#so id rather lean on the side of believing people about what they claim to experience | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spvce-cowboy · 4 years ago

Text

songbird

ch. 4 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

previous-ch. 3: “reunion”

next-ch. 5: “the hero’s shoulders”

rating: mature

11.3k words

warnings: PERIL!!!, violence, alcohol and drug use, jealous/protective mando

a/n: apologies in advance for the slight cliffhanger—this chapter got WAAAYY too long so I had to split in two. luckily means I’ll be able to get the next one out to you all asap ! <3

summary: you are forced to go undercover in order to help Mando capture his next quarry, the lionized Tyreus Cavill.

You’re most nervous about remembering the proper steps to a waltz. You know, instead of being worried about aiding one of the deadliest bounty hunters in the galaxy on his highest profile mission yet. Because that totally makes sense, right?

At the Estate, you and Febhana were taught dancing in order to entertain the Lord’s guests. Digging up any memories from that period of your life is enough to have the taste bile flood your mouth. You do your best to swallow it down, keeping a cool face for your sake and everyone else’s.

Honestly, you’d trade being afraid of the known over the unknown any day. The anxiety of remembering your time at the Estate was more familiar, something you could deal with, and have been for years now.

Thinking too hard about the severity of the current situation, about how you had absolutely no idea what you were doing, that was the kind of fear you avoid at all possible cost. So you settle for being nervous about a waltz, nothing more and nothing less.

Mando is seated beside the driver. He doesn’t turn back to address you and Febhana directly, instead tilting his head slightly in order to look at the two of you through the rearview mirror. Before the three of you left, he gave you a small listening device that you now have tucked against the edge of the undergarments you have on. The dress is too exposing to hide it anywhere else.

He debriefs you on the specifics of the mission the entire ride there, showing you multiple images of the quarry, plans of action, a blur of different scenarios and how you should react that you have already quickly forgotten in the haze of your building anxiety.

“The main rule is no secondary locations,” he concludes. “We can’t risk either of you being alone with him. It’s too unstable of a situation as is.”

You nod, staring at him through his partial reflection. From the back of your mind there’s a quiet glimmer of endearment, how you’ve never seen him this thorough about a hunt—Mando seems more like a wing-it-and-figure-it-out-from-there kind of guy. You’re not sure if you’re getting special treatment because he doesn’t like involving someone like you in his job or because this quarry is too valuable of a target to botch. The former doesn’t add to your anxiety, so you run with that.

You tear your eyes from the mirror when Febhana digs through her purse and plops a set of papers in your lap. You examine them closely, trying to bring the little details to memory as best you could.

“Is that even a real name?” You ask, face screwed up slightly, pointing where it’s listed on the fake ID.

Febhana cranes her neck over your shoulder, looking down at the papers with you. “Sophste Wilkbail? Sure, sounds like a poet or something. You can play that up.”

From the front seat, Mando gives a sardonic huff of air. It’s such a cruel sound you can practically visualize the scowl he’s put behind it. Febhana rolls her eyes.

“Listen, darling, believability is just about the last thing we need to worry about, right now,” Febhana settles back into her side of the speeder’s velveteen cabin. “Hiding who you are is more important. As soon as we get past the guards it’ll be easy. Just try your best to pretend like this is any other party.”

You neglect to tell her that you have not been to any parties besides the ones at the Estate. Instead, you nod, training your gaze out the front windshield.

The driver lights another cigarette as he pulls the speeder into a line of idling vehicles that border the streets outside the Tagge mansion. You can tell that you’ve arrived by the bright lights and banners flooding from the building’s open face, an intimidating amount of guards tucked away at every discernible outpost. You drum your fingers against your knee to the song you can faintly hear playing from the radio.

Febhana’s soft hand against your arm breaks you from your reverie. Her words are far more gentle now. “Are you ready?”

You nod. It’s a sharp, curt movement of your head. Steadfast. You’re kind of scared shitless, but determined. She smiles at you, widely, and it’s enough to have you smiling back.

“Let’s get this show on the road, then.”

The first thing you are certain of upon entering the Tagge’s mansion is the fact that this isn’t a home. It’s a cathedral. Possibly the biggest, most extravagant place you’ve ever been in.

The entranceway alone is enough to have you clinging to Febhana’s side a little tighter than you had initially intended to. It looks like… it looks like a marble maw, stretched open, fangs bared. You and Febhana follow the tongue-like carpet down the hall in small, measured steps. She takes to ducking her head in greeting to those she recognizes, you

It only takes a few moments for you to realize the awe you’re feeling is a strange combination of genuine wonder and pure intimidation. You think that’s the point. It doesn’t help with the uneasy feeling that’s situated itself in the cavity of your chest since getting into the car.

“They like to play pretend royalty here, don’t they?” Febhana mutters under her breath, giving a polite smile to a passing guard as she does. “Stars, you’d think they’d try to lay claim to Naboo itself with a place as decked out as this. Tasteless.”

You huff a laugh as she continues to lead you down the main hall. You try to look as dignified as possible, as if environments like this were an everyday occurrence. It’s difficult to do, but with the assurance of her at your side and Mando a few rigid steps behind you, the anxiety pressing from within your chest is somewhat quelled.

The main dancehall is filled with people. Everything—from the tall curtains to the paintings on the walls—is in cool tones of green and gold, interrupted by great expanses of marble. At the far end of the room are two twisting staircases leading to a platform where the band is playing. The ceiling has some kind of intricate mural you desperately want to examine, but when you try to crane your head back Febhana tugs at your arm slightly, reminding you to play it cool.

You square your shoulders as Mando sidesteps to remain pressed against the walls with the other guard droids, the movement a little too fluid for someone who is supposed to be a robot. You pray everyone is too drunk to notice. They are.

With Mando’s presence lost you sink a little further into your anxiousness as Febhana begins introducing you to a flurry of different people. She delicately places a drink in your hands from a passing server, murmuring a word of encouragement in your ear before moving to the next group. It all passes in a blur, but smiling and graciously dipping your head seems to get you through a lot of the interactions without having to actually pay attention.

You quickly realize she is strategically maneuvering her way towards the stage—or, rather, those who are gathered beneath it. There are a collection of small tables lining the perimeter where people are seated if they are not dancing. Below the stage are three larger tables that overlook the entirety of the ballroom. It’s too crowded from where you’re standing to see any of the occupants.

What you really notice, right after taking in what you can of your surroundings, is that there will be no feasible way for you to pull this off. Not here in the Tagge house at least. Every entrance into the private portions of the house are heavily guarded, cameras everywhere. You do your best to swallow the mounting sense of dread, keeping a smile on your face while Febhana continues to lead you through so many introductions all the names and faces blur together.

You tug at Febhana’s arm slightly between introductions to signal your need to speak with her. She eventually pulls you into the cubby of a towering window after disentangling the two of you from another meaningless conversation.

“Febhana,” you lower your voice and maintain small smile on your face to keep prying eyes and ears disinterested. Better safe than sorry. “There’s no way this is going to work. Not here. I’ve counted at least five guards around every possible entrance.”

“I know, I saw,” Febhana takes a deep breath, eyes wandering out the window. “Let’s just… tough it out. See what happens. I don’t really want to get on the Guild’s bad side, or your friend’s for that matter.”

You wince slightly as the idea that this plan could affect her in any way but nod, trying to swallow your guilt in not fully thinking through how much you were asking of her to help you and Mando out like this. You step out of the little alcove and move your way back to the perimeter of the floor.

From this vantage point, you can see one of Febhana friends wander up to the main tables and hug a seated boy in greeting. The contact leans down and says something in the boy’s ear before turning back to glance at where you are standing.

You’re close enough, now, to realize the table the contact just approached is where the Tagge siblings are sitting. The playboys surrounding them have such a loud presence you’re surprised you didn’t notice them earlier.

They’re all practically kids, at least a year or two younger than you, but they act in that way where they knew they were untouchable. They have lived and breathed an entire lifetime of knowing that they are people who could get away with absolutely anything—and have, more than once. It radiates off of every movement they make, from the way they throw their heads back in obnoxious laughter, to the cruel tilt of their mouths as they speak. Everything about them set off some deep-seeded instinct in you to stay away.

Scanning their faces, you recognize the quarry almost instantly.

The photos Mando showed you didn’t do him justice. Tyreus Cavill is wearing a crisp black suit and has skin so pale it’s nearly opalescent. His hair is slicked back close to his scalp, the severe nature of his bone structure combined with some of the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen gives him the appearance of a leering jackal.

Cavill stares up at the ceiling, tracing the rim of his wineglass with long fingers as the person seated beside him speaks. He looks bored--they all do, a kind of lax slant to their gathered bodies that stands in stark contrast to the tight, aloof postures of most everyone else around them.

You tear your eyes from Cavill as the boy that Febhana’s contact is talking to begins to stand. You look at the new boy evenly from where you’re standing, holding his gaze as confidently as you can, before turning back to where Febhana is standing behind you.

Febhana flashes you a sly look. You can practically see the gears turning in her head as she flicks her eyes in the direction of the Tagge brothers and Cavill. You quickly put two and two together.

Whoever it was that’s approaching you right now is your invite to the table. Possibly the only one you’d be getting all night.

“I’ve got eyes on him,” you murmur to yourself, hoping Mando’s device can pick it up. You glance to where he is positioned against the wall and see him dip his head slightly in response. Feeling a little more confident, you pull your shoulders back and pretend to make conversation with Febhana.

The boy enters your periphery shortly thereafter, standing at your side as he greets Febhana first.

“Febhana,” the boy tucks his head in greeting to her, then turns his gaze to you. His hair is a thick mop of curls, nose slightly twisted in a way that suggests he isn’t too good at fighting. The crooked smile he gives you is warm enough to push off your initial feeling of disquiet concerning his friends. “And who is this?”

“Lucius, this is my old friend, Sopheste Wilkbail,” Febhana introduces you by your fake name, then motions to the boy. “Sopheste, this is Lucius Laycam, his father owns the racetrack we went to earlier.”

“Dreadful business,” Lucius’s eyes glint, keeping his head tucked slightly in that way men do when they want you to feel like you’re the only person in the room. You don’t like the fact that he knows to say something like that, it demonstrates an ability to read you too easily.

Lucius takes your hand delicately, leaning down to kiss the ridges of your knuckles. He straightens to say his next words directly into your ear, getting unnecessarily close to do so.

“I’d like to treat you to a dance, if you don’t mind,” his voice rumbles. Your eyes flick to the table from over his shoulder. You make brief eye contact with Cavill, who has leveled his head to take a swig straight from the decanter at the center of the table, entirely disregarding the glass already in his hand. Cavill actually looks at you this time, and holds it, albeit briefly. Lucius finishes his proposal as you train your gaze back to the floor, “And then another drink.”

You give him your best smile and nod. It’s just a small dip of your head, but he eagerly pulls you away from Febhana and towards the center of the dance-floor.

Luckily for you, Lucius isn’t a flashy dancer. He’s amicable in a way you weren’t expecting, considering the company he keeps. He reminds you a lot of the village boy you were having a bit of a fling with before you left Am’ile’s planet: slightly empty-headed, but cute, and very enthusiastic about whatever task he’s put to. There’s a certain goofiness to him that pushes away any residual anxiety with the fits of laughter you tumble into as a direct result of his antics.

It’s kind of… exciting. You don’t want to admit it fully, but there’s something thrilling about someone taking so much interest in you. You’ve been so touch-starved that just the feeling of his hand partially cupping your exposed back in enough to send butterflies straight to your stomach. A different kind of anxious butterflies. Good butterflies.

Maker, it’s only been a few months since you left Am’ile’s and you’ve already been reduced to a giddy schoolgirl at the very brush of someone’s hand against your bare skin. You don’t know how Mando does it, you really don’t.

Lucius pulls the two of you to a halt when the band dies down, the singer murmuring something unintelligible into the mic.

“It was a pleasure, Miss Wilkbail,” he steps back, kissing your hand again and bowing. By this point you’ve figured out that his exaggerated, gentlemanly manner is just another shtick of his. You press your lips together to poorly conceal a giggle, giving him your own mock curtsey in turn.

“And you, Mr. Laycam.”

“Now if you’d like to join me, I’m on a mission to get absolutely plastered before these blowhards,” he motions to the others on the dancefloor with a twirl of his finger, “find a way to make this night even more suffocating than it already is.”

“Sounds just about perfect,” you say as you take the arm he offers you. He pulls you toward the table and you try to keep up with his long strides, bunching some of the skirt of your dress in your hand and lifting the fabric to prevent tripping.

Lucius pulls out a seat for you, introducing you to the playboys seated beside him. You’re directly across from Cavill, who is still nursing the table’s decanter, completely disengaged from the conversation occurring between the two friends that are seated on either side of him.

“Are you new to Canto?” The playboy who asks is a Tagge twin, one of the three brothers who are currently seated at the table with you. You can tell by the signature white-blonde hair.

“A friend of mine wanted me to stay with her for a while,” you say, graciously taking the champagne glass that Lucius plucks off a passing server’s tray to offer you.

“Febhana, you sister’s friend,” Lucius clarifies for the Tagge boy.

“The visiting court singer Heresta was telling me about, before?” The Tagge brother directs the question to Lucius, when his friend nods he raises both eyebrows and shoots you a grin.

“I’m still in training,” you clarify with a nervous laugh, finding it easier to talk if your eyes are trained on the glass in your hand. “But yes, that’d be me. The court singer.”

“What did you say?”

Cavill’s voice quiets the conversations of the other playboys almost immediately. The other Tagge brothers glance over but quickly resume a normal volume. The hierarchy of the table becomes very clear, after that.

“I’m training to be a court singer,” you repeat yourself, sliding your head towards the quarry with your best stab at a cool, practiced gaze of utter ambivalence. Cavill’s eyes remain trained on you, utterly serpentine.

Ah. You press your lips together and look down at your hands folded neatly in your lap, initial resolve broken.

“A court singer?” His voice is a low purr. You raise your gaze again. It seems as though once he takes interest in something, most of his buddies do too. A few of them glance away from their conversations to give you a scathing examination. It takes everything within you to not crawl out of your own skin. So much for the ease you felt back on the dancefloor. “Will you sing for us?”

Your cheeks fill with a heat that quickly travels to your chest. Didn’t expect that. Maybe you should have.

“I... Not here. The singer the Tagges have hired is so lovely, I’m afraid they far outshine me,” your eyes flick back up to his at your last word, you do your best to mask your burning revulsion as shyness.

“That wasn’t a request.” Cavill’s response is so blunt and immediate you actually flinch a little.

“C’mon Tyreus,” Lucius’s voice is quick to intervene. “Leave her alone, she just got here.”

Cavill blinks slowly, as if his eyelids are too taxing of a weight for him to bear. He hums, leaning back in his seat slightly and stretching his arms out to rest on the backs of the chairs on either side of him.

When it becomes clear he has nothing else to say, the other conversations at the table continue as a normal. As if there were no previous interruption. You gradually return to the sense of ease you’d begun to develop earlier, the feeling is seemingly dependent on Cavill’s lack of attention.

Eventually, one of the playboys taps Lucius on the shoulder in passing, quickly murmuring something in his ear before leaving the table to chase down one of the serves for another decanter. Lucius nods, then turns back to you.

“Tyreus wants to extend an invitation to a club we’re going to in an hour or so, if you’d like to join us,” his fingers graze over the peak of your exposed shoulder from where his arm is resting against the back of your seat. For some reason it does not feel as nice as his touch had previously. It’s more intentional, all his playfulness gone. You think that’s why. “Way better than this shit, not so fuckin’ rigid. More private.”

The emphasis he places on those last words is so overt you have to resist an eye-roll. You nod, trying to keep your expression light and ditzy while straightening slightly in your chair. “Tell him it would be an honor.”

Lucius smiles, the fingers that were tracing the line of your opposite shoulder coming up to brush against the shell of your ear. You blink at the touch, vaguely aware of his face inching closer to yours.

You stand without warning, mumbling something about having to use the bathroom before quickly maneuvering your way around the tables and through the arching marble columns that line the ballroom. You walk as briskly as you can into one of the adjoining hallways, following it down and into the women’s bathroom.

Taking a shuttering breath, you place your hands on your hips and close your eyes. Your brain runs at a mile a minute, trying to figure out how to adapt the plan as Mando communicated it to you, considering the fact that Cavill’s posse was leaving within the hour.

You reach your conclusion quickly. You’re the one with the invite, with the way into the inner circle. No time to try and bring Febhana along with you. Honeypot it is.

The bathroom door slamming open breaks you from your thoughts. You gasp, hand pressed to your chest as you whip around. There’s a second of blind panic at the decorated droid stiffly stands at the door’s threshold, both fists clenched at its side, before you remember Mando’s disguise.

You open your mouth indignantly to scold him for bursting in like that but he holds a finger up to shush you, entering the bathroom in one long stride, checking under the stalls for people then briskly locking the main door behind him.

He’s furious. It’s the most blatant display from him you think you’ve ever seen.

“I—” Mando grits out. “Your singing. He doesn’t deserve to get that. None of them do. They’re just using it to get to you.”

You blink twice, completely baffled that that’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

He makes another frustrated sound, obviously recognizing your shock, and tries to clarify. “They were… clearly making you uncomfortable but they just kept pushing you—you shouldn’t have to just sit there and take that—"

“Yeah, Mando, that’s kind of how flirting works when you’re dealing with a bunch of entitled assholes,” you snap, finally finding your words. Out of any other possible thing he could be angry about and this was it? “I’ll have to play into what they want to get closer to Cavill. Lucius seems sweet, a little overbearing but sweet. It’ll be fine.”

You’re already hovering the fine line between tipsy and just plain tired. All you want is to get home at this point—your feet hurt, the dress is uncomfortable, and, by your book, making conversation with these silver-spoon pricks could be comparable to pulling teeth. You love Febhana, and you could see the fun in a night like this, but you’re also trying to help Mando do his damn job and if he doesn’t start cooperating—

“He doesn’t. Lay. A finger. On you.” There’s an anger in his voice you’ve never encountered before, not while directed at you, at least. It stops any other thoughts from entering your head. He takes a deep, quivering breath to calm himself. It doesn’t work. “If you’re… if you don’t want it. He will not even look at you. The second—I don’t care if it makes a scene I’ll—"

“Mando.” You lay a hand on his chest. He instantly freezes. “I know that. Thank you. I’m a big girl, I can hold my own. It’s okay.” Trying to lighten the mood, you lift your chin up a bit, smiling at him as brightly as you can manage. “Can we please just talk about how we’re gonna pull this off?”

He gives you a tight nod.

“I… I know that you’ve been doing this for a lot longer than I have, which is the understatement of the millennia, but just… hear me out here. Lucius just invited me to go with them to a club—like, right now.” You feel like if you stop talking he won’t listen to what you have to say, so you keep plowing forward. “I know you made a point about no secondary locations. But, if we have the time I think the best plan of action would be for me to split off, go with them to the club and draw him out to you in some way. The security here is so tight, there’s no way I think we could pull this off without it blowing back on Febhana. She’s important to me and I would appreciate if we could get her out of this scot-free.”

You take a breath, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction thus far. When he doesn’t interject, you continue, keeping your hand on his chest as you speak—for some reason you feel like he listens to you better when you do. “Lucius mentioned that things are way more lax there, so I’m thinking that’ll translate to security measures too. I’m sure Febhana is familiar enough wherever they’re going. She can give you enough intel to be able to get an idea of the place on your way over. Then we can go home.”

“I agree.” His reluctance is palpable, but his next words are far more level-headed than you expected. “You’re right, we shouldn’t jeopardize Febhana. Try to get one of them to tell you a specific location and I can meet you there. I just—” he flexes his hands. “I need to get off this planet.”

“I know,” you sigh, giving his chest a reassuring pat before turning away to go back to the line of mirrors stationed above the sinks, checking your makeup. “Me too.”

You turn on the faucet and lean down to drink straight from the tap. You’re stone sober at this point and the icy water is potentially the best thing you’ve ever tasted. The headache pushing at the back of your eyes has increased to a dull throb.

Mando’s voice from behind you. “Ladylike.”

You turn off the sink and straighten, rolling your eyes. “Oh bite me,” the sharpness of your voice is negated by the laugh you have to push through to get the words out. Relieved that the charged air between the two of you has dissipated, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Let’s get this over with, I’m exhausted.”

Mando escorts you back down the dimly lit hall, the low hum of the party forms a gradual crescendo the closer you get to the intricate archway where the hallway breaches the ballroom. He pulls you to a stop with a hand on your forearm before you are able to enter.

Despite the heels you’re wearing, he still has to lean down to speak to you.

“Be careful,” he murmurs. Unexpectedly, he swipes his thumb across your elbow before turning heel and rejoining the other droids against the wall.

It’s such an unnecessary motion you can’t help but freeze, unsure how to process that small display of… well, if you didn’t know any better you’d describe it as intimacy. And not the unique sort of platonic camaraderie you’ve started getting used with him. It feels too much like a stolen gesture for that. Something he’s only done out of a pure disregard for his usual utilitarian ethos.

You swallow and square your shoulders, putting on the best smile you can before heading back to the Tagge table.

Biting your lip as you sink down onto the seat beside Lucius, you drag the knuckles of a relaxed hand down the length of his arm.

“Could I say goodbye to Febhana before we go?” You say as innocently as possible, still figuring out a way to organically ask where the fuck they were going to be taking you without acting too suspicious.

Lucius’s eyes flick over the table, only a few of the seats have emptied. Cavill is gone already.

“Yeah, that should be fine. Just find me when you’re done.”

You stand back up, stretching your neck to find your friend among the crowd. Quickly spotting Febhana, you navigate your way back through the crowd. Just as she has predicted, the uptight façade of the event is quickly dissolving as glasses empty and bodies inch closer together. The crowd you are now navigating through seems completely different from the one you’d encountered upon first entering the dancehall. The heady breath of the gathered crowd leaves a different crackle of energy over the room—considering Cavill’s circle wants to leave this for something “more exciting” is foreboding. Wherever you end up, you’ll deal.

Reaching Febhana’s side, you gently touch her arm to get her attention. She turns, smiling as she sees you.

“There you are! I thought I’d lost you,” she aligns her inner forearms with the length of yours, gripping you lightly in greeting. Touch was once meant survival for the two of you. Back on the Estate, sometimes the only communication you would be able to engage in for days on end, the smallest of reassurances are sometimes the most solid. Old habits die hard. You reciprocate the motion, grasping the inner portion of her elbows.

You duck your head in the direction of the person she was speaking to in a small apology for interrupting. Leaning in to quietly inform her of the change of plans, you tell her that Mando is going to try to meet you at the club. Febhana keeps a straight face as you do, but there’s a glint of worry in her gaze.

“Alright,” she says cheerfully. “I’ll tell the driver to wait outside. He can pick you up and take you back to the apartment when you’re ready to call it a night. I’ve prepared the guest room for you, the service droid can lead you there.”

“Febhana—” your brow furrows as you pull back, unwilling to take advantage of her kindness more than you already have, let alone her only way home. She interrupts you before you can insist.

“I’m going for drinks with friends after this, I’ll ride with them. Please, darling,” she kisses your cheek. “Good luck, and be safe,” she says softly as she pulls back, still gripping you by both elbows. You squeeze her forearms, giving a curt nod.

“I’ve learned from the best,” you manage a confident smile and disentangle her arms from yours. You tell her you’ll update her over the comlink and turn to rejoin Lucius, who was in the midst of his own farewells.

Febhana leaves as you wait for Lucius to finish his conversation. Mando has long since disappeared from his place at the wall. Taking a deep breath, you keep your shoulders back and your head high. You were completely alone.

There are five neat lines of spice on the mirrored platter. The Tagge twin is the one to offer it to you, pushing the surface in your direction before sinking back into the velveteen material of the curved couch.

You are in a private room at the club, one of a series of pod-like structures suspended over the dance-floor. The private pod opens into an expansive piece of curved glass that fills out the rest of its intended, ovular, form. If it weren’t for all the plush carpeting, the liquor and smoke and sultry lighting, it would make a decent observation deck. The room makes you feel like the surrounding world is a fish tank, all those people below you just interesting little creatures to look down at and inspect.

There’s something about the very nature of the space that drips luxury—but it’s a kind far removed from the crisp marble lines of the Tagge mansion. This is all seduction. All contours. All darkness and deep tones of amber, starkly contrasting against the pulsing blue lights of the dance-floor below.

The table before you is cluttered with empty glasses, bottles, as well as a few personal items owned by the boys who had already left to chase down the bodies below: a tuxedo tie here, a watch probably worth more than the Crest itself there—you know, the usual things you abandon in search of a warm mouth.

Lucius and Cavill are sharing a cigarette, the burning cherry one of the brightest sources of light in the room. Everything else is illuminated by low shades of red and orange from the warbling fixtures woven against the solid portion of the wall, which then part to trace the curved edges of the observation window.

The music is subdued at this height, yet the grinding pulse of a guitar still sends vibrations through the floor. Through you. The boys’ cigarette traces patterns between them as they exchange it, back and forth, saying very little in between.

Taking a deep breath, you glance down at the platter on the table. You press your lips together, glancing up at Lucius, then Cavill, who has gradually started to pay more attention to you the further into the night you descend.

Pretending to take another sip of your drink, you push the platter towards Lucius. Trying not to draw too much attention to your refusal, you move a little closer to his body as a potential distraction. Either it works or they didn’t care to begin with. Lucius curves into himself, pressing a finger against his nostril to inhale a line. Cavill does two.

Genuinely, there’s no way they could find any kind of appeal to this. You just can’t fathom it—they barely talk to one another, this group. And when they do they seem just as bored in the act as everyone else is. You’d take a night spent with Mando and the kid over this any day.

The Tagge boy jolts back awake, blearily rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The motion is so sudden it startles you, jumping slightly as he pushes away from the table.

“M’gonna go downstairs,” Tagge’s legs wobble like a newborn calf’s might. “Getta girl.” His departure is unceremonious, just like the others had been. You have a feeling the only thing keeping Lucius at this table is you, and the only thing keeping you at this table is Cavill. Fuck doesn’t really cut it.

As the two of them work on what remains on the platter, you carefully shift out of the circular booth, pacing over to the glass wall to look down at the crowd of writhing bodies.

“Have y’ever been to this place before?” Lucius asks after a moment. He stretches over the top of the couch to look down at the crowd with you. As he does, because you think the universe genuinely hates you, you notice Mando’s disguised silhouette—he’s barely concealed by the darkness of the dance-floor’s periphery. You look away as to not draw too much attention to that one spot.

“No. Never. I’ve been cooped up at the conservatory for most of my life,” you say as angle your body towards the couch, crossing your arms and leaning against the wall with one shoulder. Like this, you’re able to keep Mando in the very edges of your periphery.

What you just said was true for your mother, you knew that. Honestly, you’ve gotten through most of the night by just adopting what you remember about her. It was far too natural of a mask to adopt—maybe that should have creeped you out, but the ease of being able to do so is comforting considering the scope of the mission before you.

You take a breath to clear your mind, needing to get ahead of the conversation before either of them can corner you in a story you’re not able to fabricate. You need to give Mando a clue about where the hell you are.

“How far up do you think we are?” You ask, cocking your head slightly, praying that Mando’s comlink can hear your above what you’re sure is a raucous crowd. It works, you see his head jerk up to finally notice the private rooms above him. Thank the Maker.

“I dunno,” Lucius turns his head to look where you’re looking. “You afraid of heights or something?”

You give a nonchalant laugh, shaking your head slightly. By the time you look back up to scan the crowd one more time you’ve lost track of Mando. Either he’s disappeared in the mass of bodies or he’d gone completely. You have absolutely no clue, and you don’t want to draw attention by continuing to search for him.

Leveling your gaze back to the two boys, you look them over in a way you hope will draw either’s attention. Both are belligerently intoxicated, the glasses before them long since emptied, the smell of spice thick. It gives Cavill the air of a cat luxuriously stretched in the sun, as if it were just some kind of a natural, comfortable state for him.

As if he can read your thoughts, he speaks.

“Why wouldn’t you sing for us, earlier,” Cavill’s voice alone is enough to make your skin crawl. He ashes the cigarette he was smoking. There’s a loud sound of inhaling from Lucius, whose shadowy form is hunched over the table as he finishes what is left on the platter before him.

“Could you quit it,” Lucius mumbles as he rubs either side of his nose, head thrown back as he sniffs indignantly. “She obviously doesn’t want to.”

“If you were shy earlier, it’s just the three of us now. Completely different,” Cavill says, reaching over to wipe his fingers over the platter’s surface. He rubs his gums with the residue. You expect Lucius to defend you and divert the conversation like he’d done earlier. He doesn’t. Cavill sucks his teeth, leaning back once again. “Sing. I want to hear you.”

“It just feels strange is all,” you bite your lip, voice admittedly a bit brisk in how absent-mindedly it disregards what Cavill is asking. Your turn your gaze back out over the club, mainly to get Cavill’s off you.

You’re worried about Mando, about how long it’s taken him to give you some kind of sign that he’s ready. Maybe he’s waiting until you’re completely alone with Cavill? He pushed that in the car, how this whole thing has to be done as quietly as possible. The problem is that you’ve got absolutely no idea how to get Lucius out of the picture.

“Before there were too many people and now there are too little? What do you want?” Cavill’s words float in the air behind you as you pace to the bar cart, determined to busy your hands by remaking the drink you hadn’t touched since entering the room. “Isn’t that what you’re training for?”

Maybe Mando has been stopped? Your eyes flick to the circular doors partitioning the enclosed room from the catwalk hallway. You remember loudly greeting the guards that were there when the posse first entered the room, giving him the best heads up you could organically muster. Could he take both of them out on his own? Quietly?

“Um, yeah I suppose. It’s just different, there. In conservatory.” Dropping ice into your glass, you hear Cavill scoff. Lucius mumbles something. You bend slightly to get some of the bitters from the cart’s lower shelf.

And an explosion of glass shatters right where your head just was.

You whip around in shock, only to see Cavill already standing, swaying a bit on his feet, dress-shirt partially unbuttoned and messily untucked. It’s almost like some kind of switch went off, transforming him into something utterly unrecognizable.

He’s a fucking mess. Eyes nearly black. The empty decanter from the Tagge mansion in his hand.

“In conservatory,” he mocks, his lips pulled upwards in a vicious snarl. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Before you can react, the decanter is being flung at you—it misses, again. Shattering on the ground in front of you this time. You press yourself as far as you can against the bar cart, eyes wide. Cavill spits, then wipes his mouth with his hand, looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Kneel.”

Horrified, your gaze flicks from Lucius back to the tantrum-throwing, wolf-eyed aristocrat standing in front of you.

“What?” You ask incredulously, browns knitted together in complete confusion.

“I said kneel,” Cavill jabs his finger to the ground. “Pick that shit up.”

Lucius does a poor job of concealing a pained grimace. Or maybe you’ve grown far too good at reading the tiniest expressions from your masked companion that you’ve become hyper-aware of these kind of things. He gives a small: “Maker, Tyreus.” If it were supposed to be a warning it was a shitty one.

Survival instincts set in immediately. You turn your eyes to the floor and make your breathing as small and quiet as possible. Obediently, you comply. Kneeling on the ground and reaching out a shaking hand to begin plucking the shards from the carpet.

Cavill stalks behind you in an instant, one hand sealing around the back of your neck and pushing your head down to immobilize you. Simultaneously, his other hand wraps around your wrist, twisting your arm back and making your body to fold in on itself, pressing you into the ground.

You can’t help but cry out, the sharp motion forcing you to quickly catch yourself with your free hand. Your palm lands directly in the broken glass. You’d give anything to erase the wet sound it makes from your head forever.

It takes you less than a second to realize he’s trying to force your face into the carpet. Into it. Fuck.

“D’you want to tell me, huh?” He’s folds in half to speak directly in your ear, his spit hitting your cheek. He twists your arm further, grinding the hand supporting the rest of your body deeper into the glass. You grit your teeth to prevent another pained sound from escaping. “Wanna tell me who the fuck you think you are? Too good for me, whore? Too good for all this?”

The doors burst open. Cavill lets go of you in shock, it gives you time to crawl away from him as Mando levels his blaster at the boy. You scrape one of your knees in the process, you don’t notice it over the adrenalin pulsing through you.

Lucius swears loudly, standing.

“Don’t move.” Mando’s words are more of a growl than anything else.

In the pause this creates, you’re able to kick out your leg and take Cavill out from the back of the knees. It’s not graceful or pretty but it works. Cavill falls to the ground and you quickly clamber on top of him, forcing his hands behind his back, keeping him down with a bloodied knee to the spine.

Mando throws you the cuffs, training his blaster back on Lucius as you work on securing the binds around his quarry’s wrists.

“The spice,” Mando barks out the order. Lucius, eyes wide with terror, looks from the bounty hunter, to you, back to the bounty hunter.

“W-What?”

Mando shoots Lucius in the leg. The boy screams a curse, folding into himself in pain. The air smells like burnt flesh and coins. You swallow, looking back down and busying yourself with keeping Cavill still as he struggles against the floor.

“The. Spice.” He repeats. Choking on his sobs, Lucius reaches a shaking hand into his suit jacket’s pocket, throwing the little bag on the floor. Mando stalks over to him, Lucius cowers.

“Listen, man I—I’ll give you anything you want, ok? My father—”

Mando pistol whips him, the force behind it is enough to also slam Lucius’s head into the table as a result, knocking him unconscious. The bounty hunter turns, snatching up the spice on the ground and crossing over to you, kneeling beside Cavill, whose face is pressed into the ground.

“Mother fucker,” Cavill snarls, the first coherent set of words he’s said since Mando entered. Without reacting, Mando pinches Cavill’s nose shut. You’re confused for a moment, then Cavill opens his lips to either breathe or continue his litany of abuses and Mando takes that opportunity to empty the rest of the spice directly into the quarry’s mouth.

Cavill’s eyes widen, then almost immediately roll back into his skull. He jerks once, then lays still.

It all happens so fast you barely process Mando’s gentle order for you to stand. You do eventually, your legs a bit shaky as you cross back over to the bar cart, holding your palm up to the light in order to puck the largest pieces of glass out before wrapping your wound with a decorative napkin.

When you turn, Mando is pacing the room’s glass perimeter, looking down at the dance-floor to see if anyone noticed the commotion over the pounding music. His takes two brisk strides to cross the room, back to you.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice curt and professional. You duck your head in a nod, still pressing the napkins to your bleeding hand. Mando then turns to deal with Lucius’s body, stuffing his mouth with one of the tux ties on the table, binding his wrists. Buying the two of you time, you guess.

You look down at Cavill’s crumpled body. Unconscious, like this, you realize he couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Maybe even nineteen. “They’re all just kids, aren’t they?”

Mando’s sighs, crossing the room again to lean out the open doors to gauge the best way of getting back to the driver. “Pel kar’ta.” Whatever he just called you, it sounds like an accusation “That doesn’t excuse it.”

“No,” you murmur to yourself, gaze still fixed to the boy on the floor. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

The napkins you use on your injured hand manages to somewhat stop the bleeding. You wait in the backseat as Mando and the driver stuff Cavill’s body into the trunk. You manage to pluck the last of the shards out of the meat of your palm once Mando silently slides into the seat beside you.

The driver leans over to the seemingly empty passenger seat, plucking a bundle of swaddled fabric and passing it back to Mando. It’s the child, sleeping deeply.

“Febhana said she had a feeling you’d want to get off planet as fast as possible. She sends her well wishes,” the driver grits out. He pulls the speeder off the roof of the club, quickly maneuvering the vehicle into Canto Bight’s weaving back alleys.

You take a deep breath, leaning your head against the window.

“I’m sorry,” you manage after a few minutes of driving, the words so soft they break slightly as they leave your mouth. “I… I didn’t think it could get that messy. I should have stuck to the plan.”

He says your name softly, it crackles over the speakers of the modulator. You take too much comfort in how he says it, the way it fills the space between the two of you. “Jobs like this are never clean.”

“You said this needed to go quietly,” you turn your head to look at him directly. “That wasn’t quiet.”

“I should have interfered earlier, that was my fault,” his response is immediate. “You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes and resting your head against the window. “I am not trying to make this about me. I just—I know it was a leap of faith involving me in this. I screwed it up, I want to apologize.”

“I didn’t think you were. I was making a clarification. You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

The kid makes a small sound in his sleep, you know he’s stretching and nuzzling into the crook of Mando’s arms without having to look over.

“Okay. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

He says your name again. You shake your head.

“Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen like that, if that’s okay?” You keep your gaze trained out the window, watching the city as it passes a good distraction from the pain pulsing from your hand up your wrist. “I’ll be fine once we get home.”

From your periphery, you see Mando nod.

Arriving at the hangar, you scoop the child in one arm and open the speeder door with a slight wince. You thank the driver and make a beeline for the Crest, busying yourself with tucking the little one in his cradle while Mando deals with the body.

By the time you shed the dress Febhana leant you—now ruined, thanks to that asshole—and quickly shower, you’re starting to catch a second wind of energy. You’re wide awake by the time you pull on a sleep shirt and a soft pair of shorts, catching yourself on the wall as the Crest rumbles into hyperspace.

Settling at your med station, you examine your injured hand under a small portable light, making sure you didn’t miss any pieces of glass due to the dim lighting of the landspeeder’s interior. You hear Mando step behind you.

“Let me see it,” he says. You straighten, looking up at him. Mando is holding a hand out, for yours. He’s back in the clothes he sometimes wears during your long stretches of travel, no armor save for the helmet on his head. His gloves are removed.

The first time he’d done this it had nearly knocked the wind out of you, stopping your words mid-sentence as you entered the cockpit to feed the kid breakfast. He was reclined in the pilot’s seat, the sturdy fingers grasping a rag to oil the pauldron he held in his other hand. You only caught the brief glimmer of a thick beskar ring on his thumb before averting your eyes, stuttering an apology.

At this point, you’ve seen enough of his hands to have memorized every scar and callous. You know it all, from the broken mountains of his knuckles to the small tattoo below the web of his thumb, so weathered by age you still cannot make sense of what it’s supposed to be.

This is different, though. He’s asking to touch you, skin on skin. That’s what makes you pause, looking at him blankly. Mando tries again.

“It’s my fault you got hurt—please, let me take care of you this once.”

There’s something in his voice that sounds incredibly pained, it’s enough to break you from your thoughts. You hesitate, then shift to face him on the crate you’d pulled over to sit on.

You offer him your hand, palm up, in wordless agreement.

He starts his work there, diligently giving it one last look over for glass before slathering it in bacta and firmly wrapping it with gauze. His hands feel just as you thought they would, rough but warm, hesitant at first but firmer once he gains the confidence to really touch you.

Mando then begins to examine your shoulder, delicately asking you to lift your arm, shift it in different directions and tell him when it hurts. You comply, easily succumbing to his little, light touches.

Maker, if Lucius had managed to give you butterflies on the dance-floor this… this couldn’t even be qualified at anything close to that feeling. The flight of birds, more like. A whole flock. A force only rivaled by the quick beat of your pulse.

“I got you something.” If you didn’t know any better you’d think his voice has a certain tinge of shyness to it. “A few days ago. I kept forgetting to give it to you.”

“Do tell,” you manage a casual yawn, then wince when his fingers dig into your scapula. “Ow.”

“Sorry,” he removes his hands from you, turning and walking to the other side of the hull. He rifles through a crate and emerges with what looks like a little box, offering it to you. You balance it in your bandaged hand, recognizing the object the second you see the speakers affixed to either end of it.

A wide grin breaks out over your face as you look up at him. “Is this a radio?”

He nods, plucking the tube of muscle warming agent from the med-kit and spreading it against your shoulder. His gloves are still off, the rough feeling of his hands against you enough to steal all words from your parted lips.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Mando—this is so nice I—”

“It’s nothing,” he says it frankly. You gladly don’t continue your sentence, turning the object over in your hand. “The woman told me it should work just about anywhere. If it loses signal it’ll just play some kind of recorded catalogue.”

You nod, bracing your forearms against your thighs and fiddling with the radio’s controls as he continues to talk, his thumbs working against every part of the joint they can. The feeling is far too easy to give into, you allow yourself to close your eyes as he continues, placing the radio beside you and leaning back to rest your elbows on the table to your back.

“I thought it was the least I could offer you. You seem so happy whenever there’s music,” Mando says as he kneels in front of you, wiping off your injured knee, rubbing away the scabs that were already forming with a disinfectant-soaked towel. He disregards the hiss you give and begins applying the bacta to the scored surface. “Especially tonight, when you were dancing. I didn’t realize you could.”

You laugh, smiling to yourself. “I was most nervous about that, as ridiculous as it sounds.” You muffle a relieved groan at the numb warmth that begins to spread as soon as the bacta sets in. You turn over what you want to ask for a long time before you muster the courage to say it. Why not? “I could teach you.”

A pause. “What?”

“I could teach you to dance, if you want me to,” you open your eyes to look down at the man kneeling before you. His fingers are frozen against the bandage he was in the process of tying off—incorrectly, you might add, but you can fix it later. You can’t help but smile at him. “Put this radio to use.”

He pauses for a moment longer, then shakes his head and goes back to adjusting your bandages. “Don’t mess with me like that, I’ll take back the compliment.”

“Hey! C’mon,” you bite your lip, stretching out your uninjured leg to faux-kick his side. He grabs your foot before it can make contact, gently guiding it back to the floor. “I’m being serious. Gotta blow off some steam before I can sleep.” Heat shoots up to your face, the words leaving your mouth before you can think them through. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Alright.” Mando stands, crossing his arms over his chest to regard you.

You genuinely don’t believe it. Your smile widens. “Are you serious?”

His head cocks to the side. “If you make a big deal out of it I’ll purposefully step on your toes.”

It’s hard to contain your glee. You push yourself up to your feet, Mando’s arms shooting out in a protective gesture to catch you when you wobble slightly.

“Relax, I’m fine,” you gently push his hands away, walking over to the other side of the hull to place the radio on top of a stack of crates. Fiddling with it for a moment, you find a station playing something slow.

Turning back around, you see that Mando has turned off the med-station’s light, the brightest source of illumination now coming from the radio’s tiny interface behind you. The rest of the hull’s sconces are in night mode, the dull orange glow just enough to see what’s in front of you.

“Okay,” you begin, standing in the middle of the room and motioning Mando towards you. He complies. You hold out both hands. When he doesn’t get it, you press your lips together to suppress a smile, taking them for yourself where they rest limply at his sides. “So, you’d start by approaching your lady and holding her hand up, like this.” You bend your right elbow, your loosely interlocked hand forcing his left arm to do the same.

Mando nods, head bowed to you in observation, a diligent student.

“Then,” you continue, guiding his right hand to the curve of your waist. “You’d place your other hand here, or mid-back, whatever feels most appropriate for the situation.” He doesn’t move his hand. It sends a bit of a thrill through you. You place your left hand on his bicep, looking up at him and grinning. “See? You’re a natural.”

The both of you laugh at that one. His comes out as nothing more than a hoarse release of air from the modulator, but it’s enough to have you absolutely elated.

You start to sway slightly, to the rhythm of the song now playing from the radio’s speakers. Mando picks up the hint, taking up the role of leader while you gladly follow. He’s actually okay—granted, the two of you are just swaying in place, but still.

“I meant that, you know.”

“Hm?” You ask, partially distracted in trying to figure out what move to teach him next. The waltz you and Lucius did would be far too complicated, maybe there would be some kind of way to simplify it…

“What I said earlier. You looked beautiful, tonight,” Mando says, chin still tucked to look down at you. You blink, only actually processing what he’d just said a few seconds after he said it. You purposefully keep your eyes trained to his chest in order to keep your thoughts straight. “I um… I didn’t know how to tell you. Earlier. In the car. But I wanted to.”

“Hate to inform you, but the dress is in tatters and I am way too lazy to put all that makeup on again,” you chuckle, using the side of your foot to nudge him into a bit of a wider stance. He has the resting state of a soldier at attention—fitting, you guess, for a Mandalorian. It’s something so natural about to him that you’ve only really noticed the rigidity of it now.

“No, no I’m not… That’s not what I meant. You look that way always just—tonight, especially.”

“Well, Mando, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you sound a little bashful right now,” you joke, trying to move on as quickly as possible to cover up the fact that you had no idea how to take a compliment. You turn your head a little too quickly to look back down at his feet, ready to instruct him on the next steps, and your forehead collides with him helmet.

It fucking hurts.

You wince, cursing slightly under your breath and screwing up your face, trying to laugh off the heat burning in your cheeks and across your chest. “Ow.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Mando mutters, releasing your hands and cupping either sides of your jaw with his hands. His thumbs press along the underside of your chin, tilting your face up towards him as he inspects it for damage. “Are you okay?”

You close your eyes and nod, swallowing. “Yeah, just surprised me is all—never had to teach a tin can how to dance before, forgot I had to be conscious about the...” one of his thumbs traces a curved line against your chin before he removes his hands from your face. The motion is quick and then gone immediately, just as he had done in the hallways of the Tagge mansion. It has a far more vivid consequence of completely scrambling your thoughts, this time around. “Helmet,” you manage.

After a moment, Mando tilts his head.

“Close your eyes,” his voice is husky, from the modulator or something else you don’t know.

You comply without question, pulse increasing as you feel Mando step away and rummage through something. He returns, standing behind you this time. Fabric is wrapped around your eyes—once, then twice. You reach a hand up to touch it, recognize the slightly rough texture of gauze almost immediately.

There’s some kind of a hissing sound, then the clank of metal being placed on something solid. Then he’s back in front of you.

“Think you can teach me like this?” And it’s his voice. His voice. Rough but warm and unobstructed. Just as his hands had been. It takes the wind right out of your lungs.

“Mando,” if you could think of anything else to say, you’d cringe at how breathless you sound. What are you, a locked-away damsel in distress?

“When I was younger I was… a bit more lax. Running with the wrong people. I relied on… technicalities, in our code, a little too heavily back then.” You never want to stop hearing his voice. There’s something about the modulator that doesn’t do the light lilt to his words justice, the low but crisp resonance of his voice. “But I’ve… this is new. But okay. Within the rules.”

“Are you—” clearing your throat, you try again. More firm this time. “Are you sure?”

“Just don’t touch my face with your hands,” his voice remains clipped, slightly cautious, but resolved. Typical. “If you—I can put the helm back on, if this makes you uncomfortable.”

“No!” You interject, placing both hands on his chest in reassurance. “No, I… no. I feel honored and happy, really happy, that you’d trust me like this. It means a lot.”

You hear him hum low in his throat, a sound you know he makes sometimes when he nods. He takes your hand, again, the other going back to your waist. “Okay, start over.”

“So,” you begin again, trying your best to run your mouth enough to distract from how… serious this feels. You know it most likely isn’t a huge deal, if he’s willing to do this after one accidental collision—but, well. Still. “When you’re ready, you’ll step forward and I’ll step back. And… uh…” you bite your lip as his hand drifts lower, just an inch, to rest at the small of your back. You look up at him through the blindfold out of habit. “You lead, I follow, simple as that.”

“Simple as that?” His words have a rare, palpable heat to them. You can never be certain, of course, but you’re convinced there’s a small smile behind his question. It’s easier to tell, now.

“Yeah,” your chest feels tight with an emotion so close yet so different from the joy you’re used to feeling. Your smile is uncontainable, if barely visible in the hull’s dim light. “It really is.”

He’s a fast learner, easily taking you in slow, looping circles around the room for the next few songs. The silence between the two of you is comforting.

The longer the radio plays, the deeper you sink into one another, your entwined movements eventually spiraling back to the center of the space, settling into an easy, sedentary sway there. You only really notice this as Mando’s hand drifts from your lower back to wrap around the curve of your opposite hip, the length of his sturdy forearm braced against your body. After a beat, you let go of the hand you’re holding onto and wrap both arms loosely around his neck, leaning into him fully.

The two of you don’t acknowledge it, playing it off as an incidental thing, this gradual enclosure of your bodies. The equally quick thrum of your hearts betrays the known secret behind the little game you are playing.

“What did that phrase you use mean, when we talked earlier?” You press the side of your face to Mando’s chest. He props his chin against the crown of your head in welcome response.

The hand previously holding yours moves up your spine in order to gently cradle the back of your neck, gently holding you in place. His thumb traces repetative arcs against the sensitive line between the corner of your jaw and your earlobe. It feels like a salve in its own right, erasing the feeling of Cavill’s skin pressed against your own.

“What did what mean?” Mando asks innocently enough, as his hand continues its serene movement. It’s the most he’s ever touched you, and you suppose he keeps his tone completely casual to make up for the fact. As if the two of you were conversing from other sides of the room, not entangled in each other. You’re more than willing to play into the charade if it means you can have this, the ability to close your eyes and take in the rumble of his voice against your ear.

“Pel… pel kar-ta?” You wince at your gross mispronunciation. “What you called me back there, at the club.”

“Oh—” he seems surprised, like he didn’t even remember saying it. “That’s—that’s Mando’a. It means… well it’s the closest expression to kindness we have.” He keeps rubbing the corner of your jaw with his thumb, keeping rhythm with your movements. If it could even be considered that, at this point. “A more direct translation would be ‘soft hearted.’ Someone who is unapologetically forgiving towards others, even to those don’t deserve it. An ability to love that clouds greater judgment.”

“I have the feeling it’s not the most complimentary nickname for Mandalorians.”

“No, no it isn’t,” the breath of his laugh ruffles your hair. You can’t help but hide your smile in the warm fabric of his shirt, laughing with him. Mando shifts slightly, curving over you, your cheek against his, rough with a well-developed five o’clock shadow. “But, um. I mean it as a compliment, for you. As stupid as you can get.”

If someone punched you in the gut it wouldn’t have left you this breathless. You try to disguise the euphoric feeling it gives you in humor. You’re worried that if you give too much away he’ll stop touching you. Stop holding you like this. Like you were the one gentle thing he’d succumb to.

“Well, it seems hardly fair that you get to call me a nickname and I get nothing at all,” you huff in playful offense, barely able to keep the smile off your face. “Totally unfair.”

“Give me your best, then.” He’s still smiling, you don’t know how you can tell but you just can. It’s infectious.

“What about… hmm… I dunno—tin can?”

“That one’s taken.”

“Oh, have some lady in waiting I should know about?”

“That’s probably the exact opposite way I’d describe him.”

You laugh. “Bucket head?”

“Not very original.”

“Well,” you give an airy hmph. “I’m stumped. You win. Mando it remains.”

Continuing your sway as the music maintains its soft tumble from the radio’s speakers, the two of you go so long without speaking you think the conversation has ended--until:

“Din.” He says the word so softly it wouldn’t have been picked up if he were still speaking through the vocoder.

Your brow furrows. “Sorry, what?”

“Din. Din Djarin. My name. When it’s… when it’s just us, you can use it. If you’d like.”

You cup your hand around the other side of his neck and pull back slightly. His hand automatically lifts to press against your cheek, a refusal to allow you to move any further despite the fact that you’re wearing the blindfold. Pure habit, you think.

You blink against the fabric stretched over your eyes, trying to quell your burning desire to do something absolutely disastrous.

So you say his name instead.

tag list: @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11 @walkingthegrounds @roseallisonparker @kaitlyn2907 @dinsbeskar @mandoandyodito @kyjoraven @ineffableloveforyou

please let me know if you would like to be added/removed !!

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x y/n #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din and grogu #mandalorian and grogu #grogu #reader insert #i'll be here in the morning #i'll be here in the morning ch4 #fanfic #star wars fanfiction

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arcticdementor · 4 years ago

Link

In a democracy, every vote is supposed to be equal. If about half the country supports one side and half the country supports another, you may expect major institutions to either be equally divided, or to try to stay politically neutral.

This is not what we find. If it takes a position on the hot button social issues around which our politics revolve, almost every major institution in America that is not explicitly conservative leans left. In a country where Republicans get around half the votes or something close to that in every election, why should this be the case?

This post started as an investigation into Woke Capital, one of the most important developments in the last decade or so of American politics. Although big business pressuring politicians is not new (the NFL moved the Super Bowl from Arizona over MLK day), the scope of the issues on which corporations feel the need to weigh in is certainly expanding, now including LGBT issues, abortion laws, voting rights, kneeling during the national anthem, and gun control.

…

As I started to research the topic, however, I realized there wasn’t much to explain. Asking why corporations are woke is like asking why Hispanics tend to have two arms, or why the Houston Rockets have increased their number of 3-point shots taken over the last few decades. All humans tend to have two arms, and all NBA teams shoot more 3-pointers than in the past, so focusing on one subset of the population that has the same characteristics as all others in the group misses the point.

I think one reason Woke Capital is getting so much attention is because we expect business to be more right-leaning, and corporations throwing in with the party of more taxes and regulation strikes us as odd. We are used to schools, non-profits, mainline religions, etc. taking liberal positions and feel like business should be different. But business is just being assimilated into a larger trend.

Corporations are woke, meaning left wing on social issues relative to the general population, because institutions are woke. So the question becomes why are institutions woke?

…

Through the lens of ordinal utility, in which people simply rank what they want to happen, we are about equal. I prefer Republicans to Democrats, while you have the opposite preference. But when we think in terms of cardinal utility – in layman’s terms, how bad people want something to happen – it’s no contest. You are going to be much more influential than me. Most people are relatively indifferent to politics and see it as a small part of their lives, yet a small percentage of the population takes it very seriously and makes it part of its identity. Those people will tend to punch above their weight in influence, and institutions will be more responsive to them.

Elections are a measure of ordinal preferences. As long as you care enough to vote, it doesn’t matter how much you care about the election outcome, as everyone’s voice is the same. But for everything else – who speaks up in a board meeting about whether a corporation should take a political position, who protests against a company taking a position one side or the other finds offensive, etc. – cardinal utility maters a lot. Only a small minority of the public ever bothers to try to influence a corporation, school, or non-profit to reflect certain values, whether from the inside or out.

In an evenly divided country, if one side simply cares more, it’s going to exert a disproportionate influence on all institutions, and be more likely to see its preferences enacted in the time between elections when most people aren’t paying much attention.

…

Here are two graphs that have been getting a lot of attention

What jumps out to me in these figures is not only how left leaning large institutions are, but how the same is true for most professions. Whether you are looking by institution or by individuals, there are more donations to Biden than Trump. Yet Republicans get close to half the votes! Where are the Trump supporters? What these graphs reveal is a larger story, in which more people give to liberal causes and candidates than to conservative ones, even if Americans are about equally divided in which party they support (and no, this isn’t the result of liberals being wealthier, the connections between income and ideology or party are pretty weak). Here are some graphs from late October showing Biden having more individual donors than Trump in every battleground state.

…

In the 2012 election, Obama raised $234 million from small individual contributors, compared to $80 million for Romney, while also winning among large contributors.

…

In September 2009, at the height of the Tea Party movement, conservatives held the “Taxpayer March on Washington,” which drew something like 60,000-70,000 people, leading one newspaper to call it “the largest conservative protest ever to storm the Capitol.” Since that time, the annual anti-abortion March for Life rally in Washington has drawn massive crowds, with estimates for some years ranging widely from low six figures to mid-to-high six figures. March for Life is not to be confused with “March for Our Lives,” a pro-gun control rally that activists claim saw 800,000 people turn out in 2018. All these events were dwarfed by the Women’s March in opposition to Trump, which drew by one estimate “between 3,267,134 and 5,246,670 people in the United States (our best guess is 4,157,894). That translates into 1 percent to 1.6 percent of the U.S. population of 318,900,000 people (our best guess is 1.3 percent).” Even if the two left-wing academics who did this research are letting their bias infuse their work, there is no question that protesting is generally a left-wing activity, as conservatives themselves realize.

People who engage in protesting care more about politics than people who donate money, and people who donate money care more than people who simply vote. Imagine a pyramid with voters at the bottom and full-time activists on top, and as you move up the pyramid it gets much narrower and more left-wing. Multiple strands of evidence indicate this would basically be an accurate representation of society.

Another line of evidence showing that the left simply cares more about politics comes from Noah Carl, who has put together data showing liberals are in their personal lives more intolerant of conservatives than vice versa across numerous dimensions in the US and the UK. Those on the left are more likely to block someone on social media over their views, be upset if their child marries someone from the other side, and find it hard to be friends with or date someone they disagree with politically. Here are two graphs demonstrating the general point.

…

There’s a great irony here. Conservatives tend to be more skeptical of pure democracy, and believe in individuals coming together and forming civil society organizations away from government. Yet conservatives are extremely bad at gaining or maintaining control of institutions relative to liberals. It’s not because they are poorer or the party of the working class – again, I can’t stress enough how little economics predicts people’s political preferences – but because they are the party of those who simply care less about the future of their country.

Debates over voting rights make the opposite assumption, as conservatives tend to want more restrictions on voting, and liberals fewer, with National Review explicitly arguing against a purer form of democracy. Conservatives may be right that liberals are less likely to care enough to do basic things like bring a photo ID and correctly fill out a ballot. If this is true, Republicans are the party of people who care enough to vote when doing so is made slightly more difficult but not enough to do anything else, while Democrats are the party of both the most active and least active citizens. Yet while being the “care only enough to vote” party might be adequate for winning elections, the future belongs to those at the tail end of the distribution who really want to change the world.

The discussion here makes it hard to suggest reforms for conservatives. Do you want to give government more power over corporations? None of the regulators will be on your side. Leave corporations alone? Then you leave power to Woke Capital, though it must to a certain extent be disciplined and limited by the preferences of consumers. Start your own institutions? Good luck staffing them with competent people for normal NGO or media salaries, and if you’re not careful they’ll be captured by your enemies anyway, hence Conquest’s Second Law. And the media will be there every step of the way to declare any of your attempts at taking power to be pure fascism, and brush aside any resistance to your schemes as righteous anger, up to and including rioting and acts of violence.

…

From this perspective we might want to consider this passage from Scott Alexander, who writes the following in his review of a biography of Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdogan.

The normal course of politics is various coalitions of elites and populace, each drawing from their own power bases. A normal political party, like a normal anything else, has elite leaders, analysts, propagandists, and managers, plus populace foot soldiers. Then there's an election, and sometimes our elites get in, and sometimes your elites get in, but getting a political party that's against the elites is really hard and usually the sort of thing that gets claimed rather than accomplished, because elites naturally rise to the top of everything.

But sometimes political parties can run on an explicitly anti-elite platform. In theory this sounds good - nobody wants to be elitist. In practice, this gets really nasty quickly. Democracy is a pure numbers game, so it's hard for the elites to control - the populace can genuinely seize the reins of a democracy if it really wants. But if that happens, the government will be arrayed against every other institution in the nation. Elites naturally rise to the top of everything - media, academia, culture - so all of those institutions will hate the new government and be hated by it in turn. Since all natural organic processes favor elites, if the government wants to win, it will have to destroy everything natural and organic - for example, shut down the regular media and replace it with a government-controlled media run by its supporters.

When elites use the government to promote elite culture, this usually looks like giving grants to the most promising up-and-coming artists recommended by the art schools themselves, and having the local art critics praise their taste and acumen. When the populace uses the government to promote popular culture against elite culture, this usually looks like some hamfisted attempt to designate some kind of "official" style based on what popular stereotypes think is "real art from back in the day when art was good", which every art school and art critic attacks as clueless Philistinism. Every artist in the country will make groundbreaking exciting new art criticizing the government's poor judgment, while the government desperately looks for a few technicians willing to take their money and make, I don't know, pretty landscape paintings or big neoclassical buildings.

The important point is that elite government can govern with a light touch, because everything naturally tends towards what they want and they just need to shepherd it along. But popular/anti-elite government has a strong tendency toward dictatorship, because it won't get what it wants without crushing every normal organic process. Thus the stereotype of the "right-wing strongman", who gets busy with the crushing.

So the idea of "right-wing populism" might invoke this general concept of somebody who, because they have made themselves the champion of the populace against the elites, will probably end up incentivized to crush all the organic processes of civil society, and yoke culture and academia to the will of government in a heavy-handed manner.

To put it in a different way, to steelman the populist position, democracy does not reflect the will of the citizenry, it reflects the will of an activist class, which is not representative of the general population. Populists, in order to bring institutions more in line with what the majority of the people want, need to rely on a more centralized and heavy-handed government. The strongman is liberation from elites, who aren’t the best citizens, but those with the most desire to control people’s lives, often to enforce their idiosyncratic belief system on the rest of the public, and also a liberation from having to become like elites in order to fight them, so conservatives don’t have to give up on things like hobbies and starting families and devote their lives to activism.

#richard hanania #substack

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sokkabeifong · 4 years ago

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Can you write some tokka angst 🙏

ofc I can anon and IM SORRY THIS IS SO LATE but better late than never I guess. this is set in modern times because modern times are fun to write for tokka okay? a bit longer than usual but the more angst the better am I right

Toph had promised Sokka that she’d go to the hospital when it happened, so that’s exactly what she’d done. She hadn’t promised that she’d actually get anyone’s attention. Or check in. Or ask for help.

Although… the contractions were getting more insistent, and she doubted the medical staff would leave her alone if she stripped off the stupid maternity pants and just squatted down right there on the lobby floor.

With a heavy sigh, she waddled her way over to the nearest front desk. Spirits, she hadn’t been in a hospital in years. She wasn’t even sure what the different branches and buildings and desks were all for. But there was no way that she was giving birth at home. Katara was in medical school, sure, but she wasn’t done. And Toph wasn’t about to risk her life and her child’s life for a “practice trial.”

Still, there was something unnerving about the hospital, with its stuffy feeling and too-squeaky floor. It feels clean, clean in a way that you can just sense. She didn’t need sight to tell her just how antibacterial this place was.

A pinging, traitorous part of her wishes that someone was here with her, that she didn’t have to do this alone. But it was her own stupid pride that had taken a cab all alone in a Wednesday night, and the only person she truly wanted present was somewhere she could never get him back from. She’d promised him before he died that she would go to the hospital if she felt even the slightest change. He wanted her to be safe, he said.

And now, of course, Sokka was dead and gone while she was here, swollen belly stretching out her sweater and maternity pants. As much of an annoyance as labor would be, getting the thing out of her was going to be a blessing. She’d spent too long unbalanced and vulnerable to attack.

“Can I help you?”

Toph was broken out of her musings by the question from someone sitting at the closest desk. She turned her head to where she hoped the person, a woman by the sound of it, would be.

“I hope so,” she smiled, falling back into a generic cover ID face. “I should probably see a doctor.”

“All right,” said the woman. She heard the clicking of nails on a keyboard, then something sliding across the desk. “Why don’t you take one of these forms, fill it out, and bring it back here?”

“Can’t ,” she said shortly. “I’m blind.”

“No worries.” The woman clicked her pen open like she had blind pregnant ladies come into the ER every day. Who knew - maybe she did. “I’ll ask you the questions and you answer, okay?”

“Okay.” Toph winced as another contraction hit her. At least the protruding baby bump gave her something to lean against. She made sure to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth as the woman began questioning her, just as Katara had instructed her to do. I’m a few hours, the whole thing would be over and then - she bit her lip and redirected her thoughts.

She wished Sokka was -

She redirected that thought, too.

“Reason for your visit?” the woman asked, yapping the pen against the clipboard.

Toph waited a moment before she turned around yet again, because she was in the middle of another contraction and couldn’t decide whether she’d rather scream or just go ahead and kill the lady.

“My contractions are about eight minutes apart,” she said.

The lady blinked once and then repeated, “They’re eight minutes apart from each other? So you’re in labor. Are you in active labor?”

Toph smiled sweetly. “Are you asking me to stick my fingers down and see whether or not I’m dilated to seven centimeters?”

To the woman's credit, the crudity didn't seem to faze her, and she plowed ahead with, “Ma’am, this is the ER. We’re not equipped for a birth. I’ll call you a wheelchair immediately, and we’ll get you up to Labor and Delivery. Trust me, it’ll be faster than checking in here and waiting for a transfer.”

“Where’s Labor and Delivery?”

“Fourth floor, and I -”

“I’ll just walk over there. It’s fine.”

“Ma’am, I really must insist. You’ve technically checked in—” she waved the yellow paper “—and you’re our responsibility now.”

Toph leaned heavily against the counter and deftly snatched the page out of the woman’s hand. At least her coordination was still functional.

“There. Now I didn’t check in, and I’m my own problem.”

“Ma’am, please. You’re in no condition to go wandering the hospital, whether you take that against your pregnancy or your eyesight. Let me just call someone to wheel you over.”

Luckily for the woman, another contraction rendered her unable to give a snappy retort. She waited for it to pass, quietly, quickly, then faced the lady once more.

“Fine,” she said tightly. “Fine. Fine.”

“Thank you,” the lady said, obviously relieved. Apparently she did not deal with stubborn blind pregnant women on the daily.

By the time she had been put in a wheelchair and taken through the long halls and winding corridors to Labor and Delivery, Toph had managed to calm herself down. Not because the situation was in any way calming, but because she’d stressed her body and mind out enough that she’d fallen into full-blown mission mode.

Which was fine. It’d probably be easier to give birth with that attitude.

“Well, you seem pretty together, Toph,” the nurse gushed as she checked in yet again at the front desk. “We’ll get you back as soon as possible. For now, if you can just take a seat in one of those chairs, and listen for your name.”

Toph let her real self fade into the background, giving over control to the five other women sitting in the waiting room, and promptly closed her eyes. If she was going to be in pain, she might as well rest while she could.

The calm blind girl out in the lobby was already a topic of discussion.

It wasn’t completely unheard of for someone to come in alone. Life was weird and sometimes people gave birth without anyone they knew to help them through the experience. But this girl? The calm young girl with ebony in her hair and in her eyes wasn’t any of the typical stories. She was clean and put together. She was calm and young and looked like the kind of person who would have a dozen friends by her side, even if the father of the child was no longer in the picture.

And yet, there she sat. First in the waiting room and then in her hospital room.

Alone.

Moreover, Miss Toph Beifong had claimed on her paperwork that her contractions were now five minutes apart. However, she was sitting too calmly for that. In fact, the nurse had sat with phone in hand and timed out more than ten minutes, and the girl hadn’t moved once. She’d sat there calmly. No wincing, no cursing, no crying.

It wasn’t until the nurse pulled the woman back and got down to take a look that anyone believe the claim at all.

"Shit,” the nurse murmured.

The doctor startled and glanced up to see if Toph had been offended by the curse. Fortunately, the girl seemed more concerned with how many fingers she had, and didn’t seem to have heard.

“What?” the doctormurmured, more quietly.

“Her cervix is nine centimeters,” the nurse answered.

“Shit,” the doctor echoed.

By the end of it all, Toph had decided she did not like labor. She’d made that decision before she began crowning, and nothing that followed did anything to change that. While she had experienced worse pain in her life, she had never experienced that kind of pain.

She had once spent four straight hours being absolutely crushed by a girl at the gym and, at the peak of labor, she was pretty sure she’d trade out that experience for her current one.

Nevertheless, she didn’t scream. She screwed up her eyes and doubled her body up and flexed her fingers. Tears leaked from her eyes from the sheer stress of it all. But her lips remained tightly closed. The skin around them grew white from where she bit them between her teeth, and the nurses were afraid she’d draw blood.

One well-intentioned nurse had advised that she just give in and cry out.

Toph had rolled her eyes, widened her legs, and pushed again.

In the end, nature was inevitable. Toph had always had someone to remind her to take good care of her body, so the whole experience was over in a few hours. She collapsed back against the wet bedding. There was sweat and blood and who-knew-what all over her, and she’d probably never feel clean again.

There was screaming in the background, and her eyes finally focused on the small infant being washed by the hospital staff.

Then her view was cut off by the ring of congratulating nurses.

“It’s a beautiful girl. Do you have the name ready for her?”

“Call it Toph, for all I fucking care,” Toph murmured, too quietly for anyone to make out. She turned over on her side, away from the child, and shut her eyes tight.

Later that night, after hours of tossing and turning in her sleep, Toph was awoken by the small mewing sound coming from her bedside. She sighed. She’d tried to have the baby whisked away to some far-off nursery where she wouldn’t have to ignore its presence, but apparently the hospital didn’t “do that anymore.”

Spirits, she felt so empty. Tired and empty and drained.

Deciding she could avoid it no further, Toph feels her way to the other side of the bed. The hospital is quiet, and she can’t even guess what time it is. Probably late at night. She waddled over to the bassinet, and the mewing became a full-fledged scream.

She jumped. The baby continued screaming, but less so, as if it hadn’t realized anyone was there. She found herself reaching down, feeling the child, the blankets, so afraid she would drop it or break it or… worse. For a moment she hesitated.

This is your baby, she thinks. You’re allowed to pick it up. It’s yours. And his. You can pick it up.

Her. She could almost hear Sokka’s voice echo through the room, reminding her that their child wasn’t an it. The thought made her smile.

Slowly, carefully, as though her life depended on it, Toph lowered her arms around the tiny, tiny baby and lifted her up. The baby stopped bawling and snuggled against her mother’s chest.

“Hello,” she said stupidly, like the kid could respond. But her mouth kept moving. “Um. Uh, my name’s Toph. I’m your - Spirits, I guess I’m your mom now, huh?”

The baby gurgled, her lips curled like she might cry again. Toph hurried to keep talking.

“Oh, God, um. What else, what else… uh, you have a bunch of aunts and uncles,” she said. “They’re all gonna help raise you. They’re annoying sometimes, but they mean well. You’re our first baby, you know.”

Our. The word made Toph close her eyes for a second. Try as she might, there would be no more “our.” There was only “she.” The “our” in her partnership was long gone. How was she supposed to tell her child that?

She decided to start with the basics.

“Your daddy was so brave,” she whispered. It hurt to talk about Sokka in the past tense, but she kept going. “He was so, so strong and brave and I just know he would have loved to meet you. He already loved you, you know. He wanted to meet you so bad, kid. He just never got the chance.”

The baby blinked, her eyelids heavy like hearing about the father she would never meet was too much for one night. Toph wholeheartedly agreed and set her down in the bassinet once more, making sure she was secure before plodding back to her own bed and face-planting on the blankets.

The nurse had told her the baby’s eyes were blue. She let that thought sink into her heart before drifting off to sleep.

#atla #tokka #avatar the last airbender #sokka #toph #toph beifong

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neokids · 4 years ago

Text

Fortune's Fool: Act II

Introduction

Cast

Act I

Act III

Act IV

Act II

Tw: Lots of blood, character death, violence, guns, knives, weapons, self-inflicted wounds, suicide, overall graphic content

There was actually no point in hiding,

If anything, Jeno should be the one walking away. Yeji was safe walking on the grounds the Vipers ruled over, Jeno was not. All eyes were on him as he stood in the middle of the Poculum, which was Viper territory. Everyone was ready to whip out their guns to shoot the heir of the Neos. No one cared about his status or high rank, he was in Viper territory and he was a Neo, he was at the bottom of the food chain. Anyone, Viper or Neo, could easily recognize him. His tall and muscular figure with his jet black hair and his dark eyes, no doubt it was him.

Jeno had lost sight of Yeji or where she was. Everyone in the bar had stilled as Jeno made his way across the club. Business men stopped their conversations, girls stopped flirting with the merchants, the merchants stopped drinking just as Jeno passed their tables in hopes of finding Yeji.

Meanwhile, Yeji had to stop and lean against the wall in order to maintain her composure. She stole a quick glance to see that Jeno was as clueless as a lost puppy. In that moment, she had wished for one of the gangsters to shoot him right then and there. It wasn’t bizarre for a random gunfight to begin at the club, in fact it would be more bizarre if a night or day had passed without a random person dying in this club, it was just how things went in Viper territory.

Yeji started to walk closer to him, forcing a lump in her throat to stay down. Fighting every instinct in her body to kill him right there and then. Damn these new shoes.

Just as she was close enough, she reached out to touch the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Hey there big guy.”

Jeno turned around to the all too familiar sight in front of him, a young woman dressed in Viper colors. The scene felt way too familiar for him. His lips parted to say something, but nothing came out. Yeji arched her eyebrow higher, a sign for him to continue what he was supposed to say, yet nothing came out from his lips again.

The thought of him, standing in the middle of the club, in Viper territory, surrounded by Viper associates, in front of the Viper heiress, suddenly registered to him, and it was as if a bucket of cold ice had been dunked to his head.

“Yeji,” Jeno said way too easily. A name in which he had not spoken for so long suddenly rolled out of his tongue as if he said it everyday. A name that if called by any other name would smell as sweet. A name only unique to her.

Jeno cleared his throat. Based on Yeji’s look on her face, they were no longer on first name basis. “Ms. Hwang, how long have you been here in Seoul?”

Bold of you to assume I ever left, she thought to herself.

That was partially true. Although 4 years back she had moved to California, her mind still wandered here. Seoul was her city, her life, her kingdom. Seoul was all she grew up knowing and serving. She has been preparing all her life to finally rule this city, she could never leave it for some other town. She was ready to die and sacrifice her life if it meant that the people of Seoul would stay safe. She couldn’t bear any moment away from this city.

And it was all your fault

“Not for long but do forgive me for asking Mr. Lee, what are you doing here?”

Jeno was the reason Yeji had to leave Seoul, for Yeji’s safety and to ensure that nothing would happen to the heiress of the Vipers. Now that he was in her territory, the audacity to show his face to her after what he had done, nothing would have felt better than sticking a knife straight to his heart.

“I need to speak to Lord Hwang,” Jeno said as if asking to speak to a longtime friend, “It is urgent.”

Yeji stepped closer, her dress wrinkling at the side since she was gripping it too hard. She looked at him from head to toe, judging the way he entered her territory as if it were his, as id they were still friends. She took a deep breath and looked at him in the eyes once more.

“I see how urgent it is if you have come all the way here.” Yeji said while arching her brow. “But that urgency has to wait for Lord Hwang is handling international affairs as we speak.”

Jeno looked at her, puzzled. That was not the answer he was hoping to get. “Speak to me instead and I’ll try to pass the message. Speak, Lee.” The way she had said his name was as if it was the nastiest curse in the Korean language. To her, it felt foreign, speaking his name after so long.

“You don’t have to worry about anything spreading, Lee. You can trust me, right?”

Her vexing tone was one thing, but her icy and cold stare was another. They were the last people the other would trust, and it should remain that way. It should always be that way.

But whatever Jeno needed, it was serious. He didn’t argue.

“Can I talk to you?” he said in a much more quiet voice. Yeji let out a puff of air and turned on her heel. She didn;t even bother to wait and see if Jeno was following her. He was. Jeno made sure to keep his distance from her. It’s not everyday you encounter someone who has been waiting 4 years to kill you, it’s better to take caution.

Yeji stopped right near the dressing room of the performers. The place was more secluded and less chaotic, if anyone were to die right now, no one would even notice. Yeji turned around to see Jeno right in front of her. She crossed her arms and started tapping her foot.

“Well, get to it then.” She sounded rather impatient, she didn’t even bother to hide it in her tone.

Jeno scanned the place, looking if anyone was listening to them or if anyone followed him. He lowered his voice to an almost inaudible sound, Yeji struggled to hear him and struggled she did. There was no way she would come any closer to him.

“Last night, at the dock near Han river, 6 Neos had died.” He said carefully.

Yeji looked at him as if he said the most stupid thing she had heard.

“And?” Yeji was getting impatient. She coudln’t believe Jeno really came all this way just to tell her that his men died. And?

I hope you were one of them

“And,” He added rather defensively, “Two policemen and two of yours.”

Strange, Yeji thought to herself. Surely if a Viper death had occured she would have heard from her cousin who claims he knew everything and everyone. She tried to recall a mention of any death yesterday, but her mind was blank. It was a little weird to find a crime scene that involves both sides to end up dead. One side should’ve walked away bragging, not ending up dead. Still a matter like this was very unintersting for Yeji, Jeno could sense her walking away at any moment.

“Do you know anything about it?” Jeno asked, hoping to get some sort of answer.

“Are you serious?” Jeno was taken aback.

“What?” He asked, not sure why Yeji was reacting this way. A few years back even if a dog died that was owned by a Viper would cause Yeji to cry for days, and now she was standing here as if Jeno was telling her the most nonsense story she had heard.

“I said, are you serious?” She repeated, this time sounding rather more annoyed than she was when they first started talking.

“I need an explanation, does your father know anything about this?” He said as he stepped forward towards her, she took a step back.

“I already told you, my parents are abroad right now handling business affairs. Also why do you care so much about what happened last night? It’s not like you don’t see crime scenes on a daily basis.” Yeji said leaning against the wall while rolling her eyes.

“The cause of death was all self-inflicted.”

What? Yeji looked at him to see if he was messing with her. To her dismay, Jeno’s expression was rather solem and mournful.

“No gunfight nor violence was initiated by any side. They all had self-inflicted claw marks at their throats.” He added.

Yeji looked away with a scoff. 10 people, with claw marks on their throats, lay dead on the port near Han river? Yeji swore that was a plot of some old shitty Hollywood movie, and he expects her to believe and find him an explanation? Well I’ll be damned.

“We can not help you.” Yeji said firmly.

“If you know anything Ms. Hwang, I’m sure it would help to know what had happened that caused them to die like that.” Jeno persisted. It was obvious that he was getting irritated with her already, they were getting on the same level.

“Two of your people had died and–”

“We will not help nor cooperate with the Neos.” Yeji cut in, her face rather showing a much more hostile rather than an annoyed expression. “I will say this once and I won’t repeat myself again so you better listen. Even if my father knew something, I would still not tell you even if you begged. I do not care if any information my side knows can help and solve whatever you are stressing about. You and I both know the last time we had told each other information from our sides that it did not end up pretty. So if you have no more matters to discuss, I’m afraid I need to end this conversation. A pleasant day to you sir.”

Obviously, Yeji wanted him to leave and never come back, yet he remained where he stood. Yeji couldn’t stand any other moment with him so she decided to leave. Just as she was making her way towards the exit, she heard Jeno whispered rather sadly, “What happened to you?’

What happened to me?

Yeji could have said anything right now. She could have said the same words she had been preparing herself to say for the past 4 years when they finally meet again, she could have said anything that she felt or anything she could have thought of in the moment. She could have reminded him what he had done to her before she had left for America, putting the blame all on him. She could have said so many things right now, but she said nothing.

Just before she was out of his sight, a deafening scream echoed all through out the club. A scream so loud, it was heard above all noise, making everyone and everything in the club freeze.

“What the hell is happening?!” Yeji started to move to the center of the chaos, but right as she was about to weave her way towards the crowd, a hand had grabbed her arm, making her stop with a burning feeling where his hands were. Things may have changed over the past years, but his touch still set a burning sensation to her.

“Don’t,” He warned Yeji. His tone was on the calmer side, as if implying that he wouldn’t care if Yeji listened or not, but his eyes told a different story. Filled with pleading and caution. If you please just listen to me this once.

Yeji has never jerked her arm from someone so fast, it was as if she indeed got burned. She was on fire, no doubt her eyes didn’t fail to show what she felt when she looked at Jeno. He lost the right to care or even protect her.

She tried her best to weave through the crowd currently going into panic, trying her best to ignore Jeno’s persistent presence trying to stop her. Just as she was close enough, she saw a man currently rolling on the floor, going insane.

He started clawing at his own neck.

“What is he doing?!” Yeji exclaimed as she took a better look, “Well what are you all doing?! Somebody do something!”

But the man was already too far gone. He had clawed enough for some muscle to be exposed, blood already starting to seep to the floor. The man kept scratching and scratching as if there was something there that only he could see and feel, his nails dug deeper and deeper. People watched the man’s ragged breaths slowly decrease, until nothing could be heard at all. It was deafening.

People halt in their tracks, not muttering a single word. Everyone far too scared to even make a single move, they could only stare at the violent sight in front of them.

A sight of a man who had gone insane, causing him to collapse and violently scratch his neck, until the soft muscle was scattered all over the floor.

Then what once was a scene so quiet, quickly turned into a scene of chaos.

People started panicking and screaming, getting as far away from the man. They started to push themselves, causing the others to trip and lay next to the man. Soon enough, mass hysteria had began.

“Mr. Lee you need to leave right now.” Yeji said, facing Jeno who was right behind her when the scene unfolded. Yeji had waved for two Viper men to come and clean up the mess, they didn’t verbally complain, but their face said all. Yeji almost fired them on the spot, how dare they for complaining to do their jobs, until she had caught a glimpse of Jeno frozen like a Greek statue, not leaving.

“You have got to be kidding me.” She rolled her eyes, her attention turned towards the two Viper men mopping the floor, “Please show Mr. Lee the way towards the exit? Please?”

The two men looked at each other, then looked at the Neo heir. Their faces had contorted into a weird, almost psychotic way. It was the moment they have finally been waiting for. They immediately shoved Jeno roughly infront of them, causing Jeno to lose his balance and almost lay next to the dead man.

“I said show, didn’t I?” Yeji said, causing the two men to look completely confused.

“But madam, he is trespassing and he is not welcomed–”

“Why can’t you understand?” Jeno cut in abruptly, nodding towards the dead man and back towards Yeji. He looked at her and only her in the eye. Pretending that no one else was present in the room, not even the two men behind them, not even the dead man on the floor. At that moment, it was only as if Jeno and Yeji were there. “This is what exactly happened to the Neos and the Vipers last night!” He pleaded just for her to try and listen to him.

But with a swift move of her wrist, Jeno was quickly dismissed. The two men shoving him towards the exit. Jeno couldn’t afford to fight back. Considering how lucky he already was for leaving the Poculum with no blood dripping from his body. Yeji knew he couldn’t fight back, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

Just as he was gone from her sight, only then did Yeji take in the scene in front of her. Turns out, the man wasn’t dead afterall. He was muttering something. She knelt forward to listen to his words, but a feeling of nostalgia came upon her.

This was exactly what the picture was like 4 years back. Her kneeling to a pool of blood already staining her dress, beside a dead–well in this case, dying person. She glared at the place where Jeno last stood, as if he was still there. She then glared towards the door in where he had been escorted out.

She knelt closer to the man in hopes of finding out what he was saying, “Oh dear heavens above, what in Lucifer’s–” Mr. Liu apparently never left and here he is peering over Yeji’s shoulder, too scared to come closer.

“Shut up.” Yeji said in attempts of figuring out the man’s last words. She had focused so hard that her background was starting to blurr, the hysteria fading slowly, until nothing but the man’s words were heard.

“Goemul, goemul, goemul, goemul”

Goemul? A monster?

“What monster? What monster are you talking about?” Yeji tried to tap the man in order for him to regain his consciousness, but with one last look at her, his eyes fell dull.

Now this time, he truly was dead.

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ginnympotter · 5 years ago

Note

uhm this is kind of a vague prompt but harry and ginny going on a date in the muggle world doing the things he always wanted to do as a kid but wasn't allowed? x

LOVE ITTT. OK anyone who actually lives in London reading this, I apologize. I know nothing and admit to this. Also this ended up much longer than intended I’m sorry lol. Hope you like it!

“Ginny, I already told you-”

She groaned, closing the front door of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place behind them. “And I’ve already told you that I don’t give a damn.” She took the invisibility cloak from the crook of his arm and threw it over them. “Now, I’m going to need you to apparate us so please concentrate and stop being a humble git.”

Harry sighed, recognizing defeat. “Where to, then?”

“Westminster Bridge Road,” she informed him.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Muggle London? What for?”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed on to his hand. “If you would exert some patience, please, you will find out shortly.”

He conceded, securing her hand in his. “Hold tight.”

He spun on the spot, and Ginny felt herself being squeezed into nothing, suffocating, and then suddenly her feet landed firmly on pavement, the rush of traffic ringing in her ears. Her hand still firmly locked in Harry’s, she dragged them into an ally and took off the cloak, handing it back to its owner. “Put it in your pocket.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, doing just so. They both put their wands in their pockets as well, and then Ginny dragged them back to the sidewalk.

People walked around them in haste, and Ginny looked at the street signs on both sides of them. “This way,” she determined, tugging Harry’s hand and navigating them to the right. Ginny strode down the street excitedly, Harry by her side, chuckling.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing now?”

She chanced a glance at him, and his face held both suspicion and amusement. “Listen,” she began. “I know you don’t care much about making a deal of your birthday, but you should. I mean, need I remind you, it was only about 3 months ago that you almost died.”

“I remember,” he mumbled.

“And so the fact that you made it to 18 is something to be celebrated! And I wanted to do something special, since all I gave you last year for your birthday was an interrupted snog and an overbearing brother,” she smiled.

He laughed at that, squeezing her hand. “Fair enough.”

“But I knew going out in any Wizarding areas would be too stressful. We don’t need anyone hounding you, and I suppose we could’ve taken Polyjuice Potion but I’d prefer to see your handsome face.”

“Not sick of it yet?”

“Never.” She stopped abruptly, pulled him to her, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. Then remembered herself and kept them moving as to not cause any further pedestrian traffic. Harry had a lopsided smirk on his face as she resumed to steer them towards their destination. “Anyway,” she continued, “we should be pretty safe here. It’s crowded and not many wizards come roaming about Muggle London, except my dad, maybe.”

“I hope you’re right, but I wouldn’t underestimate Rita Skeeter’s determination.”

“Good thing I’m not afraid of beetles,” she quipped back, shooting him a smile. “So now that you’re of age in both the Wizarding and Muggle world, I thought we’d exercise those freedoms in the most optimal way possible- aha!” She spotted the place and made a sharp turn down the block, Harry still holding her hand but tailing her, and stopped short at the entrance. “Ta-da!”

Harry took a moment to catch his breath, then looked up at the sign above the door. Namco Funscape.

“No...way...” Harry gaped breathlessly. “No way.”

Ginny felt triumph beating in her chest. “Last month, you told me about all the things your aunt and uncle would take Dudley to do, or allow him to do at the house, all of which you were deprived...and I wanted to make that up to you and take you myself. But as an adult, it’s all up to you what we do. And you can even have a Muggle drink now that you got an ID last week.”

Harry continued to stare at the building front, then turned his shocked expression to Ginny, which quickly melted into the kind of warm smile that left Ginny immobile, like the one he had given her when they first exchanged ‘I love you’s, or when they played one-on-one Quidditch two weeks ago and she caught the Snitch right under his nose. He let go of her hand and closed the gap between them, wrapping his arms around her, fitting her snugly into his chest. She closed her eyes, content to just stay like that for the rest of the day if he wanted. But she was a good gift-giver, and she knew how eager he was to go in. “I will always be grateful for gifted snogs, interrupted or otherwise, but this is...really...” He released her from his grip and kissed her once hard, the second time more softly. “You’re the best. The best.”

“I am pretty amazing, aren’t I,” she joked, the look on his face making her heart flutter even more rapidly.

“You are,” he confirmed, his smile widening. “Now c’mon, let me introduce you to all the fun Muggle activities I wish I could do as a kid that you will surely kick my arse in.”

She could hardly contain her own excitement seeing Harry display his own so openly, swinging the door open and striding through into the massive arcade and entertainment center. Harry explained to her the concept of tokens, and before he could pay for them to have any Ginny took out the stash of Muggle money she brought. She handed the clerk the bills before Harry could get a full objection out. “Ginny, let me-”

“It’s your birthday,” she stated simply. “Stop. Let me take care of it. You can waste all the money you’d like to pamper me in eleven days.”

“Fine,” he replied resentfully but seemed to get over it quick enough as the clerk handed him the cup of tokens. He took her through the rows of video games, and it was some of the most fun she ever had, having Harry teach her how to play and, as predicted, quickly dominating him in almost every game he taught her. The only one Harry continued to beat her in (though only marginally) was Pacman, but she demolished him in Skee-Ball on the first round, and the four others that followed. “Should’ve seen that one coming,” he snorted, trying and failing to hide the gleam in his eye he’d get when turned on by Ginny’s unexpected prowess as she successfully sunk her final ball into the top goal. “Bloody Chasers.”

“How could you forget, when my Quidditch Captain badge arrived just yesterday?” she beamed at him, bending down to collect her plethora of tickets.

“You’re a usurper, is what you are,” Harry shook his head.

Ginny gasped dramatically as she pulled the last of her tickets up and shoved them into Harry’s hand. “Not usurper, rightful successor!” Harry laughed as he took the tickets and put them in their bucket. “You know, jealousy doesn’t look so good on you.”

Harry pulled her toward him and put both hands on her cheeks. “I’m only jealous of everyone who’s going to be there to watch you shine.”

Ginny felt her heart sink slightly. She knew it was a difficult decision for Harry to forgo the rest of his education, to not return to the Quidditch team for one final season, and most of all, to spend the better part of ten months apart from her after finally getting back together. But they both knew it was what made the most sense, and that they would be okay. He offered her a small smile before leaning in to kiss her.

She sighed, his lips gone too quick. He chuckled, throwing an arm around her and leading them to another area of the arcade. They tried the jackpot machine game multiple times, and on the sixth attempt, Ginny hit the jackpot, which was 550 tickets. Harry and Ginny decided they had enough accumulated to go claim a prize, and Harry convinced Ginny to get something called a skateboard, which she was able to pick up rather quickly before they were reprimanded for riding it inside. Then Harry taught her ping-pong, which took her a bit longer to pick up, but by the end of it won two matches. All the playing left them famished, and so they went to the bar and got pizza, and Ginny convinced him to try Muggle beer. He eyed it skeptically, took a sip, swallowed, and made a face of disgust.

Ginny laughed heartily. “That bad?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, pushing it away. “I can’t believe anyone would drink this when butterbeer tastes so much better.”

She tugged at his collar and pulled his face close to hers. “Let me have a taste.”

“You’re not of age,” he said, looking at her curiously.

“Not that way,” she informed him, the suggestive grin forming on his lips stunted by Ginny’s crushing against them, prodding his mouth open, sweeping her tongue over his. She pulled away briefly, told him, “I can bear it,” then continued to kiss him.

She only got to have her fun for about thirty seconds, however, as they were interrupted by a loud and recognizable “Oi! You’re in public!”

They broke apart, and Ginny could see the blush spreading across Harry’s cheeks. “I thought interrupted snogs and overbearing brothers were gifts of the past,” he whispered quickly.

“I thought you were grateful for them, anyway?”

“The snog bit, yeah-”

Hermione’s voice cut in. “Sorry,” she winced, then glared at Ron. “Somebody still needs to learn manners.”

“Yeah, them!” he retorted, gesturing towards his sister and best friend.

Hermione rolled her eyes, then walked forward to hug Harry. “Happy birthday, Harry! We didn’t mean to interrupt-”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Harry told her as she let go. “I didn’t know you two were coming!”

“I meant to mention it,” said Ginny. “But I lost track of time. I wanted to try that bowling thing, and I thought it’d be fun to have them join us for a bit before we head back home for dinner with everyone.”

“We’re bowling?” Harry shouted in excitement. “Oh, man is this going to be fun. I’ve always wanted to bowl. I got to watch Dudley once but wasn’t allowed to play.”

Ron threw his arm around Hermione, pulling her to his side. “Alright, Hermione, we’re ready to learn.”

After three matches, the first as individuals (Harry just winning, all scores rather close), the second as boys versus girls (girls demolishing), and the third as a couple match-up (Harry and Ginny victorious), their arms were sore and they were ready to apparate back to Ottery St. Catchpole for Harry’s birthday.

Ginny’s mother made an elaborate dinner and cake that, seeing Fred’s empty seat, Ginny could tell he did not quite feel he deserved but expressed his gratitude all the same. Most everyone he loved was there, including little Teddy, whose hair and eyes matched Harry’s throughout most of the meal, which made Ginny’s heart swell. As her mother insisted Harry stay the night, she helped him bring up all his presents to Ron’s room before turning in for the night herself, although not before making sure Ginny was in her own room with Hermione. And although Ron still could not hold back his disgust, he knew there was something to be gained for himself in having Harry and Hermione swap places once they were sure it was safe. Hermione quietly left, and a minute later, there was a light rap of knuckles against her door.

She flicked her wand and the door opened. Harry, his face lit in his own wand light, wearing his pajamas, stepped in quietly and closed the door behind him, clicking the lock. He walked over to Ginny’s bed, whispered ‘Nox,’ put his wand and glasses on her bedside table, and crawled into her small bed.

“Hello,” he whispered, and she could see his smile in the dark as she pulled him closer to her.

“Mm,” she sighed happily, intertwining her legs with his, firmly planting her face in the crook of his neck. “Good birthday?”

He wrapped his arms around her. “The best, I think. Today was...” he paused, and Ginny knew he struggled to verbalize his feelings sometimes, so when he uttered out a loving, “thank you,” and kissed the top of her head, she knew he was happy, and so her goal was achieved.

“So it surpasses last year’s gift, then?” she asked playfully.

“Well, I did receive the same gift this year too, earlier before bowling, didn’t I?”

“I suppose.”

Harry readjusted them and put a hand on her face, causing her to look up at him. “And as incredible as today was, I was hoping for that present in an uninterrupted format if you’d be so willing.”

Ginny laughed, melting at his touch, feeling pierced by the sparkle in his eyes, made brighter by the contrast of the dark. “How could I deny you such a gift?”

Harry grinned widely as Ginny drew her face closer to his. Their lips impossibly close, she whispered against his, “Happy birthday, Harry.”

#i'll proof-read this tomorrow i apologize rdbfuensdm #this took way too long #also should i put a read more on this? it's so long lmao #harry potter #ginny weasley #hermione granger #ron weasly imagine #harry potter x ginny weasley #hinny #harry x ginny #im too tired and sweaty idk what else to tag this #post-war #hp fanfic

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nazyalenskyism · 4 years ago

Text

Just Friends

Summary: Nikolai and Zoya are just friends... aren't they? | Zoyalai modern AU.

A/N: Zoya and Nikolai live in my mind, rent free at this point. Feedback is appreciated, and my ask is open if you ever want to talk or send prompts or anything! The fic is below the cut.

Ao3: Just Friends

“Hurry up! If you’re not here in,” she checked her watch, “four minutes, these freshmen are going to take your room.”

“Zoya, I’m almost there, just stall them!”

“How the hell am I supposed to--” he’d already hung up on her. Fantastic. She knew she should’ve booked the study room under her name, Nikolai was too eager of a student, he’d probably stayed behind to talk to his Professor about his favourite books concerning the lecture material. Nikolai may have been the one to curry favour and win hearts but at least she excelled at something he could never manage to master, being punctual. Squaring her shoulders she stepped towards the first years who were crowded around the door, probably counting down the seconds before the ten minute grace period was over so that they could snatch the room up for themselves. Not on her watch.

“Hey!” She snapped, her most imperious armor clicking into place. “What do you think you’re doing?” Zoya had long ago learned that people would believe what you had to say as long as you acted so confident in your convictions that you left no room for them to doubt you.

They all looked up at her, their mouths hanging open. Finally one of them mustered enough courage to spit out, “we’re waiting for the room to open up.”

“You’re Nikolai Lantsov?” Zoya drawled, letting her eyes sweep them from head to toe. They shrunk under her gaze, only one of them dared to respond.

“No but if he doesn’t show up in 2 minutes then we get his room.”

“Wait, we’re waiting for his room? I wanted to get a picture of him.”

This was new, so now they were treating Nikolai like he was a celebrity. “Well, you’re not getting his room, so get lost. And he doesn’t ‘take photos’ with anyone, his ego isn’t that inflated.”

“That’s where you’re wrong Nazyalensky, my ego is indeed quite that big.” With his wind tousled hair and suit, he definitely looked like a celebrity, and it was clear that the other students thought so as well.

“Unfortunately, she’s right about the pictures, sorry to disappoint.” He winked over his shoulder, swiping his ID and opening the door for Zoya. She entered as he said “if you’re looking to take pictures. I heard that Genya Safin is never opposed to that flattery.” He slid into the room firmly shutting the door while the students stood open mouthed. “You’re positively glowing Zoya, how was your presentation?”

“I’ve found that putting children in their place does that for my complexion. It was perfect as always, yours?”

“Perfect as always,” he grinned at her. Leaning back in his chair, he loosened his tie with one hand, while opening his laptop with the other. “So, Nazyalensky, I was thinking…”

“You do that?”

“Yes, and I do it better than most. But that’s how I do everything Zoya, you should know that by now. I was thinking that since we’re already dressed up, what if we get dinner at that fancy restaurant on the waterfront?”

Zoya’s head shot up, she’d been wanting to go there for months, but all her friends had wanted to go with their significant others, and you had to reserve a spot weeks ahead of time.

“We can’t, we don’t have a reservation.”

“Yes we do.”

“Nikolai, you just brought up these plans, even if you’d been thinking about them all day, there’s no way you could’ve gotten a reservation today. Even you don't have that much money or sway.”

“I may have made it a few weeks in advance.” In response to her confused look, he continued, “I know you like to spend your birthday alone, but I still wanted to celebrate with you, so I booked our table two months ago.”

Two months ago? Of course he would. He would’ve seen on the syllabus that they had a presentation today— two days before her birthday, and one that required them to wear business attire, and figured it was the perfect way to spring it on her the day of so she couldn’t say no. Not that she’d want to, she was eager to go to the restaurant but the further in advance he told her things, the more likely she was to talk herself out of them. Damn him for knowing her so well. Still, she wasn’t going to surrender this easily. She leaned back, crossing her arms, staying silent.

“Come on Nazyalensky, we’ve got the best table in the place and for afterwards, I was thinking we could have a movie night. You know you want to say yes.”

She shrugged noncommittally, “maybe.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Whatever suits you best, Lantsov. Now hurry up, we only have this room for another 90 minutes.”

They got to work revising for one of their other shared classes, and before they knew it, they were greeted by a knock on the door.

“Occupied” Zoya hissed in frustration as Nikolai mumbled, “come in,” neither bothering to look up from their work until the visitor cleared their throat.

“Kirigin!” Nikolai beamed, his smile a little too big to be genuine, but Kirigin wouldn’t know that. Zoya peeked at Nikolai’s watch as he got up, they only had 10 minutes left.

“I was wondering if you would let me study here until you’re done? I have the room right after, but all the tables around here are taken.”

Nikolai looked to Zoya for and only then did Kirigin seem to notice her presence in the room. “We were actually just leaving,” Zoya said hurriedly rising from her chair before Kirigin could start falling over himself to compliment her.

“Oh, leaving so early?”

“Yes,” Nikolai responded, moving closer to her so that he could sling an arm over her shoulders. “We’re actually heading out for Zoya’s birthday dinner.” Kirigin opened his mouth, oh no. This was her queue to leave.

“I’m going to get some water before we go,” she announced, ignoring Nikolai’s imploring look in her direction, telling her not to leave him alone with Kirigin. Whoops. As she made her way back to the room, water bottle full, she heard something that made her freeze before she could walk in.

“So… are you and Zoya dating then?”

“Zoya and I?” Nikolai sounded flabbergasted. “Nazyalensky and I? No, we’re just friends.”

‘Just friends.’ Zoya thought. What was that that supposed to mean? She felt the sharp sting of hurt in her chest. She had been foolish to think that Nikolai saw her as something more than an ordinary friend. Not that she wanted him to. But still, an unnamed emotion had dug its claws into her chest and refused to leave her mind. What did he mean by that?

She stepped into the doorway, acting like she’d overheard nothing. Nikolai grinned at the sight of her, his smile reaching his eyes. He picked up her coat and bag, sauntering over to her. Waving a quick goodbye to Kirigin, Nikolai exited the room, waiting until they were in the elevator alone to talk to her.

“Is everything alright?” he asked quietly, as if sensing that something was off.

“Everything is fine, Nikolai.”

“You seem mad.” His eyes were full of concern, playful affection, and something else, something more biting that she couldn’t bear to face.

She turned away, “I’m not mad, why would I be mad?” Was this the concern you showed to someone you were just friends with? Knowing Nikolai, it probably was, but he was never this kind unless he wanted something from you. For once in her life, she didn’t seem to be the one by his side, rather the one under the crosshairs, completely blindsided. What did he want? She knew she shouldn’t be upset, Nikolai had never claimed to see her as anything more than a friend, and she had never asked for— never wanted more. Until now.

“Zoya?” The concern in his voice was near palpable, the warmth of his hand on her skin pulsed through her. She couldn’t deal with this.

“Just friends, Lantsov?” He froze, hand still on her shoulder. “I thought we were, how do you say it? Best friends.” She said, emphasizing the words as Nikolai would.

He let out a shaky breath as the elevator came to a stop before pressing a hand to his face, wiping all emotion but boyish charm away. “Why Zoya, you think that we’re ‘besties?’”

“Disgusting. No.” She wrinkled her nose as Nikolai laughed, leading her out of the elevator. In her heart she knew he was right. They were friends, just friends. And that was all they would ever be.

Just friends.

#zoyalai #zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoyalai fic #kos fic #zoyalai au #king of scars #tgt

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fleckcmscott · 4 years ago

Text

The Falls

Summary: Arthur and Y/N reach Gotham City Hall. Two weeks later, they share a taste of newly-wedded bliss.

Warnings: Swearing, Adult situations

Words: 5,953

A/N: This request came from @jokerownsmysoul. I'm grateful for it - it was a real challenge. I can't wait for more! I also need to extend a hearty thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for her support. I've been going through a rough period, which is why my output has slowed. She encouraged me, listened to and helped me work through my doubts, and gave me great feedback. Also, send love to @howdylilflower for reading through this, sharing her thoughts, and pointing out my obvious errors!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Gotham City Hall was, to put it briefly, imposing. Statues of former mayors and city founders stood on either side of its massive staircase. The Corinthian capitals of the portico's columns rose three stories above the entrance. The glass and copper doors, made heavy by their vertical, iron security bars, provided a sense of elite exclusion, regardless of it being a municipal building.

As Y/N and Arthur dashed up the marble steps, their buoyant laughter filling the air, none of that mattered. All that pomp and circumstance was immaterial compared to the leap they were about to make. The leap she hadn't expected that morning but had craved for months. The leap into wedlock and all the dedication, trust, and responsibility that went with it.

The Office of Licensure and Registration was far busier than she'd assumed - it was set to close in half an hour. Two clerks worked the winding line of people dealing with the unremarkableness of bureaucracy. A woman complained about the cost to renew a dog license. ("But he's only a mutt!") At the window, a man was being told he needed to head down the hall and to the left. One guy was muttering to himself about what he was going to have for dinner once he was "out of this hellhole." The atmosphere, admittedly, was not ideal.

However, the love of her life standing beside her, clutching her hand a tad too hard, made it perfect. She examined Arthur's profile as he stared ahead. The joy and relief hadn't left his visage after she'd accepted his proposal. Pensiveness hid in the flare of his nostrils, though. In the repeated clench of his jaw. In the quiet bounce of one knee.

She pursed her lips. Taking off up the street and demanding to be married straight away had been pushy. Under no circumstance did she want him to feel pressured, especially not when it came to this. But, she considered, it was natural to be anxious. And he'd appeared ecstatic, too, nearly yanking her onto his lap on the bench at Lemmars Park.

Tucking back the stray, chestnut strand by his temple, she murmured, "I'm the happiest woman on earth right now." She gently loosened her fingers from his grip and hugged his slim waist. With a bashful duck of his chin and quick puff, his arm went across her shoulders. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes told her his tight-lipped smile was sincere. That he needed this as much as she did. That he'd be all right.

The clerk, whose nametag read "Kyle," was polite and indifferent. Leaning on the counter, they hastily retrieved their IDs from her purse and Arthur's wallet. She rattled off her social security number from memory, while he had to find his card. After paying a fifteen-dollar fee, a slew of typing, and Y/N promising to provide a copy of her divorce papers, Kyle handed them a fountain pen and beige piece of parchment.

Floral borders decorated the edges, an art deco design out of the twenties. The title "Marriage License" leapt out, printed in a font belonging to a carnival barker's wagon. Their names, cities of birth, and birthdays were listed. A final paragraph stated the following: "The undersigned are both of sound mind, are consenting adults, and willingly commit to the bonds of matrimony." They merely had to sign on the respective "bride" and "groom" lines to make it official.

Y/N bent to sign the paper without delay. Not wanting to smudge the ink, she forced her hand to go slower than usual. Arthur grazed her knuckles as she passed him the pen. Only a couple seconds went by, then he jotted his name, a scraggly "A. Fleck." She heard his breath catch as the clerk notarized the document.

The paper needed to be mailed to central office for processing, Kyle explained (which Y/N already knew). A photocopy was made so she could change her name. The official marriage certificate could be picked up in approximately three weeks. To her surprise, he said, "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Fleck" before closing the window's shade.

And that was it. They were husband and wife in less time than it took to register a new car.

Exhilaration fluttered in her abdomen. Pumped its way from her heart to the tips of her toes as they strolled arm-in-arm towards the closest subway station. Y/N suggested they grab a bite to eat to celebrate, maybe go to Kao Wah. But Arthur stated he wasn't hungry. "I'd like to be home. With my- with my wife." He averted his gaze as he said the last words, the tip of his tongue darting to his top lip as if to the savor their flavor.

Given how much he'd learned about traditions from old movies, she'd suspected he'd try to carry her over the threshold. She was grateful he didn't. Instead, he pressed her into the coats and jackets hanging on the wall. Kissed her with his entire body. "I need to make love to you," he uttered into her neck. The softness of the euphemism was strikingly different from his urgency as he unbuttoned her blouse. He'd have likely taken her in the entranceway if she hadn't led him to the bedroom.

The intensity with which he fucked her into the mattress hadn't been experienced since he'd shown up at her apartment drenched, lost, and unable to fully accept she loved him. But this moment was distinct. Although the lines of his face were taut, his eyes were filled with ardor. He entwined their fingers, crushed her to him, drove her hand into the pillow. "Say you're mine," he implored, the jerks of his pelvis deep and uneven. "Please. Say you're all mine."

It wasn't like her to give herself to someone. To allow that person to own her. She'd tried that before; it hadn't been good for either of them. Yet, she'd pledged her fidelity to Arthur barely two hours ago. She knew what his request meant. He didn't want to change or dominate her. He simply needed to hear her answer. To know he was no longer alone in the world and wouldn't be for the rest of his life, even if he doubted.

Caressing the expanse of his back and his distended shoulder, she responded. "Of course, I'm yours, Arthur." The tip of his nose met hers, and she savored the smile he pressed against her cheek. "Of course, I'm yours."

She absentmindedly played with his hair. Holding him to her breasts, she went over everything she had to do the following day. Having a plan calmed her, aided her in thinking straight. And the list she was making was a pleasure because everything on it involved him. "I have to call the landlord to add you to the lease. Go to the DMV to get my name changed. Add you to my insurance at work. Oh, we need to combine our bank accounts, too." She peeked at the top of his head. "I have a feeling I'll remember to write 'Mrs. Fleck' easier than '1983' when the new year arrives."

The emerging rigidness of Arthur's frame and the burps that suddenly left him alerted her to his tumult. He pushed himself off her, swung his legs over the side of the bed as guffaws ripped their way from his throat. She scurried behind him to see his palm hover above his ribs as he covered his mouth with the other.

It had been weeks since his condition had flared up around her. Even longer since he'd tried and failed to hide it. Acceptance of his affliction was a concept that was sometimes hard for him to accept; her kindness and love couldn't erase thirty-five years of distress. But he had gotten better at believing it and she was proud of him. Not wanting any of his progress to be lost (especially not on their wedding night), she helped him through it, as usual. Kissed his bicep. Reminded him to take deep, even breaths. Blessedly, the attack didn't last long.

He was wringing his hands, the shaking of his head almost imperceptible. "What if I-" He spoke lowly, fear emitted with every syllable. "What if I wake up in Arkham? Or taking care of Penny again?" Y/N continued to listen as she searched for the best reply. "I never thought I'd have what I wanted." A humorless chuckle as he swiped his nose. "I don't want it to go away."

She wondered if what he was saying was due to trepidation or illnesses. Then she realized the differentiation was irrelevant. What mattered was soothing him. Letting him know it was all right. And real. Slowly, she knelt on the floor in front of him. "I'm not going anywhere," she confirmed, cupping his weathered cheeks. "I adore you." Smiling, she claimed his lips. "I'm your wife."

His toothy grin caused her pulse to skip, and he drew her to his chest. "I'm your husband."

"There's no one else I'd rather be married to."

Laying on the mattress, he closed his eyes. She stroked his lean pectorals, delighting in his resulting sighs. Once the tension in his sinews seemed to ebb, once he looked relaxed, he made a thoughtful sound. "Are we gonna have a honeymoon?"

~~~~~

For as long as he could remember, Arthur had ridden buses. They were usually crowded, stuffed full of humanity. A cushioned, plastic seat was free about a third of the time. Apart from the engine, the rides were fairly quiet. Everyone wanted to get to their destinations instead of conversing. He'd gathered that from observing them. From trying to figure out how to make a connection.

The tour bus he was currently on felt like the pinnacle of luxury, with its padded, fabric chairs and tinted windows. A newer adventure movie played on the tiny television built into the ceiling, its volume so low he could make out only half the dialogue. There was a bathroom (a bathroom!) in the rear, cleaner than any public one around the city. Passengers were few. A young couple sat across the aisle, playfully teasing each other. Sights like that had sparked melancholy in the past. Now the corner of his mouth quirked.

He'd yearned to get out of the city. To go somewhere warm, beautiful, and calm. To have space but not loneliness, which was readily available at home. The postcards he'd kept in his locker at work and on his refrigerator had been a feeble attempt to keep the hope of leaving alive. A co-worker had asked about them once. Arthur, seeking to cover-up his vulnerability in a room full of tough guys, had mumbled a quick, "They're just pictures."

California's distance from Gotham had made it a promised land. He would have liked to walk its shores. They had to be cleaner than those of the city. Meet the people there. They were likely kinder due to the sunniness of the state's weather.

He'd lain on his worn sofa or written in his journal, particularly on chilly nights, fantasizing about playing ukulele on the beach with a pretty Hawaiian girl. The light shining off her tan skin, a contrast to his own pallor. The sway of her hips while she danced the hula would match the rhythm of his novice strumming. After a shallow dip in the ocean, they'd make love in the sand. The sun would be setting to their left. A campfire would burn bright on the right. It would have been great.

But the woman currently dozing on his shoulder made the reality he was experiencing finer.

It had been difficult for him to admit his disappointment upon learning Y/N hadn't thought of a honeymoon. The notion had been unimportant to her, as unimportant as having a wedding. When they'd married two weeks ago, she'd said, in her usual, casual manner, "You're my husband and I'm your wife and that's fine." He'd believed he'd gotten her meaning - that frills and fusses were unnecessary, so long as they were partners. But his chest had ached all the same. He'd awaited the opportunity to let out the old romantic in him for years. Those frills and fusses were crucial to him.

The brochure for Niagara Falls had been one of many in the travel agency's window. Its bright blues and greens had caught his eye when he'd passed by on the way home from therapy. He'd heard of the tourist spot on television. Weekend trips were awarded as prizes on game shows. A magician may have gone over them in a barrel. It was supposed to be the honeymoon capital of the world. And it was only four hours from home. He'd figured it would be easy to sell her on the idea.

He'd shown her the pamphlet as soon as she walked through the door, prattling with anticipation as she slipped off her heels. "There's a Skywheel. We've been on the Ferris wheel as Amusement Mile but this one's taller." He'd pointed at a picture while taking her coat. "There are a lot of restaurants. And a town we can walk in..."

Trailing off, he'd lifted one shoulder. "I know you've done all this before. A honeymoon, I mean." His brows pinched. "But not with me. I just want-" The interruption of Y/N's lips had stilled him, the twine of her fingers in his hair switching the racing of his brain to the pounding of his heart. Once they'd parted, the affection in her eyes reassured him.

"That's wonderful suggestion," she'd said. "We'll call a hotline for motel recommendations after dinner. I'm sure I can wrangle a free Friday from Phil." Her eyelashes had fluttered against his neck and she'd snorted. "You should have seen his face when I changed my name. And told him you'd be joining me on every business trip."

The memory made him feel fuzzy in spots he hadn't known existed until she'd seeped into them.

It was early evening, cold, and raining when they arrived. Y/N held her pop-up umbrella over them as he retrieved their shared suitcase. Thank goodness the stroll from the bus depot and to their lodgings was short. Only shallow splashes got on their pants during their scurry up the sidewalk.

Arthur had chosen the Honeymoon City Hotel for a few reasons. The ad had promised a view of the falls from every room, which he'd thought charming. A special newlywed's suite had been offered, Jacuzzi, cable television, and free breakfast included. And the place's corny name. Its silliness had touched the part of him that had bought a rose when he'd had no clue what he was doing, having dinner at a woman's apartment like a regular man. The part that compelled him to impulsively grab her hand while they stirred pots on the stove. The part that could, every so often, envision a brighter future for himself because he had her.

The motel, however, stated there was a problem. The room had been double-booked, a mistake blamed on a new employee having forgotten to note their reservation. The other guests had checked in earlier and couldn't be moved.

Having had a plethora of first days, Arthur understood what it was like to be new on the job. But he was still irritated. He asked where they were supposed to stay, then muttered to himself. He didn't want to be upset on their special weekend. Graciously, Y/N patted his arm and stepped in. He self-soothed with nicotine and noted how, in her kind but direct style, she negotiated a stay in one of the business suites and a ten percent refund. The front desk person told them their bag would be in their room.

They were also given a coupon for the nearby revolving restaurant. He'd been intrigued by the mention of it in his brochure, but he'd assumed it was too expensive. It was just beyond the Canadian border in Skyfall Tower. Because of the discount and no passports being needed, they decided to catch a cab and go.

Though Arthur usually didn't eat a lot, they opted for the buffet. He'd thought it a better value, and it would allow him to try new dishes without worrying he'd be stuck with something he didn't like. The novelty of the made-to-order stir-fry felt opulent. And it was fun adding broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms, but no water chestnuts because their texture was bizarre. Y/N appeared to enjoy the chicken Kiev and quiche, going back for a second helping of the latter.

Gazing out at the panorama provided by the windows surrounding them, Arthur titled his head. Droplets ran down the pane of glass, obscuring the view. The multi-color illumination of the falls were hazy from the rain. The plaque at the entrance had stated they were fifty-five stories up. In Gotham, he'd never been worth enough to go above the tenth floor. He wondered how fast they were spinning. He couldn't feel the momentum, but their position had changed slightly during dinner.

In his peripheral vision, Y/N was licking the rest of her chocolate mousse off a spoon. Nonchalantly, as if she didn't know the effect it would have on him. "This was almost worth the mistake the motel made," she said. But she winced as she straightened, put her palm on her stomach. "I'm not going to be able to move for the rest of the night."

Rolling his eyes and giving a half-smirk, he stood and guided her out of her seat. "You just need to walk a little." He slipped her jacket around her back. "Come on."

~~~~~

Y/N tried to stifle her laughter at Arthur's bewilderment. The room was...not what either of them had anticipated. (And a reminder why she was dubious about motels that had silly names.) Saying it left something to be desired was being generous.

Brown wood grain paneling, too dark to be considered cozy, was on the walls. Two twin beds, about three feet apart, were on the right. She chose the one closest to the windows, and it creaked and groaned as she sat on it. ("I hope the walls are thicker than they look.") Dim lamps with avocado green shades were on the nightstands in the middle. A thirty-two-inch television sat on the bureau across from the footboards. The room's saving grace was a fireplace in the back corner.

He popped his head into the bathroom, stated the shower was smaller than theirs, and grumbled that there was no whirlpool bath. She did not mourn that loss. The couple of times she'd used one, the pumps and jets had been loud and distracting. Besides. They were bound to test one out eventually.

Arthur made his way to the acrylic curtains and opened them. "I see...a parking lot." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket and sighed. "This wasn't what I pictured."

She knew he'd blame himself because he'd picked the place, which was ridiculous. They'd both agreed to it. Disappointment and guilt on their honeymoon? That wouldn't do. "Vacations never go as planned. That's why you return home more drained than when you left." Reaching behind her, she flipped on the radio. Searched for and found a station playing upbeat music. Kept the volume at a level where the notes of "The Hustle" were barely audible but could still cheer. She stood and flipped back the covers. "Well, the sheets are clean. Help me push these together."

Chuckling, he brought the lamps she'd unplugged to the nearby desk, then moved the nightstands out of the way. There were four or so inches between the mattresses when the bed frames met, but they'd make the most if it. The ease with which he'd moved his bed against hers impressed her, prompted her to squeeze her thighs together.

While Arthur stuck his head out the window for a smoke, Y/N got to work. She dug out the sparkling wine she'd packed (not champagne, which he found too sour) and unwrapped the plastic cups by the ice bucket. After screwing off the top and pouring them both a serving, she stripped to her bra and panties, a lacy dark green set she'd bought for the trip. Then she tip-toed to him. "Mr. Fleck, would you do me the honor of starting the hearth?"

He flicked his cigarette, stood, and turned to her. The desire and love in his intent stare as it roamed up her body, and the softening of his features made her blush. She looked at the brown carpet demurely. "I only packed lace."

The raging flames were half a yard away, a yellow and orange glow illuminating them both. She traced his spine to the beads of sweat gathering in the small of his back. They'd begun mere minutes ago, but she was already light-headed. Not only from the satisfaction of him repeatedly filling her, the joy of joining with him entirely. But also from the blazing heat.

She focused on the drop perspiration rolling down his forehead to his nose, then felt it fall onto her neck. "Arthu-" The last letter was stolen by his lips, the tip of his tongue teasing hers. She broke off, gasping. "Can we take a break?"

Blinking at her, he stopped, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. "A break?"

Gently, she pushed at his hips and nodded. "I feel like I'm going to melt. And not in the good way."

He left the grip of her body carefully and went to the knob next to the fireplace. "I think it's on a timer." She watched his grimace as he attempted to turn it counterclockwise. "It won't budge."

Y/N scooted away from the fire, rolled onto her side, and grabbed her mostly full cup. "We'll have to wait it out." He pouted at her and she laughed. "Hey, waiting will make the quenching sweeter." Taking a sip, she beamed up at him. "I don't think I told you how I got to Gotham."

There was a pause before he swiped back his damp locks. "What do you mean? It was your old job." He stretched to lie beside her, propped on his forearm.

"That's true but there's more to it." Entwining their calves, she draped an arm over his hip so she could caress the modest curve of his rear. "I used to get groceries every Tuesday in Missouri - the shop was further out, so I couldn't go and get a couple of ingredients, like you and I do." She turned onto her back, surveyed the off-white popcorn ceiling. "It would be empty. Lines were short. New stock would have come in.

"I always bought three newspapers for the help wanted section: the Daily Planet, the Toronto Star, and the Gotham Journal. One week I had to work late and go on a Thursday, and the store was out of the Journal." She giggled and shook her head. "I was so annoyed. I'd avoided the Gotham Globe because it looked like a trashy tabloid. But I settled."

The skim of his fingertips across her belly was a series of tender, repeated lines. Her gaze flicked to his, her smile breaking her face wide open. "That's where I found the ad for Shaw and Associates." She brought his knuckles to her mouth. "That annoyance is what got me my job. Allowed me to move to Gotham." She grasped his chin, ran her thumb along his deepening dimple. "What led me to you." Arching a brow, she gave a little shrug. "It's almost enough to make me believe there's a reason for everything. Not quite. But almost."

The concentration in the lines of his forehead told Y/N he was trying to find the right way to express himself. He gave it a go. "You're my reason."

She winced. It was a conversation they'd often had. While she appreciated what he said, held every word in her heart, he tended to aggrandize her and not give himself proper credit for how well he was doing. For going to treatment, for trying different medications. For being honest. She was still finding the kindest, most effective ways to correct those notions. To emphasize they were equals, through and through. "Arthur, I can't be your only reason."

"That's not what I meant." He rubbed the side of his face. Sitting up, he hugged his legs to his chest and his eyelids fluttered shut. "I don't hate myself as much as I used to. Not every day."

He fidgeted with the carpet. Y/N put her palm on his foot, traced the tendons of his ankle. Tried to help bolster him to confide whatever he wanted. "My mother would say she was the one who knew my purpose. That she didn't mind my laugh, because I was happy all the time." Scoffing, he took Y/N's proffered cup. "If she told me I wasn't funny or I did something wrong-" He swallowed hard and finished her wine.

She got it. Penny, along with his experiences in and perceptions of Gotham, had hammered into him that he was hard to love. An egregious, groundless lie. The pain underlying what he'd disclosed settled in her stomach, a dull ache for what he'd lived through. She was about to speak when he wiggled his toe to stroke her wrist. "I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable."

"Psh." She sat to hug him across his back at the waist. "I've never been uncomfortable around you. Not once." He leaned into her as she kissed his temple. The reflection of the hearth in his light green eyes was beautiful, flecks of brown and hazel shining. Gladness lurked in them, undeterred by their earnest exchange. She tousled his curls, ran her nails over his scalp until a pleasured moan escaped him. "Don't ever apologize for telling me how you feel."

A prolonged but companionable silence, then. As the fire died down, she lay on the floor. Pulled him to follow her until his wiry frame covered her. "I hate to break it to you, but you're not that weird."

Enfolding their fingers, he squinted at her. "I'm not?"

"Sorry to let you down." She wrapped her legs about his middle, squeezed him tight as he opened her lips with his. "Loving you is one of the easiest things I've ever done," she purred. She kissed his face in a line, then whispered in his ear. "Planning to proposition a man on the third date was never a habit of mine."

"Hm." At the weight of him hardening against her thigh, she gripped his shoulders and arched towards him. "Did you always flirt with men in the grocery store?"

The mild pinch to his bottom was instantaneous.

~~~~~

After procuring two apples, bananas, and donuts from the breakfast buffet and bringing them to their suite, Arthur decided to journal. He'd been awake since four. There was only so much smoking, staring at the walls, and trying to go back to sleep he could do. So as not to disturb Y/N, he went to the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet, notebook on his lap.

The pen flowed freely and he snickered. It always felt good when jokes came easily. "My mother wud say (change voice here) 'mariage isn't for everyone.' But I found the one person who wanted to marry me. Sorry, mom. It's funny." "I have a wife. It's great to have one special person to steel the blankets from."

Tears pricked a couple punchlines later. He wiped at them with a square of tissue paper. "Today I feel good," he jotted. "I think it's because I like being maried. I'm so proud of myself for sticking with Y/N. The worst days are better. I used to wunder how long I could live with noone caring about me. But I don't half to anymore. I hope I never do again."

A yawn beckoned him and he padded through the doorway to peak towards the beds. Y/N was opening the drapes, just enough to let a strip of sunlight illuminate the room. She was pretty, barefoot, her nightdress ending mid-thigh as the rays framed her silhouette. He sidled up behind her. "What do you call two spiders that just got married?"

Turning, she tapped her chin, apparently giving it a good, long think. "Mr. and Mrs. Arachnid?"

Even if she was wrong, he appreciated her effort. "Newly-webs." Giggling, she hugged him around the neck, stretched slightly to kiss him. "I was on a roll this morning. Maybe I can make them part of my act."

She clambered into the bed beneath the covers and patted the narrow space next to her. It was a tight fit, but he climbed in eagerly, anyway. As he brought her half on top of him, she said she'd looked at the TV schedule and found a movie to start the day. One starring Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn. The film was new to him, though he'd heard of it. He enjoyed the unexpected love story between two people from completely different backgrounds. Nibbling on a chocolate donut, he wondered if Y/N saw the parallels. If that was why she'd chosen it.

When they finally got dressed and headed out, they discovered the Skywheel Arthur had been looking forward to was closed for the season. It appeared they'd gotten married too late in the year for a lot to be open. There was a wax museum and an arcade in the nearby town. Neither appealed to him. But as they wandered the streets, they found the Houdini Magic Shop.

The manner in which she was browsing the props and instruction cards made it was obvious Y/N was out of her element. The only clown performance she'd seen in years had been his. But she was sweet and enthusiastic, and pointed out items she thought might be of interest. He was polite when he declined them. In the end, Arthur picked out a color changing blossom and a never-ending scarf. Although it was a store for performers, he found pens Y/N could use for work. He presented them to her with a flourish, and she promised she'd use them daily.

They stopped by a nearby souvenir shop. It was small, about half the size of their living room. He bought a few postcards to go with the ones on his vanity. She chose three, scrawled "We're hitched!" on them, and mailed them to Patricia, Mabel, and Penny. There was a photographer's booth, too, and he convinced her to have their photo taken. The cardboard frame he chose had "We're honeymooning at Niagara!" emblazoned at the top in bright blue letters. It wasn't her taste. Not at all. But she claimed to like it, stating simply, "At least you're gorgeous."

And now, after a quick lunch of sandwiches and soup at a nearby cafe, they stood on the observation deck overlooking the falls.

Beyond city parks, Arthur hadn't seen a lot of nature. Though he appreciated the majesty of the place, he wasn't mesmerized by it. Not really. The height intimidated him. There had been periods in his life during which he would have gladly flung himself into the depths. Not to die. Just to make everything stop. Smiling slowly, squeezing the hand of the woman next to him, he was grateful not to feel that now.

He swiveled to study her. She was peering through coin-operated binoculars, a contented look on her face. She offered him a turn but he declined, already having the best view. He ran his thumb over the gold band on her left hand and shut his eyes.

He'd heard a song once. The lyrics had said he would be nobody until somebody loved him, and until he found somebody to love. It was plain the love the person sang about wasn't the one he'd felt for Penny. He'd thought half the equation might have been enough. But he hadn't felt much improvement when he'd fallen for his neighbor. He'd grown to hate it, going so far as to hawk the LP, despite liking the other tracks on it. He'd known he'd always be a nobody - he didn't need a tune to rub it in.

Nothing in this world, not even its natural wonders, would ever compare to the beauty of Y/N understanding him for who he was. Of her choosing to care for him even after seeing him. Of him finally having the ability to demonstrate the love he'd always wished was buried somewhere inside him.

Of her confirming his existence.

Her hand going to her forehead caught his attention. He tightened his grip on her, blinked away his musings. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Just a little vertigo. I'll be fine." Resting on the metal railing, she let out a long exhale. "It's too bad we have to head home tomorrow. This is miles better than my first honeymoon."

A burn came across his cheeks. "Oh?"

"My monthly started the second day. My ex's entrance exam for law school was reschedule, so we cut it short." Their gazes met, her irises glittering. "And you weren't there." Her eyelids fluttered and she cleared her throat. "It helps that I'm with a man who won't tire of my tenacity."

That wasn't a word he knew, but he figured it out from the context. It was strange that anyone would be put off by Y/N's strength of character. Her courage had been what had saved him on the subway. He'd found it odd, at first. He'd met so few people with any hint of it. Hoyt had shown his fortitude by yelling. Randall had talked him into shitty jobs and lied.

Didn't she know her strength supported his own? That her confidence, both in him and herself, made it easier for him to function? Lent him an inkling of what it was like to matter?

He palmed her side, took her hand in his, and leaned forward to whisper, "If you close your eyes, you can pretend we're alone." Flights of fancy were harder for her, he knew. He was pleased when she acquiesced. Kissed her browbone and pushed the bridge of his nose to it. Humming softly, he did his best to imitate one of their favorite songs. He didn't lead her in a dance, but a gentle sway from side to side.

Chest on the verge of bursting, he longed to accurately convey the emotions rushing through his core. Such positive experiences still felt new. He chose to use the phrases he would want bestowed upon himself. "I love you because of your...tenacity." Shrugging, he pressed his lips together. "You were always so nice to me. I think you're the best thing I've ever seen. I don't want you to change, Y/N."

The delicate caress of her fingertips on his neck made him shiver. "Should I nag you to quit smoking when I'm ninety? And you're pushing me around Gotham in my wheelchair?"

"Yes," he laughed, nodding swiftly at the idea of them being together for fifty years. That would be heaven. "And that I need new socks." He smoothed his hand down her back until she was flush against him. "And to take my medication." Palming her hip, he grinned down at her. "And to make love, if you still want me then."

She giggled, fisting the front of his jacket. "Definitely." On her tiptoes, her lips seized his. "I'll never stop wanting you." Groaning, he grabbed her face and kissed her fiercely, knowing he'd lose himself in her as soon as they returned to their room.

~~~~~

Van McCoy - The Hustle

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atamascolily · 4 years ago

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lily liveblogs BBC Atlantis 1x02, “A Girl By Any Other Name” (first half)

I actually watched this months ago, but I got interrupted about halfway through, and then there was a global pandemic and I lost my groove. This got super-long, so I’m gonna post it in two parts.

Thanks to @girlwhowasntthere for her help in making sure I could see it, and also for pointing out that Ariadne draws a stone in the first episode (which I totally missed!) so she's not just resting on her privilege there. Good for her!

In the pilot, we were introduced to Atlantis through the eyes of Jason, a dude from our world who has surprising connections to this city of dragons and despots that nobody *cough ORACLE cough* wants to tell him about. But he's managed to pick up two new friends - gruff-but-not-so-secretly soft Hercules, and Pythagoras (yes, that one) - as well as a love interest, an ominous enemy, and Not Die several times in exciting and dramatic ways.

Based on the teaser, it looks like the show is about to introduce another female character, which I am super-excited about, even though the name "Medusa" brings up All Kinds of Questions.

(cut for length and for lots and lots of botanical confusion)

Forest at night. Woman running through the woods while something ominous chases her. Are there forests in Atlantis? I don't remember seeing any in the surrounding wide shots when Jason first showed up from the beach. Where the hell is this supposed to be?

(Side note because I am a Certified Plant Nerd: Where was this FILMED? I'm gonna guess England because BBC and also the leaves look SUPER TEMPERATE, there are definitely maples in there.)

Woman collapses and the camera focuses on her bracelet, which I am sure will be significant later on. We don't hear anything, she starts to get up and I brace myself for a jump scare.

She's got a necklace, too, and I wonder if that's a Plot MacGuffin or if she just has good taste in jewelry.

Ok, so we see her pursuer sneaking up on her, and she turns, and we see it for the first time from her POV and... it's a cave troll! Or something very much like it. She screams, we go to credits.

None of the credits are backwards this time, and I'm so relieved because THAT WAS ANNOYING.

I like the juxtaposition of the ocean and the ruins, then the view of the city, because this show is called ATLANTIS, which implies it's really about the city as a whole (or the city as a character) rather than Jason, even though Jason is the protagonist and audience surrogate.

There are some mountains in the background that look like they COULD have forests, and I will reserve judgement until I see the sets in the daylight, but those mountains look like they ought to be chapparral or the local equivalent, NOT the kind of forest shown in the opening. I'm just saying. I have strong opinions about flora and I will share them.

I am so curious where Atlantis is supposed to be, but I think it's Crete? I'm going with Crete for now until I get more information.

Jason is tossing rocks into a pool because... he's just that bored? Missing the Internet? He's wearing a leather tunic thing and not shirtless, but I'm sure he'll lose it by the end of the episode.

He hears something and gets up and sneaks up on the person coming in the doorway, but I already know it's either Hercules or Pythagoras, and most likely Herc, so I am not surprised when it's Herc. Herc is late AND drunk and Jason is pissed. Apparently, he and Herc are working as security guards for a rich merchant?? (So that answers my question about how they're making money and paying the rent!!)

Jason runs to the Oracle's temple because he's in dire need of Cryptic Exposition and also a Greater Purpose in Life and where better to acquire a Noble Destiny?

"You should not be here," says the Oracle, which is just a classy way of saying GTFO.

"I need answers," Jason demands.

LOL, not happening, dude. She only deals in Cryptic Sayings, not answers. (Although kinda ironic given that the Delphic Oracle’s motto was “Know Thyself”.)

Jason mentions that the minotaur dude claimed he had a great destiny and you can just see the Oracle rolling her eyes, and be all, And you believed him?? LOL.

But Jason DOES have a destiny, even though it doesn't feel like it so the Oracle has to explain that this, too, is also a part of his destiny, and he should just lean into the suck.

Jason calls bullshit. Oracle explains she's trying to protect him, and "all will become clear", mic drop. Jason walks away bummed, but it's DESTINY for him to be confused right now, and I am sure he will have some sort of Character Development about this by the end of the episode.

Herc fell asleep on the job and wakes up to being licked by a goat, which is probably not the most undignified thing that will happen to him in this episode. Also, somebody stole his keys and robbed the thing he was supposed to be guarding, so I'm sure this will end well.

Cut to Herc trying to explain this to Pythagoras, and Pythagoras is calling bullshit. Pythagoras notes the goat slobber and does the best eyeroll to Jason, I love him.

(Hercules is like the roommate from HELL here. How did he and Pythagoras end up rooming together in the first place?)

There's a knock on the door, but it's not the angry merchant, it's the CALL TO ADVENTURE... an old man who's heard that they killed the Minotaur and wants help locating his daughter. I'm picturing an Atlantis version of Sherlock Holmes starring Pythagoras and Jason and it's awesome.

Herc does not want to touch this with a ten foot pole but Jason is bored and eager to help, and so Herc is going to get dragged into this whether he likes it or not. He tries to reject it on the grounds of money, but it doesn't work. The old man talks about his "duty as a father" to make sure his kid is safe, and that's all he needs to say to get Jason on board, because Daddy Issues.

Jason and a new female character, Corinna, are in the palace, trying to be stealthy and they run into Ariadne, which is... awkward. Jason tries to explain, and Ariadne says it's forbidden for Jason to be here... why? Because he's a man? Because he's a stranger? Because he's on Minos's personal shit list? I need some context here.

Jason quizzes Celandine, a kitchen worker, and learns that Demetria, the missing girl, went to the forest to gather herbs and was never seen again. I don't understand what Corinna's role in all this is , but she persuades Celandine to help Jason out by showing him the place where Demetria went.

Time for another marketplace chase! This time it's the merchant after Herc. Meanwhile, Celandine takes Jason to a forest that's super-arid and looks nothing like the one we saw in the opening. There's rock outcroppings in the background, too. No leaf litter at ALL. All dry ever greens... and then a wide shot showing a hill that looks like chapparral, with a series of mountains beyond THAT that look more temperate and have actual snow capped peaks and those are NOT IN THE CREDITS, NONE OF THIS GEOGRAPHY MAKES ACTUAL SENSE, BUT FINE.

Also, it makes zero sense that Minos would send kitchen servants to the forest WAY outside the city limits... wouldn't it be easier for everyone if they sent special people to do that and the kitchen just picked them up or bought them from poorer folk who did? Where are the roads? Are there any surrounding villages and encampments outside the walls? Shepherds watching their flocks? A road? How do the servants know where to go? What stops them from running away? Etc. Etc. I HAVE QUESTIONS, OKAY?

Cut to them in a different forest - still evergreen trees, but a different kind. Looks like a plantation. Everything is too neat and open and in rows. There's greenery, but no sign of any herbs or really any kind of understory. LOL.

Are we there yet? Jason wants to know.

These woods are rich with herbs, Celandine says, and I can't tell if she's being ironic or not because I DO NOT SEE ANY, THERE IS NOTHING BUT CONIFERS HERE, CONIFERS ARE NOT HERBS (though they can have medicinal uses!). Then she adds "If you know where to look" and pulls a knife to stab an unsuspecting Jason while he's looking at the ground, so I guess that answers that question.

(For the record, Celandine is a toxic plant that is actually native to n. Africa, and the Mediterranean and western Asia, so I kinda saw that coming from the name and also the ominous music and close-ups of her face.)

Jason wises up in time to Not Get Stabbed, and Celandine runs away. Jason chases after her, and I saw some FERNS this time in the chase scene, but again NO LEAVES or much in the way of forest diversity at all. Celandine drinks something that looks like poison and dies while Jason is interrogating her. The troll-creature lurks in the woods.

Pythagoras IDs the poison as hemlock. (LOL, of course he would know!) The only reason he doesn't mention that it killed Socrates is probably because Socrates hasn't been born yet, but I am sure the writers were tempted. Jason fell asleep in World History, and also every Literature class ever, because he has no idea what a thyrsus is, or who Dionysus and the maenads are, so Pythagoras and Herc get to explain for the audience! Apparently, the satyrs kill any men who crash their clubhouse, so that's what the troll thing is, I guess?

So apparently the maenads just kidnap girls to join their cult? This is not how I remember it, but okay, fine, let's have the all-female religion be EVIL for DRAMA. Does this mean the trio's going to cross-dress?

Demetria (?) is trying to dig her way out of cell, only to get called to a Secret Evil Ceremony that involves blood, chanting, and tearing apart a dude with their bare hands. Oh, wait, no, they just toss him to the cave trolls (LITERALLY LURKING IN A HOLE IN THE GROUND), which is easier to show on network TV, I guess.

Jason breaks the news to Demetria's father, and he's... aghast. "I won't allow it!" he cries. The show has not explained why it's a bad thing to be a maenad... aside from the whole killing people bit, but I mean, the king kills people all the time in the name of the gods, what makes this any different? (I mean, Minos's evil, but still! He's in charge!) Why can't Demetria be a maenad and still work in the palace and visit her dad? Isn't that what Celandine did?? I AM SO CONFUSED.

Also: father trying to control his daughter's actions is historically accurate, but sits poorly with me, even though she WAS kidnapped in this case and doesn't want to be there. But what if she wasn't? So far the show hasn't explained to me why EVERY WOMAN wouldn't want to be a maenad. Hanging out in the woods without any men and a lot of intoxicants sounds... way better than almost anything else they could be doing.

The old man collapses in grief and Pythagoras is also a healer, because he makes an infusion of what sounds like "Magnolia remenalis" (??). Which is odd because that genus is located in the Americas and eastern Asia, and even assuming trade routes from China are a Thing here, that wouldn't likely be a part of the typical pharmacopeia, especially if Pythagoras has no money...? And I know there are a bajillion species of magnolia, but I've never heard of this... and would he call it by a Latin binomial anyway? But if it's not that, what is he TALKING about? THIS IS WHY I HATE WATCHING THINGS WITHOUT SUBTITLES.

The old man guilts Jason into going after Demetria, of course, thanks to Daddy Issues. Herc is pissed, especially when he realizes they put the old man in his bed. I love Pythagoras's little smile when he explains that Herc is in charge of their guest, since he's not going on the Mission of Certain Doom!

Herc is so predictable, lol. He brings up the prospect of faking his own death to get out of his debts, and I CANNOT HELP BUT WONDER if this is going to be relevant later on. Like... faking your death so the maenads don't find you, perhaps? And changing your name??

(dear writers, if you don't want me to guess your plot twist, please don't PUT THE WHAM LINE IN THE TEASER, kthanx.)

OH MY GOD THIS IS THE SAME FOREST WHERE THEY FILMED THE FIGHT SCENE IN THE FORCE AWAKENS ISN'T IT? I *RECOGNIZE* THIS PLACE!!

(yup, definitely England. Puzzlewood, almost for certain.)

Of course, the most appropriate way to spend the night is to make a fire, eat soup, and tell ghost stories about maenads first, right? Right. The forests rustle. There's a cave troll stalking them. (Yes, it's supposed to be a satyr, but it looks like a cave troll from LOTR, okay??) He tosses something in the food, which probably means it will only impact Hercules, lol. Hallucinations, maybe??

Why anyone would trust Herc with night watch given his track record, ESPECIALLY these two, I don't know, but PLOT.

Yep, definitely the old mine in Puzzlewood. I'd bet money on it.

Herc follows a woman who looks like an elf from LOTR, lol... but it's a satyr in drag. (Or a hallucination?) IDK why everyone is making a big deal about the maenads when they mostly just stand around and let the male satyrs handle everything.

RUN, HERC, RUN! He's rescued by... Demetria, who also wants to get away. Somehow the satyrs don't see them? *shrug*

Demetria uses Herc's knife and cuts herself and walks out with a bloody mouth, claiming the satyrs killed Herc and she drank his blood... I mean, won't the satyrs call her on it?? But the ruse works and she leaves with them.

Meanwhile, Jason and Pythagoras slept through the entire night without incident, and I just... the satyrs KNOW THERE ARE THREE OF THEM. How come they didn't just slaughter them in their sleep, or at least attack them??

Also, if the satyrs only eat human flesh, how does the ecosystem even WORK? How many of them are there?? How often do they eat? Are they omnivores or obligate carnivores? I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.

#bbc atlantis #lily liveblogs

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years ago

Text

HASO, “Telling Tales.”

This story came as a suggestion from someone on the discord server, so I hope you all enjoy a break from some of the heavier stuff I have been doing lately.

The room was large and filled with noise, mostly the clinking of glasses and the clattering of voices, but on occasion the comm systems echoed with a cool female voice broadcasting announcements across the entirety of the station.

There were at least forty tables inside the room packed in close together, with a long bar at one end where men and women alike stood standing and chatting to each other as they took their drinks. Below that was the low rumble of music, and up on all four walls, large projection screens broadcasted earth sports in delayed time.

At the far end of the room a large viewing window looked out on a wide view of space and the rest of the station. The station itself was huge, stretching out for what could have been miles and miles of tightly packed corridors and branching rooms. The station itself was a mesh of Tesraki and human technology and had been built right here in orbit….. In orbit of the thing staring at them from out in the darkness.

A supermassive black hole ringed by a disk of bright light and a halo that cut across the middle.

Honestly as McCaster stepped into the room, he found the view very disconcerting, and had the sudden worry that…. Inexplicably they would start slowly drifting towards the black hole until they succumbed to a horrendous and terrifying death. Looking around though, it seemed that no one else seemed to think so, and he ushered himself inside and over to the bar hoping that a drink might calm him down.

He sidled up to the bar leading against the metal countertop and motion for the bartender with a hand.

She slid over to where he was. She was dressed casually, though the bearing of her chin told him that she was one of the soldiers working on the station and not just a civilian. He ordered something to drink, and he came back a moment later with a metal tankard. He took it surprised to find that he missed the bright amber liquid inside cool glass covered in a layer of condensation, but he supposed having breakable drinking vessels wasn’t going to do for a ship like this.

Still, the liquid inside his mug looked a sort of muddy brown rather than a pleasant amber.

He took another sip.

Still tasted fine though.

He turned to look around the bar watching as groups of people chatted to each other , drank and ate.

Not all of them worked here, some of them, like the crew of the Omen, had stopped by for supplies and to give their men and women some time to relax and have a little fun before they had to ship out again. McCaster felt this was really his only chance for a while, to meet people off the ship.

He sidled forward eyes scanning over the room and falling on a woman. She was pretty, young about his age with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Couldn’t hurt right?

Unfortunately, just as he was sidling up, some other gus seemed to have the same Idea, and he sat down at her table just as two others did pausing to stare at each other across the table.

McCaster looked at the young woman, “This seat isn’t taken, is it?”

She tilted her head at him in near amusement, “I can’t control where you sit.”

“Then I suppose you don’t mind if we join you.” The other man added receiving a glower from McCaster across the table.

“You work here.” The other man asked her

“Yes.”

“Well me and the boys here are just off from The UNSC Pioneer, finest ship this side of the quadrant.”

McCaster snorted into his glass, not trying to be a dick this time, but he knew THAT was a lie.

The other man glared at him, “What, you disagree.”

“Frankly, yes. Our ship is Objectively the best and that’s not even me bragging.”

“Oh really, and what ship is this.”

McCaster smirked, “The UNSC Omen, but I bet you’ve heard of it.”

There was a chorus of disbelief up from the other men.

“Right, and I bet you are personal friends with Admiral Vir too, right.”

McCaster frowned, “Maybe not personal friends, but I did fly with him once.”

More disbelieving booing.

He crossed his arms, “Don’t believe me huh well what about this.” he reached into his pocket to snag his ID card and then pulled it out, holding it up for the entire table to see, “See Lt McCaster of the UNSC Omen. I fly a Thunderhawk, and sometimes the shuttles.” This time the men could hardly argue, his iD said as much, at least as much about which ship he worked on and what he did.

THere was a light murmuring around the table.

“That’s right, so like ninety precent of my friends are aliens.” He was exaggerating just a little bit, he didn’t really interact with the aliens on the ship all that much accept for the Celzex that fixed the weapons on his jet, and the Drev he liked to play" pool with.

But the blond was looking at him with interest, so its not like he could squander this opportunity

He nodded glancing sidelong at the girl.

“Yeah, like I said, its not like the Admiral and I take lunch together or anything, ‘but’ the ship is small enough that I do run into him on a daily basis, cool guy, a bit weird though. I actually flew with him during the burg war on the Gromm home planet.”

A chorus of disbelief.

Behind him someone chimed in, “Bullshit.”

He turned to see that another table behind them had overheard his claims. There was a pretty redhead sitting there, and so he wasn’t likely to let go of his momentum. He raised his ID badge for all to see, “Not lying.” He raised his mug to his lips and took a long satisfied sip, “Disbelieve me all you wan’t but it’s true.”

“Well don’t just sit there all smug, tell us about it then.” Someone urged, and he was more than happy to oblige.

“Well, we had just been informed of the eminent Burg attack on the Gromm capital city below. I had been being debriefed by the Commander, at the time, and went with him to the bridge as we were debriefed. The Nexus was down and Burg ships were descending in swarms. They were unprotected on the planet below, and it was clearly up to our crew to stop the attack.”

His little crowd was drawing even more eyes, and he found himself with a small crowd of skeptics sitting around him listening to his every word.

He found himself speaking faster with excitement and nerves.

“I was on the bridge and watched him survey the scene, when out of nowhere he hands the captain chair over to one of his lieutenants and orders me out with him. They had orbital defences, but he knew that they had no chance in atmosphere since they didn’ have any fighter jets to push back the invasion.” he puffed out his chest, “Admiral Vir handpicked me to accompany him as his copilot and gunner.”

Another chorus of disbelief.

He shook his head, “Disbelieve me all you want, but it’s true. He knew my talents, and he knew I could keep up with him. And I tell you I have never seen a man or woman that could fly like he does.”

He had them now leaning forward in their chairs.

The best part is all of this was true…. Mostly.

“Of course, I was ready, solid as a rock, I have been training for just such situations for the entirety of my career, and I had no hesitations about what I was going to do. The Admiral was relying on me to be his copilot and damn straight I wasn’t going to let him down.” He grinned in a self satisfactory way, “He gave me charge of all the important stuff while he was flying combat…. And he made it sure in no unclear terms that if he couldn’t handle the flying, I was going to take over for him.”

Ok that was sort of a lie, but only a little one.

“I knew as soon as we were coming in that Admiral vir had an idea brewing. We didn’t go for an angled entry but instead piloted our jet straight down. I thought that the re entry was going to rattle my teeth out of my head. But as I said before I had no doubts about the Admiral. I knew we were going in, and I had inklings of what the admiral was about to do. I never questioned him.”

Also kind of a lie, but it's not like it mattered.

“We were plunging from the sky, fire spitting off our wings, going so fast it makes your insides feel like they are on your outsides. Picture the sky fading to blue behind you, fire is benign thrown off your wings like water from a waterfall, the G force is so powerful that it compresses your chest and makes it hard to breathe,” he was standing now gesturing wildly, “We plummet from the sky, and fire our guns exploding a burg ship just before it takes out one of our other fighters. We pull up right before the ground, must have been nine ten maybe even fifteen Gs.” Okay he was exaggerating, “But I stayed conscious through the whole thing.” That was also kind of a lie.

“We broke into combat with the burg drones, and I shot down at least three of them as the Admiral piloted. He said afterwards that he had never seen someone take the shots I did and make it.” Okay yes he had been passed out for half of this, but again its not like any of them were going to know.

What harm was a little exaggeration.

“I caught one burg as we were coming out of a sharp dive, my hand felt nine times heavier than it should have, but I nailed it in the engine compartment and it exploded into a ball of fire. I was still shooting them down when the Admiral orders me to take control of the ship. Of course I wanted to ask what was going on, but there was no time, I grab the stick and manuver us into a tight barrel roll. A ship explodes behind us. I have control of the jet now complete control and I pull us up into tight pursuit of another. I avoid two missiles and in a moment of genius, I drop all of our flares, which collide with at least four burg ships exploding on impact. What I hadn’t known is that the Admiral’s hand had cramped from all that earlier flying, and if I hadn’t been there he would have died. But at that moment I had no idea and proceeded to clear enemy skies over the capital city. I dived so close to the ground that we might have crashed if I hadn’t pulled us into an inverted upwards pull for the last few seconds”

He continued to speak and as he did the fight grew even more excessive and heroic. He detailed in exquisite and colorful imagery as he single handedly flew them to safety pulling off near impossible maneuvers, crack shots and many more outlandish happenings as he and Admiral Vir valiantly switched back and forth on the controls, equals in every way.

He was just describing their great and climactic fight scene where, he had to take command of the ship once again, when he finally noticed no one was really paying attention to him. He saw their eyes, looking past him.

His voice slowed, as he looked around eyebrows furrowed.

He turned where he stood and cut off mid sentence as his eyes fell on a familiar face in the crowd.

Admiral Vir sat behind him in a chair balancing on two legs, head tilted to the side. His eyepatch covered one of his eyes, but the expression on his face was one of great and abiding amusement.

He leaned forward in his seat, “Don’t let me interrupt you lieutenant. I believe you were just getting the the part where you pull an inverted double helix back loop and I pass out drooling in the front, you just manage to pull us out of that dive, and the two burg ships are so confused by the manuver that they crash into each other and explode catching the attention of all the other stunned burg in the area and allowing the other pilots a final push in clearing the sky?”

McCaster’s mouth opened and then closed and then opened again .

Admiral Vir continued to smile as McCaster stammered and gurgled like an idiot.

“So…. what actually happened.” Someone asked

McCaster plopped shamefacedly down in his seat. Admiral Vir paused tilting his head in the other direction as if thinking. A good portion of the room had gone quiet as they shuffled closer to hear the stroy. He stood after a moment and walked over to where McCaster was sitting placing his hands on the back of the chair.

“Well The first part of the story wasn’t wrong. I had been debriefing McCaster and the other recruits on a few aspects of my ship when we got the call in that the Gromm homeworld was being attacked. I DID give up command to the ship of one of my lieutenants, and I DID as McCaster to fly with me as copilot.” he smiled and easy smile that seemed to light up the room around him.

Everyone within a twenty foot radius shifted forward in an effort to be closer to the man and the magnetic nature of his personality and charming smile.

“McCaster was top of his class in flight school, and I wanted an extra pair of eyes, that is true. We did take a vertical dive into the atmosphere instead of an angled entry. Yes there was fire spitting off the wings, and yes we did pull out of a vertical dive after saving one of the other fighter jets. All of that is pretty accurate.”

HE smiled and McCaster wilted.

“He did embellish a few things.” he rested a hand on McCaster’s shoulders, “But what is a good story without a little bit of embellishment? I’ve certainly never told a story that didn’t sound about ten times better than it actually was.” There was a small laugh from the crowd, “Point being that I would certainly fly with McCaster again, he is a brave, talented, and honorable member of my crew even if he is a colorful storyteller.”

McCaster looked up at the Admiral, still leaning on the back of his chair, and watched as the man made subtle eye contact with the blond girl just a few feet away.

McCaster blushed As Admiral Vir pushed his chair forward across the ground to sit next to her.

She was smiling in some measure of amusement, and Admiral Vir winked at him as he backed away. Either that or he just blinked, it was hard to tell with the eyepatch.

He turned back to look at the woman who was looking at him in some measure of amusement.

He rubbed the back of his head.

“He seems to be one hell of a wing man, in and out of a jet.” She commented

He stammered stupidly glancing over his shoulder to where Admiral Vir had retreated to the bar, ignoring the eyes on him, hungry expressions from both men and women as he ordered a drink and sat down.

Bless the Admiral, number one for being a good wingman for sure, and two…. For not totally calling him out on all his bullshit.

Granted everyone probably guessed, but at least he could keep some of his dignity with plausible deniability.

He was able to work himself back into a state of cool suave composure, enough to learn that the woman’s name was Emily, and that she worked as a data analyst for the big black hole thing. It had a lot to do with math and physics which he totally didn’t understand, but certainly tried to because he knew she liked it.

Across the room, Admiral vir attracted ebbing and flowing waves of people coming to listen to his own stories which were mostly modest and self deprecating depictions of what really happened. Being the first person to fall flat on his face on an alien planet, how he had scared the shit out of the bran the first time he met them, how he ended up in a Rundi prison because he was being a dumbass.

There were a few times where he too tended to embellish the stories, only to preface later by saying, but what actually happened was this.

As soon as the man stepped into the room he seemed to change the whole gravity of it like a wandering star collecting satellites.

He supposed that’s what happened when you were famous.

Thanks to him though, it turned out he got along really well with Emily, and despite knowing he was a complete moron, she seemed to like him too, and he scored her number and a surreptitious invitation to accompany her on a walk to somewhere quieter.

As he was leaving, he turned back to look at the Admiral, making surprise eye contact with him as he did.

He raised his glass minutely to McCaster before turning around and continuing his story.

He grinned as Emily took his hand,.

“So….. tell me really, how many times did you pass out when flying with him.”

He snorted, “Please, I spent more than half of it passed out, like I can’t remember shit. I don’t even remember where the sky or ground was relative to each other for most of the time. The man can fly…. Like all that stuff I was telling you, just replace my name with his and you might have yourself a believable story.”

She laughed at his expense and he laughed too

Thank you Admiral Vir.

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megs-writing · 5 years ago

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Coffee Never Tasted Romantic Before (Remile)

(So a writing prompt I was thinking of was a remile cafe au where Remy just walks into his normal Starbucks and like they got a new barista who is wearing a dress and oh god remys gay panicking and it’s fluff because I’m soFT)

Ships: Romantic Remile, references of platonic Sleepxiety Warnings: Dating, homophobia, caffeine/drug addiction Word count: 1669

Remy wore all black today, his signature jacket, a T-shirt that appeared a bit tighter than his normal ones, and a black skirt that reached a few inches above his knees- not enough to show anything unwanted but enough to make him feel confident matched with low-inch heels that slightly boosted his height and made small ticking sounds as we walked on the sidewalks. Behind his sunglasses, brown eyes were lined with black eyeliner, the only makeup he had enough practice in to actually look good, though it was hard to tell it was on behind shades. Of course this came with a few stares, but they were easily blocked out. Music in his headphones muted the sounds of chatter and general sounds of the city. Virgil had got him addicted to the Danger Days of MCR, which was much more pleasant to listen to than random people’s conversations and footsteps, not that his own weren’t mixed in with it.

This was his daily routine. 7:30 AM, the nearest Starbucks was five minutes away in a normal 15-minute walk. His class didn’t start until 9:30, which was plenty of time to walk to Starbucks and back and possibly spend some time at the shop with the known friends he made going there every day.

Once he entered the shop he set his back down in his normal spot and wrapped his headphones around his phone so he could interact with the normal workers and get his coffee. Only the one at the register wasn’t a normal worker, and the only one working the register on a slow morning, of course. From a distance, the man looked about as tall as him, with brown hair brushed over his forehead and pink glasses framing his eyes. Underneath the green apron was a brown dress reaching past the counter where he couldn’t see, and he could see a collection of Disney themed hot-topic pins pinned to his apron next to his nametag. He was talking to a customer, not noticing Remy was still staring from his normal table, and that’s when it hit him. You know if you want coffee, you have to talk to him, right?

Remy’s face started to turn red. Talking to the workers here wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t that, but talking to him. A completely new worker, at least, one that he’s never seen here before, that dressed like a strangely attractive gay teacher with a Disney obsession. Age wasn’t a problem, they were both college-age and working at separate coffee shops trying to get some cash. He’s seen him around campus before only walking by on the streets, but he blended enough to where conversation wasn’t needed. He never knew his name. If this went well, that could change. He just needed to get his coffee and get out to recover. Without stuttering, hopefully. Maybe he could learn his name.

Mentally scripting the interaction, he finally gathered the courage to step in line behind only one person, much less time to prepare than he had hoped for. He had his order memorized, but should he try and make a conversation? Compliment his dress or the unique pins? He was able to talk to every other worker just fine, but this was different. How exactly? No idea. But this was different.

The customer in front of him moved, leaving barely three feet between Remy and the barista. The worker moved to a few of the machines to make the drink, buying him a few extra seconds of stalling. Up close he could see details, his black stud earrings and glitter in his glasses, and chipped brown nail polish on his hands. The dress stopped at his knees with soft-looking black leggings underneath and sneakers. Remy made an effort not to stare, knowing what it was like when people saw him wearing short skirts in public, but he wasn’t trying to judge. It looked really nice on him.

Remy froze when the barista turned back to him. Up close he finally saw the nametag, Emile, written in cartoonish handwriting with a star dotting the i and a few stars scribbled around it. He moved his eyes from the pins to his face, where he was supposed to be looking. He had been quiet too long and didn’t hear whatever it was Emile said to him when he first turned. “...Are you alright?” Another silence. “I need your order.”

“Right- I… I like your dress. A-And your buttons.” That was not in his mental script. Not the first thing he planned on saying to him, anyway. Emile smiled despite Remy’s stuttering and returned the compliment, and after a deep breath, Remy finally got his order and left, not staying after and hanging out with his friends like he had first planned. But he now had a coffee and a lot to think about before coming in the next day. Maybe he would see him again. If he did, he could have a second chance to make an impression and possibly befriend the new worker, maybe even more if it really went well. The caffeine in his drink was starting to calm him down. Tomorrow he would try again.

_ _ _ _ _

Emile dressed masculine the next day, wearing a soft brown sweater matched with a pink tie hidden underneath his apron. Remy took his place at his normal table, sliding his headphones back into his bag without losing any of the confidence he gained on the walk down. On a weekend, the shop was a bit more crowded, and Emile wasn’t the only one working with the register and making the drinks. Still, he would put effort into talking to him again. He knew the other workers well, so maybe he could get one of them to set them up together? They’ve only talked once, and that one time was him trying to compliment his outfit and order a coffee. Trying to, anyway. Finally he stepped into the line with Emile on the other side.

The first part was routine. The line died down, and Remy ordered his normal drink and gave him a good tip after paying. He slid out of the way for the next customer to walk up as Emile started working on his drink while he waited at the counter preparing his words.

“Coffee for Remy-“

“Emile, I’m really sorry about yesterday.” Picani stopped, turning back to Remy behind the counter. “I believe I didn’t make the good first impression I wanted to yesterday. I guess I’m kind of a regular here and most of the workers know me well. You seem really cool, I thought I would get to know you as well.” Remy was smiling, leaning against the counter next to his drink and talking to Emile with genuine confidence, unscripted. Emile saw his small smile, the faint outline of his eyes behind sunglasses, and almost fell in love at second sight.

“Can you meet me here at 10:30?” Remy’s smile was brighter with his success, as he pushed himself off the counter and went to grab his drink. Emile gestured over to the table with Remy’s bag. “That table there. Coffee on me.”

“You don’t have to pay-”

“It’s fine. Trust me.” Remy turned and grabbed his backpack from the table and made his way out in the smoothest way he thought possible and trying to hide his smile until he made it out of the building.

_ _ _ _ _

On Remy’s claimed table there was two of his favorite drinks, and Emile’s backpack on the seat to officially claim the spot as he worked. His shift ended at 10:30, now less than 10 minutes away. He had everything prepared. Two of Remy’s drinks ready on his table, and Picani’s own freshly made hot chocolate hidden behind one of the machines for later. All of this, if he decided to show up at least. Remy was the one to ask him in the first place, technically, but he never technically agreed when Emile asked him out today? Was this even considered a date? He had no idea if Remy was even straight, but he definitely didn’t look like it. He’s never seen a straight man confidently wear a short skirt in public before. He remembers the pride pins in Remy’s bag. Yeah, definitely not straight. He might have a chance.

Remy had changed his outfit since that morning. He dressed feminine again, wearing his black heeled shoes and eye liner behind his sunglasses. With his leather jacket he wore a red flannel tied around his waist, something that looked feminine and felt like a skirt and matched the fall mood, even if he was unsure it matched the jacket. It just felt right.

When he walked in Picani was finishing the last of his work, and turned to his table to wait for him to finish. All the drinks were ready. Two of the same drinks he ordered each time, and in the other seat Picani’s bag, littered with the same Disney pins he had in his apron. Picani had noticed him walk in, but pretended not to as he was working. It took less than a minute for him to come over with his own drink and sit across from him.

“Are these both mine?”

“Yeah. I don’t usually drink coffee and I knew you wouldn’t be against having two.”

“Oh yeah? Then what do you have?”

“Hot chocolate.” Remy smiled at the innocence. Not that drinking hot chocolate really made him innocent but he was lucky not to be addicted like he was. Picani waited a second before speaking again. “...Is this a date?” Remy perked up. “It- It doesn’t have to be if you’re uncomfortable with it. I don’t think you really like me like that and you just want to be friends-”

“No. I do. I thought it would be the other way around.”

“So… you do? I guess this is a date then.”

“I guess it is.”

Taglist: @winterrs-child @remusthedukeofdeodorant @thecatchat @stop-it-anxiety @znikitrash @awkwardandanxiousfander @nowletmeseeyourkezzhands @prox-xima @hela-daughter-of-loki @arcticfrostdoesthings @yalltookmyurlideas @id-rather-go-live-in-a-trash-can @soupgromlin

#megan's writing #remile #fem!remy #emile #ts sleep

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dylanrauhl · 5 years ago

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Anchor (Peter Parker x Reader)

(WEREWOLF!AU)

Summary ↦ You left three years ago to keep Peter safe but an unexpected death has caused you to come back.

Warnings ↦ Angst, mentions of death, the over used best friends fall in love trope

A/N ↦ This is for @sincerelyfan Halloween writing challenge! I know it seems a little choppy but the word limit had me for a spin, lol. Please don’t be too mean, I haven’t written much yet.

.o0O0o.

“I can’t stay Peter.” You choked out. Bags were packed and slung over your shoulder, your room bare. Everything that you couldn’t carry was either thrown or given away. Being emancipated made it simple to leave, no guardian to tell you no.

“Giz..” He trailed off. The nickname he had for you already sounding foreign in his mouth. The expression on his face was one you knew well, eyes wild, face scrunched, trying to come up with anything to fix the situation at hand. How to get you to stay. His shoulders slumped, defeated. “Please.”

You walked passed him afraid that if you looked at him you wouldn’t leave. The doorknob was cold in your hand as you turned it slowly, pausing to say one last thing. “I love you.” The words were low, barely audible, but you knew he could hear them.

.o0O0o.

Every drop of condensation that ran down your glass kept your attention as you sat at the bar. There wasn’t much to do besides drink in Utah which is why you found yourself here at least five days a week. You heard someone sit down beside you but chose to ignore them.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing at a bar all by herself?” You sighed, looking up to find the man behind the gruff voice. He was attractive, trimmed facial hair, bright smile, dark hair, but he wasn’t him.

In all three years you have lived here you haven’t uttered more than five words total to anyone besides the bartender. You didn’t care to make friends or memories, you were living in your own personal hell and you would rather do it alone. You turned back to your glass without saying a word.

“Oh c’mon. A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone at the bar. There are creepy people out there.” He laid his hand on your bare thigh. Oh the irony.

“Don’t touch me.” You seethed, pushing his hand away but keeping your gaze forward. “And please leave me alone.”

“Ooh feisty, I like feisty.” His hand was back and your patience was running thin.

“I said leave.” A growl rumbled low in your chest as you glanced his way with glowing blue eyes.

His heartbeat quickened as he stumbled back off the stool, unable to keep the fear off his face. You chuckled, rolling your eyes and taking another sip of your martini. Most people in town knew not to approach you. That was easily distinguished within the first month of moving here. You knew the looks they gave you as you walked down the street, but you can't bring yourself to care.

You calmed yourself by looking around the bar at the Halloween decorations, the stuffed gremlin catching your eye.

.o0O0o.

“Wow, I love that movie.” An eleven year old Peter sat on the couch, stealing the bowl of popcorn from your lap. You had just got done watching his favorite childhood movie, The Gremlins.

“Hey! That’s mine!” You reached across the couch slapping his arm before trying to grab the bowl but he lifted it away from you.

“Calm down you little gremlin. I just wanted a couple pieces.” Your eyes narrowed at him at the name and he laughed. “Actually, you and Gizmo have a lot in common, maybe I’ll start calling you that.” He cheesed at you, letting you grasp the bowl from his hand.

.o0O0o.

The phone vibrated in your pocket pulling you back from the memory and causing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion. No one has called you in years and then it was only a telemarketer. You don't know why you kept the damn thing, the first year was filled with dodging his constant calls but even those drifted off into silence.

You took the device out of your pocket, and checked the caller ID, breath catching in your throat. With shaking hands your thumb slid across the screen, bringing the phone up to your ear.

“Ned?” You whispered, not intending for your voice to sound so weak.

“May’s dead.” His voice had no emotion to it, saying the words like he was telling the weather. You squeezed the phone, breaths coming out quicker as you felt your eyes flicker between colors. Squeezing your eyes shut and taking a second to breath in gradually you got yourself under control like you had taught yourself how to do before the phone ended up broken. Ned spoke again before you had the chance to. “You probably don’t care but I thought I’d try anyway. He’s not doing well, you know? Was never able to fully get over the last dropped bomb before another one hit.”

You knew he was talking about when you left. He was very vocal in the first couple months after your disappearance, leaving angry voicemails about how you were a piece of shit for leaving. You saw the news, saw what Spider-Man was doing, how broken he was because of you and Ned’s reminders of that just pushed the knife deeper.

“Funeral is the day after tomorrow.” He hung up.

.o0O0o.

“I can’t believe we graduate tomorrow, Giz. We’re adults now.” Peter smiled down at you as your legs were dangling off the rooftop. He had dragged you out of bed to join him on his nightly watch of the city, claiming this was the last night you guys could take chances and blame it on being young. He had his suit on with his mask laying on the roof somewhere behind you.

“I don’t know about adults, don’t get ahead of yourself there Spidey.” You laughed, taking in the calmness of it all. You both had made it. Years of watching him fight against the bad guys, finals, the blip; you were finally graduating tomorrow.

“I can’t wait for college. Have I told you how excited and proud I am that my best friend is going to NYU?” He smiled down at you, beautiful brown eyes glistening with the street lights.

“You’re going to Columbia, Pete, that’s a little bit more impressive than NYU. I should be the one telling you how proud I am.” You countered, leaning into his side as his arm came around your shoulders.

“Don’t downplay your accomplishments Gizmo.” His thumb was rubbing your shoulder, never allowing you to think anything but highly of yourself. “We’re only going to be thirty minutes away from each other. I’m going to come visit you so much you’re going to get sick of me.” He teased.

“Impossible.” You said, no joke in your tone, you couldn’t imagine a life without him in it. “You’ll probably get sick of me.”

His breath faltered, moving over slightly to fully look at you, the comfort of his arm leaving. You worried he caught the undertone of your statement, the feelings for him you were happy to leave buried under years of acceptance that he’d never feel the same way back.

“Y/N.” His voice came out uneven, worrying you more at the use of your real name instead of the more common nickname he had given you. “I could never get sick of you, I love you.”

His hands were cupping your face and his lips were on yours before you had the chance to register what he said. It took you a couple seconds to kiss back, the shock of getting something you imagined many times before taking effect. The kiss was gentle like he was testing the waters, lips brushing over yours. It was over faster than you wanted, his face pulled back enough to look at your eyes but his hands stayed cupping your face.

“Is this okay?” He asked, uncertainty in his eyes.

“God, yes.” You whimpered.

He grinned, lips finding yours again. There was no hesitation this time, every emotion both of you had kept in for years were pouring into the kiss. His one hand moved to the back of your neck as the other laid on your hip pulling you impossibly closer. A moan left you as he slid his tongue into your mouth to trace every crevice.

A blood curdling scream had both of you jumping back, chests heaving from the previous lack of oxygen. Before you had the chance to blink Peter was up and pulling down his mask shooting a web to the next building.

“Stay here.” It was a command but he should have known better.

.o0O0o.

You stepped out of the cab at the cemetery, backpack with your things slung on your shoulder and black dress hanging down to mid thigh. There was no need to get a hotel room, you were coming in for the funeral and leaving tonight.

The first person to notice you was Ned, he caught your eyes with a shocked expression as he was turned in his chair. Honestly, you could barely believe you ended up flying in for it. Peter turned to Ned in confusion, straining his neck to follow his gaze. The second you saw his brown doe eyes rimmed red from crying your feet froze and your breath got caught in your throat. Your eye flickered their bright blue color for half a second but you knew he noticed by the gasp that rang through your hypersensitive ears.

Getting yourself under control you continued up the hill, stopping to stand beside him. “Is it okay if I sit here?” You mentally slapped yourself at the first words to Peter in three years was a question about seating.

“Uhm, yea. Yea.” He cleared his throat, picking up the obituary that was laying down in the seat. Ned scoffed, obviously annoyed. Peter kept his face poised, barely any emotion showing but you could hear the rise in his heartbeat as soon as he saw you.

The ceremony was beautiful, some people talking about how May was and telling memories. Peter never did get up to talk in front of everyone, but you knew it would have been too hard for him. It was hard for you, May was the mom you never had growing up.

As soon as everyone got done watching the casket lower and Peter shoveled in the first pile of dirt they started dispersing.

“Can we talk?” You found yourself asking as the crowd dwindled out.

“Sure. But, not here. Let’s go back to my apartment.” He looked around like a lost puppy, hands in his pockets. “I’m assuming you took a cab here?” You nodded. “You can ride back with me and Ned.”

.o0O0o.

Even you could tell the scream wasn’t far away. You ran to the edge of the building right as Peter disappeared down an alley. You hurriedly climbed down the fire escape ladder and ran to where you last saw him, your feet stumbling over one another as you caught sight of Peter being held up against a wall by his neck.

“Giz,” A choked out sound of your nickname brought you back from the shock. A hairy man let his grasp of Peter up as he fell to the ground in a heap, gasping for air. The assaulter turned to you and you froze at the fangs and claws you saw, his eyes an inhuman blue. He lunged toward you before Peter had the chance to regain his step, a sharp pain on your shoulder causing you to scream in pain and fall to your knees.

Peter was by your side in seconds, the man long gone. You clutched your shoulder, fingers being coated in your own blood from a bite mark. “No, no, no. Stay with me Giz, you’re going to be okay.” Before he was able to pick you up, you arched your back in agony and roared, eyes glowing a bright yellow and fangs glistening in the moon’s light.

.o0O0o.

The car ride to their place was awkward and that’s saying it lightly. It was filled with constant glares from Ned in the rear-view mirror and Peter clearing his throat like he was going to say something but nothing came out.

He pulled into a parking lot out front of a nice looking apartment building in Manhattan.

“You both live here?” You only got a nod in return as they both got out of the car.The apartment was small, but nice. A bed laid where the living room should be and another in the room adjacent. It was cleaner than you would have thought with two boys living their.

“What are you doing here Y/N?” The words left Peter in a rush, like he’s been holding them back since he saw you.

“Ned called me and told me about May and,” Peter deadpanned at Ned who shrugged unbothered. “And, well, I don’t know really. I just - I needed to see you.” You scratched your cheek sheepishly at your explanation.

“What? You didn’t feel like you needed to see me for three years but as soon as someone dies of course you’re here.” He scoffed, loosening his tie. “Unbelievable Y/N. You left me. I told you I loved you and then you left me.” He was pulling at his curls, the style that it held before loosening. Ned left to go into the other room, giving the two of you privacy.

“I could have killed you, Pete! I needed to leave so you would be safe.”

He scoffed, “I don’t need someone to protect me. I’m Spider-man, remember?”

“I couldn't risk it. I’ve done,” You faltered on your words, choosing them wisely, “things.” Your blue eyes flashing slightly. “And I love you too much.” You mumbled.

“IF YOU LOVED ME YOU WOULDN’T HAVE LEFT ME.” The words shook the apartment with anger.

.o0O0o.

It had only been a week of being a werewolf and the full moon was here. The research you and Peter did wasn’t much but everyone knew werewolves lost control on the night of a full moon. You could already feel it, your blood boiling with anger you didn’t even realize you had.

Peter was currently chaining you up in an abandoned wine cellar he found on the outskirts of the city. You were breathing heavy, trying to keep yourself calm but you couldn’t help the claws and fangs that grew.

“C’mon Giz, do what that one book said online. You have to find yourself an anchor, something to keep the anger at bay, something that keeps you grounded.” He tightened the last chain around your neck, both your arms and legs were immobile as well.

“I can’t.” It came out as a growl, despite your efforts. He didn’t say anything, sitting back on the wall across from you. “You have to leave, I could hurt you.”

He scoffed, “Spider-man.” He pointed to himself, waiving off your warning. He went on to gloat about his abilities, saying how no one, not even a werewolf could hurt him.

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll cut your tongue off.” You seethed causing him to close his mouth in a tight line.

The moon was at its peak and you struggled to get out of the restraints. Every ounce of control you thought you had was gone. Your brain was clouded with anger, wanting nothing more than to run and tear something apart. The chain on your left arm broke first, making it unbelievable easy to get off the rest

Peter stood wearily, watching you rip off each chain. “Giz-Gizmo,” He hands lifted in front of him, trembling. “You can’t do this. You need to find an anchor and hold on to that.”

He kept talking but you didn’t bother to listen as you snapped the last chain, slamming him against the wall, clawed hand deep in his abdomen. You snapped out of it as you heard his pained moan, retracting your claws and running.

You ran for hours, never letting yourself slow down. The image of Peter’s glassed over eyes the only thing playing in your mind.

.o0O0o.

He broke down, a sob escaping his trembling lips as he fell to his knees.

You sunk down to the ground next to him, cradling him in your arms. The tears you tried so hard to keep in escaped. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I had to do this to you, but Peter I couldn’t risk hurting you again. You mean everything to me.”

“It’s all my fault.” He clutched onto your dress, face pressed against your chest. You felt the tears soaking through, but you didn’t care. “If I would have stopped that guy Uncle Ben would still be here. I could have moved the gauntlet away from Thanos faster so Tony didn’t have to sacrifice himself. If I just answered the phone when May called then she wouldn’t have been murdered. I’m Spider-man for god’s sake but I can’t save anyone. If I would of just let you sleep that night than none of this would be happening.” Another sob left his throat as you ran your fingers through his hair to try and calm him.

“Is that what you think? That Ben, Tony, May are your fault?” You can't wrap your head around what he was saying. “That I’m your fault?” You cupped his face, pulling him away from so you could see his face.

“You listen to me Peter, none of this is your fault. I don’t blame you for that night. And I can guarantee if you could ask May, Tony and Ben they would say the same thing. They were all so proud of you and loved you so much. So do I.” His tears slowed as he leaned into the warmth of your embrace. “Besides, I would get bitten a hundred times just to be able to kiss you like I did that night.”

“Giz, I kissed you that night. You’re too much of a coward to take that chance.” He smiled and you mirrored it.

It had been a couple hours since the breakdown on the floor. You were sitting out on the small balcony curled into Peter’s chest watching the sun set. After you both had calm down it was obvious you couldn’t leave again, you both needed each other way too much. You knew there was a lot that had to be talked through, all the pain that was caused through the years, before it could be like before you were bitten.

“So what got you to finally learn how to control it? What’s your anchor?” He mumbled into your hair, resting his chin on the top of your head. You smiled.

“You.”

#sincerelyfans halloween writing challenge #sfhwc #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker fan fic #fanfiction #peter parker fan fiction #reader x peter parker #spider-man #spider-man x reader #spider-man fanfiction #halloween #werewolf #teen wolf #imagine #peter parker one shot #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader fluff #writing challenge

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smitten-miqitten · 5 years ago

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Finally, I finish this series of chapters. I hope you all enjoyed learning about Era’s past :3

The Past, pt.3

Ao3 Link

……… ...id.”

He was being shaken, the shadows of his memory being knocked loose like so many cobwebs.

“Cid!”

Cid awoke to Era leaning over him, face full of panic. He felt rather out of breath, his body covered in cold sweat. The mess of sheets told him he must have been flailing.

“Was it… were you dreaming of Carteneau again?” One of her hands was running up and down his back reassuringly, her other making its way to his head, pulling him in close.

“Not Carteneau, no. Something else, though very nearly as unpleasant”, he said once his breath returned to him, tucking his head against her chest. “I’ll be glad to forget it.”

“Your headaches, they’ve subsided?” Cid asked, pondering the content of his dreams. To tell her, or to let sleeping dogs lie? Which would make her happier?

He felt Era nod. “I feel worlds better now, though I’m not sure what finally sent them away.”

“It’s the strangest thing”, she muttered into his hair, “I don’t think I dreamt at all, or if I did it’s since been forgotten, but… I awoke with the feeling that we had been speaking.” Her fingers twirled one of his locks idly. Sigh “Maybe you were talking in your sleep.”

“Maybe. Say, Era… do you think when you were small, you had one of those stubby little tails we see on the miqo'te kids about town?”

“I suppose, I wouldn't think it’d be very long that young. But whatever brought that on?” She laughed, index finger drawing lazy circles on his shoulder blade.

“Nothing”, Cid lied, “Just a stray thought. Speaking of stray thoughts, though, I have a little theory I’d like to run by you.” This way would be better, give her the choice.

“Hmm?”

“I was thinking it’s rather peculiar how you arrived in the Shroud, what with a shipwreck and all that. Not too many people are daft or desperate enough to try and sail to a place with few to no docks. I think… and if this isn’t to your liking I’ll drop it, but...I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to check with Jessie and see if there weren’t any refugees bound for the Black Shroud at around that time.”

Cid paused, adjusting to look her in the face, seeing the realization of what he was implying dawn on her. Light began to filter in through the window, leaving odd patterns on her skin.

“We’re just about the only group able or willing to help Garlean defectors, and Gridania would be the go-to place to hide a Keeper of the Moon. The Ironworks may have been stretched a bit thin in my absence, but I know Jessie wouldn’t have quit trying. Though I imagine we wouldn’t have had the resources to search for people who didn’t manage to meet at the rendezvous point.”

“So you think I might’ve been on a ship fleeing the Empire?”

“Possibly. I think it’s worth a look, at the least.”

Era was quiet for a time, mulling over his argument.

“Would it bother you, if I had?”

“Bother me?”

“Yeah, I just...no, nevermind.”

“No, not ‘nevermind’. What are you asking?”

“Nothing. Really.”

“Era, you could be from the moon and I wouldn't give a damn, and you know that. What’re you asking?”

“....If I were from a province, I don’t want you to feel badly about it, is all. I see the way you look at the people who come by the workshop hoping for a new start…it’s as if you think you took their homes from them yourself. I don’t want that, those sad eyes.”

"I don't…!"

"You do."

….."You're right. I do. But it's not like I'm not responsible for some of that"

"It's been fifteen years!"

"It has, and many of the weapons used today were developed from schematics my father or I drew up! I'm not blameless. But I get your point." Cid adjusted so that he was now holding her, flipping onto his back to rest Era on his chest. "It's hardly my business bearing it all, either."

Cid considered for a while, hands wandering her back and shoulders absently, one sliding down her arm to take her hand in his, examining the length of her fingers in comparison to his own. “You really aren’t bothered by the possibility? If you are from a province, I’d have been…”

“You’d have been Cid”, Era cut in, her tone heavy with finality. “The man I love, the person who’s always at my side when I need him. I’ve no use for any past that says otherwise.”

Cid didn’t quite know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all, nodding softly and resting his chin on the crown of her head. The sun had risen higher in the sky whilst they spoke, the patterns of light moving from Era’s skin to rest on the far wall.

Perhaps he was wrong, and Jessie and co hadn’t tried to smuggle Era’s family out like he thought. They weren’t responsible for every refugee’s relocation. Maybe they would find nothing. Maybe. A part of him hoped.

But Cid also knew he owed it to her to try. Without Era, Cid wouldn't be Cid. He’d still be Marques, trying to fill the shoes Alphinaud claimed belonged to him. Even at the risk that she would come to hate him for it, he ought to make the effort. She wouldn't hate him, would she? He hugged her, squeezing tighter than probably should have, though she offered no complaint.

………

Indeed, Jessie had received word from contacts within the empire that several people from a predominantly Keeper of the Moon inhabited province in the eastern foothills required immediate assistance and relocation. A fairly well-to-do family (for a province, anyway) had run afoul of their Viceroy benefactor by unwittingly housing a child of a resistance movement for the night, mistakenly believing the boy to be lost rather than a fugitive on the run.

The viceroy had little tolerance for pets that bit the hand that fed them, and ordered the parents put in chains and their daughter, a young woman, immediately enlisted in the military. He had kept her from it in hopes her clever mind would make a name for his province and leadership, but the endeavor had borne little fruit, and those brains in a rebel mind were naught but a threat.

They were spared their fate by the very same resistance movement that uprooted their lives, who had come to rescue the boy. The family and the child could no longer find safety in any Garlean land, and were strongly advised to flee. The resistance contacted smugglers, who in turn contacted the Ironworks, and the group set sail in the hold of a merchant ship bound for the Black Shroud.

Jessie confirmed they never received word from the escapees, and that their arrival date would have roughly matched the day Era washed ashore. The wood wailers had found no other survivors, Era knew. If she had been on that ship, she alone lived.

It was a long shot, Jessie said, as to do so was quite dangerous, but the smugglers occasionally kept dossiers of their charges to serve as sort of tombstone for those that didn’t make it to safety. They could request "Era's" and be sure.

Era merely shook her head at Jessie’s offer, hugging her and thanking her for the help. She'd heard enough. If she was indeed this family’s daughter, she wasn’t sure she’d like the person she was. A Viceroy’s pet? She’d take Warrior of Light over that any day.

She didn’t notice that Cid had been holding his breath, nor that he seemed to breathe a bit easier upon her decision.

As the days passed, however, his silence away at him. He found it increasingly difficult to look her in the eye, constantly on the verge of blurting out what he knew, and his guilt. Finally, one evening as they readied for bed, Cid sat her down, looking grave.

He had to tell her.

“Era”, he said, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you… I..”

“Saw something, didn’t you? When I had my headaches. They only went away after you had that nightmare.” She looked at him knowingly; his face an open book. “Really, what was so terrible you couldn’t tell me?”

With a deep breath, he began to regale her of his echo adventures, of his dream and his memory, but Era raised a hand to stop him. “I already know”, she said, smiling kindly. “It took a day or two for the dream to come back to me, but I remember it all now, both the bit that makes no sense and the bit I'm sure was your memory. I don't have my half of that memory, for the record. It's as blank as it ever was in my mind."

She laughed softly at his befuddled look, a somber thing, no true mirth behind the act, and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. "You seemed so stressed, I wanted to wait till you felt comfortable talking about it before I said anything.” She stroked his cheek, aiming to comfort him. “I’m so sorry you had to live through that again.”

"Era, I failed you, left you to their mercy when helping was no longer convenient for me. I wasn't by your side when you needed me."

"Of course you weren't! Are you daft? Your father had just passed, why in the world would some girl you just met be a priority?"

Cid looked dumbfounded, like he'd been struck overhead with his own hammer.

"I'm really sorry about his passing. I know I always say, but…"

"I could have found you after. Should have." He insisted.

"You needed to be in Eorzea." Era countered matter-of-factly. She wasn't particularly interested in being the cause of his guilt. He had enough of that about too many things already.

"You could have come with me." The somber note in his voice was lifting; now he was just being stubborn.

Era wasn't having it.

"Why would I have run off to a whole other continent with a boy I just met? Especially with a family relying on me? Enough of this. You're confusing then with now, and being bullheaded about it besides. I promise, it worked out in the best way it could."

Cid huffed, having lost the not-argument. Really, she was far too measured, too calm, about things at times. The trouble with that being, despite desperately dreading it, he had been fully prepared for her anger. Prepared for her forgiveness, even. He hadn't been at all prepared for her to just not give a damn. There was no use in being petulant about it, however, not when she was like this. He knew if he kept up she'd just go sleep on the couch, and he hated that.

So he conceded, nodding his head with an "Alright, alright" and changing the subject. "Your little stubby tail was adorable."

"Wh...what?" Era stammered, taken aback by the abrupt shift. "You think so?" She blushed. "Oh I don't know, I much prefer it as it is now."

"Well of course I prefer it now, it's lovely, but you have to admit it was quite cute, all short and fuzzy, waggling whenever you spoke." He paused for a moment, struck by a sudden realization. "...Do you think ours will have cute little tails?"

"Ours....?...Oh! Oh..." Her face was truly a remarkable shade now, burning as it was.

Cid's was no better off, a bright pink dusting his cheeks. "If...if you want them that is. In the future. I don't mean to… you know… considering everything..."

"I hope so!" She announced in a shaky voice, her face flushed deeper still, aforementioned tail quite fluffed. "I hope they have the cutest tails, and your nose, and...", But she could say no more, for he had occupied her mouth with a ferocity. Whatever else she had intended became little more than a squeak as she was swept up into his arms.

He released her slowly, begrudgingly, regaining warmth he had lacked for days with each kiss. His gaze smoldered, woes not forgotten but set aside for now, voice heavy not with guilt, but with an almost unbecoming primal desire. It felt as if lead weights had been lifted from his shoulders. Despite it all, the insanity of it, the cruelty of it, she was happy. Actually happy. With him, and their lives...even wanted his children. Seven bloody hells she wanted his children.

"Then I'd say you're right, everything really did work out in the best way that it could."

#ffxiv #ff14 #cid garlond #era hess #my self indulgent minifics #cid/wol #cid x wol #cidera

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lotustories · 5 years ago

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Despicable

Pairing: Kim taehyung x reader x Kim Seokjin

Type: angst, smut

Warning: mentions of sexual activity, alcohol use and vulgar language

Chapter navigation

Chapter 7

“Do you have to go?” Namjoon held onto you like a pillow. You’ve been with him a few weeks, mostly sex, but he started behaving differently. You saw a side to him you weren’t even sure existed until recently. He was kind, funny, and very caring towards you. “Yes, I have to get ready for tonight.” The celebration of jungkook’s city. Each city gets one, it is like a birthday for the founding day the cities were created. Namjoon pouted at your words, holding you tightly as you tried to pull away. “Fine, wear something I can rip off.” He teased, his eyes watching you dress. “You know, this was supposed to be a one time thing.” You teased, slipping your shirt over your head as he snorts. “I’m sorry the sex is good?” He mocked, “besides, baby.” He pulled you back down to the bed. Your body on top of his as he moved the fallen hair away from your face. “I like your company.” His voice a low whisper. “You used to hate me.” You retorted, his smile fading. “I did not, i just didn’t like your defiant tendencies.” His lips brushed your forehead, planting the smallest kiss as he let you go. In the time you got to know namjoon, you began to understand him. He was truly fragile, afraid to trust and scared to love. He was still hesitant when near you, but you could tell he was trying. Trying to be kinder, trying to be sweet, and trying to treat you respectfully.

Taehyung was not having it though. Jealousy began to overtake him. The thought of losing you to none other than namjoon, the man you despised when you first met. The man whose sister left you homeless and heartbroken. Taehyung liked you, and confessing his feelings for you was something he never got to do. He had been in awe of you ever since your first meeting. The feelings he thought he had only became stronger when you first slept together. The memory always running through his mind. The way he had you tied up and moaning for him. The way he kissed your lips and claimed you as his. Only to be left for a man he hated, to feel betrayed. He understands why, he betrayed you first. Slept with someone else and having to treat you like nothing, but he had no choice. Angel saw everyone as a threat and if she knew you were taehyung’s. If she knew Taehyung wanted to be with you romantically rather than just have you as a plaything, she wouldve killed you. But you never let him explain. He had to watch you at every meeting sit with namjoon, kiss him, be his. Taehyung never thought of killing, never wanted to, but seeing him take the one thing he truly wanted and cared for. He had never wanted to take a life so bad.

“What the fuck was that?” Nyla stared at her brother, the table all staring at Namjoon in shock. Why? He genuinely laughed. He laughed because of you. You had pouted and for some reason, he thought it was funny. The smallest giggle falling from his lips as he watched you. His eyes lighting up with something other than hate. He was becoming weak. His sister knew it. Hoseok knew it. Jimin knew it. “Nothing, read your notes.” Namjoon cleared his throat, ignoring the eyes on him. “Your plaything is making you soft brother, get rid of her.” Nyla spoke to Namjoon in his office, you sat at the top of the staircase listening to it. “She is not making me soft, she makes me happy.” He defended, the annoyance clear in his tone. “The others notice it. Hell, Taehyung looks like he wants to kill you half the time.” She snarls, “if you do not get rid of her, I will do it.” A warning. “You will not touch her.” Namjoon raised his voice. “It won’t last, brother. She doesn’t love you.” She groaned at him. “You don’t know that, this is my life. Not yours.” His tone was softer now. As if a part of him believed her. “Just, think about our conversation. Do you really think she would be with you if taehyung hadn’t hurt her.” She sighed loudly, Namjoon quiet for a moment. “It doesn’t matter, she is with me.” Nyla storming out of his home like a spoiled teen. Later that night, namjoon was hesitant in touching you. He looked worried and you knew it was about you. “Baby,” he sat on the edge of the bed, not looking to you but instead the floor. “Yeah?” You peeked at him. His head hung low. “What is taehyung to you?” The question catching you off guard, and confused. “What do you mean?” Namjoon turned as you answered. “I mean do you have feelings for him.” The look of fear clear in his eyes. “Namjoon what is this about.” You ignored, but not intentionally. “I just want to know, if I should worry about him.” He pulled you to him. “He doesn’t care for me, you have nothing to worry about.” But that wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear, Namjoon removed his glasses and gave you a soft smile. “Let’s sleep, id like to take you out tomorrow.” He pulled you onto the bed, bringing you into his chest to cuddle. “Mmm, where are we going?” You giggled at him, his dimples showing intensely as he smiled at your tone. “A surprise,” Namjoon pressed his lips to your temple and the night ended with you in his arms.

“A vineyard.” You smiled as you pulled up to the gates. “Yes,” Namjoon wasn’t into affection, there was times when you would touch him and he’d be hesitant to touch back, or you’d attempt to hold his hand and he would flinch away. But today was different, he held your hand up and down the Vinyard as you both collected grapes. “Think of today as our anniversary.” You stopped walking at his comment. Namjoon turned to you, slight worry on his face but you just glared back at him. The slightest smile on his face. “I’ve never done this before,” he cleared his throat. “I never let people in, nor have I ever had a” he paused for a second. “A girlfriend.” You smile grew wider. “I’m your girlfriend?” You teased, Namjoon looked away and pulled his lip in between his teeth. He wanted to say more but was unsure of what. “I care for you more than I ever intended to. It was just sex at first, but you make me feel something I never thought I was capable of feeling.” You watched him in awe. He was confessing his feelings and you began to realize how unsure you were of yours. “I felt it the first night we slept together.” He cupped your face, “I swear I will never hurt you, I give you my word.” He gave a half smile. You couldn’t help but smile at his words. The way he looked at you, it was more than a relationship proposal. He was in love with you. Something he had never dealt with before, but it’s something you can recognize. It was the same look Seokjin use to hold. “Anniversary it is.” Namjoon smiling and pulling you up to him to kiss you.

Unfortunately, the news of you two dating didn’t go well with the others. It was announced months later randomly through the newspapers. Nyla grew furious, irritated that her brother didn’t listen to her warning. “Idiot, idiot, idiot.” She snarled to herself. Seokjin watching her pace back and forth throughout the house. Seokjin was upset, but he understood there was nothing he could do. He had lost you the day he agreed to namjoons deal. “I will kill her.” Seokjin rolled his eyes, watching his wife have a temper tantrum over the news. “Your brother is happy, why are you acting this way,” Seokjin finally spoke, Nyla turned to him. Glaring at the man lying on the bed. “ as of right now she is his weakness. She will get my brother killed.” Nyla seemed to have snapped back into a calm state. She straightened her back and smiled. “I will deal with this.” She sighed, Seokjin eyeing her sudden mood switch. Taehyung on the other hand, didn’t handle the news well at all. He sat there with jimin and jungkook during breakfast reading the paper, his eyes falling on the headline only to grip the paper in his hands. For a moment he was calm, staring straight ahead until he threw his tea glass against the wall. jimin jumping at the sudden outburst. “What’s wrong?” Jungkook shocked at the usually calm man. Jimin has grabbed the newspaper and skimmed through trying to find the thing that triggered him. Taehyung walked off, heading to the guest room where you used to sleep. He left everything the same, the room still smelling of you and clothes over the bed. Jimin sighed at the headline and explained to jungkook his outburst was because of you. “He really liked her huh?” Jungkook listened to Taehyung throwing things around upstairs. The glass breaking and loud bangs from him hitting the walls. “I’ve never seen him like this,” jimin looked up towards to room. Taehyung still breaking things and it went on for hours. The next day, Namjoon had a party. A celebration of the news and it was mandatory everyone attended. “Ah, baby.” Namjoon leaned down to your ear half way through the party. “Investors are here, I will be back.” He kissed your cheek. Taehyung swallowing the liquor shot. His face pulling into a scowl as he watched Namjoon kiss you. A few moments had passed and you wandered the party, avoiding conversations with half of namjoons investors and workers you made your way upstrairs. A sudden pull bringing you into the guest bathroom. “Taehyung?” Your voice hitching at the sudden pull. “Why are you with him.” He ran his hand over his face to move his hair away, his bloodied knuckles catching your attention. “What happened to your hand?” You grabbed it, his face pouting at your touch. “You’re supposed to be with me.” You realized he was drunk and you tried to move but he didn’t budge. “Taehyung you’re drunk, go home.” He shook his head, lifting your body onto the sink. His hands gripping your thighs aggressively as he closed the space. “I’m not drunk, I am angry.” His lips connecting with your neck, your attempts to push him away were no match for his strength. “Taehyung, please.” You groaned, but you didn’t want him to stop. It was like your body gave in to his touch. His already hard cock pressed against your panties. Your dress up by your waist as he continued to kiss your neck and chest. “You didn’t let me explain,” He unzipped his pants, the tip of his dick running up and down your panties. “Explain what?” You grunted, now annoyed at the memory. “I didn’t fuck her, and I didn’t mess with her to hurt you.” He slid your panties to the side, your mind focused on his words and not his actions. “I saw you with her.” You furrowed at his lie making him frown. “I would never hurt you that way intentionally.” He pushed himself into you, your arms wrapping around his neck to steady yourself as he thrusted in and out of you aggressively. “I did it to protect you, she would��ve killed you.” He fucked you so angrily, letting all the emotions of the past month out in every thrust. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

Taehyung kept fucking you, every thrust he explained why he was with angel and why he did what he did. “You belong with me.” You muffled your moan as you burried your face into his neck. “You don’t want me.” You snarled and he stopped thrusting. “I don’t want anyone but you.” Taehyung brought his thumb to your cheek, caressing it as he began thrusting again, but this time is was slower yet rough. Taehyung released himself inside you, his moan quieting down as he kissed you. Your chests heaving as you both tried to catch your breaths. You liked namjoon, but your feelings for taehyung never left. A moment after you were done, panic ran through you. You cheated on namjoon, the consequences of this would’ve been catastrophic. Taehyung would’ve probably been killed, namjoon embarrassed at the fact his girlfriend slept with his competitor. “What did I do.” You pushed him away from you. “Princess, just come home with me.” He held you from behind, but you pushed him away. “No, no.” You shook your head. “I fucked up.” Your eyes now teary. “I’m no better than Seokjin, or you.” Taehyung shook his head and cupped your face as he wiped away the tears that had fell. “Stop it, you’re meant to be with me, not him. This isn’t like that.” He tried to make you feel better but it only made you feel worse. “Taehyung He is in love with me, this will hurt him.” You pushed Taehyung out the bathroom, locking yourself in as you undressed yourself to shower. You sat there, on the bottom of the tub as the water hit you, crying at the fact that you cheated. As much as you cared for taehyung, you were with Namjoon and he didn’t deserve it. He had done nothing but care for you since being with you.

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angrylizardjacket · 6 years ago

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And All The Queen’s Men {Roger Taylor}

A/N: 5486 words. Okay wow. Please bare with me, this is a long one and also a bit of a different one. Written in the style of a Rolling Stone article. Finished it at 7am. Prompt & support from the lovely @ginghampearlsnsweettea

[And All The Queen’s Men ‘verse masterpost]

Warning: Minor character death, in both senses, it’s a baby, it’s not graphic it’s just mentioned, but just thought I should let you know.

And All The Queen’s Men: how the lines blurred between Queen and and the Queen of Jazz Rock.

An article almost two years in the making, after their last tour, which I was invited along to in order to write the initial article, the rock sensation Queen split, a decision, I am lead to be believe, was instigated by front man Freddie Mercury, and though Giselle Jones had continued to make music, even before her very public, on-stage breakdown, her lawyers had me keep the article to myself. Now, with the band’s reunion, and Live Aid having been a massive success with both powerhouse musical names coming back into the public eye, I’ve invited them back to my office for one last interview, but mostly to beg them to let me publish this article.

Which, obviously, they allowed.

It’s 1985, and with them all sitting in front of me, I feel a sense of deja vu. There are some changes, of course, Roger Taylor’s hair is shorter, Giselle Jones is wearing jeans and a sweater rather than her well-known cocktail dress, but John Deacon’s still smiling at me, Brian’s looking about the room, perhaps seeing if anything’s changed, and Freddie Mercury’s draped casually on the left of the only non-Queen member of the bunch.

But before I get into the past two years, maybe I should take you back a bit, to when Giselle and Queen began collaborating.

Giselle Jones began in the late sixties as the front-woman of a swing band in a thirties theme pub known as Modern Glamour. Tall, elegant, with a voice like honey, she had a small following of regulars that frequented the pub, but had kept her passion from music from her family, claiming she was merely a waitress at the establishment, since her father was an executive at EMI, and she didn’t want to seem like the subject of nepotism.

However, one fateful day, her father brings music industry giant to the pub for lunch, hoping to catch Giselle at work and introduce her, but as you know, they both got a lot more than they bargained for. Foster sees potential in her, and offers her a contract if she’s willing to modernise her act, and as we all know, she does.

When Giselle releases her first album in 1970, Velvet Roses, which would be the first and only “Jazz” record to hit the Top 40 charts for that year, Queen are still playing pub gigs around London, though they’re looking at recording their first album, which would eventually get EMI’s attention, but that’s still not for a while. At this point, they’re the biggest fish in a very small uni-pub pond, and they need the means to grow. So out goes the band’s van, for one night in a recording studio.

“Like, in retrospect, of course it was the right decision.” Taylor leans against the back of the sofa he’s sitting on in my office in 1982, voice contemplative and fingers locked together as he looks into the past. “But I was twenty-two at the time, selling my van was a big deal.”

“A big enough deal that you wrote a song about it.” Giselle adds, sitting beside him in the middle of the sofa. Deacon hides a smile though May doesn’t hide his snort of laughter.

The smirked remark is at odds with her look. While the boys are all in various states of brightly patterned shirts and jeans, looking casual and comfortable; Giselle wears white, sequinned, off-the-shoulder gown that hugs her figure and hits the floor, a slit in the thigh where her leg crosses, dark skin a stunning contrast to both the white fabric of her dress, and the leather of my sofa. Hands folded in over her knee, there’s not a singular hair out of place where she’s got it slicked back; I can’t look at her directly, she’s so focused and well put-together that it’s like staring at the sun.

The contrast has always been apparent in their various works, though Mercury has, in the past, cited her as an early inspiration for his desire to add a certain classical gravitas to rock and roll, and though she hasn’t publicly stated anything, the amount of covers Giselle has performed lived could fill an album. And now, here they are, about leave for a double-billed tour of the US, which I have been asked to join.

But their connection goes back much further than this, all the way back to 1975, to the release of the smash-hit single Bohemian Rhapsody That very same year, Giselle releases her fifth single, Dinner and a Show, a lyrically dissonant, heart pumping anthem that’s a metaphor for the way any type of review fuelled her, since it meant people were talking about her work.

You serve yourself on a platter; your putrid delights, / yet how can I refrain? / You don’t come to flatter, you don’t want to go / so come on baby, / don’t you know? / You’re treating me to dinner and a show.

Giselle’s usually silky performance is turned into a masterclass of vocal gymnastics as she slides easily from the rough intensity of rock and roll, to the smooth purr of jazz as she sings about eating critics for breakfast.

They say a free mind makes the meat so tender / now you’re on the menu and I’m a big spender

The song itself comes as a response to her former manager about how her “aggressive” move to music that more stylistically rock and roll was alienating older audiences, though Foster, still her producer at the time, was pushing for her to skew to a younger audience, and it seemed as though he had gotten his way.

The real change, however, was the B-Side of the record. After speaking to Jim “Miami” Beach, Queen’s lawyer, regarding potentially covering one of the band’s songs, Giselle reveals that she was eventually told to just ask them directly.

“I gave Miami a letter that basically explained that I’d like to cover one of their songs for my new album,” Giselle gives me a thin smile, and I feel like I’ve done something wrong, even though I’m assured by Brian that her public persona “is just like that sometimes”.

“- and I thought it was a joke! I said ‘yeah, sure, what’s the worst that could happen’.” Mercury laughs, leaning forward elbows on his knees and eyes shinning with amusement. “I did not believe for one second that Giselle, Giselle-” repeating her name for emphasis, his hand comes to quickly rest on hers where she still has them perfectly still on her knee, a moment of solidarity, “wanted anything to do with us. Hand Held Heart had been at the top of the US charts for almost three whole weeks the year before.” Letting out a long, wistful sigh, Mercury sits back, still grinning, though he’s got this far away look on his face now.

“So we’d been stuck on a farm, recording A Night At The Opera for weeks with no outside communications, ” May fills in where Mercury’s faded into his own memories, and Taylor slings arm around Giselle where she’s actually relaxed somewhat, hands now in her lap. Curiously, she doesn’t shrug him off. “And when we get back, it turns out that she’s put a jazz cover of Jesus, yeah, that song from our first album, on the B-Side of her newest single.”

“Freddie practically had a heart attack.” Deacon adds, patting Mercury’s shoulder fondly.

In her own way, she was continuing the trend that Dinner and a Show had started, and that seven-inch single would bestow upon Giselle the title of Queen of Jazz Rock. It hadn’t been the first time she had acknowledged the band publicly, by the time she had released the single, her public persona had gained enough traction that, a few months prior to her recording of the cover, a reporter had asked if Killer Queen, Queen’s biggest hit at the time, had been written about her. The question had been caught on camera by the reporter after one of her tour stops in the Midwest of America; the footage is a favourite of fans, including myself, of the way she doesn’t even turn, simply calls over her shoulder, ‘they should be so lucky’, and she gets into her waiting car.

“I never took offence,” Mercury tells me, both in 1982, and 1985, as I bring it up both times to consolidate the origins of their musical partnership.

“You wouldn’t, you were all starry-eyed for her back then.” Taylor leans back to address Mercury behind Giselle’s head, but only when he says it the first time, in 1982.

“It was a bit of a dig at us,” Deacon agrees with the drummer, nodding before shrugging. “A lot of good came out of it, though.” The others seem to agree, but Giselle herself has stayed quiet. For the first time since the interview started, she looks away from me, gaze dipping as she seems inclined to speak, though she takes her time to weigh up her words before she says them, wondering exactly what will and will not be printed.

“It was a bit of s**t thing to say. I was twenty-four and I panicked, I had to keep up my... this persona.” She gestures now to herself, breaking the entire physicality as she lets herself lean back, and I feel like I can breathe, seeing her act so human. Adjusting, she lets herself rest of the slightest of diagonals, shoulder to shoulder with Taylor’s arm still around her, now with Mercury petting her knee in solidarity.

Once in the tour bus, the difference between Giselle Jones, the woman, and Giselle, the singer and personality, becomes almost jarring to see. As soon as we get into the bus, she strips off the gown she was wearing, I turn away, though the others don’t seem to be bothered by it, May takes the dress to a waiting assistant by the door, and when I turn back, she’s in a pair of sweat pants and Taylor is tossing her shirt several sizes too big for her. For the first time since I’ve learned about her, Giselle looks comfortable, looks approachable and, for lack of a better word, non-robotic, taking a hairbrush from a drawer and flopping onto one of the beds as she brushes out the gel, apparently not bothering with a shower just yet.

“I showered this morning.” She seems to have caught my confused look, and explains herself. With her guard lowered in the familiar situation, her natural voice shines through, a rich, yet feminine alto, reminiscent of her singing voice. It adds to the list of things that add character to her beyond what her “persona” could ever convey. Or perhaps that’s the point.

The bus itself is almost too small for the five performers, and I’m certain it won’t fit me, but Giselle and I watch as they cram a blow up bed onto the kitchen table. It looks stable, and for the opportunity to experience living in such close quarters with such big names, I’d take anything.

“Sorry, darling, Paul takes the only spare bed.” Mercury informs me as I shimmy up onto the bed to test if it would hold. I had thought that the vehicle was at capacity, though it does make sense that the band’s day-to-day manager, Paul Prenter, would be travelling with them. That being said, I hadn’t realised there was even a spare bed, there was only five, perhaps none of them had wanted to be subjected to the blow up bed and decided to share instead.

When we finally get on the road, I get to finally see their true dynamics emerge. We all know the Queen dynamics by now, brotherly yet volatile, at times. I had worried for Giselle at times, the concept of living with four men (five if you count Prenter, who Giselle does not seem to, when I ask her about it, though I don’t think that’s a subject I should pry about, judging by the look on Taylor’s face where I can see him lounging at the back of the bus). However, I should have not have been worried; first of all, despite the youthfulness of their appearances, performances, and spirit, these are all men in their 30s, Giselle herself being 31 at the time of writing (1982), and they all have experience living with women, and with each other.

“First tour was a nightmare.” Deacon’s joined me on the blowup bed, is sipping tea as we travel along. “We learned real quick how disgusting close quarters can be.” He’s a quiet soul, but observant, and honestly I really enjoy his company. Anyone who can weather over a decade of rock and roll and come out as calm as him deserves some sort of recognition. “It’s much better now. Mostly.” He smiles like it’s an inside joke, but won’t elaborate. Giselle and Taylor refuse to clarify what he means by that, May just laughs when I ask him, directing me back to ask Taylor and Giselle, and Mercury calls them all gossips.

It’s something about the tour lifestyle that must bring out the childishness in them all, which comes out strongly during dinner. They shove my blowup bed into the sleeping quarters when dinner is served, and the five of us manage to cram into the tiny booth the bus allows. May, Deacon and Giselle are in charge of cooking dinner, sausages, potatoes, and peas, since apparently Prenter and Mercury have taken lunch duties, and Roger has put himself in charge of getting coffee and tea for everyone in the morning.

“We should really eat breakfast.” Giselle muses through half a mouthful of food.

“I do!” Deacon, next to me, comes back with, pouring some more peas onto his plate.

“You just eat cereal from the box, Deaky, that’s not breakfast.” Taylor counters him, which just causes the rest of the table to devolve into an argument about what counts as breakfast. Prenter, who has joined us for the meal, looks like he’d rather be napping or still driving, and makes quiet work of his meal.

Roger Taylor goes to sleep after me, and wakes up before I do, and I’m not sure how he does it. Or where he sleeps, the other beds seem taken. He wakes me up on the first morning by shoving my bed, which slides a few centimeters, but isn’t about to fall off it’s perch.

“You want coffee?” I’m barely functioning at this point, and his question baffles me. “Tea? Coffee? Deaky’s cereal? We got some left over sausages.” He lists off, probably due to my clear confusion, he seems exasperated, even though he’s definitely wearing pyjamas too. He’s still scowling a little when I tell him how I like my coffee, but he doesn’t complain, and it tastes exactly like I like it when he hands it over. The bus is stationary, so he can put the cups by the bedsides of those they are for, but interestingly enough he joins me on the table/bed.

I know the origin story of Queen, I think everyone does at this point, so I ask him instead about the subject of my article; how Queen got involved with Giselle.

“You wanna know how I met Giselle?” It’s not exactly what I asked, but he’s already thinking about it, looking past me to the sleeping quarters with a frown. He plays absent-mindedly with the chain around his neck, and with the ring attached to it. “I thought everyone knew about that, the whole thing where we hated each other from the start?” When I ask if it was true, he actually laughs, though it’s more a snort of derision, if I’m being honest. “Of course not. Mostly.” They all seem to like that word, I hadn’t taken them all to be vague.

“I told him to take a long walk off a short pier.” Giselle will clarify for me later that day, joining me as I take a smoke break at one of our bathroom stops, not that there isn’t a toilet on the bus, they just try to avoid using it as much as possible. She doesn’t smoke, claims she never has, but enjoys the company, while the boys are buying snacks at the gas station. I ask when it was, she gives me another thin smile, but not like it had been in the office. Here it’s the punctuation to an earlier joke rather than a judgement.

She tells me about how she actually met them all, recording her second album, after her 1972 performance on Top of the Pops, you know the one. It had cemented Giselle’s now iconic aesthetic of an off the shoulder, floor length sequinned gown, silk gloves, and bold red lipstick, dark hair falling victory curls, the whole look reminiscent of an old Hollywood star, though there was red glitter trailing from her lips, and on her gloves in a theatrical fabrication of blood. It had been a look inspired by her musical roots, and the theatricality of the then-popular glam rock, a movement which would inspire many of Mercury’s tour looks also.

She was twenty-one at the time, still “developing her persona”, when she found that the in-house recording equipment at EMI was being used by the then-still quite unknown Queen. Or rather, according to Giselle, just Taylor.

“He was packing up the last of his equipment, and he makes a pass at me, thinks I’m an intern.” We can see the boys leaving the gas station, Taylor himself heading the pack. “So yeah, told him to take a long walk off a short pier.” She laughs, seems to hold the memory quite dear. “That b******d has the gall to look me in the eyes and ask who I am.”

“Did he know who you were?” When I look at her, she’s still smiling, tipping her head to the side as the boys draw close. She seems to be paying attention to me, but not a lot.

“Yeah, told me later he was just pissed I didn’t throw myself at him. That’s why I said that, ‘they should be so lucky’ thing, actually, that motherf****r right there.” The way she says it, raising her finger to point at him, makes me think it’s a story she’s told before, one that he knows about.

“You talking about me?” Taylor yells, and Giselle is quick to answer that she is. “Don’t spill all my secrets.” It sounds like an order, but his smile says it’s not, it’s weirdly playful, a dynamic I didn’t expect from them, especially considering their history. I raise the point. She laughs at me.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Prenter calls for everyone on the bus, and Giselle doesn’t think to clarify once we’re back on board.

The tour, I should have mentioned earlier, is a double feature; Queen is promoting their album Hot Space, while Giselle is promoting her own, The Bend Before the Break. When I ask her about the album itself, she talks happily about a few of the songs, however when I bring up my personal favourites, Ache and Heaven Sent, she turns very quiet.

I will end up watching most of her performances, and to this day, I have never seen something as raw and spiritual as Giselle performing Ache.

The lights dim as the joyful Meant to Be finishes. On the studio recording, a double bass starts the song, long, grieving and angry notes that pick up in tempo as it’s joined by drums and a piano, and finally, her voice, low, bitter and seductive in equal measure. Here, there’s silence, as she gently croons the open lines, face illuminated by only a single gold light, as swirling red and purple lights move about the stage.

While saying you were sorry, / you burned me from the outside, in. / Now I’m calloused all over, / And too tired to feel the sting. / But I feel the ache, / feel the ache / feel the ache. / I’ll still let you back in.

She plays the piano herself for this song, a skill, I later learn Mercury had taught her many years ago. It’s a song that tugs at your gut, gets you thinking about how you keep people in your life who aren’t the best for you. She ends the last chorus with a long, mournful wail that you feel in your bones.

I’ve never heard a crowd so quiet as when she finishes Ache, the penultimate song of her set list, unless you count encores.

The final song of the night is always Heaven Sent, a bright, headbanging anthem with the musical gravitas of a full jazz band. It was her single from the album, it topped most charts. You know the one. The radio won’t stop playing it.

Divinity with a neon glow / it hung above his head, / promoting his next show. / Didn’t even try to find my light, / just the darkness he’d bestow. / Heaven sent me the Morningstar.

“I was cheated on.” Was all she will say about the songs.

The others steer clear of those songs as well, when talking about the album, as well as the titular song, The Bend Before the Break, though Giselle claims she has moved on from the feelings associated in all three songs.

“I wrote them first on the album, I’ve moved on.”

Each of the boys seems very protective of Giselle at times, though Taylor is by far the worst. If I’m being honest, was weird to me, they’d been at each other’s throats publicly and professionally for almost a full decade after Giselle’s initial comment, however the vitriol had died down in the past few years, so I enquire about that about halfway through the six week tour.

“We set them up.” May is the first to answer, sipping tea with myself, Deacon and Mercury. Since both Giselle and Taylor adjourned to the sleeping quarters. I ask him what he means.

“They tell it better.” Mercury interjects, but May argues that they’re asleep anyways so it’s not like it matters. Deacon agrees with Mercury, but quiet enough that May ignores him.

“So by ‘79, we’ve collaborated together, us and ‘Zelle, I mean,” the nickname is mostly used by May and Taylor, though Deacon uses it on occasion, “a couple of times, and we love her, right boys? We love her-” looking around, both Mercury and Deacon are nodding along, responding to a story they’d both heard before, though it was interesting for my first time hearing it, “but Rog is about ready to stab her with his drumsticks, but that’s just how he is.”

“Threatened to stab me once.” Deacon adds the unnerving information with complete serenity, focused on his cup.

“Me a couple of times.” Mercury shakes his head, as if it were some schoolboy prank rather than a stabbing threat.

“Like I said, just how he is. So we decide to send them to a place where they can bond over complaining about everything else, apart from each other.” I asked how it worked out for them and I watch as their faces fall. This terrible blind date idea must have gone horribly. “They hate the restaurant, which is good, but he goes to leave and bumps the table, spilling beer all over her dress, which is bad,” well, obviously. He pays me no mind, “and she elbows him in the face when she’s putting her jacket on - still don’t know how that one happened - but he still says he’ll take her home because it’s late, except-”

“To preface,” Deacon jumps in here, adding a little more milk to his tea, “she hates I’m In Love With My Car.” The song? Deacon nods. “Rog wrote it.” I can connect the dots, but I’m still confused as to how that lead to them being friends.

“Friends.” Mercury actually laughs into his cup.

“He takes her home anyways, she tells him the song’s s**t bu the sentiment wasn’t far off.” May finishes, shrugging.

“It was a real nice car.” Deacon shrugged, before looking straight at me. “And she still hates the song to this day.” There’s an air of finality to his words that is entirely unwarranted. That isn’t the point of the story; how are they friends now? Did they hook up in his car? Is that what they’re implying, I feel like such a gossip asking these questions.

“Did they ho- ? Yeah, of course.” May laughs, and though it clears some things up, I’m still rather confused. It’s probably reading on my face, because it looks like something else is dawning on him. “You know they’re married, right?”

No. No I did not know. Now I feel like an idiot.

I wonder if The Bend Before the Break is about Taylor? I can sense I’ve touched a nerve when I ask, and Mercury abruptly changes the subject, though the air still doesn’t feel right. When I head back through the sleeping area to get a new pen from my luggage, I catch a glimpse of Giselle napping in her bunk, Taylor too, asleep with his arm around her. She’s even wearing a wedding ring. I’m kicking myself for not noticing sooner. The chain with the ring around Taylor’s neck makes sense now. A lot of things make sense now.

For the next four days I feel like I’m being shunned, I’m the last to be told about dinner and have to eat the leftovers, Giselle barely says two words to me, Taylor just keeps glowering, and someone let the air out of my bed on the second night. It’s childish, but it’s in line with what I expect from them, regarding this sort of issue, I’m just glad Taylor hasn’t poured my coffee on me in my sleep, or spat in it. He just didn’t make it, which I suppose is probably the safest option for me.

The only apology I can think of is to offer to buy them all drinks, but it works well enough, and the next morning I wake to a fresh cup of coffee, and a very hungover Taylor. At least he’s dedicated to his job.

The rest of the tour passes without further incident. I still stand by Ache as one of my favourite musical performances of the decade, though I don’t mention it to Giselle, and now that I know the dynamic between her and Taylor, I can’t stop seeing it. Honestly, readers, they’re all over each other, which is expected from a man of Taylor’s reputation, but it’s still a little jarring to see the two of them so cozy. I must have been blind not to see it before.

When we part ways, Giselle is a little stiff with me.

“You brought up some feelings that I just... hadn’t actually dealt with at the time, which f******d me up.” She tells me in retrospect, sitting in my office with the rest of the boys in 1985. Live Aid was a few weeks ago, and since they all returned to the spotlight, I asked if they wanted to come and reflect on the past few years. The one thing that hasn’t changed is the fact that Giselle still swears like a sailor.

“A lot’s happened in the past few years.” Taylor’s still very protective of her, and after everything that’s conspired, at least from what I know, it’s warranted. We talk about the band splitting, how it had hurt the band as a whole, and even Giselle, who was at the time seeing a counsellor with Taylor. I’m hesitant to broach the topic of their relationship, though they seem like a solid until now, sitting before me, holding hands and leaning against one another.

I ask if Giselle’s breakdown was due to the band splitting, though I’m hesitant if I’ll get a response. Her smile is sad, which is mirrored by the rest of the band. I can guess her response before she says it.

“No.”

You all know the moment I’m talking about, the last concert for her last album, as of this publication, Finally, Sunlight where she had receive pleas from the audience for an encore. When she came back out, part of her makeup had been smudged around her eyes, and you can hear her sniffle over the microphone. (”I’m so sorry, I lost someone close to me, I thought I could keep it together for one night.” Dabbing at her eyes, she sits at the piano and laughs, but there’s no heart in it. “But I’ve got five more minutes left in me, let’s go, Atlanta.”) The song she plays is Somebody to Love, a slow, soulful cover, and the audience is almost unanimous in their raised lighters and slow swaying. As she goes on, she just starts crying harder, missing notes, hands shaking; the extended ‘Looooord’ before the chanting becomes a desperate wail, a plea to the heavens, and she collapses onto the piano, sobbing audibly as the instruments all come to uncertain halt and lighters go down in confusion.

From the crowd, a single voice begins to chant ‘Find me somebody to love. / Find me somebody to love.’ and a single voice turns to a theatre, full to the brim, as they sing when she can’t, still crying against the piano. Lighters go up, and together the audience and the band finishes the song where words have failed her. It was televised locally on the night, and still brings me to tears when I watch it now.

“We lost our daughter.”

For those of you reading this who are shocked, I am too. Sitting there like a fool, not saying anything.

“I was on tour, and Rog was at home with her,” even now, Giselle is getting a little teary-eyed, not that I blame her. Both Taylor and Mercury have an arm around her, and May has a hand on her shoulder, Deacon sitting on the back of the sofa right behind her. A unit. A family. “I wanted to go home, she was getting really sick, and I know he was doing everything he could, but I just- I wanted to be there... but my label threatened to sue me for... millions.” It sounds like it’s hard to say, and she’s wiping a tear from her eyes. I offer her the tissues on my desk. “But I should have gone home. I should have been there by her side, I should have done more.” Taylor whispers something to her and she leans against him, taking comfort in him.

“I had to call her, tell her that... that she’d passed. The day of the show. She’d been so upset for week, ‘Zelle that is, and everything just-” Taylor manages to get a great handle on his emotions, despite his misty eyes and shaking hands. “We’re alright now though, see? Nothing can tear us apart.” Though his voice does drop, so I think he’s saying it more for Giselle’s benefit. I give them all time to collect themselves, stop to get hot drinks for everyone, and everyone finally seems happy enough to answer when I ask what’s next for them.

“Music, of course.” Mercury says, now holding what was Giselle’s free hand. The rest of the gathered musicians agree. I ask if we’ll be hearing any sort of collaboration between Queen and the Queen of Jazz Rock. Taylor snickers, pulling Giselle close.

“Yeah, but not in the way you mean.” He ignores the rest of the men’s shouts of disgust, as well as his wife’s own gagging noise, which I can see on her face she regrets as she covers her mouth with caution, before giving the okay.

“No, we’re okay, we’re good.” She assures everyone, before looking at me. “What he meant to say is that I’m pregnant.” She clarifies. Taylor is still grinning.

“Don’t be gross, Rog.” May calls from the other side of the sofa, and Taylor has the gall to look accosted.

“What’s next for me, after everything that’s happened, is family.” Giselle says over the sounds of her husband’s indignant huffs, though his expression turns soft at her words, and they ignore the ‘boo’s of everyone else as they kiss.

“Could you be less gross around company?” Deacon asks, still mild-mannered as ever. This seems to be the cue for the interview to end, as Taylor of Giselle-

“It’s Giselle Taylor, by the way, I’m sorry I hadn’t corrected you earlier.” She corrects me now, as [Roger] Taylor leads her out of the door. The rest of the band seem mildly exasperated at their antics, but still ready to answer my questions. After everything that’s happened, I’m a little overwhelmed, I’m not sure where to go from here.

Perhaps my next article will be on Live Aid.

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