he doesn’t kiss you; you won’t let him. 

it’s all a part of the minutiae of your arrangement. he has his rules: a shower before and after—sometimes together, but mostly alone; meetings out of the public eye, normally his london flat; no contact with his colleagues. you have your rules: no outside arrangements with other women (or men, for all you care); no spur-of-the-moment visits; and above all, no kissing.

he can—and does—have a field day with the curves and contours of your body whenever he gets the chance. his mouth knows your skin well, and you’d like to think you know his in a similar fashion. you know what it feels like to be touched and held and loved by him, but his lips have never so much as brushed yours, and you intend to keep it that way. it’s just a quirk, a bothersome little thing you carry with you to all of your arrangements. kissing is too intimate and, though you’ve been more than intimate with john, there’s a line in the concrete you are unwilling to cross. he respects that, so the arrangement works.

you like him. he’s charming and intelligent, thoughtful when it matters. he never forgets a date despite his busy schedule, and he seems to anticipate your moods, knowing just when to spoil you a little extra to ease the pain of a ruined portrait or sour customer. he supports your art endeavors, though you are firm about him staying away from your studio apartment. like kissing, it’s too intimate, too personal. he pays the rent, though, and is admittedly happy when you confess he has inspired a piece or two.

still, he’s confounding. there’s a pervading sadness about his person, even when he’s laughing. it runs deep—that sadness—and you can’t pinpoint the origin. you suspect he must be lonely even though he’s one of the world’s foremost musicians. why else would he dote on you endlessly? why else would he throw his hard-earned money at the feet of a girl too young to be his proper lover and too guarded to ever give him the chance at something real?

not that he’s tried to move the arrangement to something deeper. he hasn’t. for that alone, you’re more than content to stay with him. you’ve had strings of other arrangements before, but never one that’s lasted this long. it always falls apart eventually—unmet expectations, dangerous feelings, the unfortunate death. a year and a half with john is a long time, and you’re surprised he’s not bored with you yet. you’re surprised you aren’t bored with him.

but truly, he is kind and well-off—physically and monetarily—and so long as he’s keen to have you around, you’ll stick around. you aren’t complaining. 

of all your arrangements, you like john richard deacon the most.

he’s been gone for some time, consumed by the magic tour and promoting the latest queen album. he’s tired, ready for a break, and when he calls you a week before his return, you can hear the shoulder-crushing weariness in his tone.

“i’m getting too old for this, [y/n],” he says. 

his sigh is heavy, and it gives you pause. you hold still, the paintbrush between your fingers suspended in midair. you twist on your stool in discomfort. though you know your role—and you play it splendidly—there’s always a flare of uncertainty in the back of your mind when john muses personal. 

you shift, cradling the telephone between your shoulder and your ear. “you’re only thirty-five, john,” you say after a moment. “hardly an old fart.”

“well, i feel one.” something crinkles over the line. “i think we’ll be on break for a good while after this. freddie is—” he sighs again. “when can i see you?”

you can’t help but smile. you dip your head to the side as you study the foot of the angel in your painting. there’s something not quite right, so you lift the corner of your smock and wipe away the top of her big toe. 

you like it when your men are eager; it means they still intend on supplementing your income and leaving you fine gifts. as soon as the eagerness begins to fade, as soon as the meetings are less and less frequent, you know it’s time to look elsewhere. nearly two years later and john is more eager for an evening with you now than he was at the start. you have nothing to worry about.

“when do you get back?”

“thursday.”

“then you can see me thursday.”

he exhales in something that sounds a lot like relief. you bite your lip to keep from smiling wider. he’s wrapped so tight around your pinky; neither of you seem to care. 

“good, good. i’ll bring you something from barcelona. what do you want?”

"hmm. surprise me.”

“you don’t like surprises.”

“you’re right. how about some of those fun little tiles? the colorful ones, y’know?” he hums in agreement. “i can put those in my kitchen.”

“tiles? my baby wants tiles?” he laughs, and you’re thankful for the thousands of miles between you. the affectionate term, spoken normally in jest, sends your thoughts straight to the gutter every time, loathe as you are to admit such a thing. “fine. tiles it is. see you thursday.”

“it’s a date, mr. deacon.” you pause then add, “get some rest, john. you sound knackered.”

“i am.”

“i’ll see you thursday, handsome.”

he says goodnight, wishes you sweet dreams, and hangs up. you drop the phone to its base and sit back, stretching your arms over your head.

the canvas before you is taller than it is wide—twenty-four by thirty-six. the customer, a repeater, requested something angelic and bright, a new addition to their marble villa in the south of greece. you’re happy to oblige, but you’re stuck on the bottom portion. should the angel be in flight? poised on a cliffside? in a garden? you know it doesn’t matter, that the buyer will be happy regardless, but it matters to you. each painting needs to tell a coherent story, and you like for that story to fit well with the piece’s ultimate home.

your mother says you are blessed with a gift by god. john says you have natural talent. you think you’re just good at copying. it’s not forgery; all of your paintings are as unique as they are original. still, you’re excellent at replicating dead-and-gone styles: renaissance, rococo, romantic, hell even the odd modern piece. whatever the customer wants, you can reproduce it for a fraction of the cost. your work pays handsomely, but averaging only one painting a year doesn’t pay all the bills that pile up on your kitchen island over the months. that’s where john comes in. it evens out in the end, with more than enough on the side to play with.

rising from your stool for a much needed break, you cross the concrete floor, the stone cool beneath your bare feet. the evening has gone drafty, so you shut one of the tall windows looking onto the side garden. you pick up your mail from beneath the flap on the front door and rifle through. nothing urgent, though there’s a letter from your mother. you tuck it to the side.

john would detest your studio if he ever saw it. it’s unfeeling, bare bones and vaulted ceilings and exposed beams. most of the open floor plan is used for your painting endeavors. there’s discarded portraits along the wall, a few untarnished canvases tucked in a corner. there’s a worktable that doubles as a kitchen table, and a cramped kitchen shoved beneath the loft which houses your bed and wardrobe. you don’t mind the gray walls and gray floors and metal and lack of personal touches. if anything, the simplicity allows your creativity to explode.

after a piece of jam and toast for supper, you return to your painting. the angel should be on a cliffside overlooking the sea, you decide; after all, her home will soon be greece. dipping your brush to the mixture of tan and dark brown you’ve been using for her skintone, you curl a leg beneath you and set to work. only this time, you struggle to keep the excited smile from your face.

john’s coming home. you missed the bastard—him and his money.

thursday evening you find yourself on john’s front stoop, fist poised to knock on the door. the dress beneath your coat is silky, like water against your skin. you feel underdressed for the turn of the season but you’re likely to be without clothing entirely within the hour so you grit your teeth against the chill on your legs. you clear your throat, adjust the curled ends of your hair, and knock on the door. the bottle of champagne in your hand grows heavy as you wait, and you finger the small string of diamonds around your neck. 

john inhales through his nose sharply when he opens the door. “[y/n],” he breathes before sweeping you into a tight embrace.

you laugh, crushed against his chest, your arms snug around his shoulder. he smells clean, like soap and fresh tea. you lift your legs, giggling further as he spins you about the rowhouse foyer.

“okay, okay!” you squeal. “put me down!”

he drops you to the floor, your heels clicking against the hardwood. “let me take your coat,” he says, sliding behind you to remove your outer layer. you shimmy out of the garment and bite you lip on a smirk when he sucks in a breath through his teeth. 

“like it?” you ask, twirling on the ball of your foot in a slow circle. your dress—pale pink, short and open in the back—leaves little to the imagination.

“you’re a sight for sore eyes, angel.” 

he steps away from the coatrack to circle his arms around your waist. he settles his hands in the curve of your spine and drinks you in, his pupils expanding with appreciation. you preen under his gaze and rest your palms on his brightly patterned shirt. you never tire of this—no matter who your benefactor is. the glazed look in their eye when they see you wearing a necklace newly bought or sporting a handbag of your choice or simply pushed against their strength is intoxicating. you feel powerful and desirable and unstoppable all at once.

“missed you.” john lifts a hand to brush a lock of hair away from your face, and the gesture is decidedly intimate. it sends a chill down your spine, your mouth tightening. you know if this were any other relationship he would bend forward and capture your lips, marking you as his and erasing the weeks apart with a single touch. you know he’s fighting the urge to do so now; you can see it in the way his eyes flick to your mouth and hold there.

to ease his yearning, you wind your arms around his neck and squeeze him tight, curling your fingers in the base of his recently trimmed perm. you like the fluff; it’s quirky—like him. “missed you, john.” you kiss the corner of his jaw and pull away, trailing to the kitchen.

he’s hot on your heels.

lifting your rump onto the kitchen island, you cross your ankles and grin as he enters the room. “did you bring me my tiles?” 

john blinks, as if he’s not sure what you’re talking about, but then recognition lights his eyes, and he snaps in remembrance. “ah yes, the tiles! hold on.” he slips into an adjoining room before returning with a brown box tied with a white ribbon. “here.”

you take the box, smile at him where he leans against the counter opposite you, and tear off the string. within the box there’s a small index card covered in john’s neat script. you lift it and meet his eyes again; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks as you read aloud.

“[y/n], i thought you deserved something better than a few titles. love, john.” lowering the card to your side, you push back the tissue paper to see a framed pencil sketch of a woman mid-gown fitting. the seamstress is crouched against the floor, her back to the viewer. the woman being fitted is twisted, glancing over her shoulder as the seamstress works, her reflection visible in an invisible mirror. you squint and push your nose to the corner then nearly drop the frame to the floor.

your head snaps up so fast it cracks. “john, you didn’t.”

he just beams, nodding.

tucked in the right hand corner of the sketch is the artist’s signature, a signature you know well. mary cassatt. 

“got it in paris,” he explains. “thought you could use an original from your favorite.”

you brush your fingertip along the signature and feel the sting of tears beneath your eyelids. of all the gifts you been handed—holidays in rome, designer bags and jewelry, luxury rides to and from the city—this, this, is the best. part of you hates the sudden rush of emotion that spreads through your chest, but you allow the feeling to take hold, opening your arms to him. he steps between your legs, and you curl yourself around his body.

“thank you, john,” you whisper. your voice is muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but the way he presses his hand against your shoulder blade tells you he heard you loud and clear. 

he hums against the crook of your neck. the vibrations tickle your throat, and you flush. you draw back, far enough to meet his gaze, but close enough to feel his breath against your face. 

god, you could kiss him.

the thought strikes you like a bolt of lightning, and you resist the urge to gasp. you’ve never thought it before; the rule of no kissing is ingrained in you so deep the mere idea of breaking it sends you for a loop. but there he is—generous and gorgeous and yours. he knows you well, spoils you well, and all he asks is you entertain him in return. 

how did you get to be so lucky?

clearing your throat, you brush past him to hop off the counter. you tug the hem of your dress down a smidgen and touch his shoulder. “want me to go shower?” you ask, cocking your head toward the bathroom.

he turns to face you and shakes his head. “no.” his arms are around you again, as if it pains him to keep his distance for a moment too long. you can feel it in the thrum of his heart against your ribcage. you swallow hard.

your brow pinches in a frown. “but you—”

his mouth is already tracing the lines of your neck, warm and wet and dizzying. he grips your hip, his fingertips pressing through the satin of your dress. “forget it, [y/n]. i’ve missed you,” he whispers, a tattoo on your skin. “come to bed.”

“but the sho—”

he pulls back and lifts a hand to grasp your chin. the touch is not angry, not possessive; it’s just firm. the words in your mouth dry up, and you meet his gaze with wide eyes. “i said forget it.”

you nod, mute.

his eyes lower to your mouth. his tongue darts out to swipe his lower lip.

he steps away, his fingers trailing down your arm until they circle your wrist. he leads you through the house, silent, until you reach the foot of his bed. moonlight washes through the open terrace doors. a misty rain drifts into the room, bringing with it a chill and a whisper of autumn.

you toe off your heels, run your finger down his grecian nose, over his straight jaw. there’s this feeling in your stomach, one you can’t quite place. it’s a mixture of contentment and nerves, joy and apprehension, all at once. it’s a foreign feeling, and there’s no time to dissect it as john leans close. 

his nose nudges yours. “i missed you.”

you sigh, wistful, and pull him onto the bed.

come morning you are sated and sore. you groan through a stretch, curling your back like a cat as you adjust to the morning light. you slept well, better than you have in several weeks. you can’t be sure if the dreamless slumber was due to exertion from your evening activities or pure tranquility. you missed sleeping beside john; he has a comforting way about him, even in the throes of pleasure or sleep.

you turn your face to see john already wake, propped up against a pile of pillows. you grin and reach for him.

“morning,” you mumble on a yawn.

he blinks contentedly at you, a half-smile on his mouth, a lit cigarette between his fingers. “morning.”

“sleep well?”

he nods. “that was the most sleep i’ve gotten in weeks.”

with a chuckle, you pinch his bicep. “funny—i thought the same for myself.”

he pats the space beside him, and you shuffle to lie perpendicular to his body, your head on his bare chest. he drapes an arm across your torso, and you lift his hand to fiddle with his long fingers.

the terrace door is still open, allowing mid-morning warmth and the gentle hum of the street below to fill the room. you sigh and smile when john takes a drag of his cigarette and tilts his head to exhale in the opposite direction. he knows you hate the smoke, thoughtful boy. 

when he turns back, he catches your eye, furrowing his brow as he studies the look on your face. “what?”

you shake your head. “nothing.”

he grunts, shifts a little lower along the pillows. “tell me about the paintings you’ve got going in that pretty head of yours.”

“just one for the moment—an angel near the sea. it’s for the olsons and their villa in greece.”

“olson? wasn’t he the one who bought that nudie fashioned after his wife?”

“precisely the one!”

john smirks. “how’d you feel if i had you paint something like that for me?”

you guffaw, flipping over onto your stomach to slap his breastbone. “john!”

he holds up his hands in surrender, though there’s a mischievous twinkle in his gray eyes. “oy! it’s just a thought!”

you huff. “continue like that and i won’t finish the painting i’ve started for you.”

he leans back against the pillows in surprise. his neck is contorted in the effort it takes to properly meet your eyes as he sits, and you poke the double-chin that’s popped up beneath his jaw. he swats your hand away, though his fingers wrap tight around your wrist. he presses his pointer finger against your pulse point.

“you’ve started a painting for me?”

“course i have. don’t sound so surprised.”

“what’s it of?”

you narrow your gaze. “don’t know if i should tell you. it’s supposed to be a birthday gift.”

“my birthday’s not for a while, [y/n].”

“my paintings take a while, john.”

he sighs, squeezes your wrist, lifts it to kiss the bone on the side of your hand. “tell me,” he mumbles, his mouth against your skin, eyes locked on yours.

on an inhale, you give in. “it’s victoria park. well, victoria park seventy-five years ago.”

his eyebrows rise, and his fingers tighten around your hand. “victoria park? my victoria park? from leicester?”

“where else, silly?”

he goes quiet. 

the air in your lungs stills, and that funny feeling you had the night before flares in your stomach. you feel your jaw slacken as he rakes his gaze over you in such unabashed adoration it makes your gut twist. there’s an overwhelming desire to be near him, to feel him as you’ve never felt him before, rising like the tide, and you are pulled to it like a baby sea turtle searching for the safety of the ocean. it’s a natural pull, but you are determined to ignore it. 

you sit up, brush a lock of hair behind your ear, and turn your back to him. 

he runs his finger along the curve of your shoulderblades. you shiver. 

sensing your discomfort, john sits straight in bed, the covers around his lap rustling with the movement. “you know,” he says, pulling on his cigarette again. “freddie would like one of your paintings.” 

“what?” you look over your shoulder with a frown. “you told him about me?” 

he shakes his head. “no, i just mean what you do is his style. he’d be thrilled to have something so… romantic.” he pauses and lifts a brow in question. “i could mention it to him, ask if he’d be interested?” 

your frown deepens. this is not the john you know. john rarely speaks about his bandmates, preferring to keep his exploits with queen separate from your arrangement. when he does talk about his job, it’s normally a complaint here, a silly little story there. though you’ve been with him more than a year, you know more about his life before queen than his life during. he’s private, like you, and you respect that. it’s why your arrangement works: mutual respect for the other’s boundaries. 

but there’s something different about him. you noted it the night before. first no shower. now suggesting he introduce you to freddie. it doesn’t make sense. 

or maybe it does. maybe this is his way of shifting the relationship, subtly, under your nose, done before you realize what’s happened. 

a thread of panic weaves itself around your spine. 

“what’s this about? you’ve never wanted me to meet freddie before.” 

he shrugs, playing innocent. “just an idea. we’re on break now, will be for some time. i figured meeting you would give freddie something to fuss over.” 

“you know how i feel about my studio, john.” 

“i know, i know. you like your privacy.” 

john stubs out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table then scoots closer, drawing you close with an arm around your waist. his mouth works idle patterns along your shoulder, the spot where your neck meets your back, the ticklish spot behind your ear. 

you tighten your hold on his arm, your nails biting his skin. when you speak, your voice is but a whisper. 

“i don’t want things to change.” 

he stills, lifting his head from your skin. “sorry?” 

“i said i don’t want things to change.” turning, you meet his eyes, nearly losing your breath in the process. he’s close; you can practically taste him on your lips. “what we have works. don’t you think?” 

“’s just an idea, [y/n].” 

ducking your head, you play with the hair on his arm. your heart squeezes tight. “i know. but i say yes now and tomorrow you’ll be…” you lift your face. 

he seems to understand without needing you to finish the thought. 

he untangles himself and swings his legs over the side of the bed. you watch his movements, stiff and irritated. he pulls on a pair of ratty joggers, rising from the bed to shut the terrace doors. you startle at the sound of glass rattling in the windowpanes. 

“john, i—” 

he cuts you off. there’s another cigarette between his fingers now. “better take a shower,” he quips. his eyes remain planted on the cigarette packet in his hands. he taps the thin stick against the cardboard several times before jamming it between his teeth. “you didn’t take one last night, and we wouldn’t want things to change, now would we?” 

the door slams shut, the blast echoing in your empty stomach.

you don’t hear from john for a week and a half. it’s not uncommon, the length between visits. he’s busy, you’re busy. sometimes you can barely find time for yourself, let alone him. still, there’s no box of chocolates delivered to your doorstep, no flowers dropped off at an inopportune time. 

there’s just silence. 

it worries you at first, and you wonder if he’s dropped you like a hot potato. it wouldn’t be unheard of. one arrangement ended in a similar fashion, and you nearly lost your studio in the process. but john is better than that. he wouldn’t leave you on the verge of homelessness, would he? he cares about you too much to do such a thing. 

your fears are assuaged when a bouquet of flowers does arrive one afternoon. you have paint smeared along your forehead, and your neck cracks as you stand to answer the doorbell, but the sight of sunflowers in a pretty blue vase erases all your uncertainties. the note tucked in the ramble of flowers makes you smile—sorry for being a dick. give me a call if you forgive me – j—and you tape it to your refrigerator. 

john is still yours; you are still his. 

you call him that night, and after reaffirming your boundaries, the phone call devolves into a mess of heavy breathing and whispered encouragements and sinful sorts of pleasure. 

as you fall asleep, you’re struck by something he said in the hazy cloud of post-bliss: even if this is all you give me, i’m happy. 

even if this is all you give me… 

he wants more. how much you aren’t sure, but enough that you can’t fall asleep as readily as you normally do. frustrated, you slip from bed and finagle your way down the stairs to the kitchen. you warm a glass of milk and lean against the counter, sipping slowly. your eyes fall along the mary cassatt print, now housed on the kitchen wall above the vase of sunflowers. the milk in your stomach curdles. 

john deacon loves you; and if you tarry any longer, you’ll be close to loving him, too.

the decision to call the arrangement off does not come lightly. you mull over it for days on end, even as a sliver of your heart warms to the idea of allowing john to love you as he pleases, of letting yourself love him back. 

it’s all you can think about the next time you see him face-to-face. as he pours you a glass of wine and lays you out on the living room floor, your thoughts are elsewhere. when he takes you shopping for canvas frames, you let him hold your hand, but you can’t focus on what he’s saying about the best fit. even when he mentions your studio and you find yourself willing to invite him inside, you cannot shake the feeling that you are losing a part of yourself you will never regain. 

but would it be so bad? giving in? 

you’re interested in john, that much you will concede. he’s good and kind and generous and a hell of a good romp and you enjoy your time with him. but the stubborn part of you refuses to let go of your own autonomy. you will not become his plaything, his arm candy at all the queen functions he so dreads. you value your independence too much—the safety of your well-crafted walls—to be anything other than his dirty little secret. 

you’re prepared to shove your concerns aside and continue on until john makes the decision for you. he gives freddie your studio address, and freddie shows up one morning unannounced. you invite him in, sketch out a painting over the worktable, smile when necessary, and ignore his wonderings about your connection to john but on the inside you’re reeling. you’re livid and you’re hurt. 

you’ve never been hurt by one of your arrangements before. 

after freddie leaves, john answers the telephone on the third ring. “hello?” 

“we can’t see each other anymore,” you say, your voice firm. 

he’s quiet for a moment. “i’m sorry—what?” 

“you heard me, john. i’m calling it all off.” 

“why on earth would you do that?” 

unbidden, an answer rises to your mouth: because i think i like you as much as you like me and i’m scared.

with a harsh clearing of your throat, you instead say, “you sent freddie here. i told you not to do that.” 

“he did what? no, [y/n], i didn’t send freddie to you.” 

“then how else would he know who i am? my clients don’t run in his circles.” 

panic laces the edge of john’s voice as he rushes to explain, but you grit your teeth against the sound. “i swear, angel, i didn’t tell him where you live. i might have told him about you, yeah, but he’s my best friend, and i needed some advice.” he hesitates, sucks in shaky breath. “don’t do this. don’t call it off.” 

you swallow hard. for the first time in a long time, you feel a wash of tears over your eyes. “you want too much from me, john. i can’t give you what you want. i’m not the girl for that sort of life.” 

“oh, baby, i—i’m sorry. i know i’ve been pushy lately but i—” he sighs. “god, i love you so dearly. i’d give you the world if you let me.” 

at this you choke on a sob. surprised by the sound, you press a hand to your mouth. 

oh god, you love him too. the feeling crashes over you like a wave, and you’re the sea turtle who has found the safety of the sea. john is your sea. he envelops you, carries you to safety and uncertainty all at once. but you know him—he will protect you, guide you, with everything he is and all that he has. 

you love him, you love him, you love him. 

but it’s not enough. it’s not supposed to go like this, and you both know it. 

“i’m sorry, john,” you whisper. you didn’t remember that tears taste salty. “please don’t call me, okay?” 

you hang up before you can hear his protests any further then you crawl into bed and weep.

several months pass. autumn fades into winter, and you grow colder by the day. 

you’re stressed. you cut john off entirely, opening a separate bank account and shuffling your monies and generally working to disentangle him from your life. but no john means no stable income. you’re fine for the time being, your painting for the olsons paid for and gone; but you’ve taken to rushing your artwork now, allowing customers to sit for hastily and poorly arranged portraits with their dogs and children. the paintings are lovely, yes, but they’re not you. it pays the bills, though, so you can’t complain. 

you continue on freddie’s painting. he paid you upfront, so you owe him that much. in the evenings, after shooing the last snot-nosed kid and yippy dog out of your home, you turn on the lamp above the canvas and return to the sort of art you yearn for day and night. the painting screams freddie mercury all over. 

there’s a man, mustached and tan, draped against a purple chaise in the center of the canvas. he’s flanked by a tall gentleman with wiry hair who is focused on a globe in the corner. to the far right, two other men—one blond, one brunette—whisper amongst themselves. you realize, belatedly, that you are painting queen in some sort of ridiculous nineteenth century daydream. it makes you snort every time you sit down to work. 

you struggle to capture john in the painting. you know his face better than you know your own. you dream of it every night and wake to an image of it every morning. 

you love him. you miss him. 

you’re not certain when you started loving him. maybe six months in when he took you to new york and the moma and the empire state building. maybe nine months in—your first christmas together—when he gifted you a song. maybe a year in when he confessed his deepest fears—fears of loneliness and isolation and an empty old age—and made you promise to stay by his side. maybe when he came back this last tour and you wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt to hold back. 

you’ve never been in love. you don’t quite understand the way it works, but you know enough to know that you love him. perhaps you always will, your disco deaky, the thoughtful boy. 

you finish freddie’s painting come the first of the year. it’s been four months without john, four months entirely on your own. you have no compunction to find another arrangement. no one could fill the shoes of john deacon even if they tried, and the idea doesn’t appeal to you like it once did. you’ll go it alone for a while and revel in the autonomy you so desire. 

freddie invites you to dinner when you call and say the painting is ready, and you reluctantly go. you’re half afraid he’ll pull some trick and invite john as well, but he swears he’ll be on his best behavior. the night of the dinner, you dress warm and gently arrange the framed canvas in the boot of your car. after losing your way twice, you eventually find his house and park outside. jim helps you carry the painting through the tight gate and into the front parlor where freddie waits, hands clasped in excitement. 

“oh, i could just piss myself i’m so thrilled!” freddie squeezes your shoulders when you unveil the completed work. “i look so divine, like bloody oscar wilde!” 

the edges of a smile lift your mouth. “yes, divine indeed.” 

“you are more talented than you know, [y/n],” freddie says. he boops the end of your nose. “you shouldn’t hide your talent.” 

“i don’t! i sell my work.” 

“yes, but you could be a star, darling. i could make you a star.” 

“i don’t want to be a star, freddie.” 

“then what do you want?” 

you sigh, shrug, and curl your lips in a wry grin. “not sure anymore.” 

“perhaps dinner will help you figure it out. come on, it’s ready and we don’t want it getting cold.” 

you follow freddie to the dining room. what awaits you sends your blood running cold as the frost outside. john richard deacon, handsome as ever, sits at the table, a smoke in hand. he looks up when you enter, surprise painting his face at the sight of you bundled in a winter coat in his friend’s dining room. 

you twist in the doorway. your fists tremble with rage. “fuck you, freddie!” 

he cringes. “okay, i can explain. you just have to hear me out before you slit my throat.” 

john rises to his feet. “[y/n]…” 

you ignore him and keep your gaze on freddie. “you promised!” 

freddie nods. “yes, i know, but you see it was my fault that this whole thing fell apart.” 

at this, john turns his head. “what are you on about, fred?” 

“well, when you told me about your relationship with [y/n]”–-he lowers his voice to a stage whisper, looking at you from the corner of his eye—“when you told me you loved her”—he returns to his normal voice—“i got very distracted by the idea of a painting of the four of us. so i ignored your issue and looked her up and then it all fell apart.”

john sucks in a deep breath, shaking his head. he runs a hand down his face, and you note the weariness etched along his eyes. “fuck, fred.” 

“so, you see, it’s my fault. if i had just left well enough alone, you two might still be shagging like rabbits and spending all that hard-earned money instead of moping like a pair of silly-pants!” he sobers, his nose twitching. “i really am sorry. it was selfish of me.” 

“freddie—” you start. 

he shakes his head. “no! i won’t hear any excuses—not until you’ve made up.” a timer somewhere in the kitchen dings, and he snaps. “now… if you’ll excuse me…” he slips from the dining room, shutting the door behind him with a tell-tale click. 

you look to the floor. you should get your winter boots polished. they’re horribly scuffed. 

john speaks first. “you look good, [y/n].” 

lifting your head, you scoff. “you always were a flatterer.” 

“no, i mean it.” 

you run your eyes over him and feel your heart trip. god, you missed him. “you look good, too.” 

“what have you been doing?” 

“oh, this and that. mostly painting portraits.” 

“you hate portraits.” 

“i know.” 

outside, the cricks chirp loudly, but you wonder if john can heart the beating of your heart over the chorus of insects. 

“[y/n], i—” 

“john—” 

he smirks. you look to your toes again. 

“you go first,” he says. 

lifting your head, you dare to step further into the room. you steel yourself, biting the inside of your tongue to keep from spilling your guts at his feet. “i was wrong, too.” 

he cocks his head to the side in confusion. “what do you mean?” 

it’s time, isn’t it? seeing him now... how could you ever live without him?

“i was foolish and stubborn and willful. i knew what i wanted, but ignored it for the sake of my own stupid ideals.” you step closer and catch a whiff of his cologne. it sends a thrill straight to your belly. “turns out i need people just as much as you do.” 

“what are you saying?” 

“i’m saying i was wrong to turn you away. i was scared. i’ve only ever known love with a price tag on it, never real love. not until you anyway. as complicated as it is, you have loved me better than anyone else, and i was blind to it for so long. and even when i wasn’t blind to it, i pushed you away. i’m sorry.”

he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. “what—what are you saying?” he asks again.

“i’m saying i miss you and i’m a right git and i love you and i’m sorry.” 

he reaches for you, his touch like fire on your wrist. “i shouldn’t have pushed you.” 

you shake your head in disagreement. “i needed a good pushing. i didn’t realize how much i needed you until you were gone. and fuck all about the money. i don’t care about that. i needed you. i need you.” 

john moves his hands to cup your face, his palms warm on your cool cheeks. he leans downs and presses his forehead to yours. you exhale, sure that if you open your eyes, if you move an inch, you will wake from whatever dream you inhabit. you don’t want this moment to end—him and you and no one else, all the possibility in the world stretching out before you. 

“you don’t know what it means to hear you say that,” he whispers. “i would be content to love you silently, but, god, i love you.” 

you laugh and open your eyes, blinking back tears. you pull away to meet his gaze. “even though i’m a stubborn fool?” 

“i’m more stubborn and more foolish than you ever could be.” his thumbs work over the apple of your cheeks. “i love you,” he breathes. 

“i love you.” 

you grin. he matches your smile. 

“kiss me,” you whisper. 

his eyes widen, his mouth parting. “but—” 

“it’s part of our new arrangement. you can kiss me whenever you like so long as you promise not to smoke in bed.” 

“fuck. i—” he shakes his head, eyes fluttering shut. you lift a hand to his cheek, and his eyes open. 

“i know. me too.” 

he captures your mouth, the touch soft and everything you have waited to find, everything you have searched for in all the wrong places. he kisses you, holds you against his body, weaves his hand in your hair. he moves his lips in tandem with yours, and you feel like you’re floating. 

he kisses you, and you are home.

[sableflynn]

a month of whump

thought i would try something different and write a series of 100-word drabbles for my eight chosen prompts for @amonthofwhump and it was tough! turns out i like being wordy too much. but it was a good experiment! 

contains: take me instead, defiant whumpee, choking, whipping, nightmares, escape attempt, doorstep collapse, whumper return

1. take me instead

She didn’t say the words. She didn’t need to.

She threw herself between her partner and their attacker without a thought, because it was necessary. If her partner was taken—if this man, this brute, had them completely at his mercy—she would never see them again.

She might still never see them again, but at least this way they would stay safe. If someone had to take the blow, she would offer her neck every time.

As her partner vanished into an alleyway and the attacker gripped her with cruel hands, she told herself this was the best option.

2. defiant whumpee

She refused to make it easy for him.

Her blow caught him off-guard, and she almost escaped until his fist cracked across her skull.

She made him work for every inch as he dragged her to the van, her snarled fuck yous lost in the screech of tires on gravel. As he wrestled her down and bound her wrists behind her back, the passing glow of a streetlight illuminated the bruises blooming across his face.

They dropped her in the dim warehouse and he stood before her, fists clenched. He asked his first question, and she spat at his feet.

3. choking

He paced before her, shoulders tense. He wanted names, locations, plans. She gave him curses, defiance, silence.

She couldn’t stall forever. Her face was already swelling from his beating, and he was becoming more brutal in his frustration. She prayed she wouldn’t let anything important slip when she inevitably lost.

He asked, and she ignored, and he snapped. He was on her at once, his hands wrapped around her throat, squeezing, squeezing. She couldn’t breathe. The world narrowed to his fingers crushing the life from her.

The last thing she heard was his growled threats before her world went black.

4. whipping

She knelt, her wrists tied to a pole. The back of her shirt was pulled over her shoulders, and a chill ran along her spine.

The man asked her a question. She said nothing.

A crack, and a line of fire across her back. She hissed through gritted teeth.

His question was angrier the second time. She set her jaw, and said nothing.  

The whip sounded a split-second before lashing her. She bit back a scream, and continued to give him nothing, and the whipping became more erratic. Her back was agony, skin splitting under his relentless attacks.

She screamed.

5. nightmares

When he was done with her, he unbound her wrists and left her in the darkness. She lay unmoving, wondering when he would be back, wondering if she would die here, wondering if her partner would ever know what happened to her.

Her eyes couldn’t adjust to the darkness. The shadows only held deeper shadows, shifting and blurring whenever she tried to focus. Half-formed shapes of monstrous men smothering her, the unblinking void tearing at her soul. She sobbed, and the darkness swallowed the sound.

She didn’t realize she was sleeping until she awoke. Thin morning light broke the darkness.

6. escape attempt

He had left her alone, and her hands were untied. She wouldn’t wait for him to return.

The first time she tried to move, her shredded back seized with agony. She shuddered and sobbed until the waves of fire ebbed.

The second time, she stood on unsteady legs and stretched to grasp the lone windowsill. Her arms were barely halfway lifted before the strain on her back became a paralyzing pain.

I won’t die here, she told herself. She wouldn’t give the man that satisfaction.

Breathing deep, she threw herself at the window before her body could process the pain.

7. doorstep collapse

She must’ve been leaving telltale smears of blood behind her, but she didn’t care. She was escaping.

Her mind was a haze as she forced herself to walk through winding streets under the cool dawn light, the concrete and steel of the warehouses eventually giving way to rowhouses and bright boulevards. Her breath caught in her chest as she saw the familiar peeling paint of her front door.

She just managed to climb the few steps before the events of the past twelve hours hit her in a wave of exhaustion. She sank to her knees, and the door opened.  

8. whumper return

Her partner lifted her in strong arms and brought her to the couch. Her head was spinning, but one thought persisted.

He knows we’re here, she said as they dabbed at wounds with a warm soaked cloth. He’ll come back for us.

Then we’ll be ready, her partner replied.

When he returned, they were ready.

She whispered to them what she’d seen in the warehouse, what vulnerabilities he’d shown—and they knew exactly how to destroy him.

Not dead, but chastened. Forced to retreat. They would have time to recover, to rest. To love each other.  

They would have peace.

[tact-and-impulse]

Shinkane Week 2021 Day 1

For this prompt of ‘roommates’, it’s a sequel to Propriety! Let’s see where Miss Tsunemori and her faithful former chauffeur have ended up, now that they’re on the run…

Runaways

“I’m so sorry, but we only have one room available.”

He clenched his jaw. Gino would have his hide if he found out, but it seemed there was no other choice. “We’ll take it.”

Beside him, Miss Tsunemori was feigning interest in the worn floorboards. The innkeeper handed over the key and directed them to the room. It was terribly cramped, with only one futon. Extra blankets would be brought for the other to make do.

As soon as the innkeeper left, he insisted. “You can take the bed. I’m used to sleeping on the floor.”

“But you must be tired too. You drove the entire time.”

He did, because it was the middle of the night and she didn’t know the roads. He wasn’t even entirely confident they were safe yet. He had driven until the fuel ran out, and then decided to ditch their vehicle on the side of the road. It had been a harrowing twenty-four hours, and her entire life had been pulled out from underneath her. “Don’t worry about it. Besides, I’m the servant.”

“Not anymore.”

That was true and he abruptly turned away. “Get some sleep. We’ll think better if we sleep.”

His blankets were then delivered, and afterwards, neither of them spoke. As he attempted to find a comfortable position, he couldn’t help hearing her light breathing and knew she was just as restless.

***

“I’d like to see the ocean.” She had said, when he asked for a destination.

So, here they were, in a harbor town. They had watched the sun rise over the glittering water, and Miss Tsunemori had darted to the shoreline. He followed her prints, hiding them under his, and joined her at the breaking surf. She was standing just shy of the approaching foam.

“See any monsters?”

“Kougami-san!” She admonished but laughed. She could laugh when they were alone, without worry that someone would overhear and realize that it wasn’t two young men staying in the last room. “No, I haven’t.” She bent down, untying her shoes and removing her socks. After placing them on higher ground, she dipped her toes in. Just as she did, she made a startled sound and retreated. 

He took her arm, steadying her. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I didn’t expect it would still be cold.” She pressed her feet into the darkened sand. “I suppose that makes sense, it’s early.”

Letting go, he copied her, tossing his boots closer to her belongings. He stepped into a wave, the ocean surging around his ankles. “It’s actually not bad. Once you’re in it, you’ll warm up.”

She splashed towards him. “If you say so…”

For a few minutes, they didn’t move. He crossed his arms, breathing deeply of the salty air. “So…where to?”

“I’m not sure.” A frown had settled upon her face. The reality was kicking in, that there was no plan other than running as fast and far as they could.

“We need to decide. Every minute we stall, we risk getting caught.”

“You’d be arrested for kidnapping me.” She had already reached that conclusion, and despite that bleak possibility, he felt a twinge of pride. “And I don’t want that to happen.”

“Maybe, you’d see me again when I’d leave jail in twelve years.”

“Please don’t joke about something like that.”

He glanced at her forlorn expression, her downturned lips. “Sorry.”

A breeze swept through, and she held on to her hat. “If I can keep up this disguise, I wonder if I can study law.” She mused.

“Maybe.” He conceded. His skin itching with the need to move, he walked away from the ocean and grabbed his boots. She followed suit, and they slowly crossed the beach.

“Kougami-san?”

“Yes?”

“How do we get rid of the sand?”

***

Her question also brought up the issue of hygiene, so they concocted an excuse that “Akio” had a skin condition and couldn’t go to the public bathhouses, unlike “Satoru”. The story bought them a large basin of water and coarse soap. Miss Tsunemori was eager to use them, and to secure her privacy in this small room, he made a suggestion in case the innkeeper knocked.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Don’t worry, I won’t peek.” He held up the sheet, turning his head to the side. “Let me know when you’re done.”

“Alright, thank you.” There was rustling, as she removed her clothes. He tried to ignore the soft sounds and the liquid sloshing as she dipped below the surface.

He clenched the cotton, searching for a topic of conversation. “We can keep to the coastline, and there’s the option of leaving Japan.”

“I’m not sure if I want to, or even if you do.”

“Why not? There’s jungle out there, hidden temples.”

“Hmm. But you wanted to go to the mountains.” So, she remembered.

“Yeah. I had a teacher once, who said he wanted to live in the shadow of Mount Fuji. To us kids who only knew the rowhouses, his idea of a peaceful life was something we couldn’t really imagine.”

He could hear her smile in her reply. “But you liked it.”

That phrase, accompanied with the fact that she was naked in a tub just below him, caused him to waver. He renewed his grip on the sheet, his reply harsher than intended. “Well, runaways never have peace. Do you want to go home?”

Long moments passed, before she quietly replied. “I think we’re past that point.”

It wasn’t a denial. Before he could say as much, she announced that she was finished. He lifted the cover higher, while she dressed. It didn’t take long before she popped up on the other side, her face flushed.

“Thank you so much.” Her smaller fingers reached up, pulling the cloth barrier down. This close, he could smell the soap, and underneath, the lingering traces of sweet citrus that hadn’t been entirely removed. “Your arms must be sore. Do you want me to rub them?”

They did ache, but her offer was far too tempting for his fraying self-control. “That won’t be necessary. I’m going to the public baths. Keep the pistol, you know how to use it.” He was about to take the basin with him, but she protested.

“I can empty it, don’t worry.”

“…Thanks.” He couldn’t resist ruffling her short damp hair. His hand tingling, he hurried out of the building and down the road.

He was one of the few patrons at the time, and he was grateful. As he quickly scrubbed off the grime, he had an intrusive thought that she would be gone when he returned to the inn. It wouldn’t be surprising; being a runaway wasn’t nearly so glamorous, now that the initial adrenaline had faded.

However, when he knocked on the door, her lowered voice answered. Upon his entry, she sat up in her futon, clearly relieved. “Welcome back.”

And he smiled. “I’m back.”

***

They kept moving, never staying in a town longer than a few days. Kougami maintained a close eye on their surroundings, but he didn’t spot anyone tailing them. If Tougane was still persistent, he might have lost their trail. They traveled inland, running errands for money; he usually did manual labor, while she was a good scribe.

In one of the larger markets, there was a stall selling books. Her interest couldn’t be concealed, and he encouraged her to peruse, while he bought the remainder of their supplies. She had found one in particular and her gaze was bright as she skimmed through the book.

“Is it about law?” He asked over her shoulder.

“History, actually. But it’s well-written.”

He approached the vendor. “How much?” They spent a minute bargaining, but he was going to pay regardless.

As they headed to their lodgings, she humbly said. “Kougami-san, you didn’t have to.”

“Hey, it’s a gift. That’s what roommates do.” He smacked the spot between her shoulder blades, and she startled. For a moment, he wondered if that was too forward, but she didn’t mention it.

“Well, then I need to return the favor. Let me know if you really want anything.”

There was, but it wasn’t the time, place, or situation to ask for it. He didn’t speak again, trying not to think of a sweltering night that seemed like years ago.

In the evenings, he pored over their maps, marking the places they had left. It was still warm, and he left the window open. The sound of cicadas also distracted him from the fact that he was really itching for a smoke.

Then, there was a slight tap against his upper arm. Miss Tsunemori had set her book aside, holding out an open box of rolled papers, pungent and familiar.

“Here. I bought you a new pack, since you ran out.”

“You noticed.” It was the same brand he liked too. Touched, he accepted the cigarettes. He picked one, lighting it. Noticing that she was watching, he asked. “Want to try one?”

“No, thank you. I’ve gotten used to the smell though. Now, it reminds me of you.”

“Does it?” He regarded her, the smoke weaving around them. She blushed but didn’t look away.

At that moment, a cicada flew into the room. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop from screaming, and he bit off a curse as he extinguished the cigarette in the ash tray, before grabbing his boot to kill the invader. A few good hits, and he tossed the body out before she closed the window. Damn bugs.

Shocked laughter bubbled from her lips. “That was…scary.”

“I wasn’t expecting that.” But he began to laugh too. It was the first time, since they’d driven away from Tokyo.

After recovering, it was quiet again. Even the cicadas must have tired out. For a second, they stared at each other.

“Well…it’s late.” She slowly said, wrapping up in her blankets. “Good night.”

In every room, they’d been sleeping on opposite ends, but this one was the smallest so far. If he could, he could roll over and close that distance. But he only answered. “Night.”

***

The final summer days gave way to autumn, and the mountains were abundant with color. Unfortunately, the scenery was the only enjoyable thing. Influenza was spreading, from beyond the borders. The numbers of infected and dead were rising fast. It was recommended to cover their faces with muslin layers, and the masks also served in laying low. However, it wasn’t enough, because he fell asleep one night with a dry throat and woke to feeling cold under his blankets.

She took over, ignoring his attempts to convince her that he should be left behind. She kept their brazier lit, measured his medicine, and even wiped him above the waist. He felt terrible and weak, but he had to rely on her. From morning to night, she looked after him, her brows drawn together in perpetual concern. He wasn’t getting better, not as quickly as he thought, and he knew it.

One morning, she wasn’t there when he opened his eyes, and he made an effort to sit up. The room spinning, he swayed, and his hand landed on the note she had left. She was buying more tea for him, but she would be back soon. And just like that, he was reassured. He didn’t stir again until he sensed her presence.

“I’m back. I’ve brought someone who said he could help. Can you hear me, Kougami-san?” She squeezed his fingers.

“Mm.” He grasped back, comforted by her touch.

“Kougami? Is that you?” The voice was familiar, and he thought he was dreaming as he looked up into the surprised, bespectacled eyes of the man who held weekly lessons for the rowhouse children.

“Saiga-sensei…please help.” Then, he spiraled into delirium.

***

“Young lady, what is he to you?”

“He’s-”

***

Just as he was beginning to crest over the worst, her temperature spiked. He blamed himself. Staying in one room together this whole time, breathing the same air. She deteriorated fast, struggling with each inhale. Her skin was burning, despite the growing chilliness.

He didn’t leave her bedside, giving her water and broth and the little medicine he was able to buy. Saiga said he had seen other young women survive this, but his expression was serious. Kougami was afraid. Afraid that she was going to die, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

In her fever dreams, she called for her parents. Her grandmother. Her friends. And for him. “Kougami-san! Don’t go!” For whatever reason he was, it brought her to tears, because they spilled down her face, onto her sweat-soaked pillow.

“I’m here.” He hushed her, pressing his hand to her forehead. “I’m here, Akane. I won’t leave you.”

He wouldn’t, because she believed in him. In the silent spaces between her coughing, her words haunted him.

He’s the person I trust most with my life.

***

“So, you ran away together?” Saiga summarized, as the two of them sat on the back steps of his house. “I admit, I’m not sure what to make of your decision. You must have had your difficulties.”

“It wasn’t easy, but it had its kinder moments.” Footprints in the sand, pages in the candlelight. A sheet between them.

His old teacher smiled. “That’s how life is. It was lucky that I was passing through. I was sick earlier this year, so I’ve been helping out. Kougami, don’t underestimate this flu.”

“It’s going to get worse, isn’t it? Winter isn’t even here yet.”

“You assume correctly. But at the very least, you’re both alive. I’m glad.” Miss Tsunemori’s fever had finally broken, though she was still weak. Kougami was better, but not by much. He still couldn’t bring himself to light a cigarette yet.

“Me too.”

“Whatever you decide next will be crucial. Snowy roads are harder to traverse, and with the infection rates, I’d be surprised if any small town will welcome outsiders. As long as you hold on to logic and clarity, you’ll find a solution.”

“I won’t forget. Thank you.”

With that, his teacher excused himself to obtain groceries, and Kougami went inside. She was reading the newspaper, looking lost.

“Miss Tsunemori?”

“Oh, Kougami-san. Um, sorry.” She hastily wiped at her eyes. “All the news of cases and deaths made me think of Obaa-chan. If we were this ill, then what about her? Masaoka-san too, and everyone else.”

“I know. Even Gino is only human. But if we go back…”

“We’re immune though. We can offer to nurse the sick, in exchange for clemency. We can negotiate.”

“And Tougane?”

“I can always use the pandemic as an excuse for delaying a wedding.”

“I don’t like the idea of you marrying him.” Saying that aloud felt like drawing to the edge of a precipice, that he knew he couldn’t turn back from.

‘I don’t either. But I’ll find another way.” Of course, she would say that. And he had faith in her.

He smiled bitterly. “Alright. Let’s return to Tokyo.”

[folkgirlhero]

Coffee and Cigarettes

A Gerry Keay and Agnes Montague fic ft: platonic queer friendships and emotional support

Rated T (CW from mild internalized homophobia)

Read on ao3

She was already there when Gerry turned the corner, perched on a ledge that borders the rowhouse next door to their coffee shop, legs crossed at the ankles and swinging impatiently like a little kid. 

“You know, you’re pushing 60,” he called out, grinning. “Surprised you haven’t learned some patience in your old age.”

She turned her beautiful face towards him, long auburn hair shining in the sunlight, and stuck out her tongue. Gerry hoisted himself up next to her and offered her a cigarette, lighting them both.

“So your girlfriend tried to kill me on Friday,” Gerry offered. He always wants to get Agnes to ask “which one?” and she never will—one of the many games he plays that he knows he’ll never win. She just blew out a stream of smoke and waited.

Gerry sighed. “It was Jude.”

“Doesn’t seem like it quite took,” Agnes commented, looking him over. Aside from some singed hair, she’s right. 

“Hasn’t so far,” Gerry agreed. 

Agnes leaned against him, threading her arm through his and nestling her head into his shoulder. He felt her warm exhales against his neck as they sat in silence, smoking and thinking.

It’s hard not to feel protective of Agnes, for all that she’s older than his mother and basically a god. It doesn’t help that she looks like a lost teenager, in her little mod dresses and Mary Janes, as if fashion stopped moving when she stopped aging. Add to that the fact that she’ll suddenly open her mouth and say the saddest thing you’ve ever heard. Like,

“You’re the only one who I can touch like a person. Everyone else, it’s just…” She trailed off, unwilling to put words to the reverent caresses of those who love her like a god and the agony she unwillingly inflicted on anyone foolish enough to see her as mortal. And then Gertrude. The complex tangle of pain and love that make up any interaction with Gertrude. 

Gerry lifted his head from hers, untangling a strand of her flaming hair that was twisted in his eyebrow piercing, so he could look at her. She gave him her signature half-smile, a little upturn of the left side of her mouth that feels more like a tick than an expression.

“I know,” he said, trying to keep the pity that he knows he would despise, were he in her position, out of his voice. And he does know, without her having to say it. 

He leaned his head back on hers and they sat together, quiet, watching the sun dip low over the treetops and houses, glowing orange streaks painting the sky. 

***

Gerry was early this time. By a few hours. It had been an exhausting night that included a stab wound from a Slaughter avatar, 8 stitches in A&E, and a full hour of bullshit from Mary for losing the book. He had fallen into bed for a few hours of fitful sleep before his alarm went off to get him out of the house before Mary got up to continue her tirade. 

And he’d had nowhere else to go. So here he was, at their coffee shop, curled up in the sofa against the far wall, on his third cup in two hours and picking listlessly at a scone. 

Agnes practically waltzed in at 10:00 on the nose, wearing a daisy print dress and a straw hat, smelling of the sunshine that was making Gerry’s red-rimmed eyes water. She dropped her bag and plopped next to him, tipping her movie star sunglasses down her nose to look him over. 

“You look terrible,” she said brightly, slinging one arm around his shoulders and pulling him in to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Another one?” 

He nodded grimly and her other hand plucked his empty mug from the table in front of them, sweeping away to the counter and taking her warmth and sunshine with her.

Gerry pushed through the haze of misery that surrounded him like the cloud of dirt that followed Pigpen around in the Peanuts cartoons to watch Agnes flirt with the barista. She was honest to god twirling her hair as the other woman blushed over their drinks. She had been watching a lot of romantic comedies lately, he knew, and it wasn’t unusual for her to get caught up in a sort of extended daydream that she enacted with the rest of the world. 

What was unusual was for her to seem so happy doing it. 

She left the bar with a little twirl, mug in each hand, and sat down next to Gerry again. 

“D’you want to talk about it?” she asked, passing him the coffee that was sure to push him from awake to jittery.

Gerry thought about it, then said, “Nah. Tell me something nice instead.”

So she did.   

***

In October, shivering on the sidewalk café tables that were just this side of too chilly, both of them were resolutely determined to enjoy the changing leaves and the scent of burning firewood wafting through the air. Instead of going inside, they pushed their chairs together and curled up under a blanket, watching busy Londonites bustle up and down the street. 

“I don’t think I can kiss men,” Agnes said out of nowhere, sipping her coffee.

“You kiss me all the time.”

“No, properly, I mean.”

“I don’t want to kiss you “properly,” Agnes. You’re like a million years old. And it’d be weird.”

“No, I don’t mean you. I mean human men. I think I could probably kiss you, but yes, you’re right, it would be weird.”

“Leaving aside the fact that I am human men, okay, agreed, no kissing. You’re bringing it up why?”

Agnes shifted uneasily next to him and when she speaks, her voice is soft. “I didn’t want to hurt him. Jack, I mean. I didn’t really care about him, but I never wanted that. I just thought…” She hesitates.

“Thought what?” He leveled his voice to match hers, quiet and neutral. 

“Well. It’s what girls do, right? Find a nice man who looks at them like they are special, but not that special, still attainable. Go on dates with him, kiss him, wait for him to love you like you’re a person. Isn’t that right?”

Her brow was furrowed and her dark eyes were wide, looking at Gerry as if the question wasn’t rhetorical, as if he held the answers of humanity, as if he was something more than a fuck-up twenty-year-old who barely knew what it meant to be a person himself. Wasn’t like he’d had a ton of examples. 

“Some of them do,” he reminded her. This was not the first conversation they’d had where he’d tried to unpack her compulsory heteronormativity. You’d think as both a minor fear deity and a lesbian, she’d be above such things, but her bizarre life had ended up with her tying up wanting men as a part of being human. They were working on it. 

Meanwhile, Agnes had warmed to her topic. “And when I let him kiss me, I thought, this is it, this will make me a real girl. Like a sort of fairy tale. And I know it was cruel, I mean, I “know” in the way that you know that 2 and 2 is 4 or that London is the capital of England. It didn’t feel cruel, to kiss him right there in front of Jude and everyone, or to kiss him because I wanted out.”

“I think that’s the most human thing there is.” Gerry commented. “Wanting out.” 

She gave him a rare real smile, eyes warm and crinkling a bit. 

“A human desire that’s enough to make one embrace the monstrous?” She raised their entwined hands to look pointedly at his tattoos, still healing and glowing red at her touch. 

Gerry shrugged. “Whatever works.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. He nudged back.

“Okay, okay. Yes, it is. God, her face when I came home with them. You should have seen it.” He grinned at the memory, eyes gazing off into the distance, faking nostalgia for a couple weeks ago. Well, mostly faking. He had felt more powerful then than he had in ages. 

“Lesser men would have dropped dead from it,” she offers, smile in her voice. 

“Well, you know, us Keays are made of sterner stuff. As she never hesitates to remind me.”

“So did it work? Will it get you out?” Her tone was hard to place. Hopeful, but with a thread of fear. He turned to look at her.

“Nothing will get me out. I know that well enough.” He sighed. “All I can do is get a little more control, carve out something that’s just mine.”

“And the Eye lets you have that?” 

“Not exactly. There’s a line I have to walk, to keep it at bay I mean.” Gerry shrugged again. “I can’t do it forever. Dunno that I’ll live long enough for it to matter either way. But it makes a difference right now.”

Agnes made a hum of disapproval and Gerry chuckled at it.

“Not even you will live forever, you know?”

“Perish the thought,” she said, making a face. “But you deserve more than that.”

“Maybe. Maybe we both do.”

This was enough, though. A warm blanket and a hot drink on a cool night with some who loved and understood you like you wanted to be loved and understood. 

[essaysbyciara]

Old Habits Die Hard | Part Seven: Backseat

SYNOPSIS | PART ONE: DAYS BEFORE | PART TWO: JUST BE GOOD TO ME | PART THREE: RECOGNIZE THE BUTTERFLIES | PART FOUR: DOWN THE STAIRS AND TO YOUR LEFT| PART FIVE: JUST KNOW | PART SIX: JUST & RIGHTEOUS

Warnings: Language, mentions of sexual situations

Peace, loves! We’re back. Thank you to all who hit me up about this story. My laptop died back in July so I’ve been trying to write on a tablet which…yeah. A struggle is a nice way to put it lol😔. Go ahead and catch the vibes and thank you for the reads, likes, comments and follows. Y'all are the realest. 

“I thought you didn’t smoke”

“I don’t. Doesn’t mean I haven’t…”

You take a strong pull of Dave’s blunt in conjunction with heavy breathing caused by his right hand causing a madness in the between. The cracked window of your car brings enough of a cool down so that the both of you won’t pass out from the nighttime haze and the heat travelling from your bodies. Finally, after two weeks, Dave understands your love language; he can’t keep his hands off of you even as you try to take a break from him. He lifts up your left leg with ease, draping your thickness over his right toned, tatted up thigh. The madness is now turning into magic.

“Dave…let me ch-chill. Shit.” He immediately relents, pinching your quivering thigh with that same right hand while grabbing his dutch away from you.. As you sit in puddles of sweat and Dave’s ruins, you stare at the stars above you. It’s the clearest night you’ve seen since you arrived in the city. It just so happens to be your last.

Dave catches your gaze at the night sky through the skylight above you. “You good, shorty?”

“Yeah, I just…” a slight chuckle escapes your lips. “…I can’t believe I’m smoking blunts and fucking in a backseat like high school.”

Dave feels the ping of your words. It’s the first time in the two weeks of your summertime escapade that he’s reminded of how different you two are.

He felt the slight of your words. You and his relationship always reminded Dave that he had some growing up to do. Because of his lack of a place – and the privacy that comes along with it – you two got it in whenever and wherever you could; after his brother went to work in the AM hours, when Aunt Jerri left the house for bingo, in the backseat of your car. Your surroundings would never get in the way of what you two were there for.

Just like Dave wouldn’t let anything stop him from getting at you the day you met. It was an unseasonably cool day for a block party. He and his boys were on the stoop, shooting the shit as always, when Dave saw you walk outside of Aunt’s Jerri’s house carrying trays of food. He knew all the girls from the neighborhood but he never laid eyes on you before. Your cut off shorts toed the line between modest and disrespectful. A white crop top tee and Air Max 90s sandwiched your goodness in the booty shorts you bought with the intention of showing off.

You turned around to see this caramel-covered king, 6’5, tatted from root to tip, body sweating through a white tank top inquiring if you needed any help. You froze like the bucket of ice Aunt Jerri laid down in front of you. He caught you by surprise. You didn’t remember boys from this part of town looking this damn fine. Dave was beyond that. The man you were supposed to be in the Bahamas with didn’t look like him either. Suddenly you were happy he bailed on you.

“Oh. My bad. I didn’t see you there…” You acknowledged Dave’s reach around you to grab a bottle of water from the same ice bucket that mimicked your gaze.

“Yeah, you bad…” Your right eyebrow never arched so high. It wasn’t the only body part that moved. You didn’t know how to respond to Dave’s street-laced flirtation, only to let your tongue peek out the side of your mouth, leaving Dave no choice but to stare at your lips. Dave’s stare and loitering in your presence caught the attention of your Uncle Trace. As Trace schemed Dave down to the basement to grab more lawn chairs, Aunt Jerri gleefully tapped you on the shoulder to remind you that what happens in Philly, stays in Philly. Trace told Dave to not let anything happen.

But as you kept talking, Dave slowly fell into your grooves. Dave didn’t know that you fit in so well because of your summers visiting Aunt Jerri, Uncle Terrence and the rest of the characters that made up your Dad’s side of the family. You acclimated to the energy. Half of your DNA was Reed Street, North Philly; the same as Dave. You two fit especially well in the spare rooms, backseats and basement meetups to you hid from Trace and the rest of the world that thought you had no business together.

But after this last backseat episode, you would be going back to the place that made you so different; to your senior grant writing job, your townhouse and your Roth IRA. Dave was just months into an overnight warehouse job that paid just enough to give him some change to save money to move out of the spare bedroom of Pardi’s already packed rowhouse. He was a work in progress while some would look at Dave as a sign of regression.

But for you, in that moment, nothing – and no one – would or could be better than Dave.

Until he disappeared and you met Yahya.

Right now, you hate Yahya’s guts. It’s been weeks since he told you that he’s taking on Dave’s case on a pro bono basis as a favor to Aunt Jerri. Still seething as you tried on wedding dresses, you kept your cool just enough to keep peace between your mother and her arch nemesis. This time you sided with your mother.

Yahya caught the rest of your static. He caught the silent treatment all weekend, the AM news radio station being the only background noise as you and him drove Aunt Jerri to Union Station. Once her and her hot pink suitcase rolled out of view, you went at Yahya’s neck. You never called Yahya so many words for “inconsiderate”, your Masters in Communication coming in way too clutch. But Yahya passed the bar, so his combative energy matched your loquaciousness. Onlookers got a good look at you two spar as he weaved through Beltway traffic.

To say that you were mad that Yahya took a case this close to the wedding would be a lie. You knew him to have a kind and caring heart, a heart that wouldn’t let injustice slip by. If this was anyone else’s plight, you’d be all for Yahya’s gracious spirit. But it was Dave. Dave who ignored you not once but twice. Dave who, in the very backseat of the car you’re yelling at Yahya in, told you to give him a few weeks and he’d be down to see you. The same Dave who defied all of the rules – and Uncle Trace’s threats– to get at you. Only to leave you. Dave needed to reap that.

But the Dave you knew – despite what others thought – wouldn’t hurt anyone. He was just a hair over eighteen when he caught the gun charge that sent him to prison. A gun he carried because he witnessed his brother die in front of him. He kept it on the straight ever since. Dave was saving up money for his own place, you understood the grind. He was a stone-cold sweetheart covered in a North Philly veneer. He didn’t sow a seed worth anything for this to happen.

Despite the battle on the Capitol Beltway, Yahya and you came home to convene the most obnoxious session of make up sex known to man. Damn the celibacy. Y’all needed to be on good terms and he needed to get Dave out of jail.

—

“How it’s going, love?” Your dining room is becoming Yahya’s makeshift work office. You couldn’t help to sneak down at night to read some of what Yahya’s been putting together for the case. Seeing Dave’s name all over his papers remind you of how many times Dave’s name escaped from your lips.

“Man, it’s good. We got enough for this bail hearing. I think we can secure a bail low enough that his family and the local justice coalition can afford.”

“Good. Let’s get him home…”

Yahya smiles at your enthusiasm toward Dave’s case. Despite the ninth-circle-of-Hell type of sex you two had in the aftermath of that fight, Yahya knew you steamed from him taking a case just mere months before the wedding. Yet your insistence to know details – like spotting you reading his notes – remind him of why he wants to marry you in the first place. “What date is the hearing?”

“The sixth of next month. You should come up with me. Watch me in action…”

“I can’t. I can’t be in that courtroom. I’d make you nervous.” And make yourself nervous to see Dave.

“You make me nervous regardless, Y/N. But I was thinking you’d want to see your friend get out of jail…”

Your breath stops dead in its tracks.

“My friend? Dave isn’t my friend.”

“That’s not what Jerri told me…”

Although you support Yahya, you still kept you and Dave’s past relationship a secret. Knowing Aunt Jerri, keeping secrets ain’t in her resume. You grip the kitchen counter to brace yourself for Yahya’s inquisition. He passed the bar on his first try; you got some work to do.

“Yeah, about that, I … didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Of course some puppy love shit ain’t relevant. It’s cute, actually.”

Nothing about what Yahya is saying to you makes sense like it does to him. As Aunt Jerri told Yahya about Dave’s case, she slipped in a farce that you and Dave “dated” when you both were kids, Dave buying you water ices and shrimp egg rolls from the “chinese store” whenever you asked. You two allegedly fell out once puberty hit the both of you like a ton of bricks.

So when Yahya peeped Dave staring at you from across the living room of Aunt Jerri’s house, he knew that as the look of a man who now knew he let something good get away. He knew Dave ventured down to the basement not to grab a bottle for Trace but to rspit game at you. Yahya knew you would turn him down, having seen it before. When Dave grabbed your hand , Yahya wasn’t jealous nor hurt: you were set to be his wife. He won. The baddest girl in the world belonged to him.

You start breathing again as Yahya explains Aunt Jerri’s novella of you and Dave’s teenage love affair. In her own twisted, demented yet genius way, Aunt Jerri covered for you. She knew that if she gave Yahya the honest details, he would – as a man –hesitate to help Dave. Apparently you both thought Yahya wasn’t mature enough to handle the truth.

Aunt Jerri’s lie is broken up by the high pitch screeching of your cell phone. You run to answer.

“You have a collect call from PICC. Do you accept the charges? …”

How many times can you stop breathing in one night?

“Hello?”

“Hey, yo… it’s Dave. I hope ain’t hitting you up at a bad time. Ms. Jerri gave me your number…”

“Oh, no … it-it’s cool. I, uh… how are you holding up?”

Dave couldn’t believe that you asked your fiance to help him get out of jail. At least, that’s the narrative that Aunt Jerri sold Dave on as she and Dave’s mother sat in front of him during their biweekly visits. Dave’s face, once pretty-boy and perfect, carried more wear. His jaw slipped when he talked, causing him a pain sometimes much worse than what happened that night in the store.

“This bail hearing is in two weeks.”

“Yeah, Yahya just tol-” You didn’t want to keep bringing up Yahya’s name. Though that man is Dave’s savior, he’s still the one that’s in the way of a final go around with Dave. “…the 6th, yeah.”

“I want you there.”

“You do?” Your aversion toward sitting in the courtroom subsides as Dave’s voice – sexy as ever, even through a prison phone – calls for you to be there for him.

“Yeah. If I get out, I got a chance. Especially with your dude as my lawyer. Thank you for that, for real. That’s why I’m calling, to be real. And I want you to be one of the first people I see when I get out..”

You wonder what story Aunt Jerri told Dave but you can’t take any more of her creativity. “So you comin’…?”

“…you have less than fifteen seconds left on this call…”

“I’ll…”

“…this call has ended. Goodbye…”

“…be there, Dave.”

Taglist: @yoursoulstea​​​​​​ @harleycativy ​​​​​ @twistedcharismaaa ​​​​​ @dorkskinneded ​​​​​​ @need-my-fics​​​​​ @ghostfacekill-monger ​​​​​ @writerbee-ffs ​​​​​ @chaneajoyyy ​​​​​ @amyhennessyhouse

[katatty]

do you have any tips on decorating?? your lots are all so different and beautiful!!

Hi anon, thank you so much! I posted a few decorating tips forever ago HERE and there’s also a little bit of lot-building advice in my hood-building guide but let me see if I have anything new to add, (or just stuff I want to say again lol) Some of it might be building-related too but a lot of tips kind of apply to both, if that makes sense?

I can’t over-state how helpful it is to mimic other simmers styles and look at objects they use and quirks in their decorating! Obviously you don’t want to copy completely but it can be such a good jumping-off point when you’re getting started and trying to figure out your own style. I’m great at cluttered homes and more rural or old-fashioned decorating, but I always struggle with more urban builds or sleek, contemporary looks! That’s when I look at blogs like @frottanasmakeovers to get a few ideas, I especially love their kitchens & bathrooms? @deedee-simspiration is another blog I really love - her tagging system makes it easy to find exactly the sort of lot you are trying to build and get ideas! Oh and @danies-simsational-blog has some great stuff - the way she did the cornices on the roof of Divisadero Budget Books (wihout cc!) is something I hadn’t seen before and a trick I have lifted lots of times. Oh yeah & of course I have to mention Zarathustra on MTS even though I did that in my old posts too - his urban lots are absolutely incredible and I’ve gotten so many ideas from them...

Interior design magazines, pintrest boards and tumblr blogs are great for inspiration too! I don’t have a dedicated blog for this or anything but always save anything I think would be cool to try and replicate in the game. Even just google images can be really helpful! I like wandering about on google maps too - when I was building lots for Robin River I spent time on google street view checking out a few old American “ghost towns” - here’s the lot that vaugely inspired the coffee shop & grocery store! Naturally when you try to translate real-world stuff into TS2 it doesn’t come out identical, but that’s not always a bad thing :)

When decorating for the Jocque beach house I just googled “beach house interiors” and treid to look for ones with more dark woods and a slightly less washed out look, images like these were a big inspiration:

Again, they totally don’t match up exactly, but it’s where I got the idea to use dark wood for the walls and lots of mis-matched colourful furniture. The upstairs part of the house also uses a lot of furniture from the seasons EP because they look a little shabby-chic :)

Meanwhile the rugs & squares of carpet designed to look like rugs were inspired by this a simmer I found on MTS (there are some amazing lot-builds on there). Jymn did sometihng similar in this Stilted Starter House that I thought looked really cute and wanted to try & emulate!

If you get really into building eventually getting “simspiration” becomes kind of second-nature and you start seeing it everywhere lol - the number of times I have snapped a picture of a place I visited in real life to later try and re-create, haha. My other half has recently got into home renovation videos on Youtube - this video totally inspired me to get into building English-style rowhouses/flats.

I mentioned this in my old post but I always try to decorate with the residents of the house in mind - thinking about their socio-economic status, whether they’re more traditional or modern, stylish or functional, any interest or hobbies they have, etc. Popularity sims (like the Jocques) get living spaces designed to accomodate large parties! Knowledge sims are likely to have bookshelves everywhere & designated hobby rooms. Big families with lots of kids will have more cluttered homes with lots of toys everywhere and signs of life...

It really helps me to have a strong “theme” in mind - sometimes it can be kind of hard to figure out so I take a look at a sim’s interests. Realising the Bright household from SSU were all really into “paranormal” gave me the idea of giving their house a few “occult-y” touches which gave it a lot more life & made it less boring!

I give a lot of dorms & community lots “gimmicks” too, a lot of my dorms are kind of cheesy & unrealistic but they’re a lot of fun to build & play with:

Or stuff like medieval-themed restaurants, and vaporwave nightclubs! Thinking a little outside the box and commiting to an interesting theme really helps lots stand out, these have led to some of my favourite builds :)

I dunno if any of this is adding up to useful advice lol but hopefully it’s interesting and helps illustrate my thought-process when building & decorating. Basically look for inspiration everywhere & don’t be afraid to experiment with stuff that’s a little out of the box!

[tamorasky]

Rise to Me Chapter 7 - January 1947

Summary: 1947. It had been nearly four years since she had received a letter from her sister. Now with the end of the war and her impending wedding, Anna Rendelle is more determined than ever to find her sister.

1943. All her life Elsa Rendelle had been told to be good, know her place and to marry well. When an opportunity arises to make something of herself, finding herself in Occupied France as a part of a larger network of secret agents.

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Anna/Kristoff, Elsa/Honeymaren, Anna/Hans (Briefly)

AO3

It feels odd not wearing her engagement ring underneath her black suede gloves, nor carrying her purse, but Anna remained firm to leave all her valuables at home, save for a few coins in her coat pocket.

Her gaze remains forward, firm not to make eye contact with any of the beggars on the street or the men calling out to her. She had lied to Gerda this morning when she left the house, knowing the Norwegian woman would have a fit if she learned Anna was going to Spitalfields this afternoon.

She hadn’t even brought a piece of paper with the address written down, ensuring her pockets are bare if she is to be accosted. Walking through the crowded street, Anna repeats the address in her head over and over again, ensuring she will not forget it. Her memory has never been reliable.

Even as she walks down the street, Anna feels as if she should know this area as she walks along Thrawl Street. Much to her annoyance, the sidewalk ceases at the bend, causing the young woman to walk along the road surrounded by brick structures.

Anna shoves her hands into her green coat pockets, her fingers brushing against the satin inside as she approaches Flower and Dean Walk. She’s slightly uncomfortable by the idea of walking down the quiet street as if anything could jump out at her at any moment. But continues down the road, nonetheless.

She glances behind her periodically to remain aware of her surroundings as she searches for house number 37. It is the last of the rowhouses on the block before the street turns into a courtyard surrounded by other brick houses. These Victorian neighbourhoods always unnerved Anna.

Anna lifts the brass knocker as she approaches the door, which slips from her hand, causing the brass to hit against the door louder than she intended. She steps back from the house with wide eyes, worried about how the disturbance will be perceived, especially for a man who lived in such a place.

Jumping at the sound of the door opening, Anna tucks her hands behind her back as her heart pounds in her ears. A man emerges from the house, ducking slightly as he walks through the short doorframe.

He wears a plain cotton t-shirt and brass-coloured trousers with a green coat in his grasp. His blonde hair is ragged and unkempt as his beard is. The man raises a brow at her, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Can I help you?” He asks, his foreign accent resounding through Anna’s bones as she stares at the man standing at least three inches taller than herself. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out, trying desperately to say something as the man is growingly frustrated with her.

“Bjorgman,” She manages to say, closing her eyes at how dim she must sound to him. “That…is…I mean. Shit.”

The American man can’t help but chuckle at this awkward British woman standing on his doorstep, shaking his head. “You wanna try that again?”

“Yes, I’m looking for a Kristopher Bjorgman.” Anna sighs, thankful she is finally making sense. Convinced it is this neighbourhood that is having an effect on her.

“Um…” The man glances behind himself momentarily, then back to the woman, glancing at her up and down. “He isn’t home.”

“Oh, well…might you have any idea of when he’ll be back? You see, it’s about this letter I have, well, a letter that was actually sent to my fiancé from Washington. He’s American, you see and has been helping me with some things…an-”

“He probably won’t be back for some time.” The man cuts her off, shutting the door behind him as he places on a coat which resembles Hans’ military one; the same olive-green colour but shorter in style with the buttons covered by a front panel with an insignia of an eagle sewn on the shoulder.

“Oh, I see. Well, might I leave my information? You see, I don’t often get into this part of town, and my landlady will have the skin off my back if she ever found out I came here.” Anna explains, trying desperately not to be awkward as Hans always teased her about being.

The man runs a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Yeah, just leave your name and phone number where he can reach you at.” He reaches into his pocket, presumably for a piece of paper and a pen.

“Perfect! So my name is Anna Rendelle, and I can be reached at…” She trails off, noticing the man isn’t writing any this down but pulls out a cigarette and lighter instead. He lights the cigarette, taking a drag of it as he stares down at the woman.

“Alright, Anna Rendelle. I’ll tell him you came by.” The blonde nods, taking a step forward towards the street. Abruptly the wooden door swings open once again, revealing a short elderly lady with a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“Mr. Bjorgman,” She calls, stopping the blonde man in his tracks. Slowly, he turns to face the older woman with a grimace. “May I inquire when you might pay your rent for last month…and this month.”

“I’ll umm…yes. I will have that to you soon, Mrs. Anderson.” The man, apparently the vary man Anna had been searching for, responds.

“You better. The food for that mutt of yours isn’t cheap.” The white-haired woman places her hands on her wide hips.

“Yes, ma’am. I will have this and last month’s rent soon.” He bows his head, avoiding eye contact with the young woman standing before him.

“When Kristoff?” The older woman snaps as the young man turns from her.

He holds up his hand with his index finger extended. “Soon, Mrs. Anderson.”

“It better be!” The older woman shouts at the young man, who was walking away, before she glances back to Anna sternly. “Who are you then?” Anna opens her mouth to speak but doesn’t, instead her gaze going back to the man making his way down Flower and Dean Walk.

“Hey!” She yells after him, racing to catch up with the tall man. As she comes to stand next to him, her pace remains increased to match his stride. “Mr. Bjorgman, my name is Anna Rendelle, and I was hoping to speak to you about a matter regarding my sister.”

“I don’t know anyone by the name Rendelle.” He curtly responds, turning left onto Thrawl Street.

“No, I’m sure you don’t. But I believe we may have a common interest in this particular instance.”

“What? Is your sister a part of a country club that needs someone to work the grounds? Because I can assure you, I’m not interested.” He responds, raising a brow at the young woman as they turn right onto Commercial Street.

“W-wait what? No, I m-mean my sister has gone missing.” Anna explains as they cross the street.

He stops in front of a corner building, huffing as he throws away his cigarette. “I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t help you.” Without another word, he disappears into the building, stepping through the glass and wood door.

Anna follows him, only to stop in front of the door for a moment, collecting her thoughts before pushing into the building. The Ten Bells pub had seen better days, the establishment’s wooden interior worn, and the stairs to the second floor blocked off by several chairs.

Mr. Bjorgman sits at the wooden bar on a tall barstool. She marches towards him, her brows knitted together, and her mouth pressed into a thin line as she climbs on the barstool next to him.

“Listen, I need you to take me across the channel.” She states. Trying to remain firm in her resolve while squaring her shoulders, attempting to look strong and confident.

Kristoff sighs, finally glancing at the young woman. He hadn’t expected her to follow him into the pub. “And why would I do that?”

“I heard from Frederick Westergaard about you. That you’re also looking for someone.” Anna explains, wishing she had brought her purse to show him the letters.

He visibly stiffens at that, eagerly reaching the beer the bartender places in front of him and takes a sip. A vein visible shows on his forehead as he places down his pint. “I think you have the wrong man.”

“My sister went missing during the war, I-I don’t know when. I think sometime in 1943, I’ve been looking for her since then. Last I heard is she was enlisted with something called the Special Operatives Executive.” Her fingers brush against the rough wood of the bar. He finally looks at her, turning slightly to face her as he pulls out another cigarette. “I need to find her before I leave for the United States with my fiancé.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He responds, his honey-brown eyes boring into her blue ones. “But I can’t help you.”

Anna stares at him, carefully examining his features, noticing the way his eyes crease as he apologizes. She recognizes that look all too well. “Who did you lose?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He takes another sip of his beer. “Listen, even if you can get across the channel, it doesn’t change the fact that she could be anywhere in Belgium, Germany or France.”

“The ferries have been operating across the channel again. There won’t be an issue with that.” Anna shrugs, shaking her head as the gray-haired bartender offers her a drink.

“And your fiancé? How does he feel about you going off on this wild goose chase?” Kristoff raises a brow questioningly as he takes a drag from his smoke, exhaling away from her.

“Hans is…supportive.” She drags out her words, not having told Hans about her plans to travel to the continent. “He’s been helping me with finding her.”

“So why doesn’t he take you to the continent?”

“H-he’s busy with work, you know and trying to make travel arrangements back to the States. I couldn’t possibly bother him with this stuff.” She excuses, increasingly becoming frustrated with the stranger.

“Sounds like a real knight in shining armour.” He rolls his eyes, finishing his beer and ashing his cigarette.

“You know what?” Anna slips from the stool, her heels hitting against the floor as she narrows her eyes at the stranger. “I don’t need this. I can find my sister by myself; I have been doing it for four years now, and I don’t need your help.”

Kristoff shrugs, his brows lifting slightly as he takes a sip of the freshly poured pint in front of him. “Fine.”

“Fine!” Anna retorts, uncaring if she sounded like an insolent child as her mouth purses, “You may be satisfied sitting here like a sad drunk all day wondering what happened to your person, but I’m not. Good day sir.”

“No. Wait. Stop.” Kristoff calls sarcastically, his eyes focused forward on the mirror behind the bar. For a moment, Anna does stop to turn and look at him but observes he is unbothered by her words or her leaving.

She rolls her eyes in frustration while spinning on her heel, stomping towards the door before pushing through onto the street. The young woman walks quickly to the closest bus stop, not wanting to remain in this awful neighbourhood any longer.

Anna wishes she had refused to take Kathryn’s shift the next evening, her mood still soured by her interaction with him from the other day. She had never understood the stereotype of the “rude American” until meeting Mr. Bjorgman. Certain she would tell Hans about all of it when they meet for dinner tomorrow night.

Throughout her entire shift, Anna is fuming, trying desperately not to be short with customers or Mrs. Steiner when her supervisor scolds her for the run in her stockings. The very run Anna had fixed a week ago in the same pair of stockings. It was inevitable, she would have to buy a new pair.

Groaning in frustration as she glances at the gold clock on the wall, noting that she only had 40 minutes left of her shift. She decided at that moment that she needs a drink after work, tired of everything the last couple of days had thrown at her. As she stands in the department store, Anna decides not to think about it, in fear of bursting into tears on the sales floor.

Instead, she smiles at customers and discusses her wedding with her swooning co-workers in her spare time. After 4 years, she had perfected, pretending everything is fine in her life. As Anna smiles and jokes with Mary, a familiar voice resounds through the salesfloor, instantly souring her mood once again.

She huffs in frustration, blowing her bangs out of her eyes before turning towards the department store entrance. The blond man stands at the front makeup counter, wearing the same clothes from that afternoon and still looking ragged. It surprises her that the security guard isn’t following him through the store as he meanders, looking a little lost through it all.

He slinks through the salesfloor. His gaze searches every makeup counter until they finally fall onto her. As he awkwardly makes his way past customers, Anna watches as he apologizes to the various women he accidentally brushes against.

Kristoff stands at the makeup counter Anna is occupying, drumming his fingers against the glass case as he carefully thinks over what to say.

“Can I help you?” Anna snaps quietly, feeling bad for a moment as she sounds harsher than intended.

“Yeah, I uh…” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, not making eye contact with the young woman. “I came to apologize.”

“Did you?” Anna inquires, cocking a brow as she crosses her arms. She cannot bring herself to believe him quite yet, as he had yet to make eye contact with her.

“Yes!” He barks, frustrated by this woman’s pride. Kristoff takes a deep breath to calm himself. “It was brought to my attention that I was a real asshole yesterday.”

“Really?” Anna responds flatly. “And what gave you such an idea?”

“I-It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to come here to apologize…and to talk.” His gaze drifts to the glass case, focusing on his hands.

Anna’s gaze drifts away from Kristoff for a moment, noticing Mrs. Steiner staring at the two of them with interest. “Meet me at The Clarence pub in about 30 minutes.”

“What?” Kristoff questions, his brows furrowed in response.

“Have a drink while you wait.” Her eyes dart back to Mrs. Steiner to see the older woman inching close. Anna plasters on her best fake smile at the young man as she uncrosses her arms. “Yes, sir, as I mentioned before, you’ll find cookware on the third floor.”

Kristoff stares at the young woman as if she had lost her mind at that moment, trying to understand what the hell she is talking about. Her eyes rapidly shift from him toward her supervisor, causing him to glance over his shoulder to understand what is happening.

“Ah, yes. Well, thank you for all your help.” Kristoff responds somewhat stiffly before turning away from Anna, shoving his hands back into his coat pockets as he walks toward the door. Anna huffs that he doesn’t move towards the elevators to keep up their charade.

Panic instills in her as Mrs. Steiner stands in front of her, glaring at the girl coldly. “What did that customer want?”

“I’m not sure,” Anna shrugs, noting the look of disdain on her supervisor’s features. “He came in asking for a lipstick that would make his girlfriend look like Gene Tierney. I started showing him some samples, and then he asked about cookware. Then he just left.”

“Hmm…how odd.” Mrs. Steiner comments, her gaze not leaving Anna for an instant.

“It really was.” Anna nods, her fingers playing with the cuffs of her forest green collared dress. She learned not to play with the pussy bow on this dress around her supervisor, who would snap at her for fidgeting.

Without a response, Mrs. Steiner glances down, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “Clean your counter in the last 20 minutes of your shift.”

Anna stares at her supervisor in confusion as the older woman strides away from her. She had cleaned the glass earlier this morning. The young woman looks down to the glass, only to find finger smudges from where Kristoff had stood.

She huffs in frustration. He really isn’t making this easy on her.

Anna could hardly wait to leave work once her shift had finished. Rushing towards the lady’s breakroom to grab her coat and purse. She huffs upon leaving the department store to find it is raining, she had forgotten her umbrella at home. Quickly, Anna races down the street towards The Clarence, not caring if her braids were unravelling.

As she reaches the pub, Anna pauses outside the building in the rain, catching a glimpse of herself in the door’s glass. Her eye makeup is slightly smudged from the rain, and her lipstick clinging to the creases in her lips. Her auburn hair now in loose brains and whisps of her hair sticking to her cheeks.

Pushing open the door, Anna steps into the building in her wet clothes, shivering as warmth begins to overtake her body. She glances around the bar, spotting Kristoff in the same spot she had sat with Olaf only a week ago. Her gaze focused on the man; Anna moves through the crowd.

He already has a dark beer in front of him, nursing it while he waits. Anna occupies the seat across from him without a word, shrugging her wet green coat from her shoulders as he watches her.

Her dress’s cuffs are wet, causing the young woman to unclasp the cuffs and roll them up to her elbows. She wonders what this man in front of her must think of her looking a mess. A server quickly rushes to their side.

“Can I get you anything?” The young woman asks, not bothering to take out the pad of paper in her apron pocket.

“Could I get a pint of Newcastle?” Anna asks, feeling awkward as she orders. She never ordered beer anymore since she started to see Hans. It felt unladylike for her to do so.

The server nods with a polite smile before turning to Kristoff. “How are you still doing?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Kristoff offers a polite smile back, his face falling as the server walks away from their table. It falls silent between them once again. Before Kristoff mutters, just barely above a whisper. “You’re right.”

Anna stares at the young man, initially shocked. A smile crosses her features as she flutters her eyelashes innocently, cupping her hand against her ear. “I’m sorry. What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the crowd.”

Kristoff rolls his eyes, glancing around the pub with only two other men in the room. “You were right!”

Anna sits back in her chair, cockily, crossing her arms over her chest as her smirk grows. “Well, I’m glad to see you can be reasonable, at least some of the time. Maybe I should’ve found you at the dingy pub yesterday.”

“The bar isn’t dingy it’s just…historical.” He shrugs. The server places the pint in front of Anna before moving onto the other table without another word.

“I felt like I was going to be murdered in it,” Anna states, using both hands to pick up the heavy pint glass to take a sip from it. A small smile ghosts over his features at her comment, which makes Anna pause for a moment. If he were to trim his beard and hair, actually take care of himself, she could understand why one might find the man in front of her to be quite handsome.

“You would have been fine.” He responds, taking a sip of his beer.

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re a giant yank!” Anna exclaims. “Any person in that neighbourhood wouldn’t dare to pick a fight with you.” “I really think you’re over-exaggerating.” Kristoff pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it before inhaling. He reaches over the table with the pack of smokes, offering her one.

“No thank you, I don’t smoke.” Anna refuses, her finger twitching at the urge. Smoking was a habit of hers, which is in the past now; she hadn’t smoked since she worked in the factory during the war.

Kristoff nods, exhaling the smoke away from Anna. Silence falls between the pair once again. The sound of glasses clinking against one another echoes throughout the pub as the bartender puts them away. She suppresses the urge to bite her nails with a sigh, drumming her fingers against the table.

The man sighs, taking another sip of his beer. The pint glass thuds against the table as he places it down, his eyes meeting hers once again.

“Why did you ask me here? I assume it has to do with my attempt to reach out to you the other day” Anna inquires, unable to take the silence any longer.

“It is…” Kristoff sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve been searching for…someone since the war ended, and I haven’t gotten anywhere.” His eyes drop to the table, staring at the wooden surface dolefully.

Anna stares at the man across from her. A very different man from the one earlier this evening and the other day. She wonders if perhaps that man who poked fun at her and drinks away his days in the pub is somehow a person who tries to forget. Someone, just like herself.

“I know how you must be feeling.” She nods, her fingers brushing away the condensation away from the pint glass. “I-I’ve been searching for her four years now. Every time it felt like I gained an inch, I went back one foot.”

Kristoff slowly glances up at her. “I gave up. My letter to the Pentagon last year was my last attempt, but then everything was classified.”

“Yet you stayed in England?” Anna inquires without thinking. He goes quiet, avoiding eye-contact with the young woman. She feels a twinge of guilt from unable to control her impulses. It was something her father and mother always scolded her for, recalling her mother nearly shouting at her after an incident.

You need to learn to think before you act, Anna Margaret Rendelle.

Even as an adult, those words rang true. As she opens her mouth to apologize, but Kristoff simply nods in response as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Yeah…I did. Just in case I heard anything about her.”

“Who was she?” Anna can’t help but ask, placing her elbows on the table and cradling her chin in her hands. She wonders if he is searching for his lover, Anna always had loved romance. It was something Elsa used to tease her about a lot, back when they were close.

Kristoff finishes his beer, placing the glass loudly on the table and exhales loudly. “It doesn’t matter.” His entire demeanour changes with that, as if pulling himself away from how he feels about this. “What documents do you have to help your search?”

“Oh! Umm…” Anna trails off, unprepared for that question as she grabs her purse. Pulling out the envelope from her bag and sliding it across the table. Kristoff opens the folder, glancing over the documents. “I was given a copy of my sister’s enlistment forms. It says she parachuted into France near Arras.”

“Alright, here is what I suggest. We’ll drive to Folkstone an-”

“I don’t have a car.” Anna blurts.

“Just listen, I do.” Kristoff calmly explains, closing the folder with the documents. “From there, we’ll take the ferry across the channel to Le Havre.”

She stares at him, a small smile crossing her features. He had come to the pub with a plan. No one had ever gotten this far with planning her search. “And where would you propose we go to next?”

“From Le Havre, we’ll drive to Arras…and I guess…just hope someone knows something.” Kristoff sits back in his chair, sliding the documents back to Anna as he crosses his arms over his broad chest.

Anna glances down at Kristoff’s empty glass and her nearly empty one. She stands from the table with her hands on her surface. “What are you drinking? I’ll buy us the next round.”

“Guinness draught,” Kristoff responds, smiling up at the young woman. Anna nods, tapping the table twice with her right hand before meandering towards the bar. It is going to be a long night.  

Author’s Note: I apologize for any bad edited, I'm so tired but so excited about this chapter!!

Also, Kristoff will get less confrontational over time!

I kinda went down a rabbit hole with the geography for this, but basically like Dean and Flower Walk, and Thrawl were like the worst crime streets in London during the victorian era. And Ten Bells is an actual historical pub in the neighbourhood.

[nonsensicalobsessions]

Symphony without Strings, Chapter 3

Today’s music program:

 https://youtu.be/0BdfH0CAKK4 , to be followed by https://youtu.be/xyY4IZ3JDFE (another time lapse photography video if you like them)  Alternatively accessed by https://open.spotify.com/track/0nYm42RuPWFaHWUXUdwHYm and https://open.spotify.com/track/3aLof1zmaQ0GLcAc9YQ3Fq 

Even after Liam fell asleep, Merry continued to play.

Her rationale was completely selfish: it had been a very long time since she had played simply for joy. Playing for Liam was always a joy for her, because he loved it so. He heard her playing while he was still in her womb, and she learned quickly that he had a definite preference for the cello as opposed to the violin or the piano. This suited her perfectly, because she remembered playing the cello the most when she was with Tom, and it brought back fond memories. Tom loved to come back to her tiny rowhouse to relax and just...be, after he finished filming for the day, or night. Merry was a typical graduate student in that she kept late hours, either studying or practicing, so it wasn’t uncommon for her to be awake even if Tom was doing night shooting hours. He would stumble back to her place to find a warm oasis of music, peace, and affection.

“Merry, you should be asleep.”

“Says the man coming to my back door at 3:30 in the morning,” she replied, making notations on her sheet music. “There’s cookies and cake sitting in the microwave, and you know where everything else is...” She lifted her violin bow and played a few measures, made a face, and erased some notes. She knew her classmates did all of their work on computer, but she found she did her best work with paper and pencil at this hour. Her eyes were just too tired to look at a screen anymore. 

“I don’t deserve you,” Tom plaintively sighed as he helped himself. “What are you working on now, Mozart?”

“No, a variation of Bach,” she muttered irritably as she picked up her bow again. “Why do I have to do this? It’s been done a thousand times before, and done better...”

“I doubt that,” Tom responded loyally. “And I was calling you Mozart, sweetling...”

Merry sighed, and slumped as she put her bow down without even attempting what she had composed. “You’re too kind...and I think I will give this a rest.” Frustrated, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, as it had once again escaped the messy bun she had used to restrain it.

“Ah, but will it be a whole rest or a half rest...ow, ow, stop it...!”

Merry didn’t stop throwing her pencils at him until she had emptied her cup’s supply. “Worst...joke...ever, Tom!”

He leapt over the sofa to grab her around the waist and begin planting kisses all over her protesting face. “Ah, but I am your Tom, and you love it...”

“Hiddleston, you are amazing, but your jokes, not so much...what are the chances you can stop clowning around, and we can just go to bed for awhile? I have exactly six hours to relax.”

“Precious Merry...six hours I can give you, but how much relaxing you will do remains to be seen...”

She sighed theatrically. “Should have known not to allow you access to the chocolate cake,” she laughed, as he swept her off her feet and carried her off to her room.

“Merry?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“Did you ever get those Bach variations for violin to your satisfaction?”

He startled her so much she stopped playing. “I...I was just remembering that very night.” She leaned back, smiling a bit. “Well enough, I suppose. It wasn’t my finest work, as I recall...a handsome beggar came to my back door, helped himself to some baked goods, then whisked me off to bed.”

“As I recall it, that very morning I was assaulted with sharp objects after having been grievously wounded with even sharper words,” Tom sighed, his face a study in woe.

“Is that all you remember then?”

“No...I remember a beautiful woman who took pity on me, welcomed me in from the cold, and fed my body, heart, and soul with sweets, love, and music,” he replied seriously. “Merry...why did we ever agree to let each other go? How did I ever let you talk me into it?”

“Talk you...? Oh, that’s rich, coming from you.” Merry stood, albeit unsteadily. She left Kermit leaning carefully against the wall. “Out. Right now.”

“You’re throwing me out of my...”

“Stop.”

Oh, there was the temper he remembered.

“We are leaving Liam’s bedroom because I will not have him wake up to this conversation.”

Once again, she had the upper hand. Why did he keep forgetting this about her?

Merry left the door open just a crack, so Aiden would be able to slip in without disturbing Liam when he retired for the night. Tom had failed to process how the room had two beds in it. Merry faced Tom, eyes snapping with anger. 

“If you want to continue this, follow me.”

“Your cello...” he feebly backpedalled.

“Liam knows well how to respect my music,” she retorted. “He might only be four, but he’s always known that, and what is his, and what is not.”

She stalked into her bedroom, leaving him hesitating for a moment, before he squared his shoulders and followed her.

Aiden, seated on the sofa pretending to have not noticed any of it, muttered into his book, “Damn well better follow her. My Liam’s dad had best not be a coward.”

As soon as Tom had entered, Merry politely asked through clenched teeth, “Please close the door.”

Feeling trapped, he did so. Merry was making her way towards a seating area when an alarm clock went off, and they both jumped. “Shit!” Merry swore.

Tom opened his mouth and closed it again. The door opened moments later, with Clara sticking her face in to say, “Merry, it’s time for...”

“Yes, Clara, thank you, I have it,” she sighed.

Clara eyed Tom pointedly.

“God save us, Clara, he’s seen me naked, he can see this,” Merry groaned, although she tuned her back as she unbuttoned her top as she dismissed Clara with a wave. “Thank you, though. I have this.”

“Merry, you are obviously pissed off, and while I am oh-so-deliberately not pointing fingers here, you promised me you were going to stay calm, remember? You swore to me that you were going to take it easy.”

“I’m taking it easy,” Merry hissed, as she reached for a locked box from a drawer, withdrawing a key from around her neck.

Tom murmured, “Merry, you don’t...”

“Oh, Hiddleston, would you please just shut the fuck up already,” snapped Clara, walking to Merry’s side. “Merry, you can’t do a thing for yourself with your hands shaking like this. Deep breaths. Give me the key.”

Merry relinquished it, her face clearly unhappy.

Tom tried not to stare, but couldn’t help but wonder what was taking place. Anytime he had seen anyone wearing a key around their neck, it was in a movie and there were never good connotations surrounding said key...

Clara unlocked the box and withdrew several vials and syringes and alcohol pads. Tom flinched inwardly, expecting Merry to shrug off her pajama top in order to have the injections...

What he saw instead were three clear tubes that were...somehow, dangling from above Merry’s right breast. Clara made quick work of injecting her in each. Tom realized now they must be...

“They’re her central line ports,” Clara explained brusquely, as she then said in a much softer voice, “get in bed, Meredith. You know these are going to hit you hard and fast.”

Merry was clearly already woozy, and Clara gripped her arm to help guide her onto the bed, buttoned her top, and covered her gently with the duvet.

Merry’s eyes were already closing while Clara cleared away the used alcohol pads, put the bottles and used syringes back into the case, and locked it. Tenderly she replaced the key around Merry’s neck.

“Her pain medicine,” she explained briefly, “along with other medication. She lost track of time, sawing away as she did in Liam’s room. You know how she is when it comes to music. She forgets everything else.”

“Yes but...I didn’t know...”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Is she in a lot of pain...did I make it worse?”

“You didn’t make it better, but no, you didn’t make it worse. She puts a good face on it, especially in front of the boy, but don’t fool yourself, yes, she is in pain. Leukemia hurts, Tom. We’re trying to keep her as comfortable and as stable as we can.” 

“Will she be able to rest easy for the remainder of the night?” Tom was making mental notes of everything that he wanted to look up, as soon as he got the chance.

Clara sighed. “No, she’ll need this done again later, but she’s going to be out of it for at least the next couple of hours. You might as well go home.”

Tom shook his head as he looked down at his feet. “But she wasn’t done yelling at me yet.”

“She is for the moment. I’ll leave you to show yourself out.”

Tom looked at Merry’s face as she lay sleeping, and walked to her bedside.

“What a day it’s been, Merry,” he sighed, as he pulled up a chair to sit alongside her. “I’m sorry I pissed you off, sweetheart. But since I did such a good job of it, I think I’ll just wait here for awhile. In case you decide you want to let me have it good and proper once you wake up.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Sweet dreams, Mozart.”

He had just toed off his shoes when his phone buzzed. He jumped to silence it.

Once again, Luke was texting him:

Pick up, you daft git.

Won’t. Merry is asleep.

...dear God. You’ve never...you haven’t...

Get stuffed, Windsor. She’s taken some pain medicine and she’s asleep. I’m just sitting here while she rests.

No, you’re not. You’re taking your stalker ass back home. 

Remember what I said earlier about Not Interfering? This is Interfering.

Should I get you a suite ready then? I can get you one close to the Prosper suite...

I don’t know yet, we haven’t discussed it.

What in God’s name did you discuss then?

Good night, Luke. I’m putting the phone on Do Not Disturb now.

Tom don’t you dare...

Oh look, you’re Disturbing me...Good night.

“Psst.”

Tom opened his eyes from his light doze to see Aiden beckoning him. “Tom, come on. Give her some space.”

“But...”

“No way, this is real next level Edward Cullen-style creeping. Get out.”

Reluctantly, Tom picked up his shoes, and with a longing look at Merry, who hadn’t moved from the position she had fallen asleep in, he left the room.

Aiden fixed Tom with a stern look. “Pull up a cushion. We need to have a talk, my man.”

Tom groaned. In twenty four hours, he had been out through the wringer. The last thing he felt prepared for was another interrogation in the guise of a conversation.

Aiden shook his head. “Nah, it’s not like that. Much. Just give the woman her space. I get you don’t want to leave. The night’s young, you got so much thrown at you, and while I don’t know how you feel about her, I’m guessing you still care somewhat and so much was left unsaid. I’ve got the advantage, I know how she feels about you...but I saw how you were looking at her when she wasn’t paying attention.”

Tom leaned back and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Aiden, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Then I’ll start. Music education was my major, and so Merry and I saw each other in the halls a lot. It wasn’t unusual to see her around the practice rooms, either. You know Merry, always smiling and friendly...I was studying violin, I was proficient enough, but never had a real inclination to perform. I love playing, and wanted to pass that love along to kids. I knew I had better be familiar with a lot of instruments, and Merry was my go-to for all things cello.” He paused. 

“I didn’t really start to talk to her, though, until I found her passed out by the ladies room one Thursday night. Scared the shit out of me. I was grabbing my cell to call the campus 911 when she came to, and begged me not to. She explained how she was pregnant, and couldn’t keep anything down. She hadn’t seen a doctor yet, but had taken an over the counter test, and was taking over the counter prenatal vitamins. I told her she needed a doctor, her mom, the baby’s father...and she told me she didn’t have any of those. I offered to go find one of her friends...she said she didn’t have any of those, either. So I told her as of now, she did...”  He ran his hands through his shoulder length dark hair, remembering.

“She was only two months gone with Liam and so sick, you have no idea. She had that hyperemesis gravidarum, when pregnant women can’t stop throwing up. She was in and out of the hospital, she’d faint at the drop of a hat if I didn’t watch her...and she had nobody, Tom. I didn’t know you were the Tom she was pining over, she just kept saying you had to leave, it was the best thing. I kept telling her she was full of shit, any man who loved his woman would be by her side, but she wouldn’t listen to me nor hear a word against you.”

Each word that Aiden uttered was tiny cut to Tom’s heart, but he desperately wanted to know, so he was willing to endure anything. “Was her delivery difficult as well then? I know you must think very poorly of me, but if had only known, Aiden, I would have moved mountains to have been by her side. I don’t even know Liam’s birthday,” he concluded, and Aiden was moved when he saw how bitter and painful the realization was to a man who would seem to have everything.

“Liam’s birthday is December 17th.  And his birth was very easy on Merry, after all the trouble she went through carrying him. Merry had to see her doctor once a week at this point, and since I was her coach, I took her. Who am I kidding, I took her to as many as I could, and by that point, she couldn’t have driven anyway. The morning of the 17th, she was already at 39 weeks, and the weather was threatening a major snow storm. I was worried that if Merry was to go into labor in the middle of it, was I going to have to deliver the baby myself? I loved Merry, but there was no way I felt prepared to do that! We were almost to her doctor’s office, the storm got closer, Merry got quieter, and she simply said, “Aiden, can you drive a little faster, I’m not feeling well.” As soon as she got into the doctor’s exam room, her water broke, and everything happened so fast after that she didn’t even get the chance to have an epidural. Liam was in a hurry, Merry wasn’t so thrilled about that.” Aiden’s face became quietly reflective as he turned inward with a private smile, remembering those moments (Merry’s determined face as she pushed, even as the tears coursed down her face from the pain...he thought for certain she would rail and curse against the man who left her in this position, but rather, she would broken-heartedly call out, “Tom! Tom!” in the extremis of her agony, clearly begging for him to somehow appear and be by her side...the absolute perfect joy of Liam’s first cry, and the blissful expression on Merry’s face when she held her son for the first time...the way his heart swelled with something he couldn’t even identify when Liam wrapped his tiny fingers around his own...) 

Tom grimaced at the notion of Merry going through labor without any medication. While he had no doubt she could do it, he didn’t know if he would have been able to watch her endure the pain...but as he thought of the man sitting in front of him, being in such an intimate position with Merry, helping her during one of life’s most emotional, significant moments...he was irrationally, wildly jealous that Aiden had such a privilege. 

In fact, as Tom looked at Aiden’s expression he was embarrassed as he was being swamped with a sense of envy so profound, he felt he was teetering on the edge of breaking. Aiden spoke so casually of experiences Tom would give everything he owned if doing so would grant him access to the man’s memories. He had no idea what he was doing on the 17th of December that year, but he was going to comb through his old calendars and even Luke’s planners if he had to...

One day Tom hoped to mine every single memory from Aiden as carefully and completely as though he was looking for the last diamonds in the world...but tonight wasn’t the time. Aiden realized he was woolgathering, and added, “Merry was thrilled Liam was so considerate to make his debut so soon into the semester break, which gave her the most time to recover.”

 “What of time of day was he born? Did Merry recover quickly? Knowing Merry, she must have had everything ready, I’m sure, was she still staying in the rowhouse? Where was Liam’s nursery?” 

Aiden looked at Tom, burgeoning respect and approval in his eyes as Tom continued to ply him with questions. “Ah, I don’t have the exact minute remembered, but it was a little after 3:30 in the afternoon...Merry was sent home the next day, so she must have been recovering okay...and of course she had everything ready. Liam didn’t have a separate nursery for awhile though. She had a cradle in her bedroom. It wasn’t like she had a lot of extra room in the rowhouse, and well, Tom, it’s not like she had a lot of money for extras. So she bought what was needed, as it was needed, and was practical about it. Liam never went without, so wipe that look off of your face.”

Tom took a deep breath and nodded as he looked at his tightly knotted fists. “I just wish I knew,” he gritted out. “I would have been there, I swear I would have. She could have had everything she needed, and wanted.”

“She did, Tom...except for you.” Aiden glared at Tom. “Why, man? I don’t get it. All she would ever say what she loved you still, she thought you might still love her, or at least care about her, but you had to part ways, because of your job. I kept telling her that was bullshit, and it was easier than ever to keep in touch with people who move around, if you are willing to work at it, but she’d shake her head and tell me I didn’t understand, I would never understand, and it was best left alone. I asked if you were married, and she said no. I asked if you were a criminal, and she said no. I asked every single question I could think of...but I never thought to ask, is he a famous actor that you feel hopelessly insecure about being able to hold on to while you continue your studies, because there is no way in hell you’re going to abandon them while he cavorts all about the globe, and there is no way in hell he is going to stop said cavorting.”

Tom scrubbed the back of his head with his hand, and glared at Aiden. “Merry and I talked about this many times, Aiden. I was finally getting recognition and steady offers of work I was excited to be a part of...Merry was being approached by different orchestras about her conductor potential. Neither of us wanted to give that up, nor have the other sacrifice their opportunities. Both of us were very ambitious.”

“I will never understand, though, why you decided not to keep in touch. It doesn’t ring true, Tom. Did you just not care about her anymore? Or did you just not care enough...was that it? Did you not want the commitment once you were no longer together?”

“Aiden, I am getting very tired of having our personal life scrutinized like this...by Luke, by Clara, and now by you.”

“Tom, I dried her tears over your ass. Repeatedly. It sucked. I fell in love with Meredith Skye. I admit it. But I learned very quickly the most she could ever offer me was friendship, because her heart still belonged to some dipshit asshole named Tom who maybe loved her then left her. So I’m going to jump right in where it’s none of my business, head first. Did you ever love her, Tom?”

“Did I ever love her...? Aiden, I’ve never stopped. I fell, and fell hard. You don’t just stop loving Merry Skye, Aiden. You simply...take a deep breath, and hope you can keep going.”

Aiden shook his head, and stood up. “Well, it seems you kept going just fine. But then, for most of the time, so did she.” Aiden’s sigh was quiet and heavy with desolation. “I can’t sit still any longer, I gotta move.”

Aidan paced the small area as he continued to talk.

“After Liam was born, Merry worked her ass off even more than she did before, because now she was taking care of Liam as well as pushing herself to excel in every course, every performance, every master class. She was terrified she wasn’t going to be a good mother to Liam, before he was born.For one thing, her own mother treated her like shit. Plus, I’m sure you remember how Merry was...hell, sometimes still is, in some respects. She is so focused on her music that everything else just...falls out of her mind. So she has countless alarms, post it notes, everything to tether her to the real world...she was so scared she was going to neglect Liam. Of course, babies come with their own built-in alarm systems, and once he was born, that same focus she has for her music shifted to Liam, she loves him so completely, and so devotedly...I helped her where I could, but I had classes of my own...and God knows the sky will fall before Merry Skye does...

“Then, a couple of things happened, within a series of weeks. Merry completed everything and was conferred her DMA—Doctor of Musical Arts—and was immediately offered a position in Baltimore. She accepted. She found a lovely place in a suburb of the city, and I helped her move into a beautiful home. It was everything she ever dreamed of for herself and Liam: a safe neighborhood, lots of trees and a family-friendly environment. Good schools for Liam someday. Parks. A great fenced yard for Liam to play in...Merry found a place to call home, at last.

“I noticed when we were moving her in, Merry looked pale and tired, but she passed it off as everything that was going on, and I believed her. I was finishing my degree, and she drove up with Liam for my degree conferral...Tom, she looked like a ghost. She had lost a frightening amount of weight. I knew something was wrong but she kept saying she was working hard, and loving her job, and everything was fine. Her spirits were fine, and she seemed really happy. I gave her a hug and a kiss when the weekend was over and was trying to convince myself to listen to what she was telling me. Liam was only about eight months old, and was already walking. I could tell he was a real handful...and didn’t tell Merry, but started to apply for positions in and around the Baltimore area. I was pretty surprised when I got picked up for a private school position, to start right after Christmas.”

Aiden was now pacing almost frantically, and pulling at his hair in a manner similar to Tom had earlier in the day. “I thought, I’m gonna surprise her. Show up at her door. She knew I would be there for Liam’s first birthday, that was never a question. She was toting the little guy everywhere the orchestra traveled to, and I wanted to make sure she was going to be home...she was home, but Tom...she...as soon as I saw her, I insisted that she come with me to  a doctor for a physical. Thin, pale, exhausted, sometimes she had a hard time catching her breath. Her spirits were high, but I knew, I knew something was very wrong.

“Two days before Liam’s first birthday, she was diagnosed with Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia...kids get this, not adults!” Aiden stopped, his face a study in remembered shock and sadness. “I should have pushed harder, before, maybe she wouldn’t be so sick now if...”

Tom stood and placed his hand gingerly but supportively on Aidan’s shoulder. “Don’t go down that path. It leads to nowhere but guilt, grief, and madness. You have been the very best friend Merry has ever had, then and now. She would have never let you care for her during her pregnancy if she didn’t trust you implicitly.” (More than she ever trusted me, certainly.) “Merry and I were together for four months. In that time, she never spoke of having family she ever relied on, she never met with friends for anything for so much as a cup of coffee. There can be no doubt you are very dear to her, and have been there for her in every way that matters. She would take you over her knee—metaphorically speaking!—if she thought you blamed yourself in any way.”

Aiden’s smile was rueful, but he didn’t pull away from Tom’s gesture. “It’s just...difficult,” he admitted, his voice almost inaudible. “Liam has never known his mother to be fully healthy. Merry began treatment immediately. She spent his first Christmas having chemo and if I thought I had seen her sick before...” he shook his head, and unashamedly wiped his eyes. “All her beautiful hair, Tom...she was very brave. She cried when she was in labor, from the pain, and I could understand that...but when her hair just started falling out, in huge pieces, she decided to just take care of it herself. She sat in front of a mirror, and...she cut her hair, right to the scalp...and then she had one of the nurses shave what was left...and she never shed a tear.”

Tom remained silent, but found himself awkwardly patting the back of the man that a few moments ago he was feeling so much resentment towards. He did not wish to see Aiden suffer, but he still would have been there for Merry, had he known. It would have changed his life, it might have changed the path of his career. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what was going on in his life in that December, and was ashamed he couldn’t even recall, even as the woman that he cared for was battling for her life. It made him feel very small, petty, and insignificant, that whatever he had been doing had seemed so crucial at the time, years ago, and now he couldn’t even bring it to the forefront of his so-called prodigious mind...and Aiden could clearly still hear each rasp of the scissors, the sigh of long locks sliding down and gently slipping onto the floor, the buzz of the clippers...

Aiden pulled away, grudgingly nodding his appreciation of Tom’s support. “Merry went into remission for awhile, but this fucking thing just keeps coming back...so this time she was sent to Sloan Kettering, because her doctor said they could see normal treatments weren’t...she wasn’t going to...”

“I understand.” Tom did not want Aiden to have to say, or for himself to hear, how regularly treatments would not keep Merry alive.

Both men heard coughing coming from Merry’s room. They looked at each other for only a moment, then both of them silently bolted for her door.

Before they could even open it, they heard soft sounds of distress which made Tom bold enough to enter without even asking permission. He froze for a moment when he saw Merry trying to sit up, but failing, as face, neck, and chest was covered in blood.

Aiden shoved past him. “Easy, Merry, easy,” he soothed her. “Just another nosebleed, we’ll get you cleaned up, Clara, we need you,” Aiden took Merry’s body and leaned it to one side, and began to rub her back. “Easy, Merry, breathe through your mouth, that’s it, I’ve got you...”

“Aid’n...s’ry...” Merry gasped as Clara came flying through an adjoining door, took one look at Merry then vanished, to return with towels and a shoulder bag.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scolded Aiden. “This is nothing. My book was stone cold boring. Now, here’s a cloth from Clara, I’m going to wipe your face...”

With a heart wrenching cry, Merry turned her body further away from Aiden and began vomiting, great gouts of blood pouring from her mouth onto the bed. Tom actually felt faint, and leaned against the wall. He felt superfluous and horrified. Was Merry dying right before his eyes? Should he get Liam? Should he dial 999? Would he get a chance to kiss Merry one last...?

“Oh, that’s got to feel better,” comforted Clara. “All of that crap that ran down the back of your throat into your stomach would only make you feel worse as you well know. Get rid of it. All right, I think the worst of it is over, now, it’s slowing, and you’re still conscious and smiling...”

Aiden and Clara began to roar with laughter as Merry very deliberately lifted her middle finger at that pronouncement. Tom had to catch his breath.

“Yes, you are definitely with us, and if not smiling and in good spirits, then your usual cherubic nature is intact.”

Aiden had cleaned Merry’s face and neck the best he was able, but it was obvious that the bedding would need to be changed, as well as Merry’s nightclothes. When she felt strong enough to sit normally, she was startled to see Tom standing against the wall.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she rasped, her throat raw. “I thought you had gone home.”

Cautiously Tom approached her. “I stayed,” was all he said.

“I can see that.” Clara was taking her blood pressure, Aiden was carefully removing the sodden layers of linens that covered her. Merry had lost her scarf in the process, and her bald face, denuded of hair, scarf, makeup, even eyebrows, did not make her look weak, or frail, or alien. Somehow it made her look impossibly strong. It was a face you could not look into and lie. Her eyes dominated her face, as pale as it was. “Why?”

“Because this time, Meredith Skye, I am not leaving you. Not until you tell me to go. Three times. Tell me to go three times, and I will.” He took her hand in his. “But God, I am praying you won’t. Please don’t send me away, Merry. Let me stay and be with you. Let me be a part of your life. You know I want to be a part of Liam’s, I fully accept paternity. Of course we will go through whatever medical procedures necessary, but I don’t need science to verify what your words, and my own eyes, tell me.”

Clara and Aiden remained quiet when Tom made his passionate declaration of intent to her, but the nurse interposed, “I am sorry to interrupt, but Merry, we need to get you into clean clothes, get your bed changed, and you would probably feel better for a sponge bath. Your blood pressure is a little on the low side but otherwise fine. I have no doubt you are dizzy so I do not want you to walk to the bathroom by yourself...”

Tom interrupted, “Clara, I am sure I can handle the linens, if you would like to get Merry to the bathroom.”

Everyone stopped and stared. No one would have ever expected Tom Hiddleston, movie star, thespian, heartthrob of millions, to volunteer to strip down a bed soiled with vomit and bloody linens, and then remake it. He gave a lopsided smile.

“What, you think I can’t handle making a bed? They did teach me a few things in school.”

Aiden looked askance.

“I’ll give you a hand, buddy. Just in case.”

Clara led a chuckling Merry off to the bathroom, as the men bantered over who could arrange the sheets and duvet in the finest fashion. Tom was all for making a wager, Aiden was refusing because it would only embarrass Merry’s guest, and the testosterone war over bed-making carried on until the last pillow was plumped. Merry had since returned, in fresh pajamas, and smelling sweetly of her favorite shower gel and body spray. Aiden had disappeared with the first set of bed linens, as it had to be specially bagged for cleaning.

“Everything looks lovely,” Merry approved. “I don’t want to get back into it. It will spoil the lines, the feng shui, Tom, you’ve outdone yourself...” Her face was mischievous as she teased him.

Clara gave her a pointed glare that had Merry rolling her eyes. “Yes yes yes. And I am getting the meds out, and you are getting me my juice, and I am going to be so calm, and so relaxed, such a good patient. Look, see?” 

Tom conscientiously pulled back the duvet and helped Merry into bed, and even piled pillows behind her back while she took her medication box out and unlocked it. Under Clara’s unflinching eye she selected pills and drew two syringes. Unselfconsciously, she unbuttoned her top to exposed her ports, wiped them with alcohol pads, injected the medications, then capped the used syringes. She sighed and then took two more syringes and slowly dispensed those, and capped them. She wiped the tops of the ports with alcohol pads again, put the used syringes aside, and closed the box, but didn’t lock it, leaving the key in the lock. Clara came in with a pitcher of iced juice and a glass.

“Talk me through it.”

Merry dutifully repeated everything she had done. While Tom didn’t understand what medications she had taken, he leaned the last two were simply saline—essentially sterile water—and it was how Merry kept the lines clean. It was called flushing the lines, and Merry had to do it on a regular basis. While Clara was nodding her approval, Merry took her pills with a glass Tom had poured for her. He was stunned she could take them all at one go.

“Merry...how can you do that without choking,” he asked after Clara left with the box.

The look Merry gave him was downright impish. Her eyes were both playful and provocative.

“Tom, my feelings are hurt. Of all people, I thought you would remember how much I can swallow without choking.”

Tom coughed. Then he laughed, even as he blushed, harder than he had in years.

“Merry, I can’t tell you how happy I am to see your wicked sense of humor is still intact. ‘Cherubic nature,’ forsooth.”

She rolled her eyes. “These nosebleeds are awful, especially when I’m asleep. I start choking and...well. You had a ringside seat.” She winced. “I apologize, once again.”

Tom shifted from one foot to the other, prompting Merry to say, “For goodness sake, Tom, sit down. On the chair if you want, or even on the mattress, this bed is huge and I have no delusions about myself.” Her hand went to touch the area over her ports, then cupped her bare head. “I daresay whatever is left of my virtue is safe from all comers. A Siren I am not.”

Tom did not presume to take up part of the bed and sat in the chair again. He took her hand and his gaze was intense. “Meredith, your attraction was never just your physical beauty. It is your heart, your soul, and the way you express yourself with music. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Merry blinked, caught off-guard by both his words and his eyes. “Tom...”

“Relax, Merry, and have more juice.”

She did so, desperately trying to pull her dignity and thoughts together. She felt as though she had somehow lost ground when Tom had seen her so vulnerable. It was imperative to her to be seen as clear headed. Calm. Dispassionate, even. The absolute last thing she wanted to appear was what she felt roiling under the surface, which was tired, weak, and frightened. She didn’t want Tom to think she was pushing him to assume any responsibility for Liam, or even her. If Tom would walk away, Aiden was ready, willing, and able to take full custody of Liam if...when...her body gave out on her. If Tom decided he wanted to take his place as Liam’s father, Merry had paperwork already set up stipulating Aiden would still and always have access to Liam, because she would not have her son lose both of his guardians at one go. Meredith had worked long hours with her attorney to take care of her son. She was confident on that score.

And yet...even as she sat and played so passionately on her cello, as she spoke so clearly and eloquently to Luke, as she now sat so calmly in her hotel bed, on the inside she was trembling. Every feeling she had ever had for Tom had come rushing back to the surface. She had thought she was past all of these wild longings, the deep needy desire to wrap her arms around him, to feel herself secure and safe in his embrace. She was used to the pain of the leukemia, but the agony of her heart screaming for him to love her again was making her faint. It was more than a physical need. She felt as though her soul was slowly desiccating, being so close to him and yet completely detached.

Tom was everything she had feared he would be: caring, considerate, gentle, warm...and despite what he said in Luke’s office, no longer “her Tom.” “Her Tom” would no more be able to sit on a chair besides her rather than hold her in his arms than he would be able to swim across the Thames blindfolded. 

She began to wonder how she would be able to survive if Tom assumed his role as father, and she lived, after all. Having him be a permanent part of her life, while being little more than an intimate stranger.

“Oh God,” she thought miserably, “I don’t know if I can do this, after all.”

Tom watched as she silently drank the juice he had given her, and noticed how she looked so serene, and in control of herself. While he, on direct contrast, felt as though he was the slightest spider’s thread away from flying apart in every possible direction.

He had a son. He had a son. He had a son.

Tom Hiddleston, whom everyone thought highly of, always had people around him, wishing to be with him, so popular...never confided to a soul how very lonely he was. How much he longed for the opportunity to have a family of his own. Working at the pace he set himself, it was impossible. No woman would stand for it. The few women he had fallen for were chasing their own dreams, and he was never a part of them.

The woman in front of him being a perfect example.

He did not want to let go of Meredith five years ago. He had to leave, it was inevitable. The film that brought them together had to move to another location to continue shooting. Tom had seen her the very first day, and quickly fell head over heels for the extra cast member, even though he was careful never to let the depth of his love show. He knew how committed Merry was to her studies, and he respected her all the more for her passion. He would sit in awe as she would practice, in profound admiration of her skill and talent. Merry would roll her eyes sometimes and ask, “Aren’t you bored, just sitting and watching me,” as she would struggle with learning a difficult new passage. 

Tom replied once, “I cannot say I am watching, that is too mundane...I feel as though I am witnessing when I am here and I am privileged to be in your presence as you learn your magic.”

Merry’s response to that had been magic of a different kind, indeed...

Tom had slipped into the back of a dark performance hall. It was an informal recital, Merry had told him. Repeatedly. Nothing for him to get excited about. Certainly nothing for him to risk exposing himself, or their relationship, over...just herself, a violist, and a pianist, flexing their talent, adding to their repertoire. Getting credit hours for performance.

Tom nodded, and agreed. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He knew that nothing short of a director’s order was going to keep him from watching his Mozart spellcast.

Thankfully, as it was a university, and he was good at blending in and also knew the building fairly intimately at this juncture, he was able to enter unnoticed once the lights dimmed and before the playing commenced.

As he suspected, Merry..no, Meredith...no, his Mozart...brought him to his knees. The other musicians were talented, of course, and they played seamlessly as a trio, each giving and taking, the music ebbing and flowing between them...but Merry’s virtuosity had him shaking, tears flowing unchecked. Watching her fingers fly easily over the neck of the cello that still seemed to dwarf her, the bow sensuously sliding back and forth, the cello itself wedged firmly between her knees, her upper body moving back and forth as she lost herself in the music, her eyes closed in passion...it was almost more than he could take. He wondered if she was even breathing. He had seen that expression before. He knew all too well how lost she was. Merry was transported. He knew that is for some reason she had her cello suddenly taken from her, her eyes would be dazed, pupils dilated, and she would scarcely know where she was. 

The last piece was the one that left him so wound up he felt as though he might combust somehow. If someone had told Tom that a piece of classical music would make him so emotional that he would weep while simultaneously feeling as though he was about to ravish the cellist, he would have thought the speaker mad, or else on some street drug...and yet Merry’s interpretation of Caccini’s Ave Maria left him weak.

The lights came on, and Tom left unnoticed. It was easy for Tom to return to Merry’s home before her, and there was a fire stoked in both the hearth and his heart when she came in the door. She had scarcely closed it before he had wrapped her in his arms and was giving her the impassioned kiss that he had been holding onto for too long.

“Tom...?” Merry pulled back, laughing. “Goodness, what a lovely welcome home that is, but...”

“You...are...a...goddess,” he whispered, planting kisses along her face with every word. “Oh, just an informal recital...nothing special...I felt as though I was in Elysian Fields. Your last piece...Merry, it was all I could from keeping myself from prostrating myself at your feet and proclaiming myself your acolyte for the rest of my years.”

“You were there? Tom! I never saw you—“

“No one saw me, I told you, I was in the gods...”

She giggled at his terminology. “Well that explains everything. But you didn’t have to come, it was just...”

He stopped her self deprecation with his kisses, then his caresses. He led her to the area by the fire, which he had made comfortable with blankets, pillows, throws and rugs.

“Lie back, my lady,” he breathed, “My goddess, and let me worship you.” 

“Look, Shakespeare...” Merry demurred, embarrassed. Tom’s passionate admiration was making her uncomfortable on a number of levels. Not only did she doubt she was talented enough for his review, but he was touching her emotions in ways that she kept trying to numb. He was doing this more and more and it was getting increasingly difficult for her to silence the deepest portion of her heart that was longing to burst into song. Reminding herself, “No strings,” repeatedly had lost its efficacy a long time ago.

“Hush...”

He wanted to maintain a relationship with her, but knew in the end it would be futile. He was going to keep chasing after the next role. She was going to keep performing, and conducting, and creating her magic with music that drew him in time and again. When he diffidently mentioned coming back to visit once the film and touring concluded, Merry simply looked at him sadly with tears in her eyes. “You darling man,” she chided him. “When will that be? How many people will you meet in the meantime? How much will your life have changed? Everything about you moves so fast. I cannot possibly try to match that pace. I think it best that you keep moving at your pace, and leave me to move at mine. We’ve been blessed to have this moment where we have been able to dance together, but once you leave...” she shook her head. “Our time signatures will never be compatible, Tom, and it breaks my heart.”

He knew she was right. He didn’t force the issue. After all, they were young, and there would be plenty of opportunities to meet so many other people, just as Merry said. And he did.

But he never met another Meredith Skye. No one who could create the magic that she did with music and words and laughter and soft touches and languid smiles that set him on fire. No one who would bake chocolate cupcakes as a special pick me up when they knew he was facing a difficult scene, or interview, or just because. No one whose hair color shimmered in the firelight as though it was a halo, or aura of her warm and tender soul. Certainly no one who could touch his heart, soul, and mind as she did.

He missed her, and therefore tried not to think about her, because it made the pain sharper than the dull ache he carried around. Once or twice her name was brought to the forefront of his attention, as when she was touring in the area close to him and he would see her name and once, even her likeness on a poster when he passed the symphony hall where he was at the time (Coming soon! He stopped and stared at her likeness, rapt attention, baton raised, intent expression, and thought of how she looked when she played for him, when he kissed her, when she fell apart in his arms).

He missed Merry, he wanted a family, he now had a child he didn’t know but wanted desperately to, Merry was not even three feet away from him, she was fighting for her very life...

...and she didn’t care for him like she once did. At all. That was plainly evident. Because even though Merry had always been good at maintaining equanimity, the Merry he knew and loved was warm and open, not this pleasantly polite and affable yet closed off woman sitting besides him. His Merry would have simply held out her hand, waiting for him to join her.

They sat together, sharing their solitary misery.

“It’s late,” Merry said at last. “I hate to think of you believing you need to stay for some reason. You don’t, Tom. Truly. You will lose nothing by going home. You have my word. Why don’t you go home, and get some rest. You know where to find us.”

“I’d rather stay,” Tom obstinately replied.

Merry shook her head, and she smiled at him. There, lurking in her eyes, he saw the woman he knew, the one who refused to swoon for his puppy dog eyes, and cared not a jot for his fame. “You say that now, but tomorrow morning, you’d much rather you had gotten a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and fresh clean clothes. Be reasonable, Thomas. Liam will still be here, I swear it.”

Tom leaned forward and took Merry’s hand. “Swear that you will be here as well, Merry. When I came to Luke’s office, he told me first that you had come with a letter...he didn’t say what the letter was about, he said that you had come...and I was looking for you, Merry. I didn’t know about Liam yet. Then I read about Liam, and I was shocked, yes...but then I read about how you were sick, I was spinning in place, demanding to know where you were, what you needed...” Tom stood, found his courage, and sat next to her on the edge of he bed. “Meredith Yvette Skye...I missed you. Painfully, cruelly missed you.” He leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead.

Merry fought to control her trembling, and the traitorous tears attempting to slip past her closed eyelids. She shook her head and whispered, “Tom, I missed you, all the time, but I don’t fool myself...I know you’ve seen others, been with others...I know there have been others that have been in your heart, and I understand, that is how it should be. It’s what I expected, I never wanted you pining, or lonely...” She opened her eyes, and Tom saw the unshed tears shimmering on her lashes. “God, Tom, you are a walking sunbeam. Don’t laugh at me, you are. You exude joy, and it is natural that anyone...everyone...wants to bask in it, and you are so affectionate by nature, I have never met anyone so easy to love. There will always be a line of women just waiting, hoping, dreaming to be lucky enough to be seen by you, getting the chance to speak with you, and maybe find their way into your heart...”

Tom huffed a bit as Merry’s voice dwindled off. “Darling Merry. You’ve never seen me as clearly as you think. Yes, I will admit I have seen other women since we went our separate ways, and yes, there may have been one or two that were special to me...but none of them could fill the Merry-shaped hole that hurt my heart.” He caressed her face, and wiped the tears that finally escaped with the pads of his thumbs. “Close your eyes, and rest, sweetheart. Is it all right if I come for breakfast tomorrow? I really want to talk with you about a lot of things...but you need to sleep now.”

Almost by habit, Merry nuzzled her face into his hand. “Mmhmm,” she hummed. She couldn’t help it, she was losing the battle against the drowsiness that was overcoming her. “Breakfast usually at eight. Hope you still like pancakes. Liam will eat his body weight in pancakes...”

“I shall be here before eight-oh-one, and ready to watch our son delight in the best meal of the day.”

Merry’s eyes met his, and for the first time since they reunited, Tom saw the deep blues become the oceans he had drowned in as he lost himself in her arms. “Our son, Tom. We have a son.”

He smiled tenderly at her and brushed the side of her cheek with the back of his hand as she fell asleep. “Yes, Merry,” he whispered. “We have a son.”

TAGGING: Lifetime Memberships @hopelessromanticspoonie​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @just-the-hiddles​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @winterisakiller​ @theheartofpenelope​

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[onewhoturns]

Fuck, looking up news is a fuckin’ minefield. I’m just glad that the DC news that’s choosing to stay forefront in my mind are the stories about residents sheltering protesters through the night to combat the curfews and police. As fucking shitty as everything is, these people are amazing.

(WaPo has stupid logins required, you can still see the articles if you go into reader mode, but here's the section I was talking about, by Dana Hedgpeth and Derek Hawkins. Text version below the cut.)

Protesters holed up in Northwest D.C. home overnight emerge after curfew lifts

Dozens of protesters left a home near Swann and 15th streets in Northwest Washington early Tuesday as the city’s curfew lifted at 6 a.m. The homeowner had taken them in after they fled law enforcement officers firing chemicals at them hours earlier.

The protesters cheered this morning as homeowner Rahul Dubey, 44, emerged from his rowhouse.

On Monday evening as the 7 p.m. curfew started, Dubey saw a large group of protesters coming down his one-way street — Swann Street, about two blocks south of U Street. He opened his door and allowed them to stay.

TWEET: Tense situation on Swann Street in DC. Cops surrounded protesters and started firing pepper spray. A resident let more than 100 protesters take shelter in his home. “I’m not letting any of these kids out of my sight,” he told me over the phone. pic.twitter.com/Bk6NOIbAwf — Derek Hawkins (@D_Hawk) June 2, 2020

He choked up Monday as he said he saw protesters injured in clashes with police.

“It was a human tsunami,” he said. “I was hanging on my railing yelling, ‘Get in the house! Get in the house!’ ”

He said a “crowd came racing through like a tornado” and he “flung the door open and let them inside.” He added: “I opened a door. You would have done the same thing.”

One person inside the home said they took injured protesters to the basement and used milk to wash out people’s eyes. When they ran out of milk, neighbors passed jugs of milk over the fence.

On social media, protester Allison Lane said there were about 100 people inside the house at one point. She said many were “chased” from the White House with flash bangs into the neighborhood.

TWEET: I’m at a house in DC after being pepper sprayed and knocked down by the police. There are about 100 of us in a house surrounded by cops. All the neighbors on this street opened their doors and are tending to protesters. The cops corralled us on this street and sprayed us down. — Allison Lane (@allieblablah) June 2, 2020

On Tuesday morning, as Dubey and dozens of protesters came outside the house, they were greeted by supporters and neighbors. Dubey said on NBC 4 that it was an “amazing group of people” in his home. He said protesters left when the curfew ended at 6 a.m.

“They were doing nothing wrong other than to build a future that they want and that I want,” Dubey said.

By Dana Hedgpeth and Derek Hawkins

[skvaderarts]

Chapter Eleven: Rumination

You can check out the Masterlist Here for more links to places to read!

Note: As per usual, I want to extend a warm thank you to Aureux, HunterJamie, BeansWithBones, RubixaSeraph, Random Reader Nothing Special, and He Who Wanters for their wonderful comments. I smiled like an idiot when I was reading your feedback. In fact, I wasn’t originally planning on writing out this part of the story, but I was so happy that I did. This intermission dinner chapter is for you guys! Enjoy it before things… change a bit. Thank you once again for your continued support. Means the world to me!

-~-

A bay window that spanned the entire outward-facing wall that overlooked the street below was all that separated the cozy dining room from the raging torrent of stormwater just outside the stone rowhouse. As the windows whipped and churned outside, the interior remained dry, even as the window rattled slightly in an earnest effort to not open in response to the prodding storm that it held at bay. The well-built structure served its purpose gallantly, those that dwelled within its walls not needing to worry if their home was going to come crashing down on top of them at any moment. And considering the fact that it was now time for dinner, that was a welcome relief.

In the center of the room sat an oblong table with seven chairs around it. Although generously sized, the eating space had originally been designed with six people in mind. This was clearly illustrated by the presence of the seventh chair at the table. Although it matched relatively well (I mean, what doesn’t match a white table?) The seat clearly originated from an alternate source; the custom stitched patchwork cushions in each seat being the only thing that tied everything together. And it was all very charming in a rather arts and crafts farmhouse sort of way.  

Various eating apparatuses were carefully positioned around the table, the placements having been set by the children while Kyrie was busy importing food front the kitchen into the eating space. As a result, several things on the table were crooked, but no one honestly minded. The little ones had tried their best, and that was all that really mattered at the end of the day.

While Kyle, Carlo, and Julio clambered into their seats, their adoptive mother opened the curtains to allow what meager light there was outside to shine into the room. While the space was not claustrophobic, at this given moment in time, it was a bit crowded. Four adults and three young children made for quite the dining experience, especially when everyone present was so vastly different than everyone else. Or, at least they were at first glance. It was true that their personalities were quite different, but they were all united by common goals and the care that they showed for one another. Even when that care was thrown for a loop as the children bickered with one another, causing a bit of a ruckus before Kyrie shushed them gently. They had a guest, after all. This was no time to be rowdy. 

“Now now,” She said with a happy but stern tone,” were at the table. No fighting.”

Just as Kyrie was in the process of setting down the ceramic bowls she had ladled hot soup into, Nero emerged from the living room with V in tow. A moment later, Nico joined them. She came down from the second floor of the house and slipped into the dining room, eager to experience whatever culinary delights Kyrie had prepared for them today. To say that she was a wonderful cook would be an understatement, and Nico was not a picky eater. She would eat just about anything that the brunette woman put in a plate in front of her, as long as she had cooked it.

Nico sat down between the two oldest boys, prepared to pester them senseless if the need should arise. V, almost predictably, sat nearest to the corner of the room, his back facing the doorway as if he were poised to take flight should the need arise. This entire situation was entirely foreign to him. In his entire life, he had never been invited to or subsequently experienced a family dinner. That was most certainly due to the fact that he hadn’t any family to speak of until now. In the blink of an eye, he had died, returned from the brink of damnation, and then awakened as if it were all an unpleasant dream, only to find out that he had quite the extended family. It was all a bit much to take in all at once, but he was trying. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, he longed for Griffon’s familiar -if not antagonizing-  voice within the confines of his mind. He had grown used to the wisecracking bird’s little jabs and jests, as they had always provided ample entertainment and distraction from the concept of actually having to socialize with those around him. As much as he wanted to get to know everyone, his social battery was rapidly depleting and he would be remiss to not acknowledge that being alone in his new room was a tempting venture.

In his current state, he felt very exposed and vulnerable, and that was not a sensation that he generally enjoyed. V couldn’t pinpoint what it was but, in a way, he felt like he was missing something. Yes, obviously he was missing much at the moment. Namely his loyal summons and their accompanying tattoos, but this was born of something more than that. When his mind wandered, his hands normally stopped that from occurring by turning his attention to something else entirely. But that something had been misplaced, and V was just now realizing what it was that was amiss. As he combed over the remnants of his still marginally fragmented memory, it occurred to him that he hadn’t the slightest idea where his beloved book had gone. Or his cane for the matter. While he didn’t require it to walk, it most certainly made him feel more secure in his person, as it reduced the risk of him falling flat on his face and breaking every bone in his body, or something else equally tragic and dramatic. And his book served a similar purpose, only for his mind instead of his body. He desperately craved a distraction despite not having a clear reason to need one.

As his subconscious drifted into idly thought, he was suddenly made aware of his surroundings again when a small hand tugged on him. He snapped out of his delirium only to find that Carlo had clambered into the seat beside him. While Nero, Nico, and Kyrie were engaged in some sort of conversation with one another about the dinner that he had yet to taste, the small child had seen fit to take his bowl of soup and relocate. No one seemed to notice except for V, as their current conversation proved a formidable distraction.

The young child smiled shyly at him before reaching for the nearest spoon with the intention of eating his soup. V felt a wave of silent panic hit him as the thought of the young child tipping the bowl by mistake and scalding himself crossed his mind. He was on the taller side for a child his age, but not quite at the height required to reach the table safely. V held his hands out and gently stopped the child, garnering a curious look from him as he scooped him up and sat him down next to the table. V then took the cushion out from underneath himself and sat it on top of the existing one in the child’s chair before ushering for him to climb back up. After noticing the child’s hesitation, it occurred to him that he might not be able to do so, so he lifted him up under the arms and plopped him back down into his again.

Carlo smiled and then turned back to his soup, ready and eager to finally eat his dinner. V internally sighed, unnaturally relieved that the sweet child before him hadn’t managed to harm himself. While the liquid wasn’t hot enough to do any notable harm to an adult, it was to a child his age, and he felt compelled to prevent that. V then turned his attention to his own bowl of soup and somewhat hesitantly ate a spoonful himself. Admittedly, he hadn’t been that hungry before now, which was uncommon for him. But now that he had tried it, he was beginning to warm up to the concept. There were descriptor words that he could use to describe how good this soup was, but he had made the decision a lifetime ago to only use those specific words under special circumstances. This wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he had set those restrictions. Regardless, this soup was delicious.

After eating several spoons of the soup, it occurred to V that he hadn’t thanked Kyrie for dinner. He glanced up from his bowl and was slightly startled when he noticed that Nico and Nero were both staring at him like he’d grown a second head while Kyrie giggled happily. V mentally kicked himself. Why was his spatial awareness and concentration so bad today? Sure, he had plenty of reasons to not be feeling quite himself, but this still. Concentrating wasn’t something he had ever had an issue with. This was... unsettling.

V stared back at them, his eyebrow raised. What had he done this time? See this, this was why V was bad at small talk. The eye contact made his skin crawl, even when it came from people he actually liked. He could physically feel himself recoil in discomfort the longer they looked at him like this. After a moment he glanced back down at the bowl and continued eating. “... This is delicious. Thank you.”

If it was possible for a smile to physically render a person blind, then Kyrie succeeded. V stared at her and in surprise as she smiled, practically radiating actual light from her happiness. “Oh, thank you! I’m glad you like it! I noticed the weather, so I thought this would be a perfect time to make soup. And then you Nero brought you home and you seemed sick, so my mind was made up!”

Nico smirked and folded her arms as she gestured towards him. “I didn’t think you even ate food, V! Wow, it’s weird seeing you do… normal stuff, ya know?”

Nero nodded in agreement. Obviously, V ate food. He was a living, breathing being. But there was just something so oddly unnatural about having him over to eat with them. V was too mysterious and subtle to bother with petty normal people things like eating over with family. Or so Nero had figured for some reason that he couldn’t pinpoint. He didn’t really know what to say about it. In a way, he had been so wrapped in mystery and suspicion when they had first met that nothing he did or didn’t do didn’t seem unnatural or suspicious, but now he knew him much better than he had before. And yet somehow this was still just so surreal to him.

V shrugged as he finished eating his food, unsure of what to really say to that. “I would imagine that’s because I’m not exactly normal.” 

That all too familiar smirk returned as he put down the empty bowl, not at all noticing that he was the first person to finish eating by a longshot. He hadn’t exactly eaten the food quickly so much as he had simply not stopped eating it for even a moment from the second he tasted it. Part of him wanted to ask for more of it, but he decided against it. He had felt quite queasy earlier that day. It was best not to push it for now. He would sleep on this and see how he felt tomorrow.

Nero shook his head before going back to his food. “You got that right, V.”

-~-

When Kyrie had asked Nico to throw the clothes in the laundry while she put the kids to be, she didn’t hesitate. It was a better idea than allowing her to try and get them to calm down and actually go to bed. A much better idea. The last time that she had tried to do that, they had been up until three in the morning, and she had fallen asleep only to wake up the next morning to a catastrophic mess in the kitchen. No one wanted that.

Nero had volunteered to do the dishes in an act that had led to no small amount of friendly teasing from Nico before they had all gone their separate ways. And in an act that actually took every adult at the table by surprise, V volunteered to help him. Kyrie had insisted that he didn’t need to help since he was a guest, but he had politely insisted, partially from an incessant need to feel less useless, and because he had literally nothing better to do. And that was how they had ended up alone in the kitchen.

As Nero finished washing one of the dishes, he passed it to V who then dried it and placed it effortlessly in the overhead cabinet. Nero shrugged as if to ask his brother a question, testing the limits of how far he could push V in regards to jokes. 

“So what the hell,” He said as he handed him another cup. He accepted it nonchalantly as he leaned against the counter,” Have you always been this freakishly tall?”

V scoffed at the comment, idly drying the plastic drinking cup,” Absolutely. Walking with a cane simply makes that less apparent.”

Nero nodded. That made sense. “Then… why didn’t you just get a longer cane?”

V seemed to consider the question for a moment. Or rather, he debated if he should go into that right now. “I… wasn’t afforded the opportunity to pick in the situation I was in. I needed to act fast, or I wouldn’t have lived long enough to think about it later.”

An eyebrow went up at the answer. What the hell was he going on about? Had he been under attack? Nero knew just by the way that he answered that question that he wasn’t going to elaborate any further, at least not right now. But he still couldn’t help but wonder what he was referring to. His life before they had met seemed to be just as chaotic as ever. Would he ever tell him about where he came from? One thing at a time.

He gestured towards Nero’s arm almost lazily.” So, how did your arm grow back?” There was genuine curiosity in his tone, masked under a thick layer of sarcasm. He asked the question so bluntly that it nearly gave Nero whiplash. He stopped washing the dishes for a moment and gave V a sideways look. He didn’t sound like he didn’t care so much as he sounded totally unimpressed, almost like he already had an idea what had happened. Nero briefly considered showing him his Devil Trigger instead of just telling him about it and then came to his senses. If he triggered in the kitchen, he'd probably break everything in here. That, and he’d probably give V a protracted stroke, and he already had enough problems right now.

“I got some new powers and they just kinda fixed it. It’s complicated. I don’t know how to make it make sense,” Nero shrugged, unsure of how to really explain what happened. He wasn’t honestly one hundred percent sure himself. Just grateful.” It works like a normal arm and everything, but Nico modified the Devilbreakers so I can still use them. It’s pretty sweet.”

V nodded to himself, taking in what Nero had just told him. “So it didn’t grow back so much as it replaced itself, then.”

Nero paused for a moment to hand him the last dish before nodding to himself. “Yea, basically,” Nero turned the tap off and wiped his hands on the dish towel,” Why, you planning to cut something off and taking notes? I don’t recommend it. It’s fucking painful.”

He dried the dish and placed it in the cabinet, pausing for a moment. V gave Nero a subtle yet sympathetic look, nodding slowly. “Yes… I imagine that it did,” he reached over his head and closed the cabinet door,” And no, I don’t plan on losing any parts of my body. Dying again isn’t on my agenda as of yet.”

Nero stared at him for a moment in disbelief at the deadpan way he had just said that before bursting out into genuine laughter. Seriously, what the absolute fuck was wrong with him. He leaned on the counter for support for a moment as he tried to stop laughing, slightly lightheaded. V let slip a brief snicker before going totally silent again, trying not to let Nero’s stupidity get to him. When Nero finally stopped laughing, he shook his head and just rolled his eyes. “

“You’re the darkest asshole I’ve ever met in my entire life, you know that right,” Nero folded his arms and shook his head, suppressing a final laugh,” I and saw you fucking laugh.”

V shook his head once, his serious facial expression remaining. “No, I didn’t. I don’t laugh.”

Nero rolled his eyes again. Uh-huh. I’m sure.”

V scoffed, smirking wickedly. “That wasn’t a laugh. You’d be able to tell the difference.”

Nero turned in the direction of the doorway, en route to the stairs. “Whatever, V. Just-” Nero stopped for a moment, something occurring to him for the first time since they’d first met,” Actually what the fuck is your name anyway?”

He folded his arm, blinking a few times quickly. The totally calm look that he had on his face never wavered. V figured he’d ask that at some point, but it still didn’t change his answer. At least for right now. “No. Go to bed.”

Nero just looked at him for a second before. He had never thought that V actually had a sense of humor until now. Well, at least more of one than Vergil had. That wasn’t a very high bar to meet. Nero practically shuttered at the thought of Vergil ever trying to tell a joke. No, Dante had inherited all the funny genes. He utterly refused to believe that Vergil could be funny. And he never wanted to hear him laugh. EVER. He had just developed a phobia he didn’t even know existed.

As Nero took a step towards the bottom stair, he glanced back at V. For a moment the gravity of everything that had happened in the last two days hit him all at once and he couldn’t help but feel slightly emotional. He liked V. He didn’t know if he would ever tell him that straight to his face, but he did. And he was glad that he was back. Maybe they could start over. After he’d lost Credo, he didn’t think he had it in him to be close to anyone like that again. Not with that kind of relationship. But he was a different person now, so he could only hope, even if hope was a dangerous and foolish thing.

“... I’ll see you in the morning, V.”

V smirked, quietly pleased with himself. He turned towards the guest room, glancing back at him as he headed down the hall. “Yes,” he stopped for a moment, turning back to face him,”... Goodnight, Nero.

-~-

Finally, some wholesome family time for V! It only took his entire life, but here we are! As always, thank you guys for reading! The next chapter will be out on Friday, June 5th between Noon and 6 pm, depending on what’s going on. And also, how do you feel about these slower chapters. Obviously, we’re working towards something with some ACTION, but I hope I’m not boring you with the pacing. Let me know! And thanks for the kudos, everyone! Yes, you too, anons! This is the most read fic I’ve ever written. Amazing. Just wow. I couldn’t be happier!

P.S.I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I made a website just for reading my fics. It’s free if you want to check it out. I hope you like it. I made sure everything was really easy to navigate. Here’s the link: https://skvaderarts.wixsite.com/skvaderarts