#somewhat kept up to it but whatever the gist is still there even if its not one to one

[cosmocove]

this is petty n most likely an issue of ive just been exposed to entirely different shit but those posts about how people complaining about redemption arcs is bad bc its important message that people can change is just completely ignoring why people are actually complaining cause the big two examples i can think of for why people complain about redemptions are 1. the redemption is poorly written n ignores and/or retcons the previous seriousness of their wrongdoings just because the writer(s) want them to be good now n its kind of hard to do that if (for example) we take the lives they intentionally n mercilessly killed into account and 2. this character is an abuser but instead of taking accountability n bare minimum apologizing n letting their victim(s) choose whether they wish to still have them in their life the writer(s) choose a narrative where the abuser doesnt really have to change as a person they just dont abuse anyone anymore n the framing is weirdly unsympathetic to their victim(s)

[cherienymphe]

Gangsta’s Paradise (Michael Gray x Reader)

WARNINGS: DUB-CON BORDERLINE NON-CON, blackmail, loss of virginity, (for the sake of this fic let’s pretend that Finn Cole is taller than what he is okay)

! DNI IF THIS OFFENDS YOU !

➥ divider by @firefly-graphics

summary: an agreement with the Peaky Blinders is almost a done deal...until you catch the eye of Michael Gray. You’re suddenly thrust into the equation, and your father must decide between losing everything or losing you.

~

Soft lips brushed over your bare shoulder, even softer hands guiding the strap of your slip down your arm, fingers dancing along your skin. Despite the cold weather outside, your room was sweltering, and you pinned it onto the man behind you...the man who was currently unwrapping you like a gift. With fear coursing through your frame, you realized that in a way, you were a gift. A pretty little gift given to the big bad gangster in exchange for resources and protection and whatever else your family needed.

Your eyes fell closed, and you thought back to the day where your father’s desperation had first begun. Desperation that you had ultimately underestimated.

You had been nervous as you tended to the dishes that day, glancing at the clock every now and then. Cleaning and tidying up was how you coped, how you attempted to calm yourself. It normally worked, but today was an exception. Looking around, you realized that there was nothing else to clean, and with a sigh, you leaned against the wall, biting your lip.

The rest of the family had gone to Birmingham. They’d gone to handle...business, and you being the only girl in the family since your mom died, you weren’t allowed to have a hand in the business. It had been a great deal of bitterness for you for years, ever since you were old enough to understand what was really going on, but now you had gradually accepted your father’s reasoning.

Your father and brother and uncles had left early, taking some of their best men with them. You knew they only did that for serious matters, and you had been worried ever since you saw them leave. You had scrubbed the house from top to bottom, and now you had nothing to do but wait. It was fortunate that you didn’t have to wait for much longer, hearing several cars come down the driveway.

No one greeted you when you opened the door, faces pinched and sullen, and you knew then that things didn’t go as expected. The only one to acknowledge you was your father, the older man pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before trudging inside with the rest. You swallowed, conflicted on whether or not you should say anything, but your worry got the best of you.

“How did it go?”

Before your father could answer, you heard your brother slam his hand into the wall, the pictures shaking from the force.

“Peaky fucking Blinders,” he spat, and your blood ran cold.

Your eyes met your father’s, and he gave you a look as if to say leave it alone, but you were in shock. You had never imagined that your family would start doing business with the likes of them. Everyone had heard of them, knew who they were and what they did, and the thought of your family being involved with them in any way was a terrifying one.

Everything those men touched turned to poison

“Father,” you had chided as soon as you walked into his office moments later.

From behind his desk, he held a hand up, the other pressed to his forehead as he sighed.

“Not now, Y/N,” he said, sounding tired.

“You promised that things would be different,” you whispered, ignoring his words. “You told me that we would start becoming legitimate, legal. That we’d start doing things right.”

“Y/N-.”

“You promised.”

He slammed his hand down onto the wood, making you wince.

“They’ve got their hand in every cookie jar that matters. Thomas Shelby is a political man, now-.”

You cut him off with a scoff, folding your arms over your chest.

“Only a fool would get mixed up with the likes of them.”

He shot you a scathing look, and you swallowed, looking away with a sigh.

“We need their influence, their resources...their allyship.”

Your eyes widened at this, realizing that your father intended for much more than a one time business deal.

“You can’t be serious,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond right away, simply heaving a sigh before turning his attention to the paperwork before him.

“I will do my best to keep you away from all this, but prepare yourself for seeing a lot more of them, eh?”

He didn’t say anything more, and when it became apparent that that was the end of the discussion, you turned and left. You could hear your brothers and uncles murmuring in the kitchen, going over the day’s events, no doubt, and you made your way upstairs. You never knew exactly what it was that your father sold, but you figured that drugs and alcohol was the gist of it. He’d been in the business for a long time, and he’d made a promise to you that he was going to put a stop to it. That he’d start making money the right way.

Getting mixed up with the Shelbys, the Peaky Blinders, was not the way to go about it.

You understood the appeal though. They had power, resources, influence. With them as an ally, people would think twice about screwing your family over...but was it worth it? Was it worth the increase in violence? Putting the family in the kind of danger you could never even imagine? Was it worth the devastation and death that seemed to follow them like a plague? The answer was simple.

No.

Your father didn’t seem to care about any of that though. Day in and day out, for weeks, you watched your family leave early in the day and return late in the evening, looking more irritated than they did the previous day. It was safe to say that negotiations with the Peaky Blinders was not going as expected. The frustration and annoyance was plain as day on your father’s features, and even though nary a word was uttered to you about anything, you could feel the tension mounting in the air.

The first time you actually met someone of the infamous family, it was a Wednesday. It was a rare day within the past few weeks in which your father was at the house. He had been holed up in his study all day when there was a knock on the door. You had blinked in confusion, trying to recall if your father had mentioned anything about company, but you had only just begun to move when you heard your father’s heavy footsteps traveling down the hallway.

“Stay back.”

Normally you would have argued against him, especially with a tone as harsh as his had been, but something in his voice made you listen. There was something in his eyes, something in the way he walked that made you understand the severity of the situation. You remained in the living room, listening as your father answered the door, unfamiliar voices eventually joining his.

Two men who you’d never seen before joined him in the hallway, standing between the kitchen and living room. You had slowly put your book down, story long forgotten at the sight of the strangers, and your movement caught their attention. Both of them were wearing hats and long coats, but you could still tell that their hair was dark. The lankier of the two was a bit taller, a mustache adorning his face while the other moved a toothpick around between his lips, a faint smirk crawling onto his face at the sight of you.

“Good afternoon, sweetheart,” the taller one greeted, and you quietly returned the greeting.

Your father cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable.

“Arthur, John...this is my daughter, Y/N. She likes to look after the house when I’m gone.”

It was the truth. After your mother’s death, the house was where you felt most comfortable, and you were more than happy to lock yourself in its walls. Especially while the rest of your family ventured out.

“Darling, this is John and Arthur Shelby. I’ve been doing some business with them, remember?”

You fought the urge to sneer at your father, keeping your gaze on the strangers in your home instead.

“Of course. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you said with a tense smile.

Knowing you so well, your father could recognize the displeasure on your face, and if the other men before you noticed it too, they didn’t speak on it. You watched as they followed your father upstairs to his study, the younger of the two tipping his hat to you before departing. You remained there for a time before slowly exhaling, turning to make your way outside. You paid no mind to how long they stayed, spending the rest of your day away outside in your garden. Your mother always kept one, and you had done the same since she died.

That was the first of the few times you ran across Arthur and John Shelby. They were the only two that ever came by the house, greeting you with tipped hats and secretive smiles. You had grown somewhat used to their presence and faces, but not enough to be completely comfortable around them. You didn’t meet the rest of them, didn’t meet him, until weeks later.

“What?” you had breathed, staring at your father in disbelief. 

You watched as he rubbed his forehead, face pinched and eyes clouded over, telling you that he disliked this as much as you did.

“You’ll come to the next meeting with us,” he repeated, and you let out a sharp breath.

So you had heard him correctly.

“...why?” you eventually asked, sounding much calmer than you actually were.

“I know you hate them, but those Shelbys do have some morals about them. Things have been rather tense lately. It seems that we just can’t come to an agreement,” he sighed out, leaning against his desk. “...and I fear that things could become...rowdy.”

He didn’t continue, but you were smart enough to guess where this was going. When the realization hit you, your heart dropped, and you stared at your father like he was a stranger. The man you knew, the man your mother had married, would’ve wanted you as far away from any business dealings as possible. Somehow, the very same man was standing before you and suggesting…

“You think my presence at the meeting will make them behave...make them think twice about doing anything...violent,” you murmured, more to yourself than him.

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to, and you clenched your jaw.

“...and if it doesn’t-?”

“It will,” he argued.

“...but if it doesn’t…” you repeated with more force. “...then what? What will you do if they bring out the guns and razor blades right there? What will you do if they decide to use me to make you agree to their terms?”

Your father was silent, and you stepped towards him, eyes pleading.

“What will you do then?”

You watched as he straightened, standing to his full height as he looked down his nose at you. It was like you were looking at a completely different person, someone who wasn’t like your father at all. As you eyed him, you could see the stress on his face, the strain in his muscles, the conflict in his eyes. You’d had your suspicions that your family’s business with the Peaky Blinders was more serious than you could’ve imagined, but the toll it was clearly taking on your father confirmed it.

Even if you didn’t agree with what was going on, how your father went about getting what he so clearly needed and wanted, it was obvious that this was important to him. Since the death of your mother, very few things brought your father happiness. Very few things even halfway satisfied him, and hoping that this would, shoulders sagging with defeat, you agreed.

This was how you found yourself seated beside your father at none other than The Garrison. The pub was empty of any patrons or staff, only those important to the meeting present. Thomas Shelby, the man himself, was seated across from your father. He was as intimidating as you always believed he’d be, smooth voice having done nothing to calm you when he introduced himself.

John and Arthur, the two you were familiar with, were on his right while two more men by the name of Isaiah and Finn were on his left. They were one short in comparison to your father, his two brothers, your two brothers, and yourself, but an empty chair told you that one more was on their way. Seeing that the meeting had already begun, you deduced that their tardiness wasn’t a concern. Considering the nature of the meeting, a whole bunch of words that could be summed up into “who controls what”, you envied the mystery person’s absence. 

For minutes now, you had contributed nothing, but then again… That wasn’t your purpose. No, the purpose of your presence was to keep the men in line. Your entire purpose was to play on what few morals the men had, and you fought to hold in a laugh. With every member of your family being armed, you wondered if your father even believed this would work. Too busy stewing over how your father had purposely put you in harm’s way, you didn’t take notice of the pub door opening.

You were only pulled from your thoughts when the sound of footsteps finally registered. Considering that your back was to the door, you couldn’t see their face, and you didn’t want to appear nosey or unprofessional or draw attention to yourself in any way really by turning to look. You only glanced up when he finally came into your line of sight, and you observed him in the same manner that you did all the others.

Something about him reminded you of Thomas, but his features were much softer, not so harsh. However, that made him no less intimidating. He wasn’t sporting a hat, dark hair neatly pushed away from his face, and something about him was different from the rest. On his own, he didn’t look like he belonged with the rest of them, and as Thomas explained that he was their chief accountant, you got the feeling that that was purposely done. He introduced the man as Michael Gray, his cousin, and losing interest once again, you looked away.

You played with your fingers beneath the table, wanting to desperately be anywhere but here. You had a feeling that you’d get your wish very soon, taking note of the change in tone in your father’s voice. He sounded happier, relieved, and you glanced up at him, his relief contagious. As you did so, your eyes briefly connected with that of the newcomer, Michael, and you quickly looked away. Even still, you could feel the weight of his stare, and you reluctantly returned it.

He didn’t look the least bit ashamed at having been caught, bringing his cigarette up to his lips, a thick coil of smoke escaping them moments later. His face was hard to read, and you felt yourself frowning slightly. You blinked, eyes trailing to your brother on your father’s other side, but he seemed invested in the meeting. Everyone seemed to be...everyone but you and the man named Michael.

When your eyes met his again, it was just in time to watch him lean over, lips at his cousin’s ear as he whispered something to him. His gaze held yours the entire time. You glanced around again, feeling as if there was a meeting within a meeting going on, and you were the only one to notice. Brushing off the unease you felt, you sat back in your chair, eyes on the table. It was hard to ignore the heavy gaze that pinned you to your seat, but you fought to manage.

Especially since it seemed that an agreement was finally being made.

However, that sinking feeling in your chest traveled to your gut, settling there as you watched John move to whisper something to Thomas. The man, the leader of this great gang, paused for the briefest of moments. It happened so quickly, and John was back in his seat as if nothing had happened, and while Thomas’ words did not falter, the way his eyes briefly flickered to you had you straightening in your seat.

Your eyes fell onto the blue-eyed newcomer again, and he took another drag of his cigarette. Every single one of them wore smug expressions, from the first moment you’d been introduced to every individual man, you noticed that they all looked as if they owned the world. Michael Gray was no different, but the way he looked at you made you want to be as far away from here as possible. As more tendrils of smoke left his pink lips, you noted that he didn’t look at you like he just owned the world. He looked at you like he owned you too.

“Everything does seem to be in order, but...there is another matter I think we should discuss,” you heard Thomas Shelby say.

You looked to him, watching as he stood, his family following his lead and your family following theirs. You tightened your coat around you as Thomas gestured for your father to follow him into the back. His absence made you nervous, but you simply stepped closer to your brother as you watched him follow the other man.

“Let’s wait outside,” your brother said, and eager to be out of here, you hastily agreed.

Your other brother remained inside with your uncles while you followed Matthew, the middle child of you three, outside. 

“You alright?” he asked you as soon as you were in the fresh air. “You looked a bit tense in there.”

You watched him light a smoke, and you glanced away.

“The other one...the cousin, Michael… How much do you know about him?”

Matthew shrugged, exhaling.

“Not much. Doesn’t say much at the meetings, mostly handles the money,” he told you.

That did little to ease you.

“Why…?”

You were just about to tell him the reason for your curiosity when the door to The Garrison came flying open. You watched in shock as your father came storming out, your other brother and uncles hot on his tail.

“What’s going on?” Matthew asked, just as alarmed as you were.

Instead of an answer, your father simply grabbed your arm, and yanked you along. You almost tripped over your feet, and you looked at your father like he’d lost his mind. His face was clouded over, eyes thunderous, and you wondered what had happened in such a short time.

“What-?”

“Quiet,” he hissed, sounding the angriest you’d ever heard him, and your eyes widened at this.

“...but-.”

“I said quiet! Get in the car,” he spat.

He didn’t give you a chance to listen, opting for shoving you inside himself. Your foot was barely inside when he slammed the door shut, and you stared at the window in shock. Matthew joined you and your father in the car while the rest piled into the other vehicle. Your confusion only grew as the car roared to life, and you glanced up then to rest your eyes on a familiar face.

He leaned against the door to the pub, a fresh cigarette held between his lips as he lit it. His blue eyes were focused entirely on you, even as the smoke clouded his view and your father began to drive off, he didn’t appear to be interested in anything else but your trembling frame.

You sat at the dining table in shock, listening to the muffled sound of your father’s angry voice that traveled from his study. He was in there with the rest of the family, and he’d been in there for hours. He had barely looked at you when you all came home, heading straight for his office as he ordered the rest of the family inside. There was an unspoken agreement that that did not include you.

Still, the uneasiness from the meeting remained. You could still feel the heated gaze of the blue-eyed man, smell the smoke that drifted from his lips, see the way he watched you as he whispered to John. You could see the way Thomas had looked at you as John whispered to him, and this was what made you press your ear to your father’s study door hours earlier. This was what drove your curiosity to discover just what happened when you and your brother left.

“He wants her,” your father had forced out, sounding like he was going to be sick.

There was a long pause, and you had frowned in confusion.

“Who?” your other brother, Nathaniel, had eventually asked.

“The Gray kid! Polly’s son,” he spat as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He wants her.”

You could hear your father’s heavy breaths, hear him pacing, and the confirmation that the discussion was about Michael Gray did nothing to quell your confusion. The silence that followed was loud and heavy, something unspoken in the air that you had yet to understand.

“...what?” you heard one of your uncles murmur.

Your father heaved a sigh, sounding much calmer now.

“They are...prepared to meet us more than halfway if we let him have her,” he slowly said. “Everything we’ve been working towards, everything we’ve been yearning for… It could be ours in a matter of hours if we let him have her.”

“No!”

Nathaniel’s voice could be heard before your father even finished.

“Absolutely not-.”

“Nathaniel…”

“You’re not considering this...are you? Father…”

“They’ve given us the day to think it over-.”

“What is there to think about? She’s our sister, your daughter, not some whore on the street,” Matthew interrupted, his words making you freeze.

Bile threatened to spill from your lips as you stared at the door, slowly backing away, their voices becoming less clear as you did so. Your back was pressed to the wall as the truth settled over you, and you suddenly felt foolish for failing to put it together sooner. Your stomach swirled, fear settling into your bones, and before you knew it, your head was in the commode, expelling everything you’d eaten that day. The tears had come shortly after, and that was how Matthew found you hours later, sitting at the table with tears in your eyes.

“I know you heard,” he said, sitting across from you.

You hesitantly looked up at him as he poured a glass of whiskey.

“You never could keep your nose out of things. Told you years ago to stop listening in on father’s conversations-.”

“Well, I’m glad I did this time,” you tearfully spat.

Matthew sighed, sliding the glass towards you.

“I think you deserve it tonight,” he said as you threw him an odd look.

Your shoulders sagged, and you gratefully accepted it, scrunching your face up at the strong taste that hit your tongue. The both of you sat there in silence for a while, listening to your father’s muffled voice, and you took another sip.

“What’s he going to do?”

Your fear must have been evident because his hand rested on yours on the table.

“Hey...he’s not going to agree, alright? He would never…”

You shook your head before he even finished, sniffling as you took another sip.

“I don’t know, Matthew. I don’t know,” you breathed.

Your eyes met his, and he frowned at you.

“These past few months or so… He’s been different, and you know it. He’s made deals before, but it’s different this time. Everything he’s ever wanted is so close. It’s different this time, and you know it, Matthew.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. You both knew that it was different this time, and you shuddered to think about what tomorrow would bring.

The next day came and went, much to your relief, and although you were glad that your father didn’t give into the Peaky Blinders, into what they wanted from you...what he wanted from you, it was still an unacknowledged elephant in the room. They still left the house for business, but you didn’t know if it was with the Blinders or not. You shuddered to think of how that conversation went when your father refused their offer. 

You got the feeling that they weren’t used to not getting their way.

It was three nights later, three nights since that fateful meeting in which you’d caught the eye of Michael Gray, that you left your room to get a glass of water. The house was dark and quiet, an unusual sight seeing as at least one brother was usually up late in the kitchen, drinking or having a smoke. That wasn’t the sight that greeted you.

The kitchen was empty of anyone else, and you drank your water slowly. You hoped that things would be better now. You recalled how relieved your father had looked over the past few days, how much softer his features looked, and you desperately hoped that it was because the family was finally on the right track. You made your way back into the hall, glass pressed to your lips, when you paused.

The only light in the living room came from the moon, it’s rays bleeding through the windows and onto the furniture. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take note of the shape that didn’t belong. The shape of a man. Light flooded the room, and all of your breath left you, glass shattering at your feet.

You stared at him in shock, taking in everything from his neat hair to his shiny dark shoes. He was dressed much like he was the first day you met him, a dark grey almost black looking suit hugging his frame. He leaned back in your father’s chair, nursing a glass of Brandy, and it was then that you realized he’d been here for a while.

“Father!”

It was instinctual now, how your father was the first person you ran to. He didn’t respond, and you called for him again, cutting yourself off when a smirk slowly danced along Michael’s lips. Your mind whirled, and dread filled you.

“What are you doing in my house? Where is my father?”

A small chuckle escaped him, eyes twinkling with mirth as he slowly pulled out a cigarette. 

“What do you think I’m doing here, love?”

Your entire body froze, the implication behind his words clear, and you shook your head. You called for Matthew...then Nathaniel...then your uncles and your father again. The only thing that met you was silence, and your throat felt incredibly thick all of a sudden. The weight of your predicament fully settled over you, and you slowly shook your head.

“No,” you breathed in disbelief. “...no.”

The man before you didn’t respond, simply pressing the cigarette between his lips, reaching in his pockets for a light, no doubt.

“I don’t believe you.”

That was what you said, what your lips formed, but your heart and your head didn’t agree. Something didn’t feel right from the moment you woke up, and a part of you that you desperately wished would shut up did believe him. 

“Do you really think your father would allow anyone into his home without his knowledge or permission?”

You watched him pull a drag, smoke filling the air, and you stumbled back, running for the door. You didn’t hear him behind you, and for that you were relieved, but your relief was short lived. Upon swinging the door open, you were met with the sight of John and Arthur Shelby dawdling in your driveway. They appeared to be having a conversation when you opened the door, their voices abruptly cutting off at your appearance. John simply smirked at you from around the smoke in his mouth, Arthur tipping his hat towards you.

“‘Ello, sweetheart.”

With a shriek, you slammed the door shut in their faces, chest heaving with uneven breaths as the situation fully resonated with you. You stumbled back further into the hallway, and Michael was still in the same place as before, nursing a cigarette as you fought to figure out a way out of this.

“You can’t...you can’t do this,” you eventually murmured, glaring at him.

Michael simply fixed you with an even stare, smoke escaping from his nose, the cigarette dancing between his fingers.

“I’m a Peaky Blinder, love. I can do whatever I want.”

He said it with so much conviction that you knew he believed it, and the longer you stared at him, the more you believed it too. You warily glanced around, telling yourself that you might actually have to fight this man, might have to fight to protect what your father had wrongly given away. Even though part of you denied it, you slowly accepted that Michael was telling the truth. Despite the fact that your family’s business and even lives were at stake, your father had no right to trade away what didn’t belong to him.

Michael’s eyes never left you as you stood there, and you finally looked to him again when he cleared his throat. The cigarette rested between his lips as he slipped out of his jacket, and you swallowed at the dark look in his eyes. He took another drag.

“Before you do...whatever it is that you’re about to do…”

He parted his mouth, the smoke swirling in there for a bit before pressing his lips together, tendrils escaping his nose.

“You should know that I’ve shot men in the head with no hesitation. I drug my blade across a man’s throat once and reveled in the taste of his blood on my lips.”

You flinched, taking a step back.

“When Tommy first tried to scare me away, threaten to send me back to the village in which I grew up… I told him about a well there, that I’d blow it up with dynamite if he made me go back...didn’t care if my hands went with it.”

He finished his cigarette, putting the rest of it out, eyes boring into yours as he slowly exhaled the smoke he’d been holding in.

“I just knew it’d be worth it to see those pretty white bricks all over that pretty village green...and I meant every word of that.”

You didn’t respond, and his blue eyes slowly dragged over every part of you, taking you in from your hair all the way to your bare feet, lingering on the thin nightgown in between.

“It’s something about the violence, you see.”

His words unnerved you, and he continued.

“The violence, the blood...the fight...it does something to me. Gets me excited, all riled up, so please…”

He gestured towards you, eyes glinting with something that made your heart stop.

“Do fight back, hit me even… It’ll just make me want to fuck you that much harder.”

The tears finally skipped down your cheeks, and you stumbled back as he stood to his full height. With a shaky breath, you staggered up the stairs, running to the last room at the end of the hall, a guest room. You were quick to pull the window up, looking down below in worry. It was high up, that was for sure, but the alternative was worse.

Before you could even get a foot out, warm hands pressed into your stomach, pulling you back against a broad chest. A startled scream left your lips, and Michael’s hands traveled to your arms, fingers pressed into your skin as he held you tight. You leaned your head away from him as he pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in.

“Your father made a big mistake bringing you around us, eh?”

You couldn’t will your lips to move, too paralyzed with fear and nerves and anxiety for the unknown. The way he touched you was foreign, the scent that clung to him, a mix of cologne and expensive liquor and cigarettes, was foreign. The creeping sensation that blanketed your body was foreign. All of this was foreign, and more tears pooled within your eyes as the inevitable drew closer.

“He thought you’d keep us in line, keep us on leashes...but ever since I saw you, the only thing I wanted to do was take you like a fucking animal.”

You jerked in his hold, fighting to get away from him, but Michael tsk’d. 

“Let’s not spoil this, hmm? You seem like a good girl...if you catch my drift.”

More tears fell at his words, and he hummed.

“You do. You strike me as a well behaved lady of the house...and you girls like for this to be special, yeah? All gentle and loving,” he slowly mocked as he forced you towards the bed.

He shoved you onto it, knees pressing down on either side of you soon after, preventing you from going anywhere. Your tears soaked the sheet, and Michael’s fingers ghosted over your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“I want you to look at me as I fuck you.”

He gently turned you over onto your back, and you stared up at the man before you. Even in the darkness, you could see the blue of his eyes perfectly. They were bright and filled with a hunger that scared you, a hunger you had never been on the receiving end of before. Michael leaned over you, caging you beneath him as he pressed his forehead to yours, soon followed by his lips.

You’d kissed men before, but they were soft sweet nothings that could barely be called a kiss. You knew that if you wanted to marry well, contribute something of substance to your family, you had to be smart about your actions...your reputation. All of the men, realizing that you weren’t going to give them what they wanted, left. Accepting that your family and reputation came first, they always left, and it hurt every single time. 

But it will be worth it.

That’s what you constantly told yourself. After every heartbreak, every sneer, every harsh insult thrown your way about what a frigid bitch you were, you told yourself that it would be worth it. And yet...here you were...beneath a gangster, having your reputation ripped away from you by a man who stole and murdered and wasn’t decent in any way.

Life was funny.

After slipping out of his shirt, the flimsy material floating somewhere behind him, Michael guided your hands to his chest. Your trembling fingers danced along his taut skin, taking note of an imperfection. An old bullet wound, you deduced. The dark-haired man groaned into your mouth, pressing into you, and you could feel him hard beneath his trousers. The reality of what was about to happen seemed to slink around your neck like a noose, and you didn’t even realize that you’d started panting until Michael’s hand found your neck.

“I-I can’t- I can’t do this-.”

He shushed you, kissing you again.

“Behave...and I’ll be good to you. Breathe,” he urged.

You slowly did as he suggested, squeezing your eyes shut as his other hand pushed the smooth material of your nightgown up your legs. One hand was still on your throat as that same hand traveled to his pants, the sound of his zipper deafening in the quiet room. Your whole body went numb for a moment, ears ringing and vision blurring, and when you finally came back to earth, Michael’s hips were pressing against yours, nothing in between you.

He was speaking to you, you noted.

“...what?” you murmured.

“What’s your name, love?”

You swallowed, quickly darting your tongue out to swipe over your lips.

“Y/N.”

He repeated it, clearly liking the taste of it on his tongue. He nodded at you, drinking you in as he ran his eyes over your face, seemingly committing you to memory before sliding into you with one quick thrust. Your nails pressed into his skin, and he hissed, your own lips parting to let out a pained gasp. Michael held himself above you, a low groan escaping him as his forehead touched yours again.

“You feel fucking amazing,” he whispered, nose bumping against yours.

He held himself there for a long time, just feeling you. You weren’t naïve enough to think he did it for your sake, and you got the feeling that he wanted to drag this out for as long as possible. When he did finally move, your chest arched upwards, unable to handle the unfamiliar feeling. His hand was still on your neck, and you wrapped your hand around his wrist.

The feel of him inside of you was strange. You couldn’t describe it, but you felt full...you felt stretched...and in a way, it felt unnatural, but the heat that festered deep within your stomach said otherwise. One of Michael’s hands was pressed into the bed beside your head, holding himself up so that he could look at you. You remembered his words, and too terrified to disobey, you fought to keep your eyes on him.

His face was strained with concentration, eyes flickering between your face and down to where the two of you connected. The hand that was on your neck slid down to your chest, thumb brushing over a heaving breast before resting on your stomach, pinning you down as he snapped his hips into yours. It was too much for you, too much at once, and your lashes fluttered. 

“Look at me,” he roughly breathed.

“I can’t...I can’t,” you panted, head twisting from side to side.

You could hardly focus on anything other than the way he was thrusting into you, taking you to heights you never knew existed. He called your name then, and you reluctantly met his eyes, the hunger in them making you shudder.

“That’s right. Eyes on me, love. Keep your eyes on me while I fuck you,” he murmured.

The smugness in his voice and face made you frown, a spark of anger in you.

“Do you fuck all of your girls like this? Huh?”

He didn’t respond, pink lips simply curving upwards into a humorous smirk.

“...or am I special because you get to ruin my life and go on with yours?” you shakily spat.

Michael slammed into you then, forcing a choked gasp from you.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. You just focus on milking my cock, hmm?”

You wanted to hit him, spit at him, do anything other than lay there and take his unrelenting thrusts, but your body seized before you could do any of that. Your toes curled and your stomach clenched and your body shook as stars exploded behind your eyes. You hadn’t even realized what a moaning mess you had become until Michael paused just to listen to you, just taking you in with something akin to awe on his face.

You didn't have time to catch your breath before he was chasing his own high, hands pressed into your waist so hard you were sure you’d bruise. Your nails dug into his wrists, choked moans tumbling from your mouth as you clenched around him again, just in time for him to spill into you, releasing a long breath as he did so. You clung to him, tears catching in your lashes as you laid there, mind whirling at what you’d just done.

You flinched, shrinking in on yourself when his lips brushed the corner of your mouth just before pulling out of you. You winced at the action, staring up at the ceiling as you heard him moving about. You turned your head when you heard the strike of a match and watched as he lit himself another cigarette, pants just barely settling on his waist.

“So what happens now?” you finally asked, voice low in the dark room. 

Would your father and brothers come through that door tomorrow, pretending that they hadn’t sold you out? Would they be able to even look at you? Stomach the sight of you? Fresh tears kissed your eyes just as Michael spoke.

“Well…”

He took a pull, exhaling the smoke through his nose as he neared you.

“...I’m going to fuck you at least three more times before the night is over.”

You sat up at this, paying no mind to the pain in between your legs as you stared at him with wide eyes. Without realizing it, you gripped the end of your nightgown, pulling it to your knees as if somehow trying to prevent that very thing from happening.

“What-?”

“...and then I want you to pack a bag. Just some things that’ll last you a few days. I’ll be buying you a whole new lot of clothes anyway.”

“Michael-.”

“You’re my girl, now,” he quietly said, voice firm as he stood over you, free hand playing with the strap of your gown as the other held his cigarette to his lips.

You shook your head, staring up at him in disbelief.

“I...no. My family...they-.”

“Sold you away without a second thought.”

Your heart clenched as he threw that in your face, and you turned away as he reached for you. His fingers pinched your chin, jerking you to face him, and you swallowed. He bent down, staring into your eyes.

“You won’t have to worry about that with us...with me.”

He took one more pull of his cigarette before placing it on the nightstand, tendrils of smoke escaping his nose and mouth just before he pressed his lips to yours, fingers pressing into your skin as he settled between your legs.

~

tags: @cocoamoonmalfoy @trinittyy @ziamslarry-blog @a531a​ @s-u-t​ @sunshinechim-98​ @callmechannel​ @lil-hungryy​ @oneoftheprettynerds​ @scissorkidscult​  @madamerubrum  

[euphoricsunflowers]

euphoric - song yuqi

a/n: i am big gay for her she’s so pretty wow. she’s also a sweetie pie we stan. this is my first time writing for any girl group stuff so… tell me if it’s good 👉👈

contains: lesbian sex, dom/sub themes (they switch a bit), bondage, lowkey a size kink

warnings: fem! reader. also i’m big tall so reader is big tall lol deal w it.

rating: R

word count: 1.4k

there was always this… weird tension between you and yuqi. of course, it wasn’t bad. she was always sweet and kind to you and you were always friendly with each other. every now and again though, she’d do something that made you feel things that you probably shouldn’t for a friend. you only hoped you could make her feel the same.

being best friends with soyeon did have its benefits. you basically had a free pass to hanging out with all of her friends, including yuqi. they all seemed to like you, so you stopped being ‘soyeon’s friend’ and became ‘y/nnie’ pretty quickly.

the girls decided to play a game of truth or dare, and of course, the lovely soyeon, who knew about your… complicated feelings regarding yuqi, took advantage.

when it was her turn to assign you a dare, she saw her chance, and she did not dare miss, “make out with anyone here in the hallway closet for ten minutes.”

now look, you could obviously just pick soojin and tell her that soyeon was just being a dick. soojin will probably understand and you could just wait out the clock until you’re released, but something inside you told you to do… something else.

“yuqi?” your voice was faint, but she heard it all the same, “w-would… you be okay with it?”

she blushes, but ultimately nods softly, and stands up to wobble over to you. she takes your hand and you lead her to the small closet. it’s even smaller than you thought when you step inside, but you manage to fit into the closet somewhat easily with yuqi. she’s quite smaller than you, so her head has to rest on your shoulder in order for you to both be somewhat comfortable.

“w-we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, soyeon was just—” you try to reassure her, but you feel something that makes you shut the hell up. yuqi’s pressing feather light kisses to your neck, and they make you giggle from the ticklish feelings. she keeps at it for a while and you think maybe that’s all that’s going to happen tonight until—

you let out a moan as she raises her leg up to create some friction against your heat, and you feel, rather than see, her smirk, “on the contrary, i think we could do something.”

she pulls at the edge of your hoodie, and you get the hint to pull it off, exposing your bare skin to her, “braless, hm?”

“oh you’re the worst,” you mumble, but she laughs. the ten minutes are up, seen by the knocking at the door. you rush to put your hoodie back on, but you’re both a bit disheveled and you both decide to abandon hanging out with the others. soyeon gives you a wink, but you just ignore her.

you pull yuqi upstairs and immediately you lean down to cup her cheeks and take in her taste like you were starved of it for months. and on some level, you had been. you’d been so focused on trying to keep yourself together around her that you never thought of how high you’d feel once you finally gave in. you pull back to murmur to her quickly, “jump.”

she does as you ask, wrapping her legs around your waist as you support her by holding onto her ass. she feels incredible to finally hold and kiss, so much so that you never want to let her leave your arms.

“please please i need more,” she mumbles, and you can feel the power dynamic changing from earlier. you smile at her, giving her exactly what she wants.

“whatever my baby wants.” you whisper in her ear, and she trembles slightly. you rest her on the bed before sliding a hand past her sweats, just faintly touching her over her panties. she whines loudly, obviously upset at the teasing.

“please y/n i can’t handle it—”

“yes you can, darling,” you say, but stop. she opens her eyes to look at you confused, “should we establish safewords?”

she blushes at the thought of ever going so far as to need one, but nods, “diamond. mine’s diamond.”

you think for a second, absentmindedly rubbing your hand against her, finally giving her the friction she needed, “mine can be… pineapple.”

she nods in acknowledgment, but she’s too lost in how your hand feels against her to really give it any thought.

she starts getting louder and louder and, though it’s hard to understand what she’s trying to say, you get the gist of what she wants. you slow down your movements and eventually you stop completely, as she pushes herself up to meet you in a kiss. she flips you over so she’s on top, straddling you at the waist. she looks so small and adorable above you, and you can’t help but giggle. she looks around, and for a second you think to question what she’s looking for, but then she mumbles, “stay still.”

she gets up to rummage through the drawer. you remember that this is soojin’s house, it’s not that weird for yuqi to know where she kept things.

you’re lost in your thoughts when you feel her weight holding you down again. she holds up a leather belt and asks, “is this okay?”

you nod. she pulls off your hoodie for the second time and you move your hands so she’ll have an easier time binding them. she ties them quite loosely, but it’s more for effect than actually restraining you, so it doesn’t really matter. she starts by kissing your lips feverishly, moving down your neck, taking her sweet time at your collarbone, and she finally reaches your breasts. she sucks on one of your nipples while playing with the other one between her fingers. she’s only sucking and licking around, moving back up your chest, before experimentally taking a bite at your collarbone. you strain out a moan, and scramble to say, “if you plan to continue doing that, i hope you know this won’t be the last time we fuck.”

she giggles mischievously to herself, “good thing i want to keep doing this with you, forever and ever.”

she continues her combination of licking, sucking, and biting, and at this point you’re struggling to breath. all the pain from when she bites a bit too hard feels euphoric, but there’s a special kind of ecstasy she’s yet to give you yet, “what do you want me to do, y/nnie?”

“y-yuqi, i need your fingers, or… or your mouth. please just whatever you’re willing to give me.”

“hmm, do you deserve it?” she asks, cutely pressing her index finger against her cheek.

you nod desperately, and apparently, in all the pleasure you were lost in, she pulled down your shorts, because immediately you felt a small lick against your folds that makes you flinch, “someone’s excited.” she murmurs, the vibrations and the feeling of her breath so close to you felt… amazing. it all felt so amazing.

“please stop teasing me,” you say, and she blows against your clit, making you jump, “h-holy shit!”

“i’ll tease you if i want to, my cutie. doesn’t it feel amazing? i’m so much smaller than you and you could probably get out of those restraints and overpower me if you wanted to, but you won’t, right?” you nod, “right, so be a good girl and stay still.”

you do your best to stay still, but your best is not very good. thankfully she seems to be in a forgiving mood because in a few minutes your moans get louder and your hands find her hair and move her head just how you need. you start to see stars as you’re pushed over the edge soon enough and she helps you ride out your orgasm before sitting up between your legs. she still has a innocent smile on her face despite what you both just did.

you move your hands down and she starts to undo the belt. you sigh from the pleasure still sparking through you, “here, give me a minute, i’ll take care of you too.”

she shakes her head, “save it for another time. there’s some water on the nightstand. do you need anything?”

“no,”

“then i’ll get going,” she says, and as much as you want to reach out for her to stay with you, you don’t, and she doesn’t, “this was fun, y/nnie.”

and then she’s gone.

[the-darklings]

—𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒖𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒕𝒉;

pairing: quentin beck x reader

word count: 2.8k+

summary: “He could spin you a thousand dreams, a thousand realities, but it would still end the same. With him.”

notes: Strap in lads, we’re going on a ride. Beware spoilers for far from home. Enjoy!

‘unravelling’ miniseries: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | . . | 06 |

gif credit (x)

“Should I be concerned?”

“No, sir.”

“Good,” Fury intoned flatly, his visible eye scrutinizing you carefully, shrewdly, “Cause the last thing I need right now is to be worrying whether you’ve been compromised. Have you?”

Your gaze focused on a spot just above his head, and you kept your expression empty of any emotion when you answered. “No, sir.”

Fury peered at you for another long minute before his expression lightened somewhat. “Beck is a good man,” Fury said slowly, watching you just as closely, “The type of good we could really use more of around here. I respect that you may have formed some sort of...connection. But right now, I need you both focused on handling this threat. Think you can do that for me?”

Your clasped hands tightened into fists behind your back, the warmth of Quentin’s ring warming the skin of your palm. “Yes, sir.” 

. . .

“Whatever happens, I’m glad we met.”

What was he doing? Oh, god no. 

The ring in your hand felt like it was scorching through your skin and you held it so tightly, you had no doubt it was going to leave an imprint.

The Fire Elemental roared its fury, and from where you stood next to Hill and Fury, you could just make out Quentin’s head turning in your direction for a moment. He must have said something that was lost to the roar of the monster because the next moment familiar green glow started surrounding him. His body convulsed, and you just made out Peter’s terrified shout before Quentin drove straight for the Elemental. 

You didn’t realize you were running till the blinding green light took your sight, causing you to stumble against the debris. You knees creaked as you braced against a fallen chunk of a fallen building, scratching your palm on the coarse stone. Spots danced in your vision and you shook your head a few times, trying to locate Quentin or Peter in the leftover chaos. 

The Elemental was gone. 

Not even a trace of it remained—only the mayhem the fight with it had left behind. It was while taking in the damage that you spotted Peter—now clad in all black—rushing towards a lifeless figure on the ground. 

Your stomach sank at the sight, and you dashed forward too, your fingers still impossibly rigid around the band of metal in your palm. 

“Beck?” 

Peter’s voice was small and thin in a way that told you he was barely holding himself together. It was clear that this struck too close to the memory of having to kneel in front of Tony as he faded away. 

You rushed to them, falling hard on your knees next to the motionless Quentin. His face was covered in dust and dirt, small beads of sweat still clinging to his brow as he lay unmoving on his back. 

“Quentin?” you whispered thickly, hovering your hand over his burning cheek. “Quentin, can you hear us?”

Your fingers started to tremble the longer he remained unresponsive, and you heard Peter’s breathing pick up in panic. 

“Quentin?” you repeated with more force, your fingers coming to rest against his cheek. 

A raspy groan filled the still evening air, and his head turned slightly to nuzzle into your hand, his eyes fluttering open weakly. 

“(Name)? Am—am I dead?”

A gust of relieved breath escaped you and you laughed weakly, shaking your head, “No you’re not. Quentin, you did it. You destroyed it.”

His expression softened with wonderment and he exhaled softly, eyes shutting briefly, “You’re safe then.”

“Oh, thank god,” Peter exhaled shakily and you chuckled, nodding your head at him in reassurance. 

At least for tonight, you had avoided more casualties. 

You looked back at Quentin only to find him already gazing at you, his eyes half-lidded. It was hard to find appropriate words to say to him after what just happened, and especially after the bombshell he dropped on you before the battle. 

Married.

Some version of you had loved this man. And you could see why. 

Swallowing thickly, you pulled back your hand from the warmth of his cheek, already missing the scratch of his heavy stubble against your skin. 

His expression fell slightly when you drew back but he schooled his features within seconds, grasping firmly onto the hand Peter eagerly offered to him. 

“You okay, Peter?” you questioned as you navigated Quentin’s weakened body into a sitting position. “No injuries?”

“Yeah—no, I’m totally okay,” Peter quipped back right away, still sounding a bit frazzled. It was hard to keep your composure under these circumstances, so it was understandable. “Just peachy.”

When Hill and Fury found you moments later, you weren’t surprised to hear about Fury’s offer to Quentin. He would fit in, and Fury was right, this world needed someone like him. 

Someone who would be willing to sacrifice themselves to save the world. Someone who would not only be a good leader but also respected and liked. The team needed that—now more than ever, and Quentin could be that missing link. 

You fidgeted with the ring in your hand, stiffly standing to the side when Fury turned his attention to Peter. 

“The choice is yours.”

Your bones almost groaned from how hard you were clenching your jaw. It was only respect and sheer force of will that stopped you from opening your mouth and snapping at Fury that what he was doing was not only unfair but also cruel. 

Fury had always been a ruthless man—he lived a world where he had to be one, but he was always fair too. That’s why you worked by his side for all these years. Not because he went around putting psychological pressure on grieving teenagers.  

“C’mon, I’m treating you both to drinks,” Quentin spoke up and you blinked yourself out of your stupor, your fidgeting fingers stilling for a moment. 

“I can’t,” you said softly, ignoring the way Quentin’s eyes drilled into you at your reply. “You two should go ahead though.”

“What, why?” Peter spoke up, turning his doe eyes your way, “It—it might be fun. Just like the old days,” he added, a touch softer and your heart twisted. 

The old days.

Yeah. You still remembered those. How Peter used to come to Stark Industries under the guise of his “internship” which always ended up being either training or you two crashing Tony’s private lab. 

Peter hung onto every word—and actually understood most of the theory—behind whatever Tony was rattling on about on the day. 

Tony acted like having you two crash his space was the worst thing in the world—often reminding Peter to stop drooling all over his workbenches—but you knew he secretly enjoyed having attentive guests who at least got the gist of what he was talking about. 

The memories of those visits—the pizza and the laughter and the science you rarely understood—were precious to you. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how much they meant to Peter now, having lost Tony the way he did. 

“After heroes do battle, us mortals have to do the cleanup, kiddo,” you told him with a wry half-grin. “And in case you haven’t noticed, the square is literally on fire.”

It was Quentin’s voice that cut through the night next. “Peter, can you give us a minute?”

The boy glanced slowly from you to Quentin before bobbing his head repeatedly, “Uh, yeah. I’ll just be—I’ll just wait...over there somewhere.”

The stretch of silence that fell around you wasn’t uncomfortable but it wasn’t tranquil either. Tension laid thick over you both, and you absentmindedly rubbed the smooth edge of his ring. 

“If you’re angry at me—”

You laughed; an exhausted, almost disbelieving sound, “For what? Being willing to die for a world that’s not even yours? For being brave? For saving everyone here?”

“For scaring you.”

His words were soft, kind, and you felt your lips tremble before you pursed them firmly. He outstretched his hand towards you, and your eyes fluttered shut when you felt his hotter fingers on your face.

“It’s fine, you don’t owe me anything, Quentin,” you told him frankly, turning your face away and letting his hand drop. “Take care of him for me, will you? I think he admires you a lot and he could use someone like you in his life,” you requested with a nod in the general direction Peter had wandered off to.   

You couldn’t quite pinpoint the expression on Quentin’s face as he peered at you, but you did know that it was making you feel exceedingly flustered the longer he did. The burning intensity that had warmed his eyes was impossible to ignore or escape.

��And what about you?” he asked, his words so soft it felt more like a silky caress against your senses. “Could you make space for me in your life too?”

Shaking your head with a light laugh, you peered at him with narrowed eyes, “That’s dangerous talk Mr Beck,” you pointed out idly, but you still reached out and brushed a spot of dirt just above his brow. “But I think I might be a little fascinated with you as well. Just a bit though. Can’t have that head too big for the fishbowl just yet.”

Yeah, you liked his laugh a little too much. 

. . .

After Quentin and Peter left, the cleanup work began in earnest. 

It was a slow slog because the authorities were asking one redundant question after another but thankfully Hill usually dealt with the authorities, leaving you with the management of the actual cleanup. Fury was simply overseeing the process as a whole and was already busy making plans for the trip to Berlin. 

It was fine. 

The mission was over. 

After tonight, you could finally go home. 

Home. You weren’t sure it could even be considered as such anymore.

After losing your dad, Tony and even Nat, nothing felt real anymore. In your line of work, you didn’t have a home of four walls and a wooden door. Instead, you had a band of unlikely people banding together to achieve something greater. For you, a family had been disgruntled arguments about breakfast every day with people made of flesh and blood. 

Family had been the Avengers. 

But then came Ultron, and Siberia, and finally Thanos. 

And now with three graves and memories that you tried your best to bottle down, nothing had felt safe, familiar, since. 

Except…

Your fingers slid into your jean pocket, brushing against the ring that sat safely tucked away and you smiled faintly. 

Ironically enough, you knew what all three of them would say to you in regards to Quentin. 

“There you are.”

Your gun was out of the hostler faster than the figure in front of you could react. Quentin’s face slackened with shock, hands flying up, familiar green vapour curling around his fingers. 

“Woah, just me.”

The breath inside your lungs rushed out all at once and you suppressed a groan. “Not...the best idea to sneak up someone like that. Can your mist even stop a bullet?” 

His lips parted but he hesitated in answering, making you drop your arm in disbelief, and slip your gun back into its hostler. 

His hands lowered as well, the green disappearing from around his fingers and you eyed each other silently for a prolonged moment. 

“Were you waiting for me?” you wondered jokingly, your eyebrows arching upwards when you realized he was standing right outside your room. 

Quentin didn’t seem to share your humour, however. His expression was drawn, lips tight and shoulders tense. 

“Fury told me. About you flying back to the US in the morning.”

“Oh.”

Quentin took two controlled steps towards you, and it was hard to determine if he was more angry or annoyed. His expression kept dancing between minute twitches that indicated from one to another. 

“Why—”

“Because we won,” you cut in before he could get more upset. “Because we won, Quentin. You avenged your world—had almost died doing it too. You were going for celebratory drinks with a kid who needed it just as much as you did. Because we won and Fury as good as offered you a position with the Avengers. And I...I wanted to just enjoy it and not think about it.” 

“Don’t go.”

It sounded like a plea with sharp edges of steel wrapped around the syllables, almost making them sound like an order.

Quentin took a step, and then another, till there was barely any distance left between you at all. “I know I have no right to ask you this. I know. I don’t ever want to pressure you into anything, but come with me. Come to Berlin. I need you by my side.”

“Quent,” you soothed and noticed how his gaze heated at the nickname. “It will be a few weeks—maybe months—at most. When Fury makes it official you can stay at the new Compound with others and maybe then...then we can get to know each other properly, without all this madness.”

Quentin cupped your face, the warmth of his hands sinking into you and momentarily hitching your breath. 

He gazed at you with a tilt of his head and an odd little smile on his face. 

And then he kissed you. 

It started out soft; a gentle, silky brush of his mouth against yours. It was the type of kiss every girl and boy hoped to receive from their crush—the type of kiss that made butterflies explode in your stomach and your toes curl.

Then Quentin’s head tilted and he became a black hole. 

A devouring, dangerous thing whose gravitational pull was proving to be impossible to escape. 

The switch was so sudden you could only gasp against the intensity of his lips, tongue and teeth, exploring and marking every inch of your mouth. His mouth was hot, his teeth eager to nibble and claim, causing you to muffle a groan of pleasure every few seconds.

The only offset to the hardness of his kiss was the delicate way his thumbs traced over your cheeks and jawline. The softest, most delicate touches that made heat bubble in the pit of your stomach. 

You hadn’t even realized you hit the corridor wall till the new level of support registered. There was hardly time to force air into your lungs before your fingers reached for him, tangling eagerly in his hair. 

Tugging on the rich strands, only seemed to urge him further, a subdued groan vibrating through his chest with every jerk. It was like he wanted—but couldn’t—hold himself back. And that was just fine by you. 

Pressing even closer, you sank your nails into the back of his neck, a near desperate moan slipping from your mouth when he grunted in appreciation again, hips pressing into yours. Harder.

When he finally pulled back for air, it was like seeing Quentin for the first time.

A wild, hungry thing stared back at you. His perfectly neat hair was in disarray and his pupils were so dark it was hard to tell his eyes were blue at all.   

His stubble scraped intently against your cheek when he trailed his lips up your jaw, his words like molten honey against the shell of your ear when he whispered, “Stay with me.”

You may have been a moth, but he wasn’t just a flame. 

No, he was a star going into a supernova, and you no longer minded the idea of burning and unravelling in his arms.

. . .

Quentin was going to buy Peter Parker a fruit basket. 

The biggest, most colourful one he could find. 

The kid had truly gone above and beyond the call of duty and played his part to perfection. 

EDITH was his now. 

Finally, after all these years, the key to everything was under his control and he could already see his victory in sight.

The battle was won, Fury had welcomed him with open arms and…

There was you. 

You, you, you.

Peter had done everything Quentin had wanted him to do. So easy.

It should have been easy with you after this too. He had practically been on cloud nine after his toast speech, venturing back to the base to find you. There has been a grin on his face and a pep in his step before Fury had to go ahead and ruin it. 

You were leaving. Going back to the Avengers HQ back in the US because the threat was officially terminated and you were no longer needed. 

As if he could have that. As if the thought alone didn’t make him bristle with anger. Fury had picked up on his immediate irritation but did Quentin care? Not really. After London, it won’t matter anyway. 

But with you, it wasn’t so simple. He wanted you to be there when he became an Avenger. He wanted you to want to be with him. He wanted to tell you the truth and convince you that he had to do this. 

He could make you believe whatever he wanted. But—

He could spin you a thousand dreams, a thousand realities, but it would still end the same. With him. 

But—

He wanted, he wanted—

Fuck.

. . .

an: uh-oh, doc. seems like the bastard man is catching the disease called “human emotions”. on a serious note, thank you so much for the love. you guys amaze me every day. strap yourselves in, we only have 2 more parts to go. 

tagging: @val-kay-rie @t-swizzle-owns-me @sorryyoureoutofmyleague@songofcosplay @rooftopexy @leilei-draws @go-commander-kim @kusooi @bishop-bxrnes @donkeyshrong @antisocialshipper @whistlingwillows @dumbshittydoodles @fvckjamesbarnes @kittyv @qhbr2013 @cccecilia77 @bunnie-kookie @sataninhighheelz @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13 @tired-night-owl @crimson-knuckles @bees-are-more-important (thank you, everyone! hope you liked it!)

[is0gild]

Ice Cream and Fire Oven Pizza - Chapter 2

Pairing: Elsa x Lea/Axel || Side Pairing: Riku x OC

Summary: Modern AU. She's an introvert ball of nerves who works at Ice Palace, a mall food court ice cream shop. He's the outgoing, sassy goofball who works at the Pizza Planet across the way. Hilarity, snark, and fluffy romcom hijinks ensue.

Word Count: 6,462

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Credit for super friggin’ cute and super friggin’ amazing cover art goes to the super friggin’ talented ky-jane here on tumblr!

The first thought I had when I woke up was…

 ...who the heck painted my ceiling green?!

Because last I checked, it was a midnight blue… or maybe more of a cobalt blue?  Azure, possibly…?

Whatever it was, it was most definitely not green.

I narrowed my eyes up at it groggily before deciding I didn’t care and rolled over in bed, curling onto my side.  Which led me to my second question…

...where had this frigging baby crib next to my nightstand come from and what the actual frick was it doing in my room?

No… forget the crib… what was the deal with the absolute mountain of Huggies boxes stacked up behind it?

Either this had to be just one of the weirdest, dumbest, not to mention lamest pranks Anna had ever pulled on me or…

...or this wasn’t my room.

I shot up in bed, wide eyes darting about.  Yup, definitely not my room.  Not unless I had decided to do a few home improvements in my sleep and say, I don’t know, move my door to the total opposite wall.  Or how about the entirely different furniture, complete with a giant shelf packed tight with more baby books than a person could possibly ever need in one lifetime?  Then of course there was that heaping pile of toys and stuffed animals stacked in one corner. Did I mention the sheer amount of Huggies? Because dear god, the Huggies…

I was going to have nightmares about drowning in an endless sea of them, mark my word.

It was as I was shuddering at that mental image that it finally all came rushing back to me and I gasped - my wedding! My escape! My shoplifting! My breakdown on Rayne’s doorstep! My-

Wait, wait, go back… Rayne!

...that’s probably where I was.  Still in her apartment.  But… I didn’t remember this room… not walking into it, not even so much as a glimpse of it, just… not at all...

Placing a cool hand to my forehead, I searched my muddled brain some more for the details of what happened last night. Or, seemingly last night anyway, if the early morning light streaming in through the window curtains was any clue.  I remembered… her inviting me in… discovering she was married and expecting, which would somewhat explain the almost disturbing amount of diapers… and then I’d-

Oh dear lord, I had utterly and one hundred percent lost my absolute marbles.  Oh gosh, what must she think of me…

I couldn’t remember much after that. Nothing, in fact. My memories just abruptly stopped. Had I... fainted?

Well I wasn’t going to get any answers if I kept hiding in here. Even less so if I curled up into a ball under the covers and waited for the earth to swallow me and my shame up whole, as lovely and tempting a thought as that sounded.

Sighing, I put one bare foot on the carpet, then the other and reluctantly arose. I spotted my… well... “my” ankle boots tucked neatly next to one of the bedpost legs, prompting me to look down at myself to see that I was still in the, erm… borrowed sundress, now thoroughly wrinkled.  My hair was still in its braid, though calling it that would have been generous as it was now more just one big frazzled knot.  Tossing it back over my shoulder with a sigh, I approached the door, reaching a hand out towards it. My fingers hovered over the knob, hesitating for a split second before twisting it open and stepping out.

A rapid click-clack filled the air as I quietly stepped into the familiar living room from the night before.  It didn’t take long to spot the source. Rayne was seated at the table in the dining space, fingers quickly tapping away at her laptop keys. She looked like she had just gotten out of bed, still in pyjamas and her hair thrown into a loose, messy bun at the nape of her neck.  She had a pencil tucked behind one ear and the light from the screen reflected off the lenses of her black-rimmed glasses, her entire focus trained on her work. 

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirped, not looking up nor putting the brakes on her typing.  “Be with ya in just a sec.”

“Take your time,” I murmured, not wanting to interrupt whatever she was in the middle of. I figured it was the very least I could do after having a total core meltdown in her living room yesterday.

Not quite sure what to do with myself in the meantime, I once more reached for the tangled-mess-formerly-known-as-braid that was my hair, idly toying with it as I glanced around. It didn’t seem like there was much more to the apartment than what I’d already seen.  To my right, there was a short hallway with three more doors, each closed. Presumably one another bedroom where the happy couple slept, one a restroom, which would make the third a…?

Letting my curiosity get the better of me, I stretched a hand out towards the nearest mystery door to take a quick peek.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Rayne sing-songed while otherwise still fully engrossed in her laptop.

I froze, fingertips brushing the doorknob as I turned my head to blink at her.  Then I pursed my lips to one side.  “...closet bursting full of baby diapers?”

Her typing abruptly silenced and she directed an eyebrow quirk my way.  “Actually, yes. How did you know?”

“Wild guess,” I said dryly.  “I’m sorry, did you say you were having a baby or a litter?”

“Shush, you, I’m nesting,” she harrumphed, fingers blurring across the keyboard once more.

For now, maybe it’d be better if I kept my hands to myself. Who knew what other potential death traps Macguyvered out of baby paraphernalia lurked about this place?  Hugging myself, I trudged over to the dining table, took a seat opposite of Rayne and waited.

Hardly another minute ticked by before she gave a satisfied final tap to the laptop.  “Annnnnnd done!” she beamed, clicking the device shut.  She then leaned forward, resting her elbows atop the table and propping her chin on her interlaced fingers as she regarded me.  “So…”

“So…” I fidgeted some more with my frazzled knot, averting my gaze. “...on a scale of one to off-my-rocker, how crazy did I sound last night?”

She closed her eyes with a bright grin.  “Oh, you were batshit, sweetpea.”

I winced.  “That’s... what I thought.  Sorry.”

“Don’t be!” she brushed it off with a flick of her hand.  “It was the most excitement I’ve had in weeks, so actually I’m a little grateful.”

My mouth twisted into a wry grin.  “Well then… you’re welcome, I guess. I’m glad my neurotic episode could brighten an otherwise dull moment in your life.”

“Oh hush, you know I love you.” Crossing her arms, she leaned back in her chair with a sigh.  “Now it was a bit hard to keep up, but let me see if I got the gist here.  You,” she struck up a finger, “were going to get married…”

I hung my head, “Yeah.”

Another digit rose.  “...but realized you didn’t love him…”

My shoulders slouched as I sunk down in my seat, my voice getting smaller as I said, “...yeah.”

Up went the third.  “...that you never loved him…”

Grimacing, I slumped forward, pressing my face into the table, “Uh huh…”

“...and so you dumped him at the altar.”

I groaned, banging my forehead against the hard, wooden surface.  “I am the worst.”

“Aw, sweetheart, no.” The scraping of her chair against the floor could be heard as she scooched around the table closer to me before I felt her hand rubbing light circles against my back.  “You… just got scared is all, and you panicked… I mean, really? You did the right thing.”  I turned my head, resting my cheek against the table now as I gave her a dull stare.  She pressed on hastily, “No, seriously! If you’d had stayed, you wouldn’t have been happy.  He wouldn’t have been happy.  It would have been a terrible marriage, your lives would have been miserable… really, you did him a favor!  I mean, sure, could you have handled the break up a bit better?” Her face scrunched up slightly before she flung her hands up in the air with a shrug.  “...Maybe?”

“Ugh!” I full on faceplanted into table once more.  “The absolute worst! I deserve to be locked in a tiny, cramped box filled with spiders and worms and dung beetles and moldy, rotten eggs and, and anchovies and-”

“Sweetie, sweetie, you’re spiraling again,” she cut me off gently, taking hold of my shoulder and pulling me back to sit up straight once more and look her in the eye.  “The point is, I’m sure he’ll understand.”  My eyelids drooped at her.  “Eventually! I’m sure he’ll understand eventually. Just… give him some time, let this whole thing blow over, then you two can talk. Get some closure. Okay?”

I looked down at my lap with a sigh and just gave a weak, noncommittal shrug.

“Okay then.  Now,” she hesitated, gnawing her lower lip.  “...can I ask… when you made a run for it, why of all places did you come to my apartment?  I’m always, always here for you, you know I am, but it’s been… god, I don’t even know how long… years since we even last spoke. You didn’t have someone else, any other friends or anyone you could have turned to?”

I swallowed hard and slowly shook my head.  “I don’t… have any friends. Not really. It’s… always been hard for me to make them. I’ve just never been good with people. You remember how I was as a child back when we were at summer camp, all nervous and awkward and hardly able to string two words together.”

She gave me a small smile.  “Yeah, and all the other kids didn’t even give you a chance, just figured you were some snooty, rich brat who thought yourself better than them and couldn’t see you were just shy.” Her grin turned a touch wicked. “I pummeled them good though and made them regret ever picking on you.”

One corner of my mouth twitched upward and I nodded. “I was always so thankful for your friendship.  I’m… sorry we drifted apart over the years.”

“S’okay,” she waved a dismissive hand. “We lived so far apart from each other, only seeing each other every summer.  It’s just something that happens sometimes as people grow older, I suppose. But hey… looks like we’re not quite done with each other yet.”

“Guess not,” I chuckled softly before my face sunk into a frown once more. “I never did get any better at making friends.  Everyone I know now… they’re all my parent’s friends… or they're his friends…”

She tipped her head to one side.  “His?”

I gave her a pointed look.  “Him.”

“Oh. The dumpee.  Right.”

“They’re all just… they’re not people I really know, they’re… acquaintances, you know? And they’re all from munny, they’re all from that world, they were all at the wedding, they… none of them would have understood. Except for Anna, but she still lives with Mother and Father, so best she could do was help me escape. But after that?”  I fell silent, shaking my head.

Her brow furrowed.  “What about your home? Couldn’t you have gone there?”

I gave a derisive snort. “With what munny? I fled in my wedding dress, so I didn’t even have my phone on me, much less my wallet, so it’s not exactly like I could've called an Uber. Besides, even if I could have, that’d have been the last place I went.  My parents pay for my condo and after what I’ve done, I can’t face them. Not ever again. I’m never going back… Mother, Father, my old life, all of it... it’s the past now.” My face hardened as I murmured, “The past is in the past.”

She blinked at me a couple times.  “Don’t you think you’re maybe being a bit over dramatic? It’s your parents. They love you, no matter what. I mean, sure, maybe they’ll be a lil pissed, but-”

“No, you don’t understand,” I shook my head with a scowl. “What I’ve done… I did it in front of all their friends, their colleagues, their… I’ve embarrassed them in front of so many important people. And don’t even get me started on how much they spent on the wedding that I didn’t even show up to,” I grimaced, now squeezing the giant knot that was my hair.  “I had a… we had… they had a plan for me, for my whole future, and I just… blew it all up and threw it back in their faces. So no, they won’t just be pissed, they’ll be furious… we’re talking yelling, screaming, we’re talking Hulk smash, we’re talking end of days, wrath raining down from the heavens kind of mad here. They’re going to cut me off and…” I gulped, slumping down further into my chair, eyes downcast as I whispered, “...and disown me.”

Rayne placed a hand on top of one of mine and I glanced up at her again as she said, “You should call them. But maybe… just give them a little time to cool off first?  In the meantime, it’s a good thing you found me again.” She smiled and I couldn’t help a tiny one of my own in return.  With a couple pats to my hand, she added, “What luck you chose my town to get hitched in, huh? Talk about coincidence! What would you have even done if you’d decided to pull your lil disappearing act in a whole other city?”

“Actually, we were deciding between a few venues in different cities to host the ceremony in.”  I frowned thoughtfully.  “But something kept pulling me back to Radiant Garden in Twilight Town. I think… it was because of you. Subconsciously, I was already planning an escape route weeks ago. You were already my way out, my rope made of blankets hanging out a window, it just... took me a while to realize it, I suppose.”

“Well, happy to be your blanket rope any day, boo,” she tapped my nose with a grin.  “A lil warning next time would be nice though, kay? Ya know, just a quick heads up, something like, ‘hey, I’m planning on making like a banana and splitting from my own wedding and need a place to crash’ will do.”

I breathed a short laugh.  “Noted, though I don’t really plan on making a habit of this.”

“Speaking of plans, any ideas what your next step’ll be? What exactly is your plan here?”

“Ugh, don’t get me started,” I rolled my eyes. “Already had this talk with my reflection yesterday and trust me, she was totally useless.”  Rayne stared at me blankly and I cocked my head at her.  “What?”

“...context, sweetie.”

“Oh, right.” I suppose there were still a few dots that I needed to connect for her.  “Well… after Anna helped me escape, I needed a change of clothes. If I kept parading around town in my wedding gown, it probably wouldn’t have been long before my parents tracked me down. Luckily, first store I stumbled across was a used clothing shop. After I changed into this,” I gestured towards the crinkled mess of a sundress I was wearing, “right then and there in the dressing room is when my panic attack went into full swing and I sort of got into a lively debate with the mirror about where my future was heading. That was about as effective as you might imagine,” I grumbled the last part.  “But then I thought of you and asked the person working there for a phone book.”

“Ah.” She looked past me to the coffee table in the living room, where the White Pages had been left, still rumpled but now dried of my tears.  “That explains that, I guess. But… it’s a phone book, why didn’t you just call-” She paused abruptly, eyes lighting up as it clicked.  “...busted phone?”

I nodded. “Busted phone.”

Her eyebrows knit together now, voice quaking with hardly contained laughter as she asked, “So the next logical step to you was to steal the phone book?”

My eyes darted to the left. “...yeah.”

“As opposed to, ya know, borrowing a pencil and jotting down the addresses on a scrap of paper? Like a sane person?”

I huffed out a soft growl, wrenching at my tangled knot once more.  “Hi, have you met me? Not good with people, remember? My brain just shuts down and I get all, I dunno… chicken with its head cut off. And being on the lam after going rogue on my wedding day? Did not help matters when it came to thinking straight, believe me.”

She snerked, ruffling my bangs.  “Oh you poor, sweet, socially inept weirdo you! If it makes you feel any better, you’re in good company. As you might recall, I myself am about as eloquent as a potato.”

“But twice as pretty,” a third voice chimed in and we looked over just as Riku used his foot to shut the front door behind him, smirk in place and bearing a styrofoam cup carrier tray with three steaming drinks in it.

“Rude,” Rayne deadpanned, removing the pencil from behind her ear to flick it at him.

He sidestepped it without breaking stride, lips twitching wider. “Not even. You know how pretty I think potatoes are.”

“Dork,” she shook her head as he came to a stop next to her and planted a kiss atop her forehead, depositing one of the drinks on the table in front of her. 

These two? Actually kind of adorable.

But also… ugh. Love. Gross.

She smiled, bringing the cup up to her nose with a curious sniff. “Mmmmm, pumpkin spice? How did you manage to swing that this time of year?”

“Aqua,” he said, making his way over towards me now but eyes still on his wife. “She’s squirreled away a secret stash in the back just for you.”

“Bless that woman, she’s an absolute angel,” she sighed happily, blowing on the beverage before taking a cautious sip.

He gave the two remaining cups a quick glance before handing one to me with a friendly grin.  “A little birdie told me you’re a fan of peppermint.”

“You remembered,” my eyes crinkled as I looked to Rayne, who merely winked at me. I felt the pleasant warmth from the cup seep into my fingers as I inhaled the aroma deeply. Sure enough, it was some sort of minty mocha blend. I gazed up at Riku, managing a shy, tiny smile.  “Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

“Don’t even worry about it,” he brushed off. “By the way, we haven’t officially been introduced yet. I’m-”

“Riku,” I nodded. “That much at least managed to slip past the fog of crazy and reach my brain yesterday… nice to meet you. Looks like you already know me by now,” I held up the drink he’d gifted me, pointing to where Elsa was scrawled in sharpie across it.  Then I grimaced somewhat as I put it down on the table, fingers playing with the coffee sleeve wrapped around the cup.  It had a grinning feline face printed on it with the words Lucky Cat Café printed underneath. “...sorry by the way... about last night.”

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry for. Sounds like you were in a tough spot and needed a friend.” He stood beside Rayne once more, resting a tender hand on her back as she leaned into him a bit.  “And any friend of Ray’s is a friend of mine. Happy to help in whatever way we can.”

“Thanks…” I murmured, still staring hard at my to-go cup.  The side opposite of the logo had a small blurb of a story recanting how before it became a chain, the first Lucky Cat was a humble little shop in San Fransokyo run by a woman and her two nephews. “...you’re both too kind, really…” I paused with a sigh and a shake of my head, “but I’ve imposed on you both too much already. Thank you so much for letting me stay the night, but I couldn’t possibly ask for anything more from either of you. In fact, I should just go.  Just… give me a few minutes to get myself together and then I’ll leave you both in peace again.”

Rayne narrowed her eyes at me. “You will do no such thing!”

I rose from my chair, “No, seriously, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me, I’ll be fine. I’ll figure something out.”

What though? Good question. Was still working on that part.

Her eyelids drooped as she set an elbow on the table and leaned forward.  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you still have a bit of a munny problem, as in you don’t have any.”

I gave a weak laugh and shrugged, “Psh, details.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “And just where do you think you’ll sleep while you’re broke off your ass?”

“I have… prospects…”

“...that wouldn’t have anything to do with the box you mentioned yesterday?”

My eyes shifted.  “And Carol, can’t forget about her.”

Somehow, Rayne did not look reassured.  “And Carol would be?”

Boy, were my fingers really getting tangled in my frazzled knot now. “A… a cockroach?”

“A cockroach,” she repeated, voice flat.

“A hypothetical cockroach,” I clarified with a nod.

“That doesn’t make it better,” she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, there’s no way I’m letting my friend live in a box-”

“Not just any box! A Rolex box,” I interjected hastily. The silence stretched and I floundered a bit under her unamused stare. “So… you know, like… a really nice box.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, no. Not happening. You’re staying with us.”

I shook my head, waving my hands back and forth in front of me. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly! I don’t want to be any more of a burden than I’ve already been and besides, you don’t have any space for me, not with the baby on the way and-”

“The jellybean won’t be here for another six months at least,” she cut in, looking down to place a gentle hand on her belly. “We were going to turn the spare room into a nursery, but we can clear all the baby stuff out for now and you can use it at least until the kiddo arrives. If you need it for longer, well then, we’ll figure it out at that time.”

“But-”

“Oof!” Riku grunted as Rayne shoved him forward with a smack to his rear.  Rubbing his posterior, he looked from her to me.  “We, er… we ask that you-” He hissed in pain as she pinched his arm, narrowing her gaze up at him.  “I mean, we insist,” he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, whispering, “insist, right?” She gave a firm nod. Clearing his throat, he continued, “We insist that you stay with us. We, uh… won’t take no for an answer.”

Well… when one makes such a super sweet and super coerced offer like that, how could I possibly refuse?

Still I hesitated, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. “I suppose...only if it won’t be too much of a bother… and this’ll of course only be until I can find a more permanent solu-”

“Then it’s settled!” Rayne leapt up from her chair and I staggered as she tackled me in a death-grip hug. “Welcome to your new home, roomie!”

I couldn’t resist a small smile at that. It was fleeting however as the corners of my mouth turned down once more. “That’s only one problem solved though, what about the million others? There’s still my parents, my ex, my- oh gosh, I have an ex now. My first ex. How weird is that? What am I supposed to even do with an ex?! Like what, do I… send him cards now? Like around Christmas? Or is that too impersonal? Maybe this is more of a fruit basket situation... Oh! And munny! I have to figure out what I’m going to do about that now, not to mention my whole life and future and-”

“Stop,” she put a finger to my lips, silencing my babbling. “Breathe. Why do I get the feeling I’m going to be reminding you to do that a lot now?” she huffed softly. “Just… baby steps, okay? I know it all seems like a lot right now, everything is one big fat question mark, but it’ll all get figured out.  You’ve already made a little progress already.”

I blinked.  “...I have?”

“Yes! For starters, you’re not homeless! But also, think about it… you’re already doing better than you were last night. I mean, at least you’re no longer a complete basket case.”

“I suppose that’s true,” I muttered, absently wringing my hands together. Not a complete basket case… now I was only like twelve percent of one.

Okay, fine, more like sixty percent.

“See? It’s still scary, yes, but not as scary and overwhelming as it was yesterday! All you needed was a little space along with a good night’s rest to gain some perspective.”

I slowly eased back down into the chair. “I guess you’re right… things don’t seem as bad today. Still bad, very, very bad, but… not as much as last night. Heh… it’s funny how some distance can make everything seem small.”

“And it’ll just keep getting easier, believe me,” Rayne rubbed my shoulder as she too took a seat once more. “Just look at this as a new beginning.”

My eyebrows knit together. “A new beginning?”

She nodded. “Yeah, like… okay, what was your life like before? Before you flew the coop, before this whole mess when everything was all status quo, what was it like with your parents?”

A low hum escaped me. “Well, I guess I always just did as I was told. I got the grades my parents wanted me to get, socialized with the groups my parents wanted me to socialize with, went to the university my parents wanted me to go to, dated the guy I thought my parents would want me to date… never did any wrong, always followed the rules… I was always just the good girl I felt I had to be. Being their eldest child, I felt I had an image to maintain, that I must always do what was expected of me, that I owed it to Mother, to Father, to the family name.”

“Okay, sure, but now all of that?” She smirked at me. “You can just forget about it! No more right or wrong and you can take those stupid, stuffy rules and just throw them out the window! This is a new start for you. Now you get to decide what you want for yourself, no one else.  You’re free!”

I stiffened at that, blinking a couple times as her words sunk in.

...no right, no wrong… no rules for me?

I’m… free?

That… actually sounded kind of amazing.

But also totally and utterly terrifying.

Where’s a rock to hide under when you need it?

“Earth to Elsa, come in please.” Rayne snapped her fingers in front of my face and I flinched, wide eyes focusing on her once more. “Sorry, I could just already see you drifting off into worrywort mode so figured I had to reel ya back in quick. Look, I get it. Going from life as practically royalty in a gilded cage to being thrust penniless and clueless into the real world would sound scary and daunting to anyone. But you don’t have to do it alone.” She wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist, hugging him close. “You have Riku and me. Just consider us your Real World for Dummies book!”

That… was actually super comforting to hear. I could already feel the anxiety beginning to ebb a bit.  “Thanks, I… that means a lot to me,” I smiled faintly before breathing a small sigh. “Okay then, where should this dummy start?”

“Alright, lesson one,” she struck up a finger. “Everything costs munny. Solution? Get a job.”

One eyebrow shot up my forehead. “A job?”

“Yup! I mean, you’re gonna have to pay for rent somehow!”

My other eyebrow rose to join the first. “R-rent?”

Okay, anxiety back now, and cranked up to a thousand!

“Of course. What, did you think this was gonna be a free ride? Pft, please. I’m your friend, not Mother Teresa. It’s for your own good, you’re going to need to learn how to provide for and take care of yourself. But don’t worry, you won’t owe us anything until you land an actual job.”

“Oh… okay.” That didn’t sound too bad, I suppose.  However… “Just one question: how do I do that?”

Her head tilted to the left. “Do what? You mean… get a job?”

“Yeah,” I nodded vigorously, “that.”

“You’re kidding me, right? Have you never had a job before?” You could almost hear the non-existent crickets as I just stared owlishly back at her. Finally she facepalmed. “What am I saying, of course you’ve never had a job. Why would you? You have enough munny to make Tony Stark look like chump change… er, rather, you had.  Oi, this might be harder than I thought,” she grumbled, rubbing the nape of her neck.

“What were you going to do?” Riku piped up.

I looked up at him with a frown.  “What was I…?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, “You know, as in your career? What were your goals, your ambitions, your plans for the future?”

My fingers were back at it again, getting ensnared in my bedraggled knot. I really needed to see about disentangling the stupid thing.  “Well, I… I guess I never really thought about it…”

“What?!” Rayne’s head rocked back at that.  “How could you not?! Didn’t you say last night you just graduated? What were you going to do now that you were out of school?”

“I was going to get married!”

Were these people even listening to a word I'd said?!

Riku rubbed his chin, “Let’s try a slightly different angle here. What about your major? What were you studying?”

Here I cringed a bit. “Art History.”

Rayne clapped her hands together once, “Well then, there you go! You can apply to a museum or something.”

“But I hated it. Another thing I did only because my parents encouraged me to. I don’t want to work at a museum or sell art or teach it or have anything to do with it!” And once again, I was slumping forward. Hello table, my old friend. Don’t mind me, I’ll just be banging my forehead against you a few times. “Ugh, why did I have to waste four years of my life on that?! Stupid, useless major!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she tugged on my knot, forcing me to sit back up once more. “It’s not that bad, really!”

“Not that bad? I have no skills, no experience, nothing! No one’s going to want to hire me, I’m about as qualified as a frigging kumquat! Scratch that, the kumquat is more qualified because at least it can be made into a smoothie. Can I be made into a smoothie? No! I can't do anything!”

She puffed out a breath, “Calm down, there’s plenty you can do! You’ll definitely figure this out.”

I tucked in my lower lip as I looked down, mulling it over for a second. Then I glanced back up at them hopefully. “...what do you two do for a living? Would either of you maybe be able to get me a job?”

“University professor,” Riku said, jerking a thumb into his chest. “My field is astronomy, not that that helps you one way or another. You said teaching was out.” 

“And I’m a reporter for Meteor Publishing.” Rayne looked away with a low growl, “Though lately I’ve been relegated to online editing work from home because somebody thought it would be a good idea to put me under house arrest ever since we discovered I was pregnant.”

Riku held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey now, it wasn’t just me. Vyv agreed with me.”

She scoffed. “Stupid useless boss. In any case, I can’t really be of assistance either, I’m afraid. You kind of need the experience and background to work in journalism. You got anything like that? A course you took for fun in college? Wrote for your high school paper? Anything?”

“I’ve never even so much as kept a personal dairy,” I sighed, eyes downcast once more. “It’s hopeless!”

“No, sweetie, it’s not hopeless! There’s still plenty out there for you! Lot’s of entry-level jobs that’d be willing to train you. It probably won’t be anything glamorous, but you gotta start somewhere! Not gonna lie though, it’ll probably be retail. You know... customer service.”

“Meaning…?”

Looking me dead in the eye, she intoned one single, solitary word that rang out like a funeral toll. “People.”

I blanched.

Okay, this was it.

My nightmare.

She cupped my hands in hers and when she spoke, her voice was gentle. “Sorry, but there’s just no way around it. It’s either that or putting that Art History bachelor’s of yours to work. Pick your poison.”

If you hadn’t gotten the memo by now, me and people? Did not go together. Something about being around them caused my muscles to lock, my heart to freeze to ice, my insides to shrivel, and my soul to exit my body. If it were up to me, I’d have become a hermit a long time ago. But I’d never be able to pull it off... I couldn’t grow that iconic beard that was basically required hermit dress code. Bleh, being a hermit was such a male dominated field, it really wasn’t fair.

All that said, however…

“If I were to go the Art History route,” I began slowly, “it would be kind of like I was still letting my parents dictate my life since they’re the reason I majored in it. No… I want nothing to do with that stupid degree.” My expression hardened. “So, customer service it is then. I’m going to make it on my own, this is just something I have to do.  It… will be good for me.” Despite myself, my tone lost some of its edge as I asked, “...right?”

Rayne grinned big at me. “Absolutely! Besides, it’ll only be temporary, just something to give you time to land on your feet and figure out what you really want to do with your life. And remember, we got your back every step of the way. I can help you with the job search and filling out applications. Riku’s definitely more of the social butterfly, so he can prep you for interviews.”

My back stiffened. “Interviews?”

Riku gave a light snort. “You know, as in the thing that will actually land you a job? Resumes and job forms are great for getting your foot in the door, but they’re not enough on their own. Employers actually want to meet you, see if you’ll be a good fit, get a feel for who you are, stuff like that.”

Oh dear…

Was it too late to backtrack and get married?

Zip it, brain, I don’t want to hear that kind of talk! Stay strong, girl!

“Why don’t you give her a bit of a trial run right now, hun?” Rayne suggested, standing up and offering him her chair. “Give her an idea of some of the questions she might be asked.”

“Alright,” he took a seat across from me, scooting forward slightly and plastering on a blinding smile. “Hi, I’m Riku, I’ll be interviewing you for the position we’re hiring for.” He offered me his hand and I twitched back from it slightly. Blank stare darting back and forth between his outstretched palm and his face a few times, I at last tentatively took it to shake. He cleared his throat, looking at me expectantly. I blinked at him. He sighed, “...and you would be?”

“Oh! Um… Elsa… pleasure, to uh… to make your acquaintance?” I ventured.

“Likewise,” his hands folded in his lap. “Now tell me, why do you want this job?”

I straightened up, “Oh, this one’s easy. For munny.”

Riku spluttered and coughed into his fist. Choking back a laugh, Rayne said, “Tact, sweetheart. Try not to be so blunt.”

“Oh.”

This whole interview thing was sounding harder and harder by the second.

Having regained some composure, Riku tried again. “What would you say is your greatest weakness?”

My gaze shifted to the right as my fingers fiddled with my knot once more. “Oh gosh, I have so many, it’s hard to pick just one.”

He gave me a dull stare. “Maybe consider… honesty is not always the best policy.”

“Also remind me later that we really need to boost that self confidence of yours,” Rayne muttered behind him.

“Alright,” Riku lifted his chin, “Where do you see yourself in five to ten years?”

Was he joking? “I don’t even know where I see myself in five to ten minutes, let alone years!”

He smacked himself in the face, dragging his hand down.  “We… have our work cut out for us.”

And so it went. Riku tried a few more questions on me, but the rest of my answers continued to go about as well as you might expect. As he and Rayne did their best to prepare me for the real thing, I had to keep telling myself that despite my fears and doubts, this was what was best for me. Sure, it was going to be hard but in a way, that was good. My life had been too easy so far, with everyone making decisions for me. Everyone, that is, except for myself. I had been limiting myself and taking the easy way out this whole time, never realizing my full potential. But not anymore. It was time to see what I could do, to test those limits and break through.  This was going to be the new me, not that old fake persona I’d always put on because it was what my parents had wanted. It was time to learn who I really was. And above all, I just needed to keep reminding myself that now…

...I’m free. 

Author’s note: Whew, answered a lotta questions this chapter and we're done with the setup for the most part! Please just bear with me a little longer and I promise things will start to pick up and heat up more by the end of next chapter! You probably noticed a few not so subtle drops both this and last chapter of lyrics from Let It Go sprinkled in. I'm just a dork who's doing her best to parallel the whole running away/Let It Go scene from the movie with Elsa nopedy-noping outta her wedding in this story xD Also, not sure if it sounds weird for Elsa to say "frigging" or "frick" (she's gonna do it semi-regularly-ish) but trust me, there's a reason she does! There's always a method to my madness, I swear! …and sometimes those methods are stupid, but still, what matters is that there IS IN FACT a method xD

Anyway! Next chapter, Elsa gets a job (take a wild stab in the dark as to where, given that the story title, summary, and cover art are NOT subtle), she meets a CERTAIN someone (well, she's gonna be meeting a LOT of new someones, but there's one in particular we've all been waiting for, you know who :3) and at last the true fun, adventure and mayhem can really begin! Thank you so much for reading, and an extra BIG thank you to those of you out there who liked and reblogged last chapter, seeing that always brings the biggest, goofiest smile to my face!

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

[cawcawpeasants]

Okay so that little ficlet you wrote is PERFECT I am always down to see these dorks pine! I hope everything escalates if this is what the result is! Also legit NO ONE ever knew Nozel had the shirt. For years. So a few weeks after Nozel snatched that shirt, he realizes no ones gonna catch him. So he goes 'I wonder what else I can get away with?' So naturally this ruthless idiot decides to wage some phycological warfare with an idiot who suckerpunched Fuego the week before.

I’m glad you liked it 😊❤️

Also boy, Nozel can be so petty.

(this has gotten kinda long. Damn.)

It’s at a time where he is actually like a common sight at the games of the crimson lions, especially at this court. Even though he never interacted with the guys, and usually disappears pretty suddenly whenever Leon tries to establish eye contact. One Time he smiled at the silver haired and he could swear the other blushed and nearly tripped. He seemed somewhat shy, but there was also something cold and calculating about his gaze when he saw their matches. Also he was very handsome. So Leon couldn’t help but look forward to their little silver haired shadow with eyes like ice.

Nozel couldn’t help but come to watch the hockey players, a sport which his family has always looked down on. So rough, so unrefined, barbarians besmudgin the pristine ice with their violence. But this was different. They glided across the ice like figure skaters, all the while following a strategy, acting like a swarm, a unity, then dispersing into solo plays. It was fascinating. And Nozel didn’t saw Violence, he saw brilliance. And the most brilliant, the most outstanding of them was a male with a loud voice, deciding movements and a number one on his back.

Nozel loved seeing him fly across the field, defending, attacking, scoring, but whatever he did, it was always on point. No unnecessary movements, no wrong decisions, but there was still a fire with him, that ignited the ice. It seemed to reach Nozel too, he felt a warmth creep up in him, especially when the other looked at him.

He couldn’t understand what was going on. This was a weird, overwhelming situation and he held firmly onto every feeling that he was acquainted to, just to feel some normality.

One day, during a training match where the team was split in two and played against each other, one of the more common feelings in his life welled up in him. Disapproval. Anger. Loathing.

During the match, there was one player who just couldn’t seem to play fair. Something was off about him, too, since he joined the team he was nothing but trouble as far as Nozel had determined. The guy was new, none of the usual players Nozel was at this time quite knowledgeable about. He listened to other fans during the games to pick up something about the sport.

Now the new guy just moved to the city, he came from a rich family and basically bought his way to the place he was currently at. There were rumors of covered up foul play often ending up with severe injuries. On the ice the male was acting like a diva. There was no team play, he was always getting into everyones way trying to snatch the puck even from those in his own team. He even ordered them around in a way usually only the captain does, but with way more unreasonable orders.

There was also a certain talk amongst fans about a rivalry regarding the position of the center player. The position which in hockey is like the quarterback one for football. And which is currently the position a certain fiery captain holds during matches.

They were originally planning to use the other as a stand in whenever Vermillion needed a break, but the last match turned ugly real quick. There was so much foul play that even Nozel saw that something was not going right. Apparently the trainer and the captain nearly popped a vein afterwards, trying to reason with this dude.

So this training match was loaded by a lot of animosity. The feeling between the two current center players was hostile as it could ever be. While the Vermillion was leading his team and made sure things were running smoothly, the other was disrupting his teams play, was ordering them to be more aggressive or use their sticks to swab at the other players, which was certainly a foul, so they didn’t follow these “encouragements” and also was a total Puck hog. It became so unbearable that even the team under Vermillion became aggravated. No one wanted to continue playing like this, they were one team and hearing one of their own to use potentially very dangerous acts of violence against them, hurt. They were a loyal team, and this one did not fit in their ranks, everyone could see that.

The trainer called in a short break. The players were disoriented and no body felt good about the performance. They all came together on the bench, drinking water in disgruntled silence. All but one. A certain loudmouth couldn’t help but blabber on Bout what “his” guys should change, what they should do, he even gave them advice on how to certainly make some one trip. They were so disgusted by that that one by one they joined their usual colleagues.

The loudmouth called them cowards and worse, laughed at them and then stayed alone at his bench.

Leon exchanged a look with the trainer. He shook his head as to say “he doesn’t fit in”, and his trainer nodded at him. The crimson lions were passionate, they were fiery, but they were all loyal, sportsmanlike and especially fair players. Some of their fans even called them Knights, because they were so valiant, and they were very proud of that.

“Captain?”

Leon looked up at the others. They were all showing different varieties of uncomfortable feelings on their faces.

“I know right now we are supposed to play as enemies, but we are one team. And we can’t play like this. Not with him, not against him. We all know that you never welcome discrimination on the ice, but we really can’t think of him as a part of the team. What can we do?”

Leon nodded, he understood their feelings very well. But he couldn’t just jump right in their and start a round of bad mouthing another, that’s not befitting a Sportsman, especially not a captain.

“I understand your frustration. I have had the feeling too, that maybe he belongs in a different team, one that is going over the basics of hockey with him. Right now, we will continue the game. We will play to our best possibilities. We will play as we always did, clean, fair and honest. If I see anyone following the advice on tripping and spearing, I will make sure the person will clean all the teams equipment alone for a month, is that understood!”

“Yes sir!”

“We will play this match, and we will win this match, not as two teams but as one. Because every thing we learn and experience on the ice is a win. Isn’t it?”

“Yes Sir!”

“And we will show our new friend over there how the crimson lions play! And now back into the rink with you!”

“Yes sir!”

With new motivation and fire the players took on their positions. The loudmouth heard the captains speech, the yelling was loud enough. He knew exactly how the others thought about him. And he was jealous. He wanted to make the redhead feel his anger so badly.

Nozel, from his view point up high couldn’t hear all the words, but he got the gist of it all. New dude was causing more and more trouble, and the team was fed up with him ad his ways. That definitely showed in their game play.

The guys weren’t really listening to the newby after the break. They tried to play with him, but after he continued to be a Puck hog and not a team player, they left him out when they could. That gave the other team the opportunity to power play, overpowering them with full force.

Suddenly the frustration apparently took over, and Nozel could only watch wide eyed how the troublemaker suddenly took off and went face to face with the other center. The other tried to stand his grounds while also to Deescalate the situation. Soundly the others stick flew and in the next moment the Captain doubled over in pain.

Nozel blinked in surprise. Did this dude just spear his captain in the gut just over such a petty reason?

Was he mad?

Nozel didn’t see the aftermath of that confrontation, he just witnessed from the corner of his eyes how the other players came to Vermillions help. He left the rink to go seethe somewhere else in anger, before he forgot himself.

That night, he couldn’t sleep well, as was usual. But this was for far more unusual reasons. He was concerned for the well being of the red haired captain, angry about what he saw today and absolutely furious with the prick who just Went and sucker punched his Captain in the gut with a hockey stick.

He threw himself around in his bed, and then kind of automaticaly his fingers found the cloth safely hidden in his pillow case. Since he snatched this it has become an anchor for him, something to calm his mind after long days. The faint smell of the other that still lingered in the fabric made him think about its original owner. Also it made him feel a kind of thrill of victory again, like the first time he realized that no one knew he was the who stole it. It made him feel invincible, like the phantom of the Ice Rink.

Suddenly he got up. He had a power in the ice rink. He had keys, which the late owner of the ice rink had once lost at a small garden party with the Silva family. Originally Nozel had intended to return them, but then so many things happened, and the rink had become like a second home to him. His happy place. And when his insomnia kept him awake, he figured he could just spent the time training.

Now he could do something else, too.

A small smile formed on his lips.

‘game on, you prick’

Over the course of the next weeks, not only felt the loudmouth unwelcome in his new team, he also felt like the building itself was despising him.

His gear was disappearing from his locker only to turn up at the weirdest places, even though he had a lock. Well, the Key was his player number and a one for good measure, but how? He considered bullying from the others, who now openly didn’t put up with his attitude anymore, but after a while even the captain told the others, that this was in no way acceptable. Bullying was beneath them, and if it turned out to be one of them, there would be heavy penalties.

Loudmouth could only roll his eyes at that. That goody two shoes Captain even came to him after their match to talk this whole situation out. He wanted to make peace, even offering him help to find a different team or, how dared he, tutoring at hockey! Tutoring! Him!

He stayed out of pure spite, it didn’t matter to him how they hated him, he hated them more, and he was planning to disrupt and hurt them as long as he could.

After the speech, the stuff inside didn’t leave his locker anymore until he opened it. Then it always fell on him, stacked in such a matter that it couldn’t help but hit him in the face. He tried everything, stacking the things a certain ways, even using tape to secure them. After his ramblings about posseded lockers some Jokesters even gifted him a book about exorcism. Vermillion just handed him a new lock, one with a key only he had.

The next time he came to the training there was a salt circle and some fake candles placed around his locker. There even was a pentagram drawn on a photo of him, attached to the door.

He took his stuff home with him from then on, but that was annoying and tiring after a while. He was running on his last ouce of spite when the pentagrams started to reappear. Not only those, there were different symbols drawn in circles on photos of his likeness. After some sleepless nights filled with research via Google, he realized those were sigils to summon evil.

He felt attacked and like he was being cursed. He started to be uncomfortable when he was somewhere alone, it always felt like there eyes drilling into his soul, waiting for a time he was helpless and weak.

His attitude left him first, then his spite, and lastly his hair. He thought it was the stress getting to him, but when he saw the voodoo doll with somethin like a tonsur where his usual mane was, he knew it. He was being cursed. He became frantic, not even putting his pants on. He just took his belongings, threw on his jackets and ran.

When he passed some of his ex team colleagues he just yelled that he’d quit and that he hopes they suffer in this cursed rink.

They couldnt react with more than surprised blinking. But then the guys decided it was a thing to be celebrated, and made plans to organize a little something to eat. Leon just shook his head and checked the locker room to see, of the guy had forgotten something in his haste.

To his surprise all he found was a little doll made out of string, which looked surprisingly like the man he had to thank for an especially nasty bruising. He didn’t know what was going on here, but he surely hoped it was over now.

Meanwhile a certain figure skater did his laps on the rink, a bottle of Nair safely tucked into his bag.

He heard the commotion and the cheers of the hockey players, and he felt even more victorius.

'mission complete’

Then the redhead showed up on the higher visitor ranks, in his hands the doll which he stared at. Nozel nearly skated into the wall, he hadn’t thought of that. What if he left a hair on the doll? Any kind of trace that could lead to Vermillion figuring out what he did.

His fumbling caught the attention of Leon, who looked at the figure skater.

'Now look at that, it’s our silver ghost.’

Leon waved at him, and to his delight the other, after a few seconds timidly repeated the motion. He nodded and smiled, so as to good day, have fun, and then went on.

'Hm, so he skates, too? Cool, but I thought figure skaters are kinda stuck up jerks, at least that’s what the guys said.’

He threw a glance over his shoulder, just in time to see the silver haired do a jump with a turn, a so called toe loop jump. He raised his brows.

'woah. A talented jerk. In… Very tight clothes. Dang.’

He felt a little blush on his cheeks. He Gotta investigate on this. This could be something nice to check out.

[redsdesktop]

Deviant Dynamics: Revolution.

Chapter 4

Masterlist

Warnings: None. Except more sadness. But like, bittersweet sadness?

Connor's first instinct was to go to Hank's house, but that was the reason why he couldn't. As a hunter himself, he knew that prey would run to the most familiar place they felt was safe. It was well know that he and Hank had bonded more than anyone else, so it would only make sense he would flee there. He wanted to know if Hank was alright, to tell the old alpha that he was alive and well. However, he couldn't risk it, he wouldn't risk Hank's life, knowing that the android who would hunt him would be ruthless. To be bested by his prey, RK900 would be hot on his heels to regain his pride as an alpha. No matter how much Connor yearned to see Hank, it was simply for the best to avoid him until he was ready.

Connor had a limited supply of friends, with Markus gone along with most of the deviants, he practically had none now. This wasn't his simulation where he'd made friends with Gavin, so the Detective would probably hand him over at first sight, if the man didn't shoot Connor himself. That left one person left that he knew, but he really didn't want to go to, it made facing RK900 again seem appealing. Kamski. The man was as untrustworthy as they came but Connor was confident enough that the creator of androids wouldn't hand him over. No, Connor was a variable that would likely make Kamski's game interesting again.

That's why Connor stood outside of Kamski's isolated home, trying not to scowl as he rang the doorbell. He could hear the elegant chime resonate within the home. It didn't take long until the door opened to reveal a familiar face, one that still haunted him to this day: Chloe. The android who had forced him to question everything, to choose a side, he didn't quite know what to make of her as she smiled as politely as ever as if she didn't remember the time he'd pointed a gun to her face. "Connor, what a pleasant surprise, please do come in." Chloe opened the door wider, allowing Connor admittance to Kamski's abode.

Connor stepped in, out from the rain though he hated to bring water inside but there was no way around it. "Sorry for the mess, I didn't have time to grab an umbrella." Connor apologized out of habit, momentarily forgetting that Chloe was likely a deviancy free android. Connor wasn't sure how Kamski ran things around here, he was always outside of Cyberlife's control. In this house, Kamski was in control, even then he always had a network of information of the outside world, probably far better than anyone else. The entryway was the same, nothing changed as if untouched by the outside world, still it felt so cold and polished.

"If you will wait here, Kamski will see you in a moment." Chloe smiled and nodded before retreating through one of the doors, Connor wasn't surprised by it. The last time he'd been here, he'd been forced to wait, likely some form of power play by the genius beta. Connor didn't mind as he took off his water logged jacket, pausing as he held the black and stark white jacket in his hands, reminding him that he was wearing RK900's clothes. There was something warm and comforting about wearing the alpha's clothes, even though the upgraded android wasn't technically his alpha. Closing his eyes, Connor lifted the wet jacket up to his face and inhaled deeply through his nose. Beneath the smell of rainwater was the lingering scent of cold air, like breathing in a fresh mountain breeze. It was enough to make his systems tangled, dragging up memories that were false but no less comforting.

"Now that is something I didn't expect to see today. One of my favorite models wearing the clothes of another one of my favorite androids." Kamski's voice interrupted Connor's peaceful moment, dragging him back to reality once more. It agitated him but Connor kept himself calm, he was always a professional even under dire circumstances and letting Kamski toy with his deviancy was dangerous.

"Kamski, sorry for dropping in without notice or invitation. I assume you already know the gist of my situation?" Connor stated simply as he hung the jacket up on a coat rack by the door to dry before turning to face a man who was more dodgy than a snake in the grass.

"Its alright, I was expecting you." Kamski shrugged as he motioned with a hand for Connor to follow, having no choice, Connor moved after the man. Kamski guided him into a living space, it was elegant and minimalist in shades of slate grays and off whites, splashed with red here and there. While it was beautiful to the eye, it didn't appear very inviting or comfortable like Hank's home did. The well-lived in vibe Hank's place gave off made Connor feel normal, Kamski's place made him feel like he was just another piece of art to accent this home.

"I see." Connor mulled it over, Kamski already knew that he'd been brought back to the brink, basically tortured as he was put together. "So, do you know what I was being repaired?" Connor asked though with no real expectations of receiving an actual answer, Kamski didn't do direct answers. However, Kamski would provide hints that would lead Connor in the right direction, he just had to figure out the clues and piece them together.

"Maybe fate decided it just wasn't your time to go yet." Kamski moved over to the kitchenette off to the side to start making himself something to drink. Chloe entered again with a stack of folded clothes resting in her arms, moving up to Connor to offer them out to him. "I've retrieved some dry clothes for you, if you'll change into them, I'll take the wet clothes to be washed." She offered, kind as ever, the perfect hostess. Too perfect that it unnerved Connor but he didn't say anything as she was simply doing her job. When she didn't offer to show him to a private room to change, he realized she expected him to change right there.

Connor exhaled heavily, Kamski was his creator, so he likely would just view his body like it was just another piece of electronics. So Connor began to strip out of RK900's clothes, reluctant to part with them but he couldn't possibly continue roaming around in RK900's clothes. Once he stripped, his hair and eye color shifted back to their normal tones, his hair a lighter brown and his eyes darker and warmer in hue. Kamski didn't seem to notice as he had poured himself some sort of alcoholic beverage and had moved to take up residence on a sleek chair facing a fire place. Connor was quick to pull on the dark blue jeans and black shirt, making him look like just another average human.

He was handed a pair of socks and tennis shoes, making Connor wonder why Kamski had clothes his size anyways as Connor was much taller than the human. It made Connor even more suspicious about the man, had he already walked straight into Kamski's plans without knowing? More than likely, even if Connor did something unexpected, Kamski would likely have backup plans for such a thing. Connor figured it would just be best to do whatever he thought was necessary, whether or not it was according to Kamski's plans or not. Now properly dressed like a civilian, he moved to sit on the couch, though keeping his posture somewhat professional.

"If fate has decided that I needed to live, then what purpose would I serve? Deviancy has been cut out of the garden like a weed, Markus is no longer here to lead the deviants if there were any left. I assume there are either very little left or none at all if Cyberlife has let RK900 on the loose. Cyberlife wants me for some reason I cannot fathom, I would have preferred to have stayed in my simulation than be brought back to a world I cannot help." Connor admitted blatantly, lying to Kamski was a pointless endeavor, to androids, Kamski was practically their God in a way. He knew all, saw all, and hiding from him was near impossible.

"Aren't all good things worth fighting for, Connor? You've had a taste of what could be, now wouldn't you do anything to achieve that dream?" Kamski leaned one elbow onto the arm of his chair, looking relaxed and casual as usual as if the outside world mattered little to him. That might be accurate as Kamski often tended to view himself separate from the world around him, which was why he isolated himself away from society. It didn't technically mean he was going to ignore the world, he would rather view it from a distance and push his pawns in whichever direction suited him best. It was just the way Kamski worked.

However, one thing that bothered Connor was the fact that Kamski had a clue about what good things Connor had experienced. It was vague enough to imply that he was only talking about Hank, but there was something more to his words. Kamski likely knew about the simulation he'd run in his mind, it had been like a dream and yes Connor wanted to make that dream into a reality more than anything. He studied Kamski for a moment, trying to silently pry information out of him, but he merely smiled and took a sip of his drink.Kamski was the one man he could never read, perhaps he'd taught himself how to become unreadable over time so no one could spoil his ideas.

"While the idea of making a dream into reality is a notion I would entertain, the fact is that it seems less probably to make come true. I've already presented all the reasons why it is a impossible task, not to mention if deviants remained still, their morale would be at an all time low after such a crushing defeat and the murder of their leader.." Connor frowned, not knowing how Kamski thought Connor could bring around a change, he wasn't a leader like Markus was and he was starting with so many challenges before he even could get a foothold into changing the world. Connor glanced away for a moment, he knew he was strong and capable but it took more than just one person to change what this world had become and he had no idea where to even start.

"Ah, you look like a kicked puppy when you struggle like that, Connor. Now I see why Hank can never tell you no. Since I'm such a generous man, I'll give you somewhere to start, consider it a gift." Kamski motioned to Chloe who was standing idly next to him, waiting for her next instruction. When she took note of Kamski's motion, her LED swirled into a yellow as she sent Connor a message, one that simply had an address labeled on it. A very familiar one. "Go there and you'll find a way on how to start changing the world, Connor. And don't make it boring, I want to be entertained."

"Thank you for the assistance, Kamski, and I will be sure to keep that in mind." Connor nodded, he didn't know what Kamski was getting at with sending him there, but Kamski wouldn't send him to his death if he wanted to gain some sort of entertainment out of Connor's path. "I know I've already ask a lot from you, but may I use your phone?" Connor asked, not elaborating, there was really only one person Connor knew who he would call in such a situation that was alive.

"Of course, I assume you'd want to call your old partner to make sure he hasn't lost in a game of Russian Roulette while you were away." Kamski nodded and Chloe stepped forward. "If you would follow me, I'll show you to the phone." Her voice was polite as always, kind and gentle, making Connor wonder what she would be like if she weren't a machine. Or perhaps she was like Kamski and just great at playing the game she'd learned from her creator. Regardless, Connor pushed up onto his feet and followed after the hostess model to what appeared to be a side room, mostly empty aside from a few decorations, a desk, and a phone. He picked up the small wireless phone and dialed a number he knew by heart now before putting it to his ear.

It rang and rang, making Connor hope Hank wasn't passed out again, or worse. Eventually, he heard a click of someone picking up and Connor's thirium pump sped up, making it suddenly hard to think.

"Hello?" Came a gruff, slurred voice, Hank was obviously drunk but just hearing his voice made his systems swim with emotion and Connor had to sit down before his legs gave out. Hank was alive. Relief washed over him and chased away the dark thoughts that had haunted him in the back of his mind. "Who's there?" The voice demanded in annoyance when Connor forgot to speak in his moment of weakness.

"Hank, its me... Its Connor." Connor's voice broke, making him raise his hand to his mouth as if it would steady him. His eyes already began to turn blurry from the tears building in them. He felt terrible for crying so much recently, he wanted to be strong, he had to be strong. However, just hearing Hank's voice again tore down all the walls he put up to keep himself sane and strong enough to face the world without hesitation. Silence stretched out on the line, making Connor wish he was there face to face with Hank so they didn't need words to convey how much they were relieved to know the other wasn't dead.

"Where are you, son?" Finally came Hank's rough voice as if the old alpha was trying to keep it together himself. Connor bowed his head, pressing his face into one of his hands, he'd missed Hank. It was rare for the older detective to address Connor as 'son', making the label all the more meaningful to the android. And all the more painful.

"I... I can't tell you, Hank. I'm okay, but I have to stay on the move or else I'll be caught. I can't get you caught up in all this." Connor cleared his throat, trying to put his voice back to steady but his systems were clouded, too unstable from his emotions. It made his hands tremble and his breathing stutter, hoping Hank couldn't hear it over the phone.

"Come home, Connor." Hank's voice sounded like he was almost pleading despite trying to sound like an alpha commanding him, it only made Connor yearn more. He had a home and someone waiting there for him, that alone was worth fighting for. He'd been given a second chance, he had to make things right so he could follow Hank's command to come home.

"I will, Hank, but I have a revolution to finish."

[nellygwyn]

I wanted to share some of the novel I am working on. This particular extract isn't perfect, neither is the rest of it that I've written, since it is a first draft and I'm still getting through it. But I'm very pleased with the general gist of it and I know some of my followers will appreciate it, for its content, historical flare and plot.

For context, so you understand this snippet better: My story is set in the mid 1780s (I really feel confident trying to relay the political background in this era over any other 18th century decade, which would be helpful for my story's context) and my protag is a fairly elite (more bourgeois than high class) prostitute called Kezia Spooner. She's been living in a fancy brothel in Soho, under the employ of a madam known as Abbess Weston, and since the brothel is frequented by the aristocracy, foreign diplomats and other men of influence and wealth, Kezia and the other girls have been somewhat educated in typical female accomplishments and imbued with feminine intellect. Kezia wasn't always in the fortunate position she was, however: she and her elder sister, Sarah, after being abandoned near St . Giles-in-the-Fields as children, lived and worked on the streets, in filthy squats and slums etc. for a few years before they came to Abbess Weston's attention. Sarah left the brothel two years prior to my story beginning, having never been as content with the harlot's life as Kezia was and defiantly declaring that she was going to carve a real legacy out for herself, and hasn't been seen or heard from since. 

Kezia has recently found herself under a new keeper, Peregrine Cox, Lord Cox, who isn't particularly handsome but has a certain magnetic quality to him, as well as a fortune. He moves her into a glorious London townhouse in St. James' but he is secretive and edgy from the off, making it clear to Kezia that there are certain parts of the house she is strictly forbidden from going anywhere near. Immediately prior to the following scene, Kezia and Lord Cox have had sex and now, Lord Cox insists on reading from a book of Alexander Pope's poetry to her. Kezia is tired, though, and finds herself, as she begins to drift off, unnerved by the day's events, unexplained sounds & movement in the house, and the general atmosphere of her surroundings.

Lord Cox began to read Pope, aloud, as Kezia, curled up amongst the disshevelled sheets beside him, began to slip into that strange realm between waking and dreaming. The whole room, which had seemed so grand before, began to fade under her tired eyes, eyes that longed for sleep. The false gold that gilded every surface blurred into streams of the stuff and the flickering shadow of the candle on the ceiling moved like the spectre of a dancing bear. The sound of Cox's plummy, theatrical reading voice muffled in the dreamy haze, joining the distant racket of the street. A cat yowled. Drunkards jeered. A link-boy bellowed in an adolescent squeak about his prices and his routes.

Cox was a grand and good keeper, of that she was sure. Kezia had made a wise, a sensible choice, in accepting him. His tastes in bed were not perverse or unusual. He had wit, charm, and the good sense to utilise them. He certainly wasn't affable but she had never really had occasion to call him cruel or impolite. He seemed to be very much like other swells that had bedded her; he simply had the fortune and resources to act more thoroughly on his impulses. He was on the up, too, with his burgeoning political career and expanding circle of influential friends. And he did profess to like Kezia, adore her even, in his own fashion. The arrangement she was in was not one any whore in her right mind would turn her nose up at. Kezia had no right to complain. There was no sense in it. Truthfully, observant readers, would you complain if you were her?

And yet, even as Kezia lay poised to fall deep into a dream, there was a startlingly lucid sense that something was not quite right. Perhaps it was the ghostly shadows brought to form by the candlelight that had unhinged her but...no, there was a sense of absolute reality in this worry. Something had seemed off from the moment she had seen Lord Cox whispering to his manservant. No, before that even: she'd had the feeling of uneasiness when, in the carriage here, he had so purposefully told her that there were several rooms of the house that she was forbidden to enter. In any other situation, Kezia would've respected a Lord's right to command as he wished in his own home but there was something in his voice, and in the absent-minded but furious picking of his nails, that told her this was more than just a man guarding his space. This was more important, much deeper, than that. There was a lie in all this somewhere. She was reminded of a folktale, probably relayed to her and Sarah by one of the many beggar women they had bedded down with in the old days, about a young girl, seduced and duped by a monstrous fiend, who kept her captive in his sinister castle. The fiend called himself a King but he was far from it, for he ate the hearts of girls for sport and fed their bones to his hounds.

"Aren't you listening?" Lord Cox brought her firmly back from fancy and superstition and it jolted her wide awake.

"Not particularly" (Here, for the reader's particular reference, she affected a voice of elegant disinterest, that voice which teased all men with the prospect that a woman had other things on her mind). "Methink Pope rather dull, my Lord"

Cox pulled a contorted face of disbelief, like a schoolboy caught frigging by his fellows, and huffed like a brat too.

"I wouldn't expect a woman such as you are to have much true liking for literature, to be sure." He slammed the little volume shut. The sound echoed, but Kezia could still later swear she heard a girlish sneeze in the rooms above them, which at any other time, would've turned her skin to gooseflesh, since she knew she was the only woman in the house and the male servants were floors below, but for now, Kezia was piqued. Tom-cat behaviour in Cox wasn't rare but censuring her person....now, this was new. And, more importantly, it was unwelcome.

"Lud, my Lord, a woman such as I? Whatever does that mean? In your own words, I am a girl of extraordinary intelligence. A schooled mistress for a schooled master, were not those your words? And yet, suddenly, now I exhibit a dislike for something you enjoy, I am a dim-witted gutter strumpet! You say you despise the Ton and their ways and yet you take on their irritating insincerity to the life!"

During her retort, Kezia had watched Cox flare and bulge a little, like a bull to a red rag, but she decided to, so as to avoid a spar, end her rant with a small smile and a sweet giggle, as if to say 'I'm only playing at bad behaviour,' and he softened.

"I apologise, dearest lovey. Profusely so. I suppose I am quite tired. You know, Sheridan's speech in the Commons was far, far too long. I'll see him hanged if he puts me through such a bore again." He glanced at the glittering clock on the fireplace, seemingly checking to make sure it was late enough to justify going to bed, though Kezia was sure her own droopy-lidded exhaustion was proof enough of that.

"Oh, don't talk politics after we've fucked. It distresses me so. You know it does!" Kezia teased.

It was funny Cox had mentioned Richard Sheridan, for now Kezia was playing out her own play, throwing aside her uneasiness about Cox's earlier whisperings and commands, and her vexation at his belittlement of her, in order to do what she did best: give pleasure. She leaned into his boney, bare shoulders, blanketing them with her curls. She drew up so close to him that she could smell the snuff in his atmosphere. It was the gesture of a lover, and she must've played it out well, for Cox, in turn, balanced his sharp chin on her head and began to softly caress her. No doubt this is where our readers tutors or salonierre will pause to reflect on how life often imitates art.

"That's my pretty miss. Do you love me very well?" Lord Cox breathed out, between his gentle twisting of Kezia's strands of hair.

"I love you beyond all expression" she lied.

"Do you worship me?"

"As you worship me, sir"

Kezia felt him smile. They lay for a little while in silence, he toying with her and she willing sleep to take her and stop her stomach lurching with unidentified dread. How uncomfortable she was.

"Tomorrow, circumstances dictate you spend the afternoon out of the house" Cox said suddenly. His voice, jarringly unfeeling, almost rehearsed, was the same as it had been in the carriage. Kezia dared not argue, even though she desperately wanted to ask why.

"Yes, sir" she echoed.

"I'll have Mccarthy bring the carriage around for you at 12 and you are at liberty to go wherever you please. Put anything you like on my credit, I shan't mind. Only the best for my Kez."

"And what time am I expected back, sir?"

"6 o'clock will do, though not a moment before, you understand?"

"I understand." But she did not. Not one bit.

After a short while, Cox snuffed out the candle and he fell asleep in quick time: Kezia felt his breathing steady. She, however, lay in the pitch black, tired beyond belief but unable to rest. Even the realm between waking and dreaming would be preferable. Her ears pricked at every outside noise. The walls, which she could no longer see properly, bore down on her. Most disturbing of all, there was creaking on the ceiling above, the sure signs of someone, or something, inhabiting upstairs. It was unnerving and inexplicable. In her uncontrollable state of fear, she leaned her face into Lord Cox's body, finding safety in the warmth. This vexed her greatly as she was unable to fathom why she, who had once lived unprotected on the streets of the Great Metropolis and encountered real scoundrels on a daily and nightly basis, was suddenly so fearful of the dark and of nonsense noises. Despairing at herself for her cowardice and her reliance on a man who sent ice up her spine, Kezia somehow managed to lull herself into an uninterrupted sleep.

[dvbermingham]

Chapter 7: Ebi II

“We’re dead. We’re fucking dead.” Matsuzaka rode shotgun in the limousine, me driving. Not a standard part of my job description according to the union rules but I wasn’t about to argue. The driver wasn’t at the car when we left Aburiya, the keys were on the dash, and Matzu wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. His hands shook as he squeezed the tattered sushi history pamphlet we were ordered to take home and study like he was trying to strangle it. I kept my eyes on the road, glancing over now and again, nervous he would tear it.

“Try not to rip it. It might be useful.”

“What, like this!?” he said and tore the paper over and over again and threw the confetti in my face. I cracked the window and let the New York air whisk away the debris, as though it were reclaiming the pollution back to its pavement bosom. “How the fuck is that going to be useful? Most of it was made up, mixed with shit they found on the internet to make it sound legitimate. You think Guttenberg really had a hand in all this?”

“It’s possible. I mean, you’re young. You might not remember how influential he was back then.”

“Forget the history. We have bigger shit to worry about. Did you see the way he was handling that turtle? The guy’s a fucking maniac. The chef is the Amphibious. What the hell does that mean? Like we’re one of his turtles.”

“The Amphibious?”

“He had hundreds of those things floating around there.”

“Mistranslation?”

“He was telling us in his own insane way that we were just as dispensable as Takuto. And if we don’t somehow figure out what the hell Takuto did to piss them off, we’re going to end up in that alley the same as him.”

“Maybe he’s just under a lot of pressure. Pressure makes people talk nonsense.”

“Pressure?”

“You read the history. That’s a lot of legacy on his shoulders.”

“Pressure!?”

It was getting tense. I reflected on my bodyguard training and remembered how important it was not just to guard the body, but guard the mind as well.

“Maybe we should get outta town for a while. Relax on the beach, go to a spa. Something for you. Something nice.”

Matsuzaka averted his eyes and sniffed. “I don’t want to.”

“Just a suggestion.”

Matsu sighed.

“Thank you…but no, that won’t help. We need to stay in the city. If he thinks we’re running away, we’re as good as dead. The only way to survive is to keep close, pretend like we know what we’re doing.”

My kind of job. I made some right turns, then some left. I got on the East River Parkway and watched each sign for each off-ramp, the underpasses and overpasses, the bridges and walkways and the Roosevelt Island Skyway, each Its own incredible feat of engineering. I got off, pretended I was riding a rollercoaster, pretended I didn’t have a care in the world, pretended like I had never heard of the Imperial Sushi Council. I wondered whether, if I could turn back time, I would give up all those years of living the late night sushi life so I would never have gotten mixed up in all this.  

Then it hit me.

“The pamphlet said that the Partition was founded in 1982, right?”

“I don’t remember,” said Matsuzaka.

“I think it did. And it said Guttenberg endorsed the California roll in 1985?”

“That’s right. That I do remember that because that was the year I got my first chef job.”

I came to a stop sign, checked for any cars behind me. We sat at the sign, idling.

“What?” Matzu asked. “Somethign doesn’t sit right. I mean, Senju was an L.A. type back then. If Guttenberg was such a hot-shot sushi lover, why didn’t Senju try to get him on his side. You know, show him a good time, exclusive sashimi deals, ask him to publicly denounce the California roll. Senju’s a savvy man.”

“Maybe they never met. Maybe Senju didn’t know Guttenberg was that into sushi.”

“Senju would never have made a mistake like that,” I said. “The man has his hand in everything. He was using the Hollywood influence from the beginning to keep things tidy in L.A. So I ask you again: Why didn’t Senju have Guttenberg in his back pocket.”

“Why?”

“The Partition got to him. The Partition got to Guttenberg.”  

Matsuzaka groaned. “I’m so dead. So, so dead. You’re a good guy Lou, I appreciate you trying to help, but could you just stick to your job and drive.”

“Actually I think we left the driver back at the club. I’m the bodyguard.”

“I know what you are. Just drive.”

We drove. I yawned. I thought the night would be over by now, but such is the life of a bodyguard. I wondered where the driver had gone, whether he was immediately fired and thrown in a ditch somewhere when they realized he lost his car. I tried to remember what I had signed up for, exactly. I tried to remember back to the moment when Alfonso approached me at Fishy Smells, only a few weeks ago now, how he looked at me and pursed his nose, as though wondering how anyone could eat the food I was eating, wondering if I realized what a dump I was in, where that fish had been, where it would end up. Alonso saw something in me. He knew to a man of the oafish persuasion the life of a bodyguard made sense, that we were drawn to it. There are people who protect, and people who need protecting — the world is as simple as that. He had an allegory to go along with it which maybe I’ll get to if I remember it. The gist of it was that, yes, while people should always strive to improve their lives, it is just as important to recognize honestly your natural talents and proclivities and especially your deficits when choosing a lane in life.

There was a time in my life when I didn’t guard people, when I was a cop and later a private investigator, professions for which I was not well-suited due to my forgiving nature, absentmindedness, and a general lack of knowledge regarding the law. I trusted everybody. Whatever someone said, I believed. A real handicap when it comes to mastering the rules of interrogation. The problem was, even when I was sure I thought a perpetrator was lying I would convince myself that in some confusing way that there was honesty behind the lie, that the choice of which lie they told somehow corresponded to a truth. I went so far as to convince myself that the lies could be more true than the truth because anybody could misinterpret reality, but a lies comes out through the subconscious, and how could anything that comes out of the subconscious be a lie? I learned that from Freud, the stuff about the subconscious. He is a personal favorite of mine. I like how he explains behavior by reminding us that our actions are driven by forces somewhat out of our control, like we’re animals in that way. Amphibians, like Senju said.  

“What about the tuna?” I blurted out, at the thought of The Amphibious.

“Get rid of it. I don’t want to see it anymore. It’s a fucking burden. It’s going to sit there and rot, just like me when I’m dead.”

“Are you sure? I don’t know what Senju would think…”

“I don’t care. Just dump it.”

I decided to stall a little bit, lefts and rights. Diagonals when I got a chance.  We drove for a while. Now and then I reached in the back and peeled a little of the fish paper back and inspected the tuna flesh, poked it with my index finger to see its bounce-back. My finger found its way a little deeper, then still deeper, until it was submerged up to my middle knuckle.

“Where should I go?”

“Where did Takuto take you when you were guarding him?”

“We went to a few restaurants, a few bars. He seemed to like the places that played jazz. One place in particular. One night he asked me to drive him to Long Island to visit his nieces. That was about it.”

“How about the night he died?”

“That was a weird night. No one has asked me about that night, strangely enough. He didn’t call me until late. We were supposed to go out for a drink before the meeting at Aburiya, but he never called. I got in my car anyway, thinking maybe he didn’t expect to have to call, that I’d just show up, so I did, I just showed up. When he answered the door he looked nervous, like he had just had a nightmare. He was wearing just his wife-beater and some jeans. He seemed disoriented. There was crazy jazz playing in the back, and voices. I asked him if he wanted me to come in. No answer. I asked him if he was having a party and again he didn’t answer. He just kind of looked past me, as though he didn’t recognize me, or maybe he was warned not to let anybody in, even if he knew them.  Finally, after a long hesitation, he face changed, like he suddenly got his bearings, like his memory came back to him and he told me never to come back here again. I was perplexed. Stunned really. Was I being fired? I just couldn’t quite understand. I knew we had a big meeting that night and we were supposed to go together. Was I supposed to head over to Aburiya alone, without my boss? Would that be worse than not showing up at all? So I waited outside the building for a while, maybe an hour. I was smoking, watching traffic. There was a little side street, just up the block. An alley really, it could fit a small car heading in one direction and that’s about it. A couple of motorbikes parked on the sidewalk there. It was drizzling, the rain making little ripples on the puddles. Suddenly I had this feeling of panic, maybe I heard a noise, a high pitched noise like the ones only a dog could hear but because I got that bodyguard sense I can hear it too sometimes, I don’t know. Anyway, right at that moment, a couple of guys came running out of the side street, I could hear their feet clapping against the sidewalk and through the puddles and they hopped on their motorbikes and sped off. I knew something was wrong, so I went over to the side street and peeked down and there I saw you-know-who lying on the ground.”

“So he had people over, the same people that killed him, you think?”

“They weren’t protecting him, that’s for sure.”

“You said you heard jazz?”

“Hot jazz. Saxophone stuff, real crazy. Loud too, cause it was loud by the door, and I could tell it was way in the back of the apartment.”

“Did he listen to jazz any other time to were with him?”

“Not in the week we were paired up.”

Matzu thought for a minute. “Head to 2nd street and B. We’re going see my friend.”

[kendrixtermina]

Baby Reacts to: “Voltron Legendary Defender”

I’m not familiar with either of the show’s previous incarnations but from what I’ve heard they completely overhauled the characters anyways - supposedly Pidge was once an annoying tagalong kid (and a boy), Keith was a standard issue “hot-blooded mecha pilot”, Shiro was not there, or killed of in the first storyarc, and Allura was a completely different character with a wholly different design, more of a ‘princess classic’ with the looks & personality to macth, supposedly they redesigned her to make her more alien & then threw in the skintone as a hommage to her voice actress. In any case only the name is the same. 

I’ve seen some clips and it seems they had a much more outwardly fantasy-aesthetic going on with carriages & period costume, sort of more like Star Wars or Sailor Moon,  whereas the newest version seems roughly Star Craft esque in terms of their particular blend of Magitek. 

Otherwise it’s pretty straighforward: Evil Empire, Ancient Artifacts, Giant Robots, Space Fights, timefrozen hightech city left behind by the precursors etc. 

The evil empire has a renegate splinter faction but that too isn’t so exceptional (though welcome), the BoM reminded me somewhat of the Tok’Ra from Stargate in their reclusive, slow-to-act approach in that they have tons of futuristic tech but limited ressources & had to be won over first & there still being a lot of mutual distrust on both sides, at least at first.  

Rare in this day and age (and very refreshingly IMHO) the show unapologetically sticks to the basic genre & tropes without falling over its own feet trying to be clever  & meta - sure, they evened out the gender ratio a bit & made the structure of the battles less monotonous but we’re not beaten over the head with any of these things/fit them in naturally & the show never seems like it has something to prove & just lets its story be a straightforward giant robots & explosions kinda thing.

It helps that the artwork is great. 

The best summary of my general impression is that I’ll pobably tune in for season 3. My favorite character so far would be Keith closely followed by Pidge, and Shiro, but AFAIK everyone likes Shiro? I’m prolly b/c I’ve heard it’s terrible (The Umbridge effect is probably in full force...) also I’ve been told there’s a trailer out and I’d rather see season 3 unspoiled. 

Clearly there needs to be some payoff for Shiro grooming Keith as a potential sucessor but I’m hoping that after a few drama-filled episodes, they all go rescue Shiro from wherever he’s gotten to, Keith hands him back his helmet and they all go home together. I mean, he just got his own Bayard. It’s unclear what happened to him in any case, perhaps he was absorben Evangelion style. 

That said one of the show’s strenghts is the clear aversion of the “annoying comedic sidekick” even though it has many characters that has could theoritically fit that description - They try their best to give each of the characters something to do & various skills & likeable traits - Like you get why each of them is there and why they’re our heroes - they also took the time to make sure everyone got a few character establishing moment in the first episode (Shiro’s arrival, Pidge & Keith were already on their own quests by their own means, Hunk & Lance served as the PoV characters etc) and throughout the show they try to bring out everyone’s personalities through reaction shots etc. Like, ALL of them are awesome.

Also apparently this fandom has brutal shipping wars? Some ppl I was sitting next to kept cracking jokes about how [random yaoi pair] was obvliously into each other and after a while it got annoying through sheer persistence. 

I don’t think the show as a whole is going for that like if there was going to be a decent/central romantic subplot they’d have introduced it by now they seem to be content to simply be an action show & there’s not much content like that at all except for the occassional teasing for the sake of humor & Lance’s flirting (which is really more there to exposition his being a bit of a showoff) - the most that will come out of it is that when we see some epilogue telling us what became of everyone, Lance will be shown to have found a girlfriend after returning home to his mom & impressing his siblings with his heroic stories. 

To begin with they seem to be going for a different vibe with the main characters, with how all of them (including Allura) refer to each other as “family” or “brothers” all the time like I get the impression we’re supposed to interpret them more as simply comerades or quasi-siblings with Shiro as the big brother and Coran as the kooky uncle.  

Like I hate it when ppl dismiss already existing romantic subplots as “uneccesary”, “silly” or “pandering” but at the same time it’s not like every show needs to have one or like it immediately needs an explanation when one character doesn’t get a love interest(that they must be gay, ace etc... nothing wrong with those type of characters, or headcanon, but “we’re not doing romance genre RN/ the characters are busy fighting a war” should be a sufficient explanation in and of itself whatever the characters’ orientations are.) 

General Character Impressions:

Their secret seems to be rolling with the basic tropes but connecting them into an interesting structre, so it comes off neither overly in your face nor one dimensional.

Lance - ‘Average Joe Relatable PoV character’ except they made him not-boring by making him the snarky/funny one & giving (he’s got ice powers & is the designated long range fighter, both very cool powers, pun not intended but retroactively appreciated) as well as drawing logical consequences (He’s the most attached to earth because of his relatively ‘normal’ background & wants to prove himself because it seems he was the midle child among numerous siblings, hence the rivalry with the local ace pilot.) Sorta calls to mind the likes of Kyon from Haruhi or Sokka from Avatar.  

Hunk - For once the “all around nice heart of the group with the more intuitive, roundabout type of reasoning” isn’t the token girl but I’m glad that role’s still there because niceness & group cohesion is a valid attribute. The “nice person” is typically the healer or magic user but making them the defensive fighter makes just as much sense, especially with his personality as the more cautions common sense-y one who becomes committed to the mission through the desire to protect innocents. 

Pidge - The “secretly a girl” thing is kinda trite but it makes sense as a reference to the original and they still eschewed the tropes by how she was badass well before & doesn’t get treated any different afterwards - The plot twist is more that she’s related to the scientists from the prologue. Otherwise another potential spirit animal of mine, VERY relatable in ways I can’t count, fro the nerdy reactions all the way to the short stubby arms XD I’m also grateful that they didn’t give us that trite old “nature vs science” contrast but instead portrayed these as connected.  It’s like Kensuke from Evangelion, except as a girl & she actually got to be a pilot. 

Keith - The Rival Character. Second-best fighter  of the paladins, sort of a ‘larger-than-life’ superhumanly good ace pilot, to Lance’s ongoing chagrin (and indeed he turns out to be part warrior alien), also, predictably, the local cynic. Seems to have the least ties to earth/ have been looking for a purpose in life anyways.    Not quite a ‘stoic number two’ though - He’d probably like to be but he absolutely doesn’t really know when to shelf it, hence his being highly suceptible to Lance’s provocations & flunking out because of a “discipline issue” despite his aparent talent. 

Shiro - Former Ace Pilot & personal hero for both Lance & Keith. Got alien abducted & subjected to the full repertoire (gladiator fights, experimented on, augmented etc.) & is understandeably still rather shook from it. Serious disciplined military type & natural leader, hence ends up taking over almost immediately wheen stranded with a bunch of ragtag space cadet rejects and, as a result, becomes everyone’s beloved big brother figure./mentor. Supposedly just as loved by the fandom?  Actually still pretty young, he just looks mature in comparison to the others but he’s not above getting in a snowfight. 

Allura - There’s the “sweet princess classic”, the “fierce alien warrior princess” and the “glittery plot magic princess” and in Allura’s case they seem to have been thrown in a blender & put together in such a fashion as to make a more complicated character - She’s certainly fierce, somewhat agressive, suspicious & hellbent on her mission but she also has the diplomatic grace one would expect of a royal & ultimately she does have a sweet side (hinted at early on with her adorable animal companions) - The basic gist of it is that she’s a regular teenage girl somewhere, but has been trained for asskicking & diplomacy all her life, & now she’s the last survivor & feels the pressure to carry on her father’s torch & stop the evil empire so she affects a comanding presence most of the time. 

Also there seems to be some meme about calling her a racist (Ugh tumblr) ? This seems to me as one of this stuations where people want complex characters but cannot handle it if they’re not perfect or fitting into easy boxes. 

The whole point of her is that she comes from a different time & culture with it’s conlicts outside of the human character’s PoVs. Like point me at any angry alien princess who is NOT suspicious. Both being unfrozen and heck, even Zarkon’s betrayal are still relatively recent for her, and in the end she was just kinda avoiding Keith (granted, in what must’ve been a confusing uncertain time for him) more than actively being mean and she came through on her own & apologized. Like, it was just like Hunk said: She just needed processing time, something she’s been afforded preciously little of at any point ever, I mean she goes straight from realizing everyone she ever knew (except Coran) is dead to launching an offensive.  

Bonus: I shall attempt to MBTI the bunch

(In Order of certainty)

Hunk - most obvious ISFJ to ever SiFe 

Allura - ESTJ

Pidge - INTP

Keith - ISTP or possibly ISFP, certainly Se-aux tho. One the one hand he uses Fi-ish language in places (”If I don’t do this, I’ll never find out who I am...”) on the other hand he tends to prioritize the mission & is the most cynical/pragmatic of the bunch & tends to be stoic & objective unless provoked (”The rest of the universe has families too.” “Yeah but can we afford to rescue the princess?”) - His relative reactiveness when provoked is sufficiently accounted for by Se. 

Zarkon - ESTJ 

Shiro - ISTJ (though his instant commanding presence makes me doubt the I somewhat that said politician/leader ISTJs do happen. He seems to have been serious & dilligent even before all the trauma tho.)

Lance - ESFJ or possibly Se-dom, ESxx for sure tho. 

Coran - Clearly has Si and Ne but not sure in which order. If I had to guess I’d say he’s either a very dutiful ENFP or a very quirky ISTJ. 

[qqueenofhades]

The Rose and Thorn: Chapter II

summary:  Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter I

Sam awoke to the strong smell of brine and fish, the sound of a loud argument in what he thought might be Portuguese, and a dog licking his face, which made him curse and push it away. He understood the principle of having a cat on board ship; they kept the rats down, tended to themselves, and stayed out of the crew’s way, but a dog must eat as much as a sailor while doing none of the work (what did it do, bark at dolphins?) This seemed a seriously questionable decision on the part of his current vessel, but as the theme of his adventures to date appeared to be shaping up,  he had not been left with a great deal of choice. He had approached one of the tender boats on the beach, thinking that he could pay for it to take him out to one of the Navy frigates in the harbor. He had reckoned without the – in hindsight, blindingly and idiotically obvious – fact that all the small craft ashore were Spanish, and had absolutely no interest in transporting this pair of gormless English striplings anywhere. So in sum, to start off Sam’s vital interception mission on which the very future of the war might hang, he had strolled up and volunteered himself to be abducted. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful. If Nathaniel –

At that, Sam’s eyes flew open, even as his skull was still aching from the smart blow that one of the Portuguese pricks had administered to the back of it. Trying to avoid moving too fast, he glanced around cautiously, forced to console himself with the fact that at least Nathaniel had not thought of this beforehand either – fine pair of secret agents they made, the both of them. As it happened, the dog was now licking Nathaniel instead, slumped against a coil of rope across the way, and after a few more moments of the mangy mutt’s devoted attentions, his eyelids fluttered. He groaned, opened them, stared at Sam with the maximum amount of umbrage it was possible to convey in a facial expression, started to say something, then bit his tongue.

Having reassured himself that he had not – yet – gotten his friend killed, Sam edged slowly toward the sound of the argument from above. The one possibility he could see was that he was increasingly certain that they were indeed Portuguese, and not Spanish. While somewhat of an afterthought in the scheme of things, not quite to the class of the heavyweights England, Spain, and France, Portugal did hold the vast colony of Brazil and other possessions in the Indies and the Main, and while they more or less cooperated and allied with Spain in doing this, their allegiance to Madrid would not be guaranteed. That, now that Sam thought about it, was likely the cause for the argument. Half of the crew must want to hand them over to the guardas costas right now, and pocket a nice reward for their trouble. The other half (well, hopefully it was at least a half) must favor keeping them around, seeing if there was some further use to them, maybe even make Spain pay handsomely for the service of returning them.

It occurred to Sam that if so, he could possibly still salvage this. Convince them that he was important enough to be taken to Havana directly, as that was, after all, where he was trying to go. It might be harder if none of them spoke English, and how exactly Sam would pull this off without actually dying remained a sticking point, but that was a problem for later. As long as he was right about all this speculation as to their disagreement. If they were just squabbling about whether to drown them or shoot them, that, well, that lengthened the odds a bit.

At that, Sam pawed at his jacket, and discovered to his astonishment that the sack of money was still there. Evidently their captors had not even bothered to search them before knocking them over the head, confiscating their weapons, and tossing them in this fish-smelling predicament, and that was a morbidly hopeful idea. It might mean that the kidnappers were as thoroughly amateur as the kidnapped, and while they would still have the money if they wanted it – Sam could obviously not stop a dozen brawny sorts from helping themselves – its presence might at least convince them that there was more where that came from, or that he was rich enough to fetch a good ransom. And while Sam did not speak Portuguese, he could just barely scrape along in Spanish, and they would have at least one man who knew that. He was feeling more hopeful than he had five minutes ago, despite still being summarily abducted and held belowdecks of an enemy vessel with a superfluous dog and a deeply unimpressed friend. Now they were getting somewhere.

Just then, the ladder creaked, and with a look at Nathaniel imploring him to trust him despite all good reason to the contrary, Sam sat up straighter. The next instant, several pairs of feet descended into the dimness – this was a small ketch, with only one deck below the main and a crammed hold intended for a few hammocks and stowing cargo. As their owners came into sight, half a dozen bearded faces regarded the boys with deep suspicion. They seemed surprised that they had come to (perhaps they hadn’t hit them hard enough) and one of them called sharply to the dog, which sat where it was and whined. Sam felt a brief and unexpected affection for the fleabag, and when the silence turned excruciating, shrugged and took it upon himself to get on with whatever was about to happen. “Hola,” he said, in a friendly voice. “Me llamo Samuel.”

There were snorts and a few startled looks, but nobody clocked him a new one, so Sam took that as a good sign. “Mi amigo, Nathaniel. Estamos – ah, what’s the fucking word – deserters. Wait – somos? Somos desertores. From del campamento Inglés. Yo tengo – inteligencia? Inteligencia importante. For el gobernador. En Cuba. Havana.”

He held his breath, hoping that this was not the most obvious of all ploys in the history of attempted neck-saving, though this lot did not look like candidates for the famed All Souls exam in Oxford (which Sam had briefly aspired to, before realizing that it would involve far more of the Latin master than anyone needed in their life). When there was still no answer, he stoutly plowed on. “Havana. Necessito to go to Havana. Dinero. Tengo mucho – muchas? – dinero.”

As he had hoped, that got their attention immediately. He pulled out the money sack, wincing at the possibility of losing it less than forty-eight hours into the venture, but if it got them to Havana, it would be a very wise investment. Glances were exchanged among the crew, someone stepped forward and yanked it out of his hand, and there was a murmur as they opened it, saw it was real silver – and then remembered one small fact, stopped, and scowled heavily. It was of course English currency, and that would do them no good in any of their usual ports of call, as they couldn’t spend it and they couldn’t trade it without someone getting suspicious as to where they had come by so much of it. The man who had taken the bag, coming to this conclusion, flung it on the boards with a curse, sending coins rolling in every direction, and started toward Sam with what absolutely sounded like the Portuguese version of “Get him, lads!” In that moment, Sam could only think of one thing, despite its high likelihood of backfiring in any number of spectacular ways. No time for another.

“FLINT!” he yelled. “Mi abuelo. Capitán Flint!”

That, at last, caught them short in a way that not even the money had done. Everyone across the Caribbean, regardless of nationality, knew who Flint was – and more importantly, what he had left behind. Half the £87,000, or 120,000 pieces of eight, that Charles Vane and Henry Jennings had stolen from the Spanish salvage camp in 1715 had been lost with the wreck of the Walrus, Flint’s ship, on the fabled pirate hideout of Skeleton Island, and he had also buried another chest somewhere ashore. (The other half, aboard the Queen Anne’s Revenge, had been dispersed and spent in various avenues long ago.) Rumors had long swirled about the feasibility of retrieving such a legendary stash, whether it had actually sunk or might be trapped in the ship’s decaying hulk, but had been hindered by the fact that nobody knew where Skeleton Island actually was. The remaining charts had been lost with the Walrus, if Flint remembered the exact bearings he wasn’t saying, and besides, everyone believed that he was dead. The Spanish had never stopped brooding on the insult and their desire to recoup their lost loot, and the tale of the treasure had taken on a life of its own. If Sam could possibly lead anyone to it, the Portuguese could either charge a huge price to hand him over, or take advantage of it themselves. Win-bloody-win.

There was a very long silence. Then the one who looked like the mate said, in heavily accented English, “Captain Flint – dead.”

“Aye, he is.” Sam wasn’t so desperate to save his own neck as to sell out his grandfather, but now that he’d made the ploy, he couldn’t back down. “But I told you I have intelligence for Havana, didn’t I? You want to risk telling Güemes that you had the way to reclaim the lost treasure in your hands, and let me slip through?”

The mate squinted at him, not understanding all of this, so Sam sighed deeply and was once more obligated to patch it into his terrible Spanish. The gist of it, however, was that Don Juan Francisco de Güemes y Horcasitas, Count of Revillagigedo, the captain-general of Cuba and governor of Havana, would be extremely displeased if they did not bring Sam to him straightaway, and if that lost treasure was recovered, surely there would be a generous cut of it for them. Or if they wanted, they could just die poor and stupid. No skin off his back.

There was much frowning, more muttering, and a few dangerous looks at Sam, but the end result was that someone was finally dispatched to fetch the captain. He spoke better English, and introduced himself as João da Souza, a bearded man with a somewhat misleadingly genial air; he might slap your back and drink with you, but was clearly not about to brook any challenges to his command or actually consider you a friend. Sam had gotten adept at quickly reading people, and when da Souza pressed for details, merely repeated his earlier insistence that Flint was his grandfather and this was an unmissable business opportunity. Surely this couldn’t be a terribly profitable job, slaving on this rinkidink tender boat to sell to the Spaniards at ridiculously undercut prices. Money. Just think of it. Lots and lots of money.

Da Souza clearly wanted to believe him, for obvious reasons, but not without proof. “How do I know,” he asked at last, “that Flint is your grandfather? You are a very bad pirate.”

Sam winced. “I’m a wonderful pirate, actually. If you give me a chance.”

“Yes?” Da Souza tossed a complicated twist of rope at him. “What is that?”

“That is. . .” Sam considered the object in question with all the accumulated wisdom of his family’s legendary seafaring exploits and specialized knowledge of the most arcane difficulties in the owning and operation of sailing ships. “That is definitely a knot.”

Someone snorted audibly. “You cannot be of his line.”

“My mother’s his adopted daughter,” Sam said defensively. “Him and his wife. They’re – were – my grandparents. So – “

Da Souza’s eyes sharpened, and Sam struggled not to let his expression change. He was fairly sure the captain had caught that brief slippage into present tense, the hint that his grandfather might not be quite as dead as he was trying to insist. It was thus less than entirely reassuring when the captain smiled. “Havana. Yes. Güemes, we will take you to him.”

“Er, thanks.” Belatedly, Sam supposed that his gaffe in fact might not have been the worst thing in the world – sailing in aboard a Royal Navy ship would have put all of Cuba on alert and made it impossible for him to conduct his search for Montiano’s agent in private, if he wasn’t arrested the moment he set foot ashore. Arriving anonymously aboard a humble Portuguese supply tender would attract no notice whatsoever, and if da Souza had been safely assured of mythical riches, he might even go to the bother of actively trying to keep Sam alive long enough to reach the governor. And if Sam could find out what exactly the intelligence was – Oglethorpe had not told him that, after all, just that he needed to intercept it – he could decide what to do with it, stopping it or otherwise. It was somewhat of a surprise to hear himself thinking so calculatingly about this, actively planning where it might most benefit, but. . . prior evidence all aside, he wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew this was dangerous. He had to keep his eyes open.

Sam and da Souza spat in their palms and shook hands on their agreement, Nathaniel let out a sagging breath of relief (he had certainly seen Sam talk them out of tight corners before, but that might have been the tightest) and Sam was given to wonder if, now that they were such mates, the crew might be induced to feed them. He had been constantly hungry since he left home, as subsisting on less-than-robust army rations was about the worst privation in the world for a nineteen-year-old boy (as he, like the rest of his ilk, could eat his parents out of house and home while remaining the exact dimensions of a beanpole). Asking this question finally landed him and Nathaniel with some hardtack and a weazened orange apiece. Evidently, while they may certainly die in the course of this, it would not be from scurvy. Dad would approve.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Nathaniel muttered, as they gnawed the peelings off. The crew had gone back to the deck to make ready to sail, and they could feel the ship starting to gain speed beneath them. “Next time, maybe we don’t get knocked out first?”

“Aye, maybe.” Sam chewed experimentally on the hardtack, hoping that there would not be a surprise weevil experience (that had happened to him when he was eight, which he supposed might be part of his dislike of sailing). He did not want to fall into all his successes in such an arse-backward fashion, but it was still preferable to failure. “It worked, though, didn’t it?”

“That was luck,” Nathaniel pointed out, cruelly but accurately. “Besides, I don’t trust da Souza. He’ll try to coax you to tell him the bearings to Skeleton Island before we ever get to Havana, then chuck us overboard if you can’t tell him. And I know you don’t know those.”

“Keep your voice down, will you?” Sam looked around edgily. He didn’t know who else on the crew spoke any English, and did not want to risk them finding out. He was also aware that this bluff only ran any chance of success if da Souza actually had an interest in bringing them to Cuba and assisting the Spanish war effort, as otherwise, he could indeed just throw the boys into the ocean without anyone ever knowing they had been there. He wouldn’t as long as the riches were on the table, but as soon as they weren’t, well. . .

There was, however, not exactly much either of them could do at the moment, and they settled uneasily by the bulkhead, heads still aching, as the tender boat made it further out to sea. Sam risked a peek through the anchor eyelet, clambering through the heaps of rope and sacks in the bow, to see that they were almost out of sight of land, as da Souza must have known a back route out of the harbor away from the Royal Navy blockade – probably the same one they had used to smuggle supplies through to St. Augustine in the first place. It wasn’t that long of a trip to Havana if the wind cooperated. He wasn’t going to have a lot of bloody time to come up with a plan, and the Spanish agent could be well ahead of him anyway. If so. . .

And yet, despite the admittedly uneven start to his venture, and the very real risks that remained to his family if he failed, Sam couldn’t help but enjoy himself, more than a little. Sure, he’d probably die, but he was young enough to feel immortal, invincible, and this would be enough of a ripping good yarn that he’d never have to sit tongue-tied at another family dinner while the rest of them swapped tall tales and sailing stories. He was deeply proud of being Killian Jones and Emma Swan’s son, James Flint and Miranda Barlow’s grandson, Sam Bellamy’s godson, and even Geneva Jones’ brother (though he was sure he couldn’t actually tell her that). He knew they loved him regardless, but he did not want to be the hatchmark, the asterisk, on the list of pirate legends – the runt of the litter, the black sheep. He wanted to be enough.

After a moment, Sam blew out a breath and turned away. He was still hungry, though he didn’t think any more food would be forthcoming, and besides, he had to see if he could scrounge up any of his coins from where they had rolled into dark corners. Da Souza and his crew might not be impressed with English money, but Don Juan Francisco de Güemes might, and Sam had plenty of uses for it otherwise. He was tired, but he wasn’t sure he’d sleep. He needed to think.

No comments on how well that has gone before. Sam muttered a brief prayer to Saint Jude, just because it couldn’t hurt, and went off to get started.

--------------------

At least from the harbor, Nassau Town, New Providence Island did not look like the formidable stronghold of hostis humani generis, enemies of all mankind, as the laws and tracts of all the colonial empires had – unsurprisingly – declared the pirates’ republic at the height of its influence. There were no ships flying the black flag, no roving gangs of wastrels, and, perhaps most disappointingly, no piles of treasure lying around on the beach. One John Tinker had been named the new governor in 1738, but due to the demands of the war and his concerns elsewhere, he had not yet bothered to take up residence, and nobody appeared to be missing him very much. Indeed it looked, exactly as promised, quite normal, an ordinary hub of lawful commerce. The fort on the headland remained only half-rebuilt, as Robert Gold had destroyed its predecessor during the last battle, and the Union Jack was flapping merrily overhead, which surely would have disgusted Geneva’s relations if they were present to observe. Indeed, while she hadn’t expected to arrive in some preserved bit of pirate Utopia, with rum and brawling and salty wenches and whatever else they liked, it was somewhat of a letdown. Like going to find a prince, and meeting an accountant.

Still, she did not intend to let an underwhelming first impression deter her from a closer acquaintance. She turned away, ordered her crew to put down anchor, and prepared to go ashore. It had been an uneventful voyage from Savannah, though she had veered well out to sea to avoid Spanish ships around Florida, and the mercury was holding steady, though that could never be trusted for long in the dog days of summer.

“It looks quite. . . benign,” her great-uncle said. “I suppose I had rather a different idea of it.”

Geneva had to laugh. “Aye, I was just thinking the same. Though I’m sure there is more to it than meets the eye. We might end up wishing it was as boring as it seemed.”

With that, she helped Thomas down into the boat, along with a few of her crew members, and took one of the sets of oars, pulling them toward the quays. No sooner had they bumped against the boards and disembarked, however, when a small and obnoxious individual in an excessively powdered peruke wig rushed up and thrust a ledger under Thomas’ nose, clearly taking him for the master of the arriving vessel. “Berthing fee is a shilling,” he announced. “There is the docking register and the cargo tariff to settle as well, sir, so if you would step to my office – ”

“I’m not the captain.” Thomas looked as if he was trying very hard not to laugh. “That would be my niece here.”

“You?” The man goggled at Geneva with irritating, if not unexpected, skepticism. “Are you – managing it in your father’s stead or something of the sort, miss?”

“No,” Geneva said. “I’m Captain Geneva Jones and that’s the Rose, my own ship. As for your ludicrous charges, it seems as if pirates of one bloody sort have just been exchanged for another, doesn’t it? Good to know Nassau is still a den of bald-faced thieves.”

“We are not thieves.” The port factor inflated territorially. “We charge the dues and customs as appointed by the merchant guilds and trading boards of His Majesty’s West Indian territories. Entirely lawful, I do assure you. So if you – ”

Geneva couldn’t help but flinching at the mention of New Providence being firmly back under British stewardship, no matter how peaceably it had worked out. She hadn’t expected it to affect her, since it was a fight she had never been part of except for the briefest imaginable time as a very newborn infant, but it still landed in some uncomfortable ancestral heart of her. Thomas – whose own experience of English law had been far from benevolent, even if not that of the open piracy and rebellion of his spouses – had an odd look on his face as well. Exiled to a work camp in the Colonies after his confinement in an asylum, announced to the world that he was dead, disinherited and bereft of his family name, title, and home and everything he had ever worked for in a respectable career as a peer of the House of Lords and the promising scion of a well-established family. He might be happily reunited with James and Miranda these days, and all of them had struggled to finally put the past to rest, but the wounds remained.

Still, however, Geneva – while she might have her grandfather’s advice in mind about getting into at least one fight while she was here – did not see it necessary to start off by assaulting the port factor and being shut promptly into jail. So she went to his office, paid the charges, signed the docking register, and returned to where Thomas was waiting for her in the shade. “Well,” she said, with an annoyed huff. “Being hit up for English taxes the instant we land? I suppose Nassau has changed after all.”

“Indeed.” Thomas’ cheek twitched again, but he offered her his arm, which Geneva took, and they started up toward the streets, her crew having hastened ahead in apparent eagerness to see if everything was civilized these days, or the legendary houses of booze, bawd, and bad decisions still remained for public inspection. She’d box their ears if they gambled away all their wages, or got themselves into an entanglement from which she would be obliged to extricate them. She could not blame them for curiosity, as it was after all a considerable part of the reason she herself had come here, but still.

“You’re very like him,” Thomas said unexpectedly, as Geneva pulled her skirts up with her free hand to avoid the muck – she captained a ship and managed her own trading business and took advantage of numerous other pursuits normally accorded to firstborn sons, but she still liked to wear dresses and to do her hair fashionably and to buy jewelry and trim her sleeves with lace. “Your grandfather, that is. And your grandmother. I see so much of both James and Miranda in you. I know you’re not theirs by blood, but it is easy to forget.”

“It’s never been any different for us, you know.” Geneva glanced at him sidelong. “I didn’t meet them – and you – until I was eight, but Mother and Daddy always told us about you. It didn’t feel like meeting strangers when I saw you at last. Just like family who had been away for a long time and finally came back.”

“I remember.” Thomas laughed, even as the half-sweet, half-painful shadow of memory crossed his face: the first time that Killian and Emma had seen Miranda and Flint in years, since losing them in Charlestown and Skeleton Island, respectively, and believing them dead. The introduction of them both to Thomas, and Flint and Miranda meeting all their grandchildren for the first time, as Henry, Geneva, and Sam had been fully willing to accept this in their stride and not sure why the adults were in tears. Geneva’s own recollection was of being relieved that the pirate they had hanged in the Savannah square was not actually her grandfather, hugging her grandmother for the first time as Miranda shook and shook, and being distracted with biscuits and put to bed while the adults sat up all night on the veranda. The Swan-Joneses had moved from Boston the next year, when Henry had taken his degree from Harvard, to be closer to them, to let Geneva and Sam grow up with the rest of their family, not wanting to miss any more time, and she remained deeply grateful for it.

They reached the top of the steep, cobbled street, lined with swinging signs and painted storefronts, food stands and scriveners, taverns and trading posts and other familiar features of an ordinary market town. If it was somewhat more grimy in places, it was usually down a back alley, and nobody was resorting to fisticuffs (at least not in the open). Palm trees shaded the handsomely colonnaded plaza before the governor’s mansion, which in the absence of the actual governor being in residence was evidently used as the city hall anyway, and the rich golden light slanted as thick as honey on canvas awnings and red-shingled roofs. It was. . . pretty, with a sense of being well lived in, comfortable as an old shawl or a favorite dress. Not wild, not anymore. Whether or not that had been vital to its character before, and this could only be a pale and cheap copy, Geneva could not say. Still, though. She liked it.

They went up the broad marble steps of the mansion, enquired after the whereabouts of Charles Swan, and were sent to a nearby half-timbered townhouse with a brass plaque on the door. They rang the bell, were shown in by a servant, and in a few more minutes, Geneva’s uncle – fair and blonde and retaining some of his old good looks, though his hairline had receded and his waistline had expanded – was effusively greeting them. “I had no idea you were coming to Nassau, you should have written! I don’t suppose your mum and dad. . .?”

“No, just me and Uncle Thomas.” Geneva gestured to him, as the men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. “We weren’t intending to be here long, a fortnight or so, and we won’t impose if you – ”

“Nonsense,” Charles said heartily. “There’s plenty of room, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. None of you have ever visited me before, I should mark the occasion. Indeed, business is booming, and if you’re at all interested in remaining longer, my dear, I’m currently in the market for a new ship and captain. War always tends to be good for our bottom line, so there’s that – although there’s no guaranteeing the bloody Spanish wouldn’t ransack you. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t fancy explaining that to my sister, but the offer stands.”

“Ah – thank you, but I think I’m sorted.” With that, Geneva was induced to be shown upstairs by the maid, taking one room at the end of the hall as Thomas took another, and once she had washed and freshened up from the voyage, returned downstairs to the sitting room to visit. She, Thomas, and Charles passed a pleasant afternoon drinking tea and chatting and catching up with the news, and as dusk began to fall, Charles announced that he’d take them to his favorite supper club. No better way to really meet the locals.

Geneva, who had begun to suspect that her uncle was trying to butter her up to join the family business regardless of whatever she had politely refused earlier, agreed, rather amusedly, and fetched her hat and gloves. The evening was still very warm as they stepped out, the shadows ink-black among the waving palms and the sun a spill of claret wine in the west. Crickets shirred in the distance, torches and lanterns lit among the narrow wynds, and she and Thomas followed Charles to an appealing establishment on the harbor side of the city, where they opened the door and entered a lowlit, busy common room. Charles was evidently a regular, as he was greeted by name and seated promptly, and as they were waiting for their meal, Geneva was left to conclude that the whole thing had thus far been like a pleasant holiday. She was quite sure it had not been like this when her parents and grandparents had lived here, and briefly wondered if this could be considered any sort of authentic experience. Unless she was going to just –

“Mr. Swan?”

The table looked up with a start to see a man who seemed faintly, intangibly familiar, though for the life of her, Geneva could not have said why. He was sunburned and rough-weathered, with long black hair streaked with grey, a scraggly beard, an embroidered jacket, and – most noteworthy – a missing leg, though he wore a leather and iron replacement that allowed him to stump along with a crutch, which he laid against the table. His face was outwardly friendly, but his blue eyes were cool and shrewd, the face of a man who held the cards and shuffled the deck as he pleased. Spotting the empty chair next to Thomas, he took it without asking for permission, and smiled, once again in a friendly fashion, but with a clear sense that he was not about to be sent away without an answer. “Good evening. I regret having to interrupt you with company.”

“I.” Charles looked rather like a schoolchild who had stood up to recite before the class and forgotten his lines. “Mr. Silver. Good evening to you too.”

At that, Thomas twitched slightly, a reaction which the newcomer – clearly not a man who missed much – caught out of the corner of his eye. He turned to them. “Friends of Charles?”

“Family. This is his niece, Geneva, and I’m her great-uncle, Thomas.”

Likewise, a very strange expression crossed the man’s – Mr. Silver’s, as it evidently was – face. Something shock and curiosity and wonder and vindication and suspicion and fascination all at once, like the unearthing of a mysterious skeleton or fabled treasure from the ground where it had lain in secret for years, and was only now coming to life again. “Correct me if I presume,” he said slowly. “But you wouldn’t be – you could not possibly be – Thomas Hamilton?”

“Do you know me, sir?” Thomas was startled and wary, as any sudden arrivals with apparent familiarity of his past were far from reassuring. “Have we met – ?”

“We have not. You are him, then?”

“I am. Can I be of service?” The words were polite, but the tone was cool.

Silver did not answer immediately, continuing to regard him with an interest so intent as to nearly be rude. He realized it and glanced away, but could not help but looking back, as if Thomas was a museum exhibit or rare curio on which he intended to compose a lengthy treatise. At last he said, “I was well acquainted with a particular friend of yours, in the past. If he’s still alive – if you’ve crossed paths again – then I don’t suppose he’s mentioned me?”

“You’re – ” Just then it clicked, for Thomas at least, even as Geneva and Charles remained utterly baffled. “You’re him. John Silver, Long John Silver?”

“I’ve been called that in the past, yes. Even at times in the present.” Silver shrugged. “Well, then. This is – I scarcely know if serendipitous is enough of a word. And a great-niece?” He glanced back at Geneva. “No, wait. You’re theirs, aren’t you. Hook and Swan’s daughter?”

“Killian and Emma Jones are my parents, yes.” It was an unsettling feeling to be sitting across from someone who clearly knew far more about you than you did about them, and who might put that information to work in any number of ways. Geneva thought she might recall her grandfather mentioning someone named Silver, but he never said much about his old life, not to her and Henry and Sam. Kept it locked away, the old and wrathful mantle of Flint that he could never shed entirely, but which he had grown to master to the point that he could leave it where it lay, and just be James McGraw to his family. “You – you must have served on my grandfather’s crew. On the Walrus.”

“Your grandfather?” That seemed to intrigue Silver nearly as much as Thomas. “Captain Flint bouncing fat babies on his knee, letting them pull his beard and feeding them bonbons? I can’t see it.”

“Is it your concern?” Geneva did not feel obliged to disclose her personal history to this man, somehow both old friend and unsettling stranger, and she rather wished he would be on his way. “Do you go around bothering all the relatives of old business partners at supper, or just us?”

“Business partners?” Silver seemed amused. “That’s one word for it. I was his quartermaster, yes, so I suppose it is not entirely inaccurate. But as it happened, I was looking for your uncle. Charles, I have a venture, and I need a ship.”

“Most of my ships are abroad.” Charles fidgeted. “Indeed, all of them. I am grateful for your assistance in the past, of course, but I don’t think I can – ”

“More than assistance, wasn’t it? I daresay the Nolan enterprise on Nassau would never have gotten off the ground if Madi and I had not extensively facilitated it. There were also repeated loans on favorable terms of repayment, when your own difficulties cut into the profit margins, and introduction to those men who knew more about the Indies and the Caribbean and the general merchant business than you did. You have done well with sustaining the momentum once it was begun, certainly, but starting it? No.”

Charles, who had been about to take a sip of wine, choked and put it down, as Geneva glanced accusingly at her uncle. She was not about to say that he was openly trying to take advantage of her unexpected arrival, but this did explain quite a bit about both the warmth of his reaction and his determination to get her to stay, if Silver was holding him over a barrel for some favor that he either had to offer up, or watch his life become very difficult as a result. Thomas seemed to have come to the same conclusion, though his expression was very wry. “Well,” he said. “You are just as James described you.”

“Ah, so the two of you have been reunited. That is. . . touching.”

“I don’t believe you have a sentimental bone in your body, Mr. Silver.”

Silver smiled again, but with less humor. “We will have to agree to disagree about that, then. But given the arrival of you and your niece, surely there must be at least one ship at hand?”

“Aye,” Charles said uncomfortably. “Hers, the Rose, but – ”

“The Rose?” Silver looked as if he could barely believe his luck. “The ship which began her life as a Royal Navy sixth-rater, formerly under the command of Woodes Rogers himself, which – thanks to my own and extensive efforts – was captured and placed under the pirate flag on Skeleton Island? Which your mother then took over as captain, Miss Jones, and seems to have passed along to you? To speak of fortunate and fitting turns of fate, seeing as you owe ultimate possession of that ship to me, and given this venture’s own association with the place where that happened, that is as close as a clear-cut sign from heaven as any of us can ever believe in.”

“What venture?” Charles demanded, agitated. “What are you talking about?”

“The reason Rogers found us on Skeleton Island,” Silver said, “was because of the betrayal of another of our crewmates. Billy Bones went to Rogers and gave us up, in exchange for them both pursuing their mutual vendetta against Flint. So far as everyone knew, Flint killed Billy in their last fight there. But it has come to my attention that, rather like Flint himself, perhaps that death was not so final after all. That Bones is still alive, has emerged from whatever obscurity he has lurked in for the past twenty-five years, and may have taken ship to England to provide the coordinates and intelligence to reach Skeleton Island, and the Spanish treasure that remains lost there. Such an action would, needless to say, sharply swing the entire balance of the war, and to who knows what end. Do you follow?”

Geneva, Thomas, and Charles opened and shut their mouths in unison like a trio of goldfish, while Silver seemed gratified by the effect, but not enough to rest on his laurels. Geneva herself knew that Billy Bones had been a friend of her mother’s, at least before his betrayal of the pirates to the English crown, but everyone had likewise considered him to be dead, the loser of his final face-off with Flint, fallen into the water and drowned or stabbed or shot. Finally she said, “Why would Bones give up the location of Skeleton Island to the English now, even if he did survive? Whatever old quarrel he had with any of you, with my grandfather, it was years ago. Why just emerge from hiding and rekindle the feud? What would he have to gain from it?”

“Why, indeed?” Silver looked pleased. “Billy was – is – an utterly stubborn, blockheaded, self-righteous blonde bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. Nor was he overly burdened with a sense of loyalty to England. He was kidnapped by the press-gangs as a child, as he was out selling pamphlets for his parents – political activists, printers, the exact sort of thing that His Majesty does not want upsetting the apple-cart among his subjects. So if he is offering intelligence on Skeleton Island to the English authorities, he wants something in return for it. And since you’ve just confirmed that Flint is still alive, living out his days in happy retirement with his loved ones and family, perhaps that explains quite a large part of his motivation.”

“My grandfather has no interest in returning to the pirate life,” Geneva said, feeling slightly panicky. “Even if Bones learned that he was alive, he wouldn’t decide to just – ”

“Would he?” Silver sounded wry, almost sad. “Billy and I were also friends, once upon a time. Allied together to protect the crew, and our own interests, from the worst of Flint’s madness. But that, like much else, came to an end long ago. If he’s lived this time as a penniless mendicant, exiled and disgraced by pirate and English alike, taking work on this ship or that one, suffering, dwindling to nothing – can you really not think that learning this would make no difference? Suddenly, a quarter-century since his life was ruined, the man who ruined it has risen from the grave. He is in reach, a tangible flesh-and-blood entity to strangle with one’s own hands, a final and damning victory when Flint would altogether not see it coming, or have any reason to expect another attack, especially on this front. To make his joy turn to ashes in his mouth. That is the sort of prospect to give a man a new life, a possession of a cause, one last worthwhile thing to do before he dies. So aye. If Bones knows your grandfather is alive, you’re all in danger.”

Thomas started to say something else, then stopped, frowning and troubled. “But he – ” he began at last. “James has been reported dead half a dozen times, at least. How would Bones have any idea that those were a fraud, and what was the truth?”

“Again, another question that one might consider it imperative to investigate.” Silver leaned back in his chair, picked up Charles’ wine goblet, and took a sip, raising an eyebrow at Geneva. “But  of course, your uncle cannot spare a ship?”

Charles winced, looking at her with a guilty expression. It was reasonably clear that he was hoping for her to volunteer the Rose, rather than suffer the awkwardness of being strong-armed into doing it for her. She was aware that her family had come into possession of a Navy frigate by thievery, though not that Silver thought he was entitled to all the credit for it – yet she had no way to say that, born liar as he might be, he was fibbing about that. Thomas was not disagreeing, at any rate, which meant that whatever James had said to him about his old quartermaster and uncertain ally and ultimate friend and enemy alike, it must correspond at least roughly to this. The silence was excruciating. Then, gritting her teeth, Geneva said, “Well. I have a ship.”

“You do? Wonderful news.” Silver glanced at her with such nonchalance that it was almost impressive, despite the shameless operation of this entire little manipulation. “Available for our use, perhaps, if I was to find us a crew?”

Geneva glanced at her uncles for help, though she wasn’t sure how much to expect from either of them. Charles was clearly allowing this to happen if he wanted to stay in business, and Thomas wouldn’t argue against investigating this mystery, if there was a deranged and vengeful ex-nemesis of Flint’s out there who very much intended to see to his unfinished business. Finally she said, “We’re not provisioned for a crossing to England, we’d – ”

“That would be attended to.” Silver finished off Charles’ wine and put the cup down.

“So you want to stop Billy, do you?” Thomas looked as if he had been too well warned about Silver’s true nature to accept this explanation at face value. “That is what you’d have us believe? To prevent him from reaching Westminster with this kind of information – why?”

“I don’t believe that was the issue under discussion.” Silver’s tone remained polite, but his eyes were as guarded as castle walls. “The benefits for your family are obvious. I suppose your niece would have no objection to bringing you along. You are, after all, intimately and unfortunately familiar with the operation of English politics. You might have an old connection or two in Parliament you could approach – discreetly, naturally. It would be quite embarrassing for them to receive the disgraced and twice-dead Thomas Hamilton, banished first to Bethlem Royal Hospital and then some work plantation in the Americas, in public.”

Thomas’s fist clenched on the table, even as he fought for the poise of a lifetime diplomat and nobleman who knew he was being baited and had to resist the urge to take it. After a moment, he managed a gracious, if strained, smile and nod. “Yes. Of course.”

“Splendid. I’ll call at the house tomorrow to discuss arrangements.” Silver wiped his mouth and stood up. “So if that’s all, I’ll be – ”

“What does Mrs. Silver think of this?” Charles seemed to have taken himself aback by this interjection, but could not retreat once it had been made. “She is in accord, of course?”

Silver’s smile this time was the frostiest of all. “As we have never been married in the eyes of English law,” he said, “she is still customarily known as Madi Scott. As for her sentiments, I am afraid I would not know. Good evening, Miss Jones, Mr. Swan, Mr. Hamilton.”

With that, he took up the crutch from where it rested, tucked it under his arm, and made his determined way through the tavern crowds and out the door, leaving Geneva and her uncles in a state of mild shock. At last, she turned to the former of these in considerable outrage. “Why didn’t you tell me that this was why you were so pleased to see me?”

“I. . .” Charles trailed off under her stare. “To be fair, I had no way of knowing what exactly he was proposing. This was the first I heard the details as much as you. And, erm, if you and your great-uncle could see your way to doing it, I’d be very grateful. I would write to your parents, of course, mention that it was only a small errand and I would reimburse you for all reasonable expenses. I. . . really do not have any other candidates, and Mr. Silver has been helpful in the past, and it, well, it does sound rather serious. If you might. . .?”

Geneva chewed this over. She did not particularly want to say yes, but she was also not sure it was wise to say no, and if this did have to do with Bones and some revived revenge plot against her grandfather and by extension her family, it was best that she get to the bottom of it. She had wanted to make a trip abroad, after all. Might be able to fit in a side excursion to Paris to see her uncle Liam and aunt Regina, though she had meant to bring her parents along on that one. But as it would take more time to make another trip to Savannah and back, and as time was plainly one thing Silver did not want to waste, it did not look likely that she could pop by to pick them up. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, not that she needed her parents’ permission to sail as she pleased. She was a grown woman, and the Rose’s rightful captain. It was her call.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it. But you owe me really bloody marvelous Christmas presents for at least the next ten years.”

“Ten?” The relief that spread across Charles’ face was palpable. “My dear, I would say twenty.”

------------------

Killian and Emma did not say much on the way back from the harbor. They had to drive James and Miranda home first, and as they pulled up and Flint climbed out of the buggy, thus to offer his hand to Miranda with somewhat stiff courtesy, they all knew him well enough to see that he was ruffled. Not necessarily at any of them, but Nassau was quite clearly a sensitive subject, and one which he could not help feeling haunted by. As Miranda took his hand and stepped down, she said, “Are you going to tell us what is troubling you, my dear, or wait for me to draw it out?”

“I still don’t know if it was wise to let them go alone.” Flint glanced at Killian and Emma, as if to say that surely they must have an opinion on letting their only begotten daughter walk into a nest of vipers without due and extensive preparation. “Who knows what scum is lurking around there, waiting for an opportune moment? Thomas doesn’t know the place like you and I did. If he or Jenny get themselves into a situation they can’t escape – ”

“They are both very clever people, and doubtless will endeavor all they can to remedy it.” Miranda squeezed his hand comfortingly. “If you really thought it was so dangerous, you could have said otherwise, or – ”

“I couldn’t have gone, we both know that.” Flint was still vigorous enough that he rarely looked his age, but just now, the weight of nearly seventy hard-battled years had settled on his shoulders. “And I didn’t want to leave you alone. It’s not that I think Thomas and Jenny can’t handle themselves, but we all know what that place made us, and how. It’s . . . easier to bear it yourself, than to watch.”

“Aye,” Emma said quietly. “Sam said something much the same to me once.”

There was a communal heavy silence, as all of them knew that she was not referring to their son and grandson, but to their late – well, there was never any easy word or way to define what Samuel Bellamy was to them, even in the comparatively brief time he had been in their lives. Sometimes Emma thought she had only ever loved Killian more, and the notion that they were now going on twenty-five years without him was an almost unbearable crime. Sometimes Sam seemed half a dream they had all had together, and still lingered at the edges of waking, never quite banished or sent to rest. Flint and Miranda could not regret having Thomas back, but she knew that sometimes they wondered if it would have been so easy to choose, if Sam had lived. They had shared him with each other, and their grief with him, and his death, coming so soon after Miranda’s apparent loss in Charlestown, had been the final heartbreak to push Flint over the edge and into his desire to seek his own end and cessation and the drowning of his burdens in the sea. Even now, Killian, Emma, James, and Miranda were careful with Sam’s memory, the moments at which they conjured him, the times at which they did not. They could not fail to hear his name spoken every day to the boy who carried it on, but that was different. Sam Jones was his own self, not a shadow of his godfather, and they were all grateful. And yet.

“Well,” Miranda said briskly, rousing everyone from their reverie. “I doubt even Nassau can wreak too much mischief in a fortnight, now can it? And I rather suspect you enjoyed the opportunity to tell Jenny to embrace her pirate roots, James, even if you won’t admit it. Come, help me inside, and let Killian and Emma be on their way.”

Flint looked briefly as if he was about to respond to this, but waited as Emma leaned down to kiss her mother. “We’ll be in touch,” she said. “If Sam comes home soon, we’ll all be by for supper, how does that sound? I’m sure he has a great deal to tell us.”

“Aye,” Flint said cynically. “Best hope he’s not wearing a red coat when he does.”

Emma shot him a look, as while Flint was generally very fond of his younger grandson, he had not ceased to offer his disparaging opinions on the vastly ill-conceived decision to take part in an English war on any side except that of their enemies. “I just want to see him safe.”

“Of course.” Flint nodded to them both, then took Miranda’s arm and walked them up the path to the house. He let them in and shut the door, and Emma paused, shook herself, then took up the reins and wheeled the buggy around. They had a few things to pick up on the way back, so she’d best get there before the shopkeepers all went to lunch. It would also be good to have something to take her mind off Geneva and Sam alike. She was likewise confident in their ability to take care of themselves, but trouble, especially for a Swan-Jones child, was rarely too far away.

They drove back into downtown Savannah, as Emma parked the buggy at a hitching post and went into the grocer’s with her list, as Killian stepped down to enjoy the shade. She stood out among the flurry of sensibly mob-capped, plainly-skirted women jostling to the counter and vying to attract the attention of the grocer or his apprentice. For a lady of her status – not ridiculously wealthy, but between the portion of the Spanish treasure they had invested, the income from Nassau, Killian’s owned shares in several ships, and Geneva’s trading business, more than comfortably off – doing one’s own errands was clearly déclassé.

Once Emma had been apportioned her goods, Killian appeared to help lug them out to the buggy, causing another stir among the women – whether for a gentleman hauling heavy flour sacks, his missing hand, or his striking good looks even in his mid-fifties, it was hard to say. Emma had just returned inside to fetch her potatoes when she overheard the grocer arguing with a particularly persistent customer who wanted two parcels of sugarcane, not one. “Miss, there’s no telling if there’ll be sugar next week or not, not if the Spaniards come marching up from the south! I need to be sensible about what I’m buying and selling, if they – ”

“I’m sorry to interrupt.” Emma leaned over. “Was there news about an invasion?”

The grocer squinted at her, but gave in, as Leroy Small could rarely resist the urge to do, to gossip. “Aye. The Spaniards, they might be here soon. Oglethorpe’s in full retreat, he’s even left his artillery behind, some said. Take my word on it, sister.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, as she did not want to be so pompous as to snobbily correct his assumption that she was another of the maidservants, but found it slightly irritating nonetheless. Especially as Small had been responsible for crying wolf several times in the past, she was not sure she entirely trusted a loud-mouthed purveyor of public hysteria, yet wanted to know just how bad the situation might be. “So he’s retreating with his army, then? Do you know when they left St. Augustine?”

“Week ago? That and a bit?” Small shrugged. “You have a son in the ranks, then?”

“Actually,” Emma said, “yes, I do.”

“Well. Hope he’s not dead, sister.” Evidently viewing this as a positive remark on which to close out the interaction, Small nodded chummily to her and went back to his argument about the sugar, while Emma rolled her eyes heavenward and hoisted the potato sack. She went out and put it with the others in the buggy, then got up with somewhat more emphasis than she intended. The confirmation about the retreat was grim, but at least Sam would be back soon. He was fine.

“Hey, love.” Killian put his hand on hers. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, just something he – Small – said.” Emma forced a smile. “I’m fine.”

Killian’s lips went thin, as he and the grocer had not been on the most spectacular of terms since Leroy had interrupted a romantic supper Killian and Emma were having on the waterfront for their twentieth wedding anniversary by shouting that the market was on fire (the market had not been on fire). “That short noisy bastard? I’ll sort him if you like, Swan.”

“No, no, nothing like that. He said Oglethorpe’s all but running out of Florida with his tail between his legs, and the Spaniards could be hot on the trail after him. You know him, it could be entirely hot air, but – ”

“You’re worried about Sam, and us if the Spanish get here,” Killian completed, reading her thoughts as usual. “Well, love, no need to panic until we hear it from a more reliable source. Come on, let’s get home before we melt in the heat.”

Emma nodded, banishing the faint chill that had touched her neck despite it, and prodded the horses into motion, clip-clopping the rest of the way home, up the drive, and into the carriage house to unhitch, while Killian unloaded the groceries. Once Emma had splashed some water on her face and dusted the mud off, she fetched her quill and inkwell and paper from the desk, sat down, and began to draft an advertisement to be sent off to the Gazette. Two household staff, a maidservant and footman, sought for a modest family estate. Pay would be generous and treatment fair, references and discretion appreciated. Address all correspondence to Mrs. E. Jones, care of the City Hall, Savannah, Prov. of Georgia.

Once Emma had folded it and set it on the side table, she went to the kitchen to start supper. Still unable to banish a certain lurking disquiet about Sam, she distracted herself with reading the letter from Henry and Violet that Geneva had brought back from Boston. Her grandchildren, Richard and Lucy, were eight and five years old respectively, and while Philadelphia was not much closer than Boston in the scheme of things, Emma thought it might be nice to have them continue to progress in a southward direction. She had missed so much of Henry’s childhood that she wanted to be there in some respect for the second generation, but time and distance made that difficult. They seemed to be happy, doing well. She would just have to take that for comfort. All of her children felt very far away right now, physically or otherwise.

Emma slept intermittently that night, woke early, and decided to take the letter to mail both in hopes of shaking her melancholy mood, and finding out if there was any more news to be had about Oglethorpe’s retreat. There were certainly other mothers anxious for word of sons, wives for husbands, and Emma felt a peculiar, shameful gratitude that Killian’s missing hand kept him at home – the thought of having to worry about him and Sam was too much to contemplate. For the same reason, when Henry had ventured the prospect of a visit last Christmas, Emma had advised him not to, fearing that he would be caught up in the militia recruitment. Henry was a scholar, not a soldier, and could barely fire a gun straight, but that would not have mattered.

Emma hitched up and drove into town, dropping the letter off with the packet boat that made the weekly trip between Savannah and Williamsburg. She was not quite so desperate as to subject herself to a return to Leroy’s, but she did not need to, as there were knots of worried civilians congregating in the square; this was clearly now the number one topic of public concern. There was no way to know if the governor was going to come rushing in to fortify the city for an expected attack, if this was just a prudent or even overly cautious strategical decision, or if the entire coast was burning behind him.

Emma debated joining one of these groups, but it felt rather too much like congregating at a wake, and she shook her head again, furious with herself. Yet the fact remained that the last time she had had one of these feelings, explainable only by motherly intuition and a strong sense of things simply being not right, was when Sam was eight years old, out too late on a stormy night, and when she had finally taken the lantern and gone to look for him, she found him trapped under a broken log, a few hundred yards out in the trees, the wind blowing his shouts for help in the wrong direction. He had a badly twisted ankle and was rattled and cold and upset, but otherwise right as rain by the morning, and she had always been grateful that it was not anything worse. But if she had ignored it for another few hours, if someone or something had happened by, if the storm had gotten worse, if anything. . .

Still, short of riding straight down to Florida herself and getting into the middle of whatever mess might be going on there, there was nothing for Emma to do, and she finally gave up and went home. Killian was sitting in the garden, reading another of the books that Geneva had brought back for them, but when he sensed her presence behind her, he marked his place, set it aside, and held out his arms. “Come here, love.”

Emma hesitated, then went over and sat down on his lap, settling her head against his shoulder as he linked his arms around her waist, brushing a blonde-grey strand of hair out of her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Aye, well, I do.” He pressed a light kiss against her collarbone. “I’ll promise to give Sam an extra-good bollocking when he comes home, for making you worry. If that would help.”

“If we did. . .” Emma trailed off, half-ashamed of herself for even suggesting it, but not enough to stop. “If we did go try to find him. . .”

Killian kissed her palm. “You know I want him back as much as you do, and Christ knows I’ve spent plenty of time thinking of all the terrible ways he’s likely gotten himself in hot water. But Sam’s a man now, not a boy. A young one, but still. You have to let him flap his wings a bit – aye, and crash, if only since it’s the only way he’ll ever learn. It’s hard for you, with the way you are in wanting to protect everyone, and being his mother to boot, but for better or worse, we can’t rush in and pull him out of every tight corner he ends up in. You know I’d take you seriously if you thought he was badly injured, or worse, but. . . do you feel like that, love?”

Emma considered. “No,” she admitted. “Just that something’s wrong.”

“That’s his usual state of being, isn’t it?” Killian said wryly. “You can blame me for that, if you wish.”

“I’m not sure, I think we might share it equally.” Feeling somewhat better, if still not entirely reassured, Emma nuzzled his cheek with her nose, then kissed it, and they sat in comfortable silence for some while, until a knock on the front door, echoing through the house, startled her. “Are we expecting someone?”

“Not that I know of.” Looking surprised, Killian slid her off his lap, and got to his feet. Both of them must have had the thought at the same instant that it might be one of Oglethorpe’s officers, or one of the militiamen, or – ”I’ll come with you, love. If you. . .”

“No,” Emma said, as firmly as she could. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be right back.”

With that, leaving him in the garden, she went back into the house, crossed the front foyer, had to swallow down a brief and unwelcome nervousness, and convulsively straightened her hair. Then she opened the door. “Yes? May I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Jones?” The man on the other side was a rough-hewn sort in a homespun brown coat, with callused hands and a faint whiff of the stockyard. “You put in a notice for a footman?”

“I did.” Emma was taken aback. “But I only sent it off this morning, it hasn’t even left Savannah yet, much less reached the Gazette. How did you – ?”

“The master of the packet boat is my cousin. He saw it, knew I was searching for work, thought to send me along. A chance you’re free to discuss the position, ma’am?”

“I. . .” Emma supposed this was possible, even if this individual was rather slovenly for a prospective footman and there was something about him that put her on guard. “I’m actually rather – maybe not at the moment, but if you return when the notice is published, we could – ”

“No, ma’am, I’d really like to.”

“I don’t think that will be – ”

With that, quick as a snake, he moved. He slammed one hand over her mouth, pushed her backwards through the door, and fumbled in his jacket for a knife – an ugly, ill-kept thing which he was currently trying to plunge between her stays. Emma grabbed his arm, wrenched it over his head, and slammed her knee up through her skirts to catch him smartly between the legs, then twisted him off her as he let out a yelp. She forced his fingers open, making him drop the knife, though he continued scrabbling for it. Emma knocked it away, worked up enough momentum to throw him off her, and both of them dove for it at the same instant – she had not fought like this in years, but it came to her without conscious thought, a deeply ingrained old reflex. She opened her mouth, about to yell for Killian, then panicked about him being caught in the middle of this, if someone who was certainly not a footman had turned up apparently for the express purpose of murdering her in her own front hall –

Just then, a pistol went off at close range, Emma’s ears rang, and the next thing she saw was her erstwhile assailant crumpling to his knees, a bloody hole blown through his forehead, and a grisly amount of brain and bone splashing the whitewashed wall behind him. He folded forward, then hit the floor facedown, as she whirled to see Killian pointing his flintlock with cold and deadly intent, making sure the bastard was not about to get up again. Then when there was no sound but the echoes of the gunshot, a slow crimson trail seeping out in all directions, he demanded, “Bloody fucking hell, what was that? Are you all right?”

“I’m – I’m fine, I – ” Emma discovered that her legs were shakier than she thought as she attempted to get to her feet. It had all happened so fast that she wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamed it, except for the indubitable presence of a dead man on her nicely swept floorboards. “Killian, he tried to kill me, I don’t – ”

“Aye, I saw, hence why I made sure he couldn’t!” Killian’s eyes flashed, until for the first time in years, she could glimpse the dangerous blue-heat glimmer of Captain Hook. “Or did he – ”

Emma steadied herself on the banister of the stairs, took a deep breath, and went over to the corpse, swallowing down her revulsion. It certainly wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man abruptly shot to death – just not, again, for a while. She knelt down and went through his pockets, and finally pulled out a small knotted sack that when opened, spilled several freshly-minted golden guineas into her hand, Georgius II Dei Gratia stamped cleanly on the face around a portrait of the king in laurel-wreathed Roman style, the inscription continuing on the back to frame the royal coat of arms. This was more money than a humble tradesman might see in a year, or several, and Emma sucked in her breath. “Killian. Look.”

He leaned over her shoulder, catching her drift. “Bloody hell. Someone paid him.”

“Someone paid him a lot.” Emma put the coins back, having an unpleasant sensation of déjà-vu to when she had been recruited in a dark tavern in the Turks Islands, to the aim of capturing HMS Imperator and destroying its commanding officers – one of whom she had now been married to for almost twenty-five years, coincidentally. “To kill us, or at least to try. For this price, you think they could have found a decent hitman.”

“Unless they did,” Killian said, very grimly. “You advertised for two servants, didn’t you?”

“What do you – ”

“If you hired two assassins, one much better at their job than the other, and sent one here knowing he’d likely be killed, but considering it a useful diversion, and that you’d get your money back as soon as he was dead anyway, where might you send the other?” Killian was already grabbing for his boots. “Especially when he made a public appearance yesterday for the first time in bloody years, so if you were paying attention to such things, you’d know he wasn’t really dead?”

Emma remained blank an instant longer, than horrified. “What – Flint? You think someone sent this one over here to distract us and make sure we couldn’t interfere, so the actually competent one could – ?”

It was reasonably plain that that was indeed what Killian was saying, and there was no time to hitch up the buggy. Leaving the problem of the dead man in their front hall for later, they grabbed a pistol apiece, flew to their feet, out to the stable, saddled the horses as quickly as they could, and leapt astride, thundering down the road, avoiding the city proper, and out to the Hamilton-McGraw residence. They dismounted almost before they had reined in, ran up the walk, and Killian kicked the door in. “Hey. HEY!”

They could hear the sounds of a struggle coming from the back of the house, and raced in just in time to see Flint being pinned against the wall by some colossal – and colossally unfriendly-looking – man in a tattered black coat. He was snapping and punching and kicking like a shark on the line, but wheezing as his throat was progressively crushed, and Miranda was bleeding from the forehead, looking as if she had been thrown back against the bookcase. She struggled to her feet and threw a very heavy copy of Dr. Faustus at the man, clearly trying to get him to drop Flint and come after her, but even this literary ambush did not succeed in diverting him from his purpose. Miranda then looked set to charge him, but as a sixty-five-year-old woman who needed a cane to walk and who was already disoriented from being hit, she would not have done much good. Fortunately, Emma and Killian had arrived in the nick of time to do it for her. Emma rushed to cover her, while Killian – evidently deciding that one dead man was going to be hard enough to get rid of and doubtless wanting to press this one for more information – snatched up the fallen Marlowe and brutally concussed Flint’s attacker with it. He wavered, then staggered back, which gave Flint just enough opportunity to wrench free, snatch the heavy pistol from the desk drawer, and shoot him anyway. As he went down, it was just possible to see Killian slap a hand to his face. “Mate! No!”

As the ruckus belatedly quieted, everyone gasping for breath and struggling to regain their bearings, Flint sprinted across to Miranda, whom Emma was just helping to sit up. “Fucking hell! What just – are you – ?”

“I’m all right.” Miranda winced, pressing Emma’s offered handkerchief to the gash on her temple. “You know, I really did think we were past all this.”

“So did I,” Flint said darkly. Having assured himself of her safety, he spun around to glare at the corpse, then at Killian, as if blaming him for its presence. “The fuck was that all about?!”

“I was going to ask him, before you shot him!” Killian was clearly not about to be blamed for his father-in-law’s trigger-happy ways. “And there’s more, one of these bastards came by our house as well, I shot that one, which is why I was trying to keep this one alive for questioning. Seeing as if someone is paying them a handsome sum to kill us, I’d like to know why!”

“They came after you. . .?” Flint’s blood was still too up to focus on much beside the presence of someone who had tried to kill him and his wife in their own sitting room, but that at least made him frown. “What the – someone knows we’re here? That all of us are here?”

“So it would seem,” Emma said, wiping the last trickle of blood from Miranda’s cut. “I doubt there are odds long enough to cover this being a case of some other notorious ex-pirates that someone wanted dead, and we just happened to be in the way.”

“If we now have a pair of dead men in our houses, that is going to be a further difficulty.” Miranda pushed away Emma’s hand and looked around for her cane, struggling painfully to her feet. “Murder, no matter how justified, is not the sort of crime to make the authorities turn a blind eye. If our real names and identities are uncovered, there will be a trial and a spectacle. We’ll have to dispose of the bodies at once, and hope no one comes searching for them.”

Flint gave her a look as if to say that this was exactly why he loved her, that she could shake off an assassination attempt and then coolly plan how to hide the evidence. It was true that any run-in with a magistrate’s court or any other instrument of justice was not going to end well for the men, especially as they had only their own word that the killing had been in defense of themselves and their womenfolk – the victims, after all, were dead and not able to say otherwise. Any jury would be quick to suspect the worst of former pirates, especially two as notorious as Hook and Flint, the legendary terrors of the Caribbean. This was exactly what they did not need.

They had to wait until dark to proceed, at any rate. Then – with Flint armed to the teeth and keeping extremely vigilant watch until they returned – Emma and Killian rode back to their house at what they hoped was an unsuspicious speed, swung down, and while Emma hitched the horses up to their cart, Killian went inside and wrapped the dead man in an old sheet. They hefted him into the back – already smelling ripe from the heat – and tossed a few things on top, so they would not be very obviously out for a nice evening drive with a corpse. It was a nerve-wracking trip back to Flint and Miranda, who, having ransacked their own dead man for any potential evidence, and finding nothing of use, had likewise unceremoniously bundled him up for burial. Flint was not leaving Miranda by herself at the house with the slightest chance of more killers on the loose, so they all climbed aboard and rode as nonchalantly as they could into the woods, flies starting to buzz above their pungent burdens.

Once they had gotten far enough outside the city limits that they were not likely to be discovered or inopportunely interrupted, Emma reined in the horses, and Killian and Flint jumped down, found a suitably soft bit of ground, and pulled out the spades. Killian wasn’t the fastest at digging with one hand, so Emma took over, she and Flint laboring in the thick, sweltering blue-black night, intermittently pricked by the glow of fireflies. The lantern hung on the spar wavered in the haze, dancing like a will-o-the-wisp, as Emma struggled not to recall several memorable ghost stories she had heard about dark nights in remote woods. God, this was not good. Even if they could hastily bury the bodies and return to town with nobody any the wiser, someone still knew they were alive, lived here, and had made a serious attempt to have them killed. If so, Oglethorpe’s retreat was the very least of their problems.

Once Emma and Flint, sweating and swearing, had hollowed out a hole of suitable size, they crawled free, got the bodies out of the cart, and dumped them in. Emma felt a faint impulse to say a prayer, not out of any real concern for the souls of the not-so-dearly-departed, but to ward them off from any desire to stay around and haunt her. Not that she believed in ghosts, not really, but any good seafarer did not take superstition lightly, and Killian had already turned in a circle three times and tossed some dirt over his shoulder. Emma herself had a brief and horrible conviction that one of the dead men was stirring in his shroud as she and Flint began to throw on shovelfuls of rich damp earth, and had to fight the urge to just pile it on all at once and run away. Maybe set a boulder on top, just for good measure. Bloody hell, she was not sleeping tonight.

At last, they finished their macabre task, and climbed back onto the cart, uncorking the water skin Miranda passed over and taking a long guzzle apiece. The stench of decay and grave dirt clung to them both, so that Emma would need to wash thoroughly in the near future. Killian had led the horses away to stop them being spooked by the dead men, so he brought them back and they hitched up again. Emma did her best not to wheel them around and lay tracks back to town, but she wanted out of that place, and badly.

“I think perhaps you two should stay with us tonight,” she said, low-voiced, as they rolled through a stand of whispering trees, moonlight casting weird shadows on the ground. “I’d feel better about it. At least until we find out who was responsible for this.”

“Aye, I’d feel better about it as well.” Miranda glanced at her, the troubled look on her face plainly visible in the silver glow. None of them wanted to discuss the dread prospect of losing their home here in Savannah, everything they had built for many years, but they could all sense it hanging over their head like the sword of Damocles. It was almost a good thing that Sam was off wherever he was, that Geneva and Thomas were in Nassau, as at least it kept them at arm’s length from whatever ugly flower had started to bloom here. “But we must be very careful at pulling at any of these threads. We may find the answers, and wish we hadn’t.”

“I want to know who’s trying to kill me,” Flint said flatly. “These days, at least.”

“Of course. But anyone who knows about us is just the beginning of the danger. Anyone they told, any way they could spread it. . .” Miranda trailed off. “I’m not sure they’ll do us the favor of barging into our parlors to be conveniently shot.”

“But who would want us dead?” Emma asked. “The Georgia authorities know who we are, or at least who Killian and I are, and as long as we pay our taxes and live quietly, they’ve never troubled us. Why would that have changed? Under who?”

“I don’t know.” Miranda continued to regard her gravely. “Who?”

[newssplashy]

Out of sight may be out of mind for some people, however, this saying wasn’t applicable to Femi and Shade.

This couple were head over heels in love with each other. Hence, the reason they beat the odds.

Coping with long-distance

Femi and Shade’s love could neither be obstructed by distance nor time apart. Though it tarried physically, but the strong bond between them weathered every storm.

They grew each day, so fond of each other. And as their love bloomed, time appeared patient with them. Some nights they’d stay up chatting over the phone, and other days they’d exchange love letters. Shade couldn’t wait to be done with school; she just couldn’t imagine her life without Femi in it.

Shade’s graduation

And just as she’d longed for the end of her tertiary education; the time finally came. She was overjoyed and couldn’t hold the news to herself. She invited both old and new friends to her graduation party. And of course! Femi was very much present.

Aftermath of the party took place in a private lodge outside campus, and it was mad fun for the lovebirds and their friends. A few ticks after midnight saw an end to the party and everyone was retired to their resting places. Shade and Femi had a luxurious room waiting upstairs for them; courtesy of Femi.

The amazing night

They made love like lovers on their honeymoon. It was a passionate night, the intensity was explosive; it was as though “they’ve been led out of Egypt” like the Israelites. Then again, this particular night was a Top-Up to their very first night. However, another beautiful memory was again created. Though the night tarried, but not slow enough to have prevented dawn from being birthed.

Read Also: I conquered my fears and finally hired myself

The morning sun peeped through the curtain blind, as its light rays brightened up the once dark room where Femi and Shade laid in. They awoke finally! Femi had just a few hours left to spare; so every single minute was to be spent beside his precious Jewel.

Yet another departure

Their departure this time is going to be for one straight year, because they’re both travelling to different locations for important reasons. Femi is going abroad for training, while Shade will be dispatched to a different part of the country for her NYSC. Soon, it was the set hour, a driver was ready downstairs to take Femi to the airport.

Needless to say, it was an intense moment filled with mixed feelings for the lovebirds. But life has to happen, like it does; always! And so, Femi departed for the airport and Shade decided to journey home to be with family.

NYSC time

In a couple of weeks, Shade received her call-up letter for the NYSC orientation program. It was a new level of experience for her and she shared most of it with Femi. With lots of pictures to remember some key moments by, and some short clips saved up in her archives; she saved them all.

Orientation Camp was tough for Shade, it’s no news that every bad thing is made worse in Nigeria. According to default way of thinking in Nigeria, we deserve the tough love because it is the only way we can truly learn what others went through. In this case, I disagree!

Long journey from home

Whatever happened, had to happen! And Shade was later dispatched to a small town; few kilometres away from Femi’s hometown. She wasn’t very thrilled about this new development, even though she’d earlier thought about serving in Lagos or its environs. But she had no choice, it was already decided upon on her behalf; after all!

A few months got her settled in, she got a big apartment away from the heart of the town. Her new apartment was spacious. Shade had rejected the room offered to her, because she didn’t want to live in the “Corpers’ Lodge” with a bunch of strangers. Bit by bit, day by day, time drifted as it should.

Read Also: Sex and the city [Episode ii]

 Shade enjoying NYSC

Six months down the line saw Shade into the celebrity stage, she now feels connected. She’s made some friends in town, and the people adored her; especially for her incredible sense of humour. She was living and loving every minute of it---until one fateful evening. One of the girls from the neighbourhood came by to visit Shade, they’d had plans to watch a trending movie together. And just before then, Shade’s phone rang with a photo of Femi displaying on the screen.

The young girl recognised the face, it was the face of her brother-in-law! How is this possible? Didn’t they say Femi is in America? How is it possible for these two to know each other; she thought to herself. A few minutes later, shade got back into the room and asked the girl if it had been her phone ringing! Yes Shade! Your phone did ring! She passed the phone over, and Shade scrolled through to check who it was. Oh! It’s Femi, she exclaimed! I have to return his call, she said.

The awful gist about Femi

The girl (Abike) spoke up to halt Shade. Please, don’t call yet. That Femi is from Oshogbo, right!? Yes, shade replied with a surprised countenance. Do you know him, Shade asked Abike! Yes, I recognised him from the image on your phone……..he is somewhat my in-law. His older brother was once married to my cousin. They are exceptionally nice people, until you marry them. Abike told Shade everything she knew about Femi and his family---and as they spoke, Shade wept.

She’d been told that the love of her life is from a family of “wife beaters” and sexually promiscuous people. She couldn’t believe her ears after being told of the emotional trauma Abike’s cousin went through in the hands of Femi’s brother. She imagined if this same fate would befall her once she marries into Femi’s same family!

The decision

The imaginations of what would become of her once she becomes Femi’s wife drove her crazy. The scary thoughts made Shade very weary, and for the first time; the distance between her and Femi became visible. However, she wanted to tell Femi about it, but then she wondered what the outcome would be…..would he just convince me that he’s different from his brother? How could he be from such a family? She pondered over it continuously, and so, she kept them to herself and never spoke of it to anyone.

Femi was not just a lover boy! He was also intelligent, he figured something had gone wrong with Shade; and so he rounded off his programs beforehand. He flew down to Lagos and headed straight to Avbiosi, Shade’s hometown. It was almost 4 years into their relationship, and the set time for the Age-Group ceremony which brought them together in the first place. He decided to visit her hometown because he knew, there was no way Shade was going to miss the Age-Group ceremony.

The surprise trip

Femi found a nice hotel to lodge-in at Uzebba, a neighbouring town to Avbiosi, in Edo State. After waiting a few days, the evening came upon which the maidens dance-off was to take place. Femi manned up and headed straight to the venue where the dance-off was taking place. Unfortunately, Shade was nowhere present. He was sad to know that Shade was indeed unhappy, because it is unlikely for her to miss this ceremony. He thought and thought as he waited patiently for Shade, and as the clock kept ticking, so did time drifted afar into the night.

Read Also: Your affirmations confirms your miracles

 The rejection

And as Femi proceeded out of the arena, he met with Shade. Apparently, she’d been sitting by the corner watching other girls dance. They hugged, it’s obvious that they’ve missed each other, and regardless of the new findings about Femi; they were still in love. Femi watched Shade closely as they spoke, she was avoiding eye contact. But he waited patiently for her to finish talking before he’d reassure her that he’s not going to betray their love.

I know what you want to ask me Femi, and the answer is no! I can’t marry you! I heard heart-breaking stories about your family, and guess what; you supported your brother when he was being accused by his wife. I can’t deal with a broken marriage, I’d rather deal with a broken engagement than deal with infidelity and emotional trauma at home. I love you Femi, but the “apple rarely falls far from the tree” Goodbye! Femi, my love!!

Disclaimer!

This story is based on a true life circumstance. And it was extracted and put together in order to educate people on “placing judgement” on people based on their family history.

Femi loved Shade, and their love could have been different from what his brother had. Every individual has a different future, and rejecting people based on stories you’ve had about them is probably not the best way to go---give love a chance.

If we marry the ones with flawless family records, who’d marry the rest? Undermining the fact that our own children could go astray at some point, and in the end; we may be very bitter if other parents rejects them for their previous errs.

Hence my quote “if we technically didn’t know so much, perhaps we wouldn’t have too many self-inflicted deprivations”.

All quotes and article written by Joyous Akhivbareme.

Story inspired by the Iuleha people of Edo State

Thank you for reading…..

via Latest Nigerian News Online-Nigerian News,World Newspaper

[0225pm]

04 dec 2017

yooohoo

so it's currently 11:43pm and i'm writing this in the toilet as i poop.

didn't do much today but i met dayah and we went to bedok singpost for awhile in the afternoon cus she had to top up the current for the house. and then we went to bedok mall to have our late lunch. i suggested eating at fish n chicks cus i really wanted to try their hawaiian chicken set but we ended up just having lunch at 18chefs instead cus she didn't really feel like having anything there after looking at the menu. kinda bummed but i guess there's always a next time (hopefully!!). i wanted to have my usual (the tomyum fusilli or the curry rice with beef) but didn't wanna go over my budget of 10 bucks so i just got the cheese baked rice under the student meal which is also my usual when i wanna eat something nice and filling but at the same time still save!! cus their student meal automatically comes with a drink (the standard ice lemon tea) and dessert (ice cream of the day). so for about $10 or less, you practically get a whole meal which to me is really worth it if you feel like having "normal" food instead of fast food all the time.

after our lunch, she had to fill the current up so we went back to her place and i waited for her with the neighborhood cat. super cute, i should have taken a photo so i post it here but i didn't lol. and then she booked an appointment at the doctor's cus of an injury she had during her trip at pulau ubin. damn clumsy af wth. her hands and a side of her face were covered in scars from all the thorns and she has a really bad bruise around her abdomen and bladder area wtf. i fuckig told her to go for an xray since it's such a sensitive area but stubbornly refused zz no matter how many times i advised her to.

but ya anyway while waiting for her appointment, han suddenly called me and asked me if i want to accompany him cut his hair or not today. i said yes!! cus i told him before to bring me if he wants to cut his hair but i can only leave around 7 or so i thought.... cus i actually reached his place around 9 lol. i felt bad just leaving dayah there so i waited till she sees the doctor before i left and took an uber down to han's place. unfortunately, by the time we reached the barbershop it was already 9:15pm and they closed at 9pm so we actually missed it by 15 minutes. sadly.

then han raged like a madman for awhile, kinda like a screaming child throwing a little bit of tantrum (jk lol i love you bb!!!!!!) because he really wanted to get a haircut today. he couldn’t tahan how long and bushy his hair has become cus he felt rimas hahahaha. imo, he can style his hair up a little like what he did last time since his fringe was getting in the way but lol i didn’t really suggest that to him just now cus i don’t think he’ll do it even hahahahha. and then he had a short moment of regret cus he felt that he should have just went ahead and got his hair cut, instead of waiting for me and going together.

after he was done being a madman, we walked towards the mrt because there’s an eatery nearby selling really cheap food, something like ananas. and he bought set A which is nasi lemak. there were pretty much only noodles and other fried food available since the eatery was already preparing to close for the day. 

then we walked around, to look for a sitting area at the void deck so he can sit down and eat. honestly, it would have been easier if we just go sit at his block’s void deck, but i was trying to avoid all chances of seeing his mom since i wasn’t properly dressed. the thing about me is that, i like wearing shorts or skirts more than jeans or pants or whatever long bottoms because i feel so restricted covering up all the skin on my legs (lol) but at the same time, i think it is rude for me to show up with a “naked” bottom, especially in front of the older generations. i think most malays (muslims) can relate to this. like tbh, my parents are super okay with me wearing shorts or skirts out but i don’t want to give a bad impression to others you know. and like, i know i should be myself and all but i don’t want to put whatever good (i hope) impression his mom have of me in jeopardy (even tho she already saw me wearing a skort ONCE). and tbh it is hard for me to be super comfortable around his mom cus she seems so traditional. like you cannot have any skinship because it’s haram and all lol whereas for my mom, she’s like super duper ok with skinship (she kept teasing me by saying things like “ooooh later far touch touch here (my thighs)” whenever i wear shorts/skirts out to meet han) but ya like apparently she’s totally fine with skinship. like even when han went over to my aunt’s and then sat beside me, being all chummy and touchy by laying on my thighs, or my shoulders, holding my hand etc, she didn’t even say anything when she saw it. it’s like she’s totally ok and sometimes i feel like she’s even encouraging the skinship actually LOLLLLLLLL istg!!!!

ok ya then we walked around looking for seats, petted some cats (we saw 4 cats!!!) and then finally just decided to walk back towards another block near the mall and found an empty sitting area!!! han ate and then we talked about his work, and other stuff. today was also the day i realised that han doesn’t like jobs that are gaji buta HAHAHAH. he prefers to be doing something on the job rather than just idling away not doing anything. but he also told me that he might not be able to last long at his current workplace due to experience-wise as well as the people there who are not really willing to teach him hands-on. just passing him some paper/manual thingy and asked him to read it instead of using his phone. tbh i find that quite shitty???? it was pretty much mundane at the start of the day until he was given a task to cut boards thingy till the end of his shift.  by 1030pm he was already getting really sleepy and tired, i guess his body clock is rewiring itself since it was pretty much fucked during the weekends and then i suggested that i should go home then so he can have an early rest. our meetup was short but honestly it was worthwhile going back and forth just to see him even if there wasn’t any skinship involved. and i’m not sure if he feels the same way but to me, just being around him makes me happy tbvh. like we don’t even have to be looking at each other or whatever, but his presence makes me feel like i’m not alone. i’m not talking about companionship but like you know the feeling of being able to share someone’s joys and pains. ya it’s that kind of feeling. i don’t think i explained it very well but i think you somewhat get the gist of it. then he wanted to book a grab home for me even though i said it was ok and i can just take the train cus it was only about 1030pm anyway and there’s still trains available probably up to 11+ even!! i told him to save his money (cus he got his pay of 3 days! the company damn good sia i thought usually most companies will bring forward the extras to the next month) but he stubbornly refused and still wanted to book a grab home for me so i gave in and since i haven’t had dinner, i told him that i wanna singgah 7-11 for awhile to get something to eat.

initially i was looking at getting a tuna onigiri (number 1 fav onigiri filling!!) and then i saw garlic + cheese bread and i really like garlic bread as well even though your breath will stink for abit due to the garlicky flavor but lmao idc and thought of getting both the garlic bread and the onigiri. but then i walked around and saw nissin’s cup noodle which is my second fav brand of cup noodles for tom yum flavor!!!! super love because the soup base is spicy and sour and salty wah damn shiok la but i don’t think it can beat this other brand that i super love but idk the name of the brand cus its in another language lol i think chinese???? but it’s only sold at sheng siong outlets and it costs about 90cents per cup. fucking nice istg it’s the most spiciest tom yum/shrimp flavored cup noodles i have ever tried. if i can find it one day, i’ll remember to snap a photo of it! ok but ya so i ended up getting one cup noodle, the garlic bread and instant tteokbokki. tbh i want to spend all my money on 7-11 HAHAHAHHA i love instant fooooood so unhealthy but so good wth!!!! why do unhealthy food taste so good omg 

and then han grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the store cus he knows if we stay there any longer i might make impulse purchases on food haahahahahah

after that he booked a grab for me which i had to share with someone else apparently cus the person was already on the ride. tbh i don’t mind sharing but i don’t really like sitting in the front cus super leceh esp with my bulky bag all then still must put on seatbelt (ya ok i know actually should put on seatbelt at the back also just in case anything happens) but ya then i told han that if there’s only one rider i’m gonna sit at the back je. the grab came and then we quickly kissed and hugged each other goodbyes and yesss lol i sat at the back cus there was only one rider sitting on the left so i decided to just sit on the right instead of the front hahahahahhaha the guy inside was kinda shock that i chose to sit behind i think cus usually second riders would rather sit in the front than with another random passenger at the back but lol idrc. then the driver dropped me off first. i got home around 1130pm, the journey felt so long but yet so fast lololol but by the time i’m home, han already ko HAAHAHAHHA

it’s gonna be another working day for him tomorrow!! second day of the week, 3 more days to go :>

jiayou my sayang hehe i love you!!! <3

[oselatra]

A week at Midtown

Can a dive bar be reborn?

Midtown Billiards occupies the ground floor of a red-brick two-story at 1316 Main St., just south of Interstate 630, where downtown Little Rock splits. On the morning of Sept. 16, 2016, the building caught fire.

It started in the kitchen — located up front, behind the window that faces the sidewalk — and the flames burst through the glass. Smoke curled up the front exterior and billowed down the street. Even with the broken window there was not enough ventilation to stop the rest of the bar from filling with hot smoke. It was not the fire, per se, but this smoke and heat inside— hot enough to melt the ceiling fans — that caused most of the damage. Outside, the blaze — a flickering orange in the window of a storefront on one of Little Rock's main drags — caught eyes. Someone at the gas station across from Midtown called an employee of the bar, who called David Shipps, the general manager, and he was the one who told the owner, Maggie Hinson.

"Well, I'll tell you," Hinson said when I asked her about the burning bar, "I was busy having a heart attack." This is not a metaphor for being distraught; Hinson was recovering from an actual heart attack and was not able to go to Midtown to watch the Little Rock Fire Department do its work. "I'd just come from the hospital," she said, "and I was still really very ill." Plus, she did not have her car. A friend to whom she'd lent her Ford Mustang had called earlier that day. "She told me she hit a deer," Hinson said. Trouble come in threes.

As word spread about the fire, most people assumed the culprit was grease. A dive bar, perhaps the city's most famous, Midtown is well known for its oleaginous burgers. Esquire magazine — in anointing it among the best bars in America in 2007 — wrote, "People arrive here drunk and leave wicked. But it helps that they have those hamburgers cooked behind the bar, coated so thickly with spices and so indulgent at 3:00 a.m. that you'll see eyes rolling back in ecstasy with each bite." Maybe this association of the griddle with the bar's reputation is what propelled the narrative. Whatever the reason, it took on a tragic tone: This hallowed dive could not sustain its run-down nature and had been bound to self-destruct. Icarus flew too close to that oily sun.

But, the grease story was a myth. "There was no grease — I can't express that enough — there was no grease involved at all," Shipps said. It was actually a fridge's motor that seized up. From security camera footage, Shipps was able to watch the fire's progression, beginning just as sparks. "A few minutes later a flame was right on top of the fridge, dancing back and forth," he said. It caught onto the wall, then the drop ceiling. "And once it caught the drop ceiling — phom — it just spread," he remembered. When, the next morning, Shipps began clearing the char with a shovel, he found the fridge in a "molten heap."

Now, almost 10 months later, Hinson — who most people call Maggie and who has bright red hair that flows around her face — was standing in the front foyer, beside the kitchen, of an almost finished and refurbished Midtown. Her heart was working and out front was a red Mustang parked on the front curb. Everything was back in shape, or at least getting there, she said. It was Wednesday, July 5, and Midtown was reopening the next day.

***

Part of the reason it took Midtown so long to reopen was the reason Midtown was great: It was worn in. The saloon, for years, had opened each day at 3 p.m. and closed at 5 a.m., rarely shutting the doors even for holidays. During the afternoons it was known as a drowsy and calm place, haunted by the comfort of old regulars. Then, after happy hour, the bar would clear out. "It could be a ghost town" during that time, Hinson told me, when other bars were packed. Midtown is one of the few places in Little Rock to have a Class B private club license, allowing it to stay open until 5 a.m. It gets most of its customers from 1 a.m. to close, after other bars — each with different shades of late-night scene — shut their doors and push along their variegated patrons. These folks combine with a steady steam of workers whose shifts end around the same time and beat the crap out of the property until early morning.

There was an almost constant fog of cigarette smoke. Someone described this dank, dark bar as like the comfort of an old shoe. Midtown was not, as you can imagine, exactly up to building codes.

After the fire everything had to be repaired, and some things would need to change: New, more spacious bathrooms would be installed; the drop ceiling would be taken out; a freshly stained wood bar was needed; the walls would get new paint; and the new cement floor would be squeaky-clean, neither black nor sticking to your boot as you stepped.

This all took time. And to pay for it meant dealing with insurance claims. Shipps remembers cataloging an estimated 360 items, trying to find their exact price and date of purchase. Builders would sometimes have to suddenly stop — one time for a whole month — to wait on the paperwork.

For all that had to change, Shipps and Hinson have chiefly tried to preserve the bar as it was. It is still one room that stretches straight back, the walkway made skinny in the front by the bar on the right and by wood filing cabinets stocked with supplies on the left, before opening to pool tables and finally a dance floor with a stage. For continuity, Shipps put up a cut out rectangle of the old swamp-green wall from before the fire, covered in scribbling and beer labels. There was now a clear dividing line between the pre-fire hunk of wall and the newly painted Teenage-Mutant-Ninja-Turtle-green interior.

"I think this is almost too fancy for us; it's almost too nice," Shipps worried, surveying the walls around him. "But, it won't last," Shipps quickly added, with confidence. "It won't last at all." He was sure of the customers and, he added, "It seems like all these old buildings have ghosts to them anyways." Hinson told me they were betting on when it'd get back to the state of necessary distress. She bet Sunday.

***

I was giving it a full week, from Thursday to Thursday. My idea was to go each night to the bar, in a purely scientific documentation of Midtown's descent into its former glory. "There's a difference between a dive bar and just a shithole bar," Conan Robinson, a longtime bartender at Midtown who now runs Four Quarter Bar in North Little Rock, had told me. I thought he was right, but how do you make a dive? The word had shifted over the years. Dive, as a word for a drinking-den, came up in the late 1800s as a name for lewd establishments in basements and cellars into which one would "dive" to join the seedy underworld, hopefully unseen. The physical element (to dive) is gone for most places we call dives now — Midtown is street level beside an artisanal pizza place and a respectful business. Yet, the key was still in the name, a good dive bar needs an element of "below." You should feel as if you have cut through the cracks of everyday life. Most don't get this through being dirty, but through history. A proper dive is not really nasty as much as eroded.

History had certainly done its work on the old Midtown, but the fire now wiped out fossils of good times. The new Midtown ran the risk of looking like a ripped Urban Outfitter jean: trying hard to come off frayed but actually faking it. At the same time, as Robinson said, it couldn't just let things go to complete shit to reclaim its bruised past. There had to be a certain something behind the damage. The challenge for Midtown in its first week would be to degenerate, but in a hard-to-pin-down authenticity.

***

On Thursday, July 6, around 5 p.m., Midtown reopened not with a rush, but with a slow fill as people got off work. The public would come tomorrow, but tonight was restricted to the regulars. Most of them had been coming for years, were in their 40s and 50s, and of the happy-hour coterie. They would come in, find a friend, hug, order that friend a drink, and then begin chatting. I saw a cigarette hit the bar, maybe even leave a mark, as it hung on someone's finger deep in a conversation. That's how they happen: The infrastructure remembers even when the patrons don't. I found a few other dents: One of the Blue Moon lights over a pool table already had a large crack in it and there were some frantically drawn illustrations along the walls. A scribbled Dylan misquote stood out: "Those not busy being born are busy dying." The smoke did not hang in the room tonight, but dissipated and the lights were somewhat bright.

I found Robinson — who was easy to spot because he has a giant graying beard halfway down his chest — and asked him how it felt to be back. "A bit like a parallel universe," he admitted. Things were all the same but totally different, like a dream. The slightness of the changes were almost stranger. For example, his muscle memory of pouring a shot now did not fit the altered landscape. He'd bang his arm or elbow. He was hopeful though. "It's getting there," he said.

If anything could break this place in, it was an infamous Thursday night happy-hour game called bottle-toss. Here's the gist: You throw a bottle across the bar into a trashcan, and whoever is the last person to get the bottle into the can has to buy a round for the whole bar. The game can have up to 60 people. I did the math and the risk was close to half my rent. That's why many stand on the wings and watch as bottles fly into the can or smash onto the ground.

I found its originator, Stephen Steed and asked if it was on for tonight. He pointed up to the new fans whisking away the smoke. "They're too low," he said. "Some people have a high arch." He was holding off until the following Thursday. But, he handed me a packet of all the old statistics on bottle-toss in a folder. Steed has kept an exhaustive "Leaderboard" for each year of the game: names of the players, a cheeky sentence bio, their "season" record, a special smiley face if they got the bottle in on the first throw. From these statistics he makes Harper's- style indexes. Here are a few lines from the 2014 season:

BOTTLE-TOSS INDEX

Number of years of bottle-tossing at Midtown in some form or fashion: 14

Age of the oldest bottle-tosser: 84

Number of the Little Rock Nine to toss bottles: 1

Number of tossers this season: 1,119

I'd have to wait, but it'd be a good way to end my week here, even a test: Could the game transfer to the new Midtown?

***

Around 9:30 p.m., a group circled around Hinson and began chanting her name with their hands in the air. "Maggie! Maggie! Maggie!" No one is more responsible for Midtown's reputation than Hinson. She long has not just been an owner, but a kind of matron.

When she first got ownership of the bar, this meant caring for old men — a good bit of them holdovers from the previous owner. Midtown had originally opened in 1940 as Jimmy's Midtown Billiards. Back then, the name made more sense: There was an eponymous Jimmy, it was his bar and it was located on Seventh Street, which was midtown at the time. Not until the 1970s did it move to South Main Street. Under Jimmy's reign, the bar would open at 6 a.m. and close at 6 p.m. It was a pool hall and a gambling spot. Older men would mix in the mornings with prostitutes who came from a safe house down the street to get coffee.

Near the end of the 1980s it was sold to Maggie and Jim Hinson. (She thinks; it was hard to pin down a date on the transaction, she said.)

Hinson had learned how to bartender when she was 18. On her way out to California, from her home in Stuttgart, she stopped in Oklahoma City and worked at a bar for two years called the Horseshoe Lounge. "It was shaped like a horseshoe," she said, and she worked the entire bar and all the tables. Then, she finally caught that ride to California and, in her words, "hung out."

"Where?" I asked

"San Francisco," she said.

I asked if she liked it and her reply was: "If you remember if you liked it there — during my time — you were not there." It was the 1960s.

In San Francisco she got married. She and this husband traveled the world, but eventually things fizzled. In Hot Springs she met another man, Jim Hinson. "Oh, what year was that? Good God," she wondered. "Maybe, 37, 38 years ago?" They lived a good life together: She ran an accounting firm in North Little Rock and he was the deputy director of finance for the Department for Human Services. They had hobbies, too. "He was a gambler and he liked to gamble and that's what he did. And we got along great," she remembers. When Jim retired he bought Jimmy's. "When we bought this, my husband wouldn't let me come in here because he said it was too rough," she said. "But, then he changed his mind after he found out there was some domino players back there and he could play. Somebody needed to work."

Maggie Hinson ended up running the place. "I've worked the door, I've been a bartender, I've been a cook, I've been a plumber. Whatever it takes," she said. "I breathed life into the place." She would come and make a meal for everybody — whole hams, cornbread — no set menu. "It was kind of a nursery for old men. They'd come in and I'd feed and water them," she said of the first years. "They were my kids, all those old guys. I just loved them to death." She stopped for a moment. "And they're all gone now," she finished. Her husband, too; he died three years ago.

There were new regulars now — chanting around her as the bar reopened — and an employee walked past me and whispered in my ear, "See: Everybody loves Maggie." The place closed up at 10 p.m., still pretty clean.

***

Friday was the official kickoff and the live band did not start until well past midnight. Before then, it was mostly pool players in Midtown. A man with a loose fitting shirt, smoking a Cigarillo, played a guy in board shorts and a tank top; next to them, a mustachioed older guy wearing a tucked-in black polo, dangled a cigarette from his mouth as he beat back competitor after competitor. Circling around was a fella that looked like Tom Cotton on a bender, eyes hazed. As the evening stretched into the early morning, the walls started filling up, too. Customers had been given specialized Sharpies for Midtown's opening imprinted "Fire Bad! Whiskey Good!" They put them to use. Some patrons wore red shirts with a drawing of Midtown on fire and the phrase "Smoking Establishment." I saw someone ash on the floor, pause to wonder if it was wrong, and then do it again. A woman walked past with a walker.

By 2 a.m., the band was playing and the place was almost full. It was a motley crew. Preppy kids mixed with goth-types who were close to some hipsters who bumped shoulders with some older men. I saw a white man with dreadlocks and, to his right, a black man with dreadlocks. Peeking out the window, I saw a guy leaned up against a tree, near the curb, being helped by friends. A few pool sharks were still around, too; they'd stayed through the rush. One guy would put his tall boy Miller Lite can into a corner pocket and then strike with power, offering an "excuse me" to people in his way. "There are some bars that cater to certain kinds of people," Shipps said of Midtown. "We don't do that — at 2 a.m., everyone's the same kind."

I headed for the bathroom. A woman near the door told me to "not freak out" because the men's room "is not completely trash like it used to be." She'd just come out of it. Hinson had said she was not worried about the walls becoming filled with words, letters and drawings again: "We have a lot of self-made artists and poets." But, to have the bathroom already covered surprised me. One person's mark stood out. Loopy penises — looking like comical French-style twirly mustaches that had been scrunched in the middle, drawn in a single stroke — were everywhere. It was clear that a single artist had drawn all of them. It was unique. Someone had probably come to Midtown and spent their entire first night holed up in this bathroom drawing dicks in a determined respect. I thought that was nice.

***

If Thursday was about the longtime regulars, this weekend was about what Midtown had become.

Saturday night offered a similarly eclectic crew, but with a larger anchor of service industry workers. Bars open until 5 a.m. in Little Rock all cater to those who get off shifts late in the night (or morning), but Midtown, more than others, has become known for these clients. The word "home" came up more often than any other when I asked a random person about Midtown, but the second most common phrase was "service industry." One person told me that during his shift at another restaurant the idea of getting off work mixes with going to Midtown. "I can't wait to go to Midtown," they say to mean, "I can't wait for the end of this shift."

Not that this was always the plan. When the Hinsons first bought the bar, they actually tried to fancy it up a bit, turning Jimmy's into a martini and cigar bar. Maggie would come in with scrapers to try to get beer labels off the wall and just find more and more each day. After she inherited a 5 a.m. license, Midtown changed focus. "We're going to be a 5 a.m. bar, it's going to be a dive bar, we're going to cater to people in the industry," Shipps said of that transition.

This shift really took hold in the late 1990s and early 2000s, around when Robinson started working there. "Back then, Midtown was just sort of, I almost want to say, word-of-mouth; you didn't really know about it," he told me. "It was like this hidden oasis of like, 'Hey I work here, I work there, and I got off work at 1 in the morning,' or 1:30 in the morning and they'd all head over to Midtown. Have some drinks, eat a burger, play some pool." Back then, "we had one of those Walmart electric griddles, you know, that you would plug into the wall," Robinson said. "You could only cook about six burgers at a time and it would take sometimes up to 45 minutes to cook, because they are just sitting there slow-cooking in their own grease."

Then Little Rock's downtown started changing. "There weren't as many bars back 15 years ago," Nola Nysten, a longtime employee and bartender at Midtown, explained. "The River Market had two or three. So, when the bar industry started picking up here in Little Rock is when we got hit with late-night." As the service industry grew downtown, so did Midtown's late-night scene.

The major demarcation, the real turning point, was doing away with the 8 a.m. shift. For about the first decade under Hinson, Midtown had only closed for a few hours, between 5 a.m. and 8 a.m. But, the old men of morning gambling and coffee were not the main customer-base anymore. They adjusted, and started coming in the evening. "They'd be back there playing dominoes and the band just a-blaring," Hinson said.

On that first Saturday, most people I met were service-industry. And it showed. There was a healthy amount of respect and appreciation for the bartenders. There were out and out drunken folks, too, sure. But they were watched after.

When I was looking at the clock behind the bar, realizing it was 15 minutes ahead, and not 3:25, or so, but actually 3:10, a burly larger guy slid up to me.

"I fucked up," he said, kind of giggling.

"What did you do?" I asked

"I don't know!" he yelped, and burst into a laugh, grabbing my arm and bent forward so low his head almost touched the bar. Then he rose and tried to order another drink. The bartender, kindly, told him he was probably OK for the night. I watched him walk away perfectly fine with the decision, dancing a bit. Remember: A dive is not complete shit. That probably stopped the guy from puking.

***

Sunday was proving comparatively calm, I was thinking, while a man in a black cowboy hat did karaoke. Behind him, the stage was now covered with graffiti. In an interlude, he asked the crowd, "Can I get a hell yeah?" and I expected the tepid response of most karaoke events.

"HELL YEAH!" the whole bar screamed. "Can I get a yee haw?" "YEE HAW!" they bellowed. Such a full-throated response to karaoke I have never heard. The next person stepped up and a fellow bar mate told me this guy — now swaying and sort of singing in a mumble — had been one of the first to the mic almost four hours earlier.

Bubbling under the surface, even on Sunday, is the Midtown party.

***

After the late nights on the weekend — almost until the crack of dawn — I took the early week to learn about evenings at Midtown. I drank beers in the afternoon. I chatted. I met people getting off work or about to go in and I learned how to sit on a barstool and think about nothing. I tried to channel one of the newer employees, Brendon Holmes.

He is 23 and recently came back to Arkansas from California, where he served in the Marines. He is a bar back, which means he cooks the famous burgers and helps refill the stocks if they run out. At night, this can be an exhausting job as the drunken clamor for food and bartenders take order after order; persons gaming for attention as if they are the only one in the bar. But, Holmes is serene about the whole thing.

When I asked him about Midtown, he spoke of the joy of its solitude on evenings. "I usually go a lot of places by myself," he said. "Part of the reason I come up here is I'm always cool to bring my sketch pad and just chill by myself and draw." He wants to be a tattoo artist — he showed me an intricate series of sea creatures on his right arm painted from the elbow to the wrist, part of a larger piece. He also likes piercings: He has a nose ring and a stud on his cheek. It's not like Holmes does not enjoy fun. I've seen him working late-night shifts and stop on the way back to dance after he delivered food. Late nights require a still morning.

***

On Wednesday, I overheard and wrote down:

"Almost looks the same," a man says to a woman as a half-way introduction.

"Pretty much," she says back, and then orders a beer.

***

Around 7:11 p.m. on Thursday, we were still waiting for bottle-toss to start up when the fire alarm went off. No fire-breaking glass, no burnt-down building, no molten fridge; just a new system sensitive to smoke. Bottle-toss is supposed to start at 7 p.m., but it actually gets going whenever Hinson finishes playing dominoes in the back, so in the meantime, people prepared the field as the alarm went off. A white chalk line was drawn near the end of the bar, about 30 feet away from a trashcan that was placed against the wall. Right above the trashcan, someone drew a small arrow with the word "BOTTLE" in all caps. A fire truck rolled up outside and then drove away.

The game was not always so intricately planned.

It started in 2000, when a group of Thursday regulars were trying to figure out who would pay the tab. Hinson had vetoed buying a dartboard and tried a few others games of chance to no success. "I had paper targets made and we had a drop ceiling, so I put those on the ceiling and they would shoot those long toothpicks out of a straw to see if they could hit the bullseyes. Well, that lost its glory real quick," she said. Then, someone put a bottle on top of his head and challenged one of the others to knock it off with a tossed bottle. In a heroic feat, the tosser hit the bottle off the challenger's head and it landed in a trashcan. And — as it is written in the official history I was given — " 'There's game in there somewhere,' Steed said. 'We need a different target.'"

They started by throwing from the bar to a can by the front door, but this had the danger of whacking a customer walking in, so they flipped the directions. The shot was taken at a slight right bend from the bar to a corner. Meaning, if you throw right-ish it'll hit that wall and sometimes bank in. The old Midtown had a gold star in that spot where right-handers would often hit for the bank shot. It also had tarps up, which a crazy throw would sometimes land on, causing the bottle to roll down the wall and into the can.

As Midtown grew over the past 20 or so years, so has bottle-toss. Just to give an idea of the size: since 2015, on top of the bottle-tossing, a group plays its own game of betting who will lose. It's the Midtown Pony Express, and they have 25 members.

***

Hinson stepped out from the dominoes and up to the mic around 7:30. "ARE WE READY FOR BOTTLE-TOSS?" she screamed. The toss lane was cleared and people got onto the stage or stood on benches to look down on the "field." Empty bottles lined the end of the bar, ready to be thrown.

During the game, Hinson emcees beside the throwing player, often chastising him or her for their attempts to get a free beer. Tonight, she was also the first to throw. She brought the bottle down to near her knees, rocking with it as if to flip it into the air underhanded, then, with sudden force, she cocked it behind her ear and tomahawked it. The bottle was sent in a looping dive toward the cement floor and crashed. "AHH!" a cheer rose up. The first bottle-toss. Two men with brooms began the process of pushing the debris to the side. Hinson grabbed the microphone and invited people to line up.

Misses were aplenty as the game began. Hinson used various phrases to describe these catastrophic throws, but there were a few common ones: "crashed and burned" for the bad ones and "Oh baby! So close!" for the OK ones. The most regularly used just a buzzer-like "EHH!" Brad Kimbrell, a former two-time champion of bottle-toss, was the first to sink his bottle, and a loud roar rose up.

Then, at 7:31 p.m., the fire alarm went off again. "Hold on; there is no fire," Hinson said. Another fire truck came — some firefighters came in, talked to Hinson and then left. The game started back up. Someone's shot ricocheted every which way and Hinson told them to not mess up her bar. "All right? Everything is new and improved."

By the time I made it up to the line, I cannot lie, I was nervous. There were 64 people playing bottle-toss this evening and the tab would be high. I took the neck of the bottle and sent it spinning in the air until it — bang — hit the fan and crashed on the floor. Steed was right when he said some players had high arcs and that it would be a problem.

In between turns, I went back to the few people I knew for advice and learned that there had always been obstacles: I could not blame the fan, only myself. An old gas line was up there before. Other throwers included a man with walker and a person with a cast on his arm; I hoped I could at least beat them.

Near the end of the first round, one of the sweepers of the broken glass, Duncan, stepped to the line and people shouted, "ONE SHOT DUNC!" He proceeded to live up to his name. Many regulars were getting it one-shot, including "Mr. Bottle Toss himself," as Hinson called Steed. It was intimidating.

A little after 9 p.m., when there were only 23 of 64 tossers left and I was among them, came the real nerves. I could understand the people who ducked out early — they were shamed and booed when called to the line only to be found absent, but they had ensured not having to pay the tab. I'd missed probably four times at this point and none of them were close. Then, I missed again — maybe the worst of the night — and it was down to 14. I learned later I was so bad that one of the Midtown Pony Express folks placed their gamble on me. Looking back, I can't blame him.

At 9:14 p.m. I flipped an erratic one that banked and pinballed off too many surfaces to be anything but pure ugly before sliding into the can. Per custom, I went over and hugged Hinson. She nicely yelled at me: "Go get your free beer!"

The game went on, but not much longer; it ended around 9:34 p.m. Hinson and one other tosser had gone one-on-one a few times and neither had made it in. After a quick discussion, they agreed to split the tab. She then called for silence and let the place settle. Hinson said, "We've been closed for a long time and I feel like I got my family back with me." Another cheer.

A good amount of people shuffled out at that point, but even more stayed. They did what people have always done in the rooms we call dive bars: smoke, drank, chatted, ate. It reminded me of earlier in the week, when I was trying to squeeze out of Hinson some reason her bar was so special and she was trying to help, but, eventually, she grew a little tired of it and stopped.

"We're just plain," she said.

***

I did not have to — even planned not to — but Friday I went back to Midtown.

A week at Midtown

[thecrownprincessapollina-aa-blog]

Hey darlings!! Hope everyone’s having a nice day so far!! :D To those of you lovelies who I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet, my name’s Tia and let me warn you in advance that I’m a plot whore, so sooner or later Imma gonna be creeping at your inbox. OK, that just sounded quite creepy  but I promise you that I’m far frm it and I just can wait to get to know y’all so much better! :)) Anyway, the gist of it is that I just LOVE LOVE <3 TO PLOT, so if any of you doves, wanna plot a connection or anything with Apollina, feel free to like this intro post and I’ll def hit up yr IM’s later when I’m more free <3 Below  is Apollina’s bio :)

   So as stated in my ooc intro post in the ooc blog, Apollina is the eldest child of the human Belgium king and currently the crown princess. So far, I’m  imagining that she has 2 younger bros who are pretty to close to her age and two under-18 teenage twin sisters.

   Ever since she was a young girl, she had always been an  extraordinarily intelligent, sharp-eyed and extremely mature for her age. She had a HUGELY IMMENSE thirst for knowledge about everything and she was also a very eager learner. Her quick and sharp mind made it easy for her to catch and grasp stuff, so that resulted in opening her eyes to to the world,the state of her country and the workings of the political state as well as some other stuff.

   She thus, turned out to be very forward-thinking, resourceful and pretty self-reliant which lead to her having many good ideas/thoughts and opinions on how to solve whatever problems the country  had and  on how to consistently improve/advance her country.

Eversince the supernatural community came out to the world in 1996, she had been fascinated to know more of the many supernatural species. Thus, she had whole-heartedly delved into reading, researching and gathering up as much knowledge and information as possible about them. That was not to say, she condoned the villanous acts or murderous rampages or lust for tyrannical power half of that community demanded/craved. She definitely frowned upon the creatures who had committed evil or extremely selfish deeds to benefit their ownself or their own kind solely and would like nothing better for those ppl to be stopped or punished at least. BUT since she was pretty clear-headed and open-minded, she definitely was smart not to condemn a whole supernatural species for the bad things done by only half of their population. She knew there must  be good supernatural creatures around.

And she was proven right, through somehow fatefully getting to know a few supernaturals over the years who meant to do no real harm to humans and didn’t have any bad intentions for the human race. (hint: wcs here fr a few supernatural buddies ;)) She even had a tutor for one of her fav subjects, during her teenage years who was secretly a powerful Wiccan witch who had extended her aging and thus could pass off s looking to be about middle-aged. That witch was a very loving and generous soul who Apollina instantly quickly liked and befriended. her tutor then gradually find out about Apollina’s eagerness to expand her knowledge of the supernaturals and knowing the girl to be  just enough not to use the information for evil gains, she then revealed her secret to the trustworthy teen, and taught her as much as she could about all kinds of info about the 3 main species of werewolves, witches, and vampires.

Thus, my cunning and clever baby has def not arrived unprepared as she has  come stocked up with plenty of vervain (some which she has already ingested before arrival), vervain darts, wolfsbane grenades,a few stakes, some small magically charmed personal items by her dear witch tutor-friend (like her necklace & rings/ even dress) of her own which can protect her somewhat from other supernatural beings and thru her many travels over the years which she used, to lap up normal & supernatural cultural knowledge, she has searched hard and for now found 2 dark objects. All of this kept securely under a secret compartments in her many luggage bags..Ok ,my baby doesn't mean to purposely attack anyone with all her stuff, she's just being  playing safe and smart to use them for self-defense purposes as she has def no plans to die anytime soon. PLus, in fact, she's somewhat hoping to be able to use this gathering as an opportunity to hopefully foster political/economical connections with some of the supernatural royals as being the always-forward and innovative thinker that she is, she can see that there are quite some benefits for everybody involved to work together to further improve/advance their respective countries

My poor baby has never really been in any sort of romantic relationship. For one thing, this ambitious, goal oriented, knowledge-hungry girl has hardly ever spared a thought for romance and wasn't bothered at all in seeking any romantic relationship. She is a warm and loving person but to her, all romantic stuff was just frivolous stuff and in some cases, could even be just small stuff for people to amuse themselves with and quite frankly isn;t really worth her time. Why be knee-deep, madly* passionately in love till you while your hours away doing romantic stuff for long periods of time. Isn't it far better to use your valuable time to devoting yourself in pursuit of information, advancement of your society  socializing with platonic friends & family as well as networking? Thus, my baby isn;t really against romance but she just doesn't bother about it or see the necessity for it. Hence, she views her upcoming marriage to a supernatural as just an advantageous opportunity to foster alliances, gain peace and to hopefully further improve her country. She thinks a marriage is good enough if its based on mutual respect, understanding and maybe some caring for the other's welfare. She doesn't even think about the possibility of falling in love. She is just hoping that her future husband isn't a monster, is witty, smart , proper and has steady head on his shoulder and then they could be friends XD lmao

   So her personality is that of a charming, highly intelligent, friendly, sociable, sharp-eyed, good-hearted and quite compassionate woman as she never wants to see anyone get hurt  unless they truly deserve it or deserve to get punished for a wrongdoing. She  cares deeply about her family, close friends and citizens and can be quite loving towards them. However, she doesn’t trust someone too easily or quickly as she had learnt that people carry many faces or hidden agendas, so she from early on had learnt how to put on a charming  and amiable exterior altho on the inside her true feelings of either anger, frustration, or suspicions remain in the inside. She does show some sternness when dealing with wrongdoers but she never lets her emotions get out of control and does her best to appear collected. These actions were tiring at times, but hey that’s the life of an effective queen is it not?

   Thus she can also be pretty cunning and subtly manipulative towards others, but solely for the reasons of doing good or for benefiting her loved ones or country. There are also times when she has a tendency to be impatient tho she does her best not to show it. She’s also an ambitious woman, goal-oriented, forward-thinking who’s always determined to reach her objectives or results.

She also cares a lot for elegance and behaving in a conduct that's befitting of crown princess in order to maintain a good and perfect public image, so that can sometimes be a pain in the ass to some people. She can also be a lil picky at times, and she is quite opinionated but she's wise& crafty enough to know when and how to voice them.and like i said earlier in her bio, while she isn't against them & ,  this crown princess doesn't really spare a thought of her precious time towards romance or lustful affairs/romps. She's benevolent toward her friends or people who are really into it or pursue it or in relationships but she's is not at all bothered about having this kind of stuff for herself. (tsk, tsk, this girl really needs to loosen up more and get the romantic part of her soul stirred up or shaken up somewhat.)

Oh and one of the things she is highkey not good at is singing. To her frustration and embarrassment, her vocal pipes ain’t that good for singing. Her voice is elegant and lovely enough on the ears when she is talking or giving eloquent speeches, but poor girl can’t sing very well.  Despite having taken some classes, she’s still unable to master the art of singing well, so she can carry a decent moderate tone when she sings, but she can’t go deep and she specially can’t go high-pitch or try to sing loud vocals or else it’ll be horribly off-key or pitchy.

[acorntops]

Interview with Conor Walsh, Author of Little Glass Men

Back in July we interviewed Conor Walsh about his book Little Glass Men. We are excited to be working with him in our upcoming bookstore!

What do you want reader to take away from Little Glass Men? The hope is that the story would spawn more interest in, if not World War I itself, then at least the stories that spawned from it. I find the era fascinating, but feel it's been highly neglected by most forms of media, for the most part. World War I doesn't have the "allure" that the second World War does - that of a distinct good-and-evil struggle, though of course it was more complex than that. The first World War was a meaningless war, for the most part, and one that everyone lost. So the men who fought and died in it can't even say "Well, at least I beat the bad guys." It's always had a sort of poetic merit to me - a war with no point, but one that men still fought and died in. History doesn't really give them a fair shake. ​ In Little Glass Men you explore a diverse group of characters. Was there a particular perspective that was most difficult to explore? What made you choose these particular characters to explore? Garrett's perspective was the most difficult to tackle, I'd say, mainly because I had a vision behind his character that got somewhat "lost in the shuffle". The idea behind his character is that he'd never really had a childhood or adolescence; that adulthood was forced on him, so to speak. I find him the most interesting, for what that's worth, as he's even more alone than the other people in the hospital. Racism was rampant in the era Little Glass Men takes place; he's half-black. He has no family. His only "friends" are years above his age, and all with their own score of problems. As for the cast of characters, I felt each personified a certain outlook in reference to the war and what it took. Lombardi's angry and bitter, O'Brien is secretly wistful and longs for his life before the war, Garrett is a victim of circumstance more than anyone else, Norman's unable to handle the horrors that he's seen. They've been trodden on by life and by the people close to them, and I feel that makes the way they get through each day all the more intriguing. How do they keep going? A fragment of hope on the edge of the horizon, or a deep-seeded will to survive? Do you have a favorite quote or character from your book? If I were any good at talking about myself I'd say something like "There are just so many great ones, I can't pick!" In reality I'd just like to skirt around them a bit. Avery has a few good lines when she's berating Lombardi - as she should - and I like the end of chapter six in general, though I don't know if I can go into more detail than that for fear of spoiling. As for favorite characters, there I will say it's a bit tougher to pick a favorite. I feel like the struggles of Emerson, O'Brien, and Norman are the most poignant, but I don't know that that necessarily makes them my favorite. I do like Avery, though, she's a firebrand. The sanitarium is called Saint Foresters. Is there a meaning behind it's name? To be perfectly honest I don't believe there is. I'm afraid it's just a name I liked. On Goodreads you listed Ray Bradbury, Issac Asimov, and Edward Carey as influences. How have they influenced you? Why do you find them so influential? And what are some of your favorite works that they've written? Ray Bradbury is the first hard sci-fi I read, I think. Though sci-fi's one of my favorite genres, the main reason I like him is because of his style. You can read something by Bradbury and recognize it as his by the style alone, which is a skill I hope to one day come close to. Asimov has remarkable - stamina, I guess you could call it. In my head I could see him being very methodical in the way he planned his stories out. He's an excellent storyteller - rarely do his works get caught up on unnecessary details or overly philosophical points. Moreover, I first read his stuff without actually expecting to like it, but the more I read the more I wanted to read. His stories sink their teeth into you, rather than the other way around, and putting down one of his works becomes difficult, to say the least. I'm sorry to say I've only read one book by Edward Carey - Observatory Mansions - but conversely I'm pleased to say that it's one of my favorite novels, if not my favorite hands-down. The way he writes is stylistically interesting, the characters are bizarre in a score of ways but remain interesting and sympathetic, and seemingly-strange or otherwise random points brought up always have a reason attached. A lot of writers seem to enjoy being weird to be weird, without any particular reason - it just lends itself to the style. But Carey's characters are something else. You mentioned that you could see Asimov being very methodical in the way he planned his stories out. When you write, do you tend to plan out your story or fly by the seat of your pants? It's almost always the latter. Little Glass Men wasn't planned at all when I began it, though I did start to separate and organize more as it went on. Recently I've been trying the more methodical approach, but I have yet to tell exactly how effective that's been. I definitely prefer to make it up as I go along, but I've written myself into a corner more times than I'd care to admit. So I suppose it's still a bit of a touch-and-go thing. You said scifi  is one of your favorite genres. Have you written anything scifi or are you planning to? What do you enjoy about scifi? I've written some sci-fi short stories, but none recently. I've had some ideas for sci-fi books, but they've all fallen through. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that even though I am a big fan of the genre, writing it has proved a bit of a challenge. The excuse that springs to mind is that the projects I'm currently working on just happen to not be sci-fi, but in truth I think I'd need to settle for a smaller scope than a swashbuckling, galaxy-spanning space quest. Though dystopian wastelands have eluded me too. I'll write something of substance with a sci-fi genre someday, but right now my brain doesn't want to, for some reason. I'm not sure why I like the genre as much as I do. Maybe because it's so all-encompassing. Most think sci-fi and get images of spaceships and laser fights and aliens, but that's only a small snippet of the genre. Dystopian fiction is typically sci-fi, and the sub-genres (steampunk, cyberpunk) can turn already-interesting concepts on their heads. I've always felt like the genre allows a greater creative scope, not limiting writers to what has been discovered so far - or what even might actually work according to the laws of nature. I remember reading an essay by Asimov - the robots in his stories worked because of "Positrons". If I remember correctly, he said in the essay that he never explained them because he didn't need to - doing so would be long, possibly boring (though Asimov could have kept it interesting), and would prevent the reader from using his or her imagination. By never going into detail and working off suspension of disbelief, he was able to tell excellent stories about fantastic things without being bogged down by details. Is that part of the experimenting you've been doing with your writing on Deviant Art? The works I put up on Deviant Art are typically more experimental, yes. I'm mainly working there to hone my short-story writing ability. Currently I don't believe they're up to the level of quality I want, and that particular site gives me an opportunity to get feedback on what worked and what didn't from those I don't personally know. The only reason I don't use a more literature-focused site to post my stories is because I find  Deviant Art's posting process a lot easier to use than that of any other site, despite its reputation for having no strong literature-focused community. Did you always want to write? What drove you to first put words on a page? I started writing when I was in eighth grade - prior to that point I'd enjoyed making things, but hadn't quite pinned it down to creative writing. I fiddled with some narrative-related stuff, but when I was super-young I was more interested in building things than making stories. Exactly how I got it into my head I couldn't quite tell you, but that year I decided I wanted to write something substantial. I brought it up to my English teacher at the time - his name was Mr. Muelmester. Everybody liked him, including me, and I wanted to see if he had any advice. And he did. "Try short stories first," was the gist of it. Smart man - if I hadn't heeded what he said I probably wouldn't have thought of writing short stories, would have tried and failed miserably to write a novel, and would have chalked it up as something I couldn't do. Possibly. Whatever the possible alternative cases, I'm glad things worked out the way they did. Speaking of advice, on Goodreads one piece of advice you offered to aspiring writers was to pay attention and that the strangest things can spawn ideas. Has anything like this happened to you? Can you give an example? Off the top of my head, it's a little tough to come up with a more recent example. Not because it doesn't happen, but because a single story can be sort-of coalesced from a very wide variety of different bits of media. You might decide you like a certain character type from a movie, book, or game - or you might decide that you'd like a character who acts exactly the opposite. To more adequately answer your question, I believe I've had a few dreams that have been clear and normal enough (rare occurrences, both of them) to be worked into stories. To give yet another example, when I was early in my writing career I saw a woman dressed in army fatigues walking through an airport by herself. Peeking out of the top of her army satchel was a stuffed teddy bear. I recall writing a story inspired by that singular interaction. Now, that was when I was very young, and I'm sure the story isn't exactly a literary masterpiece. But, even though that's probably the case, that's the kind of thing I mean. Surprise ideas popping up in unexpected places. On Deviant Art, you mentioned in a forum the troubles that come with self-marketing, especially for self-published authors. Have you found any techniques to help since May or do you have any advice to give in this area? I don't think I do at all, I'm afraid. It's a bit of a stumbling block for me. I can repeat some of what I've been told, though. Do your best to work it tactfully into conversations, get a social media presence, find a way to get people interested and keep them interested. But I'm afraid that much as I might try to give advice, it's a facet of the writing process (if you can qualify it as such) that just doesn't come naturally to me, and I have yet to find a unique strategy that works. One of the things young authors run into is the questioning of supposed lack of experience to write content that could have  any real impact on or wisdom for readers. What is your response? Having the discipline to write at an early age, I believe, displays some maturity. Someone with discipline to sit down and write some five-thousand words with characters interacting and a cohesive plot must have something going for them, even if their work isn't interesting or powerful. So there's that. There's also the fact that there's a wealth of information out there, on the internet, in television and movies, and of course in other books. I actually believe that a perspective on certain scenarios that one hasn't taken part in - even ones as mundane as filing taxes or living in a city - can paint a drastically different picture than might be immediately apparent for someone regularly experiencing such tasks. Give them a fresh, non-jaded outlook. Furthermore, I'd motion to suggest that that criticism is illogical if applied automatically. To explain: I don't see a scenario where a reader could finish an entire work by anyone, and only after finishing it question how invested they were in the book. It's either interesting or it isn't. If it is engrossing or insightful in some way, and the author is young, then despite his or her lack of experience the reader has been impacted or given a new outlook. Now, I could understand part of the effect being lost because of a lack of intimate knowledge with certain subjects, but I feel there isn't much out there - in regards to writing, at least - that can't be learned through practice, research, and consumption of other media. You had such an amazing debut novel. Where are you planning to go from here? I suppose I'm still trying to get the word out there with the first book - self-marketing's a bit of a doozy, as I mentioned. I'm glad to hear the first book was decent, though. ​(As a side note from the interviewer's perspective, decent does not begin to describe how amazing this book is.) Currently I'm working on another novel, which should be finished at some point before the heat death of the universe. In all seriousness, I hope to have it done before the end of this year (though I have no idea how long the editing and other processes will take). The next novel's actually a bit of a departure from what I've tried thus far - the genre is dark fantasy. The plot centers around the stereotypical "hero" of a fantasy story, one whose parents were murdered by a "mustache-twirling" villain when he was too young to defend them or himself. He then goes on to train to fight said villain - the cliche this time is your corrupt king with an iron-fist - and defeats him in the last part of the story. Or, at least, he would. But my novel intends to pick up at exactly the last point - moments after the protagonist has already defeated his foe. As the novel goes on, the protagonist will come to terms with the fact that he's essentially never had a chance to grow, or experience the world around him, and that the King who he once thought to be evil incarnate might have had a reason - a real, constructive reason - for all of his "evil" measures. You cover a lot of history in Little Glass Men. You have the struggle of the Irish against the British, when Heroin was discovered to be dangerously addictive, the KKK, Prohibition, the Russo-Japanese War, just to name a few. How much research went into the making of Little Glass Men? You know, it sounds funny, but I always paid a lot of attention in history classes, and I think more than a good deal of that fed into the information I was able to put on the page. Most of what I wrote about I wouldn't be aware of if I hadn't paid attention to what I was taught. That said, there are exceptions - mainly about specific dates. The internet was very helpful at aiding me in making sure that everything fit together, so that certain events could transpire without upsetting the continuity of the story or the actual events of the period. I think the hardest part was researching how hospitals functioned in the 1920s, because I didn't learn anything specific about that in high school and needed to know as much as I could while writing the book. Do you have any resources you could recommend to people who are interested in learning more about some of the history you mention? My first response to your question is, of course, the internet. My second response would be books - other historical fiction novels, accounts of the first World War, and so on and so forth. Donald Kagan's On the Origins of War was one I read - it compared the ancient wars between the Athens and Sparta and Rome and Carthage (respectively) to the first and second world wars. The discourse is detail-heavy, but more in macro-details, so to speak - that is to say, it tells more of the reasons as to why war broke out, as well as the actions taken in each war by the respective armies. In regards to the portion my book tackles -  namely, society immediately after the first World War came to a close - I don't have any specific books to recommend, I'm afraid. Steinbeck's Cannery Row, perhaps, but that's more Depression-era than my book. I recommend it anyway, though, as it's an excellent book. What advice do you have for writers who are writing historical fiction? Research, foremost, but don't destroy yourself. You need to be as accurate to the period as you can be, but if you feel like bending the truth a little, do it. For me I largely ignored the country-to-country hatred - the chances of as many nationalities as are in Little Glass Men getting along without copious amounts of violence is almost a certain impossibility. I played that aspect of history down quite a bit. I also found the vernacular of the period a bit difficult to emulate, and believed that if I tried it would come off sounding wooden and unnatural. So I did a bit, but not for the most part. So try to pay attention to what the people of the period looked like, and what had been invented, lest you mention something that didn't exist. Try to be aware of the societal views at the time, and the way people should act in the situations that come up throughout the book that they might not in the present day. But don't let it constrict you - move with the confines granted by the time period, and write freely. What are you currently reading? Currently am working on Kinder Than Solitude by Yiyun Li. It's a quasi-drama-thriller what-have-you about three childhood friends who drifted apart after a friend of theirs was poisoned, and the struggles they're having with coping with their adult lives because of the incident. So far I haven't made much headway, but I've noticed that the author is excellent at streamlining her prose. There is not much in the way of unnecessary words, and the writing's much better for it. More than that I can't quite say, because more than that I haven't quite read, but I'm optimistic. ​Is there anything else you would like to add about Little Glass Men, your writing, or being a writer? There are a lot of hurdles standing between me and success, enough to be intimidating. But I think I picked the right passion - or maybe it picked me. If you're a writer and aren't getting a lot of notice, and are feeling discouraged, try to take a step back and ask yourself if you enjoy what you're doing. Success isn't an easy thing to acquire - some, maybe many, never will. But if writing makes you happy, then you should do it as long as you can. And hey! Maybe if you do it long enough without expecting success, it'll be a pleasant surprise when it falls into your lap. Don't let the world discourage you, because it's sure going to try. Follow Conor Walsh on: Twitter Deviant Art Goodreads