#think this is the first writing post of the new year. raucous cheering from the stands

[ehlnofay]

Efri knocks on the door, which she doesn’t normally do. It’s so ridiculously loud it feels counterintuitive – she takes a full minute and a fair bit of banging around to shove it open, so he can already hear her, no need for anything else. But this time she knocks.

This time is different. This time is a bit weird, because the Archmage invited her to visit.

Normally, she just barges in when she feels like it, whenever she’s got an hour or so to spare. To look at his magic-grown garden, mostly; it’s a good garden, bright and beautiful and impossible without whatever weird spellcraft set it in place, all kinds of plants with all different needs. Grapes that only grow in the Eastmarch Aalto, mushrooms that only grow in the belly of the earth, flowers that only grow in snow and lichen that only grow in swamps. It shouldn’t be able to all grow together, and yet it does. It’s fascinating. And nice to look at.

So Efri comes to look at it. And sometimes – when the Archmage isn’t being too withdrawn and sulky – he tells her about it, about the care each plant needs, how he has to prune the bushes and pull the fjell’s weave out before it sprawls to take up all the space in the soil. He has gardening gloves, not soft wool like hers but dark leather with dirt streaking the seams. She’s seen him wear them three times.

Sometimes he’s not in the mood, and she looks in silence, and he pretends like she’s not there, and she pretends like he’s doing a good job at that. (He often looks over at her – she can feel his bleeding-red eyes on her back – and sighs, like the weird tired old man he is. She doesn’t acknowledge it.)

But this time he asked for her. Which, unless he’s got a new plant (unlikely) she can’t think of any reason for him to do. It isn’t as though they ever talk about anything else. But Mirabelle found her in the laundry room, pressing soap through Sissel’s favourite blanket because they’d used it for long enough it had started to smell funny, and she told her that Archmage Aren wanted to see her, and she wasn’t going to say no. She was curious. And besides, they’re a sort of friends, she thinks – even if he’s weird and sullen and almost two hundred years old, he still lets her wander into his room when she’s at a loose end, rifling through his things like a careless wind and peering wide-eyed at his garden. He still sits down and talks to her about it, sometimes. So Efri knocks, and waits, uncomfortably, to hear a response.

There’s a faint, “Mirabelle?” through the heavy wooden door. Efri sighs, because she knows he can’t hear her.

“Efri,” she calls back.

A pause. Then, “Ah,” a little louder, and he’s pulling the door open, which is a nice change. That thing is enormous. Hurts her arms to shove at.

Still weird, though.

The Archmage stands, a hand on the door’s fancy-looking knob, wearing his hood again. There’s no rhyme or reason as to when and where he wears that thing, it seems. He took it off on the ramparts, out in Winterhold’s eternal blizzard; he’s put it on now, in his own too-lavish room, where he sits and reads and looks at his plants.

He doesn’t say hello.

“Hi,” Efri says, because she is polite; she ducks under his arm and stands in his little entrance hall, on his nice smooth blue rug. “What did you want?”

“What did I –” the Archmage says; there’s a brief flash of the eyes as he turns, the glow of the mage-lit sconces reflecting off his irises. “Ah. Nothing in particular. Do you mind if I go tend to the garden?”

Efri squints at him. (He’s being strange. In a different way to usual.) Suspiciously, she replies, “All right.”

So he turns and goes. His quarters – spacious and lavish like a jarl’s longhouse – don’t punch the breath out of her like they did the first few times she saw them, but they’re still a lot. The magic lights, the near-glow of the threads of the rugs, the smooth beautiful wood of the furniture. It’s more’n two times the size of Efri’s old house, and that’s before the dragon burnt it down. It’s all full of books and knick-knacks in a way that makes her almost envious. And of course it has the garden; there’s not words for how wonderful the garden is.

The Archmage crosses the floor with neat, steady steps, one hand tugging on the hood of his mantle. His gardening gloves lay creased on a little red-wood desk; he pulls them on and marches over to the garden without so much of a glance.

He shakes, a little, as he crouches down on the edge of the stone steps so he can reach the dirt. Maybe he’s a bit cold – it’s never quite warm in here no matter how the fire burns. Or maybe his knees are aching and weak. Efri understands that old people get that, sometimes.

(She still doesn’t know why he called her here; doesn’t know why he’s not telling her. She doesn’t believe it’s nothing; he’s never done it before, usually seems vaguely put out by her presence, even if it’s in a way she can tell isn’t entirely genuine. If it was something silly, like wanting someone to talk to about a problem with the plants, he’d either wait for her to visit on her own time or just say so.)

(But she often doesn’t understand quite why he does the things he does. So she doesn’t know.)

He stays quiet, and Efri thinks she recognises this quiet – if she talked at all right now, he wouldn’t hear it. Lost inside his own head. She squints at him for a moment, looks around the room; her eyes fall, after a moment, on the polished surface of the desk. It’s cluttered with inkpots and paper and all manner of little mage things; laying open is a book.

Efri takes a step off the rug and onto the stone with a leather-booted foot. She isn’t quiet about it; the Archmage doesn’t notice.

She goes to look at the book.

It’s quite old, she thinks, though not as old as some of the texts in the Arcaeneum; the pages yellowed and wrinkled with time, the leather she can see of the cover soft and supple. The page it’s opened to is covered over with sparse text; handwritten, too, and rather messily. It takes some effort but Efri is able to make out a few words.

Only because they’re familiar, though; only because she’s spent the last few days peering over Sissel’s shoulder as she pores over volumes that might give them the information they need (while still being succinct enough as to be comprehensible). Chapters of histories of the magical institutions of the world with only the vaguest descriptions of the ideas and practices of the Psijic Order; old College record-books that say nothing about an Augur.

On this wrinkled page Efri’s eyes, skimming over the small collections of words in a crisp, crabbed hand, lock onto the familiar shapes of Artaeum – of Psijic – of Winterhold. There are a few other capitalised words that look like names, though none of them mean much of anything to her. Deneth. Antilion.

Efri glances back at the Archmage, who is still crouching on the edge of the garden patch. His arms are limp by his sides, hands spread out on the stone.

She takes the book. (It might be relevant! She’ll give it back later!) She’s got no pockets big enough to put it in, so she hurries back over to the little entrance area and slips it under a dresser. She’ll take it out on her way out – have Sissel help her look through it for anything about the Augur they’re supposed to find or the strange mages they’ve been contacted by – and bring it back, later. No harm done.

The Archmage is still staring at the garden like it’s telling him secrets. She pads over to him on her toes, quiet as a mouse. Even when she’s standing over him, practically looming, her skirt definitely in position to be within the edges of his vision, he doesn’t turn. He’s like this, sometimes. Makes it easier to look through all his stuff without him complaining; makes it harder to talk, if Efri’s in a chatty mood, or to figure out what it is he wants.

Efri waits a few seconds – just to make sure – before she nudges him with her foot.

He startles, whole body twitching under the loose grey cloth of his robe. He looks up.

Efri says, “Are you going to tend the plants?”

The Archmage blinks. “Of course,” he says; his tone is somewhere between curt and bemused. “I was waiting for you to come over here.”

His eyes are fixed on some point on the ceiling, or on the shift of Efri’s mantle. Efri eyes him askance. “Well, I’m here now,” she tells him, like it’s not obvious, and kicks him gently one more time for good measure.

“Don’t,” he says. He doesn’t snap – still talks soft. Efri looks at him even more askance, but he’s already looking away, over his mage-lit bed of plants. They look good, as neat and cared-for as ever, though one of the hardy little bushes is growing more arms than it really needs and the gnarling rock-roots are beginning to drown out the little flowers – the ones that look like goatweed. A garden like this – miraculous, impossible, meddling – takes a lot of maintenance, especially when you’re not a plant-wizard, which, Efri has learned, is a real thing; there’s a surprising amount of plant-based spells, and in Morrowind the wizards actually grow big mushrooms to live in. But neither she nor the Archmage are much good at plant-spells; they have to do it all manual.

Mostly manual. The Archmage raises a hand; Efri watches as ice gathers in the air before his fingers, glittering in the magelight like a sharp-cut diamond (or like the ink-print drawings of them; Efri’s never seen one in real life). With a flick of his wrist he sends it scattering in jewel-bright drops over the patch.

(Efri would have had to get a watering can. Or rig up some complex irrigation scheme. Doing it with magic feels like cheating.)

But it is pretty. “Pretty,” she comments, because if she doesn’t, she is mostly sure the Archmage will forget she’s there.

His fingers curl. “Thank you,” he says. Frost begins creeping over his palm, piling itself on like a gentle drift of snow. After several seconds of him casting in silence and her watching in silence, he speaks again. “That was… a strange incident, the other day. Very strange indeed.”

Ah. The incident.

(The unfamiliar mage that appeared out of nowhere – offering no explanations, would speak to nobody – demanding to see the College’s youngest, newest member. A mage from some important society, no less; magical societies are hardly Efri’s area of expertise, but from the way that both the Archmage and his Advisor were falling over themselves to accommodate his bizarre requests it must be really important. And then they’d messed it all up by insisting that Efri and Kazari go as well as Sissel, even though he only asked for Sissel; and then he stopped time to talk to them and vanished into thin air as soon as he was done. And Kazari said they shouldn’t tell anyone about it.)

(That incident.)

“Mm,” Efri says in vague agreement. (Kazari said she shouldn’t tell anyone about it. And they made fair points. If the not-ghost had wanted the Archmage to know he would have brought him into the fold; Efri and her friends don’t even know what they’re doing, much less who they can trust about it.)

“Very strange,” the Archmage repeats. He curls his hand into a fist and the gathered snow seeps out of it. “And after all these years – he just leaves.” He looks back, the lines of his face stark in the glow of the magelight and the shadow of his hood, his eyes apple-red, and asks, “Do you think we offended him?”

Normally, the Archmage talks kind of blank. Dispassionate. Borderline lofty, borderline lordly, sometimes. This is not that.

(Efri can’t place what it is instead, but it’s not that. She bites the inside of her cheek.)

Affecting a shrug, Efri says, “How should I know? I didn’t talk to him.”

“Hm,” the Archmage replies, and turns back to the garden, a grey silhouette against the colourful shock of the plants.

“He seemed weird,” Efri offers, which is true. (Both versions of events make him seem weird: his cryptic warnings and his cryptic-er silence.)

The Archmage, shoulders slumped, repeats, “Hm.” There is a quiet moment. He says, “Would you like me to show you how to prune the canis root?”

Efri says, “Sure.”

So the Archmage steps into the garden, bare-footed on the sparse patches of free, damp soil. His toes must be very cold. He crouches down, knees clicking as he does – moves to the side of the plant growing sharp and sprawling out of the rock so Efri can see what he’s doing – and unsheathes a wicked little blade that winks in the magelight. He sets a hand on one of the dry, quavering roots (no, Efri notices – the root is still, it’s his hand that trembles) and positions the knife.

A quick, neat slice, right below the bud, to keep the root small and contained, else it might crawl over the rocks and strangle out everything else in the garden. The pruned-off root rests in the Archmage’s palm. He curls his fingers around it; Efri can see the leather of his gloves crease.

“Efri,” he says, sudden. Magelight runs like waterfall rapids down the grey wool of his back, the heavy fold of his hood. “Be careful.”

She’s not the one with the knife. She doesn’t know what he means. But the tremor in his hand is rattling his whole arm up to the shoulder, now, and he still sounds strange. A hundred years younger, maybe. Or much, much older.

“I know you think you’re on the edge of something great,” he goes on, that strange quality to his voice. He sounds like the pruning knife, like ocean storms, like old stone. “You’re curious. You want to know.”

Oh.

“You want to know, too,” Efri says, hand fisting in the pilling warm wool of her skirt. She feels defensive, though she’s not entirely sure of what. “And it’s important. It –”

His shape against the blossoming garden shifts. “Maybe,” he says. “Maybe it is. Maybe you are.”

He turns, then; his face stark blue-grey as the ancient stones, and Efri is suddenly, deeply certain that he has been in the College for aeons. He has never left this room. For a moment, all its luxury feels gossamer-frail; the air is heavy as ash and she is choking on it. She can make out nothing in the lines of the Archmage’s face. “Your great discovery,” he says, and it’s like a recitation. “Think about what it’s worth. Think about what it isn’t.”

In the main hall of the College, far below, the Eye of Magnus rests atop a streaming blue-light font. It spins, and spins, and spins.

“You’re being weird,” Efri tells the Archmage of Winterhold, and his lips flatten.

“Think about it,” he repeats with the distant finality of a bell’s toll, and he slices through another grown-out root, sap sticking bloodily to his blade.

[oneofthosebells]

hey! omg I would love to hear about all of your WIPs but particularly Sweden’s last prince please?? Maybe also Simon and Sara?? (And also grief fic but I’m being really greedy hahah)

Hey! Ha, well, I'm enjoying talking about my WIPs (beats procrastinating over writing them!) so be as greedy as you want! Post got a little long though, oops...

Sweden's last prince: ooh, the only one with an actual title of sorts. Been hanging round my drafts for ages. Wilmon are in their 60s, living quiet lives of retirement in the country (possibly Scotland because why not?). They give an interview for the first time ever about the end of the Swedish monarchy.

But Wilhelm corrects me when I suggest [Erik's death] is where the story begins. In his version it all started a few weeks earlier, when the 16-year-old Prince Wilhelm - as he was then - got sent by his family to an elite boarding school called Hillerska following a viral incident in a nightclub. "They thought it would straighten me out," Wilhelm explains, before appearing to realise what he just said. The pair exchange a look and break into matching smiles. (This will not be the last time this happens.) "But I met Simon on my first day there. So, you know, ironic."

Sara and Simon: siblings through the years type thing - rough 5+1 structure, 5 times Simon tries to fix things for Sara and 1 time he realises he doesn't have to. Started writing it for the Sara prompt for Simon's month, couldn't make the structure work, abandoned it for now.

“Let’s go find a grown up and they can fetch Dad,” he says, cheerful and confident because Sara doesn’t need to know he’s scared too. “Somewhere quiet,” he adds, seeing the way her eyes flick nervously over to the beer tent and the raucous laughter coming from inside. “Dad said to wait here…” she says uncertainly, voice hoarse from crying. “Maybe he’s got lost and he needs us to find him.” After a long pause where she seems to be thinking hard, Sara jumps down off the bench to stand next to her brother, wiping the tears from her eyes. On impulse, he gives her a fierce hug, arms wrapped around her middle as she hugs him back. “I’ll fix it,” he promises. “You’ll be okay.”

Grief one-shot: melancholy one! Future fic, Ludvig dies, Wille has complicated feelings about it, it brings up some stuff for Simon too.

"Wille?" He tries again, completely at a loss. "Did you hear what…?" Simon trails off, suspecting Wille hadn't heard a word of the phone call after Farima had broken the news, debating with himself whether to repeat the details or just get Wille back to the hotel as fast as he can. To his surprise Wille nods, though his face is still ashen and his eyes aren't his own. It's a cold stranger who speaks. "I heard. They're arranging a flight for us. Makes sense. Get ahead of the press. We should go." He turns on his heel and starts to walk back down the hill. Simon follows, a shiver running through him despite the baking heat. After a few steps he slides his hand into Wille's, almost faint with relief when a still silent Wille squeezes back, holding on tight.

Thank you so much for the ask! 🥰

[itsbeaconhillsbaby]

(cruel) summer || tom holland x reader

a/n: well...this took me a lot longer than I expected. I can only apologise for how long this has taken, especially since the absolutely wonderful @glahmouur​ requested it so many months ago. I hope you’re still excited to read, and that I’ve done it justice for you. clinging onto the last of these summer vibes before my favourite time of year - and hopefully plenty more writing to come over the next couple of weeks! I’ve missed you all so very much. enjoy x  word count: 3735 (oops) warning: swearing, gross paparazzi, little bit of angst summary: it’s the summer of your dreams with your favourite people, something was always going to try and ruin it

The trip had been booked for months.

Tom, Harrison, Harry, Tuwaine and yourself. Mexico. 

Two whole weeks. 

No interruptions. No work. Just pure bliss. 

And, it was shaping up to be the most perfect break.

The first couple of days since you had landed included a lot of amazing food, sightseeing around the quaint picturesque villages and cultural landmarks, tackling hiking trails and joining in on the sports activities set up for you and the boys on the crystal white beaches. 

Your favourite part however, was the amount of quality time you got to spend with Tom. Both of you were considered workaholics, and you loved your jobs, but it meant that for the majority of the year you were in separate locations working on your own individual projects.

You both deserved, and needed, this break.

The timing couldn’t have been better, as across the two weeks you would be celebrating your 23rd birthday. Birthdays weren’t always something you and Tom could share together in person, but you would always make it work with FaceTime calls and the promise of a do-over when you were together again. 

“Hey!” 

You tore yourself away from the soft paperback that was resting warmly against your thighs.

“Hm?”

You look up at your boyfriend, strong arms hauling himself up against the hot paved edging of the pool. He shook his wet curls out of his hair, droplets springing from the tips. Tanned, freckled shoulders peeked out from beneath the water. The sun, strong and intense, commandeered the bright blue skies. A far cry from the cold, rainy weather you’d left back home in the UK. You were unwilling to make your way back to your hotel room in the sticky heat for your forgotten sunglasses, and were instead using your hand as a shield from the glaring rays. 

“The water looks good on you,” you flirt, smiling across at him from your position on the reclined sun-bed. 

He grins back at you, cheekily. 

“It’ll look better on you. Aren’t you coming in?” 

You pointed to the book nestled between your legs, “I’m reading, plus the water is freezing.” You teased him, training your eyes back onto the page. You heard brief splashing alongside the laughter of the boys as they continued to play their water basketball game. 

A shadow blocks out your sun, dripping water onto the hot concrete. 

“Yeah, no. Sorry, but that’s just not going to cut it birthday girl.” 

Before you had a chance to take in his words, Tom had scooped you up from your position on the sun-bed. The light droplets from his wet, messy hair chilling your tanned skin. 

“Tom! No! Put me down! What are you doing?” You laughed, lightly kicking your legs, “Wait, at least let me put my book down first.” 

You felt the grumbled laugh against your body, as you gently tossed your book onto the lounger. 

“Okay, go ahead.” 

He pressed a sloppy, wet kiss on your mouth - your hand knotted in the back of his wet, tangled hair as you pushed for more.

“Love you.” He said, before dropping you into the pool with a splash. 

“You suck, Holland!” You shouted back to him, once you’d come back up for air, shaking water out of your ears and trying to scoop your tangled web of hair out of your eyes as he laughed, eyes twinkling. ****

You continued to watch from your perch on the side-lines, legs tracing patterns in the water whilst the sun beat down across your back and shoulder blades. The boys continued to mess around in the water. Your book had been long since abandoned on your sun lounger, pages now curling with the heat. You couldn’t contain your laughter when Tuwaine jumped on Tom’s back, Harry on Harrison’s so the two teams could race from one end of the pool to the other, legs peddling in what seemed like slow motion under the water; raucous fits of laughter emanating from both parties as your cheered on your boyfriend.

You couldn’t help but be automatically drawn to Tom, his smile so wide and eyes creased with laughter as Tuwaine casually slung his arms over his shoulders. His hair was completely dishevelled from the water’s attempts to flatten it entirely. You could see a smattering of freckles breaking out across his nose, complete with a small shock of pink on his cheeks as he was officially branded by the sun. 

“Hey, pretty girl – forgive me yet?” Tom whined, swimming up to the edge to meet you. He gently pulled your legs further into the water, sliding himself between them, wrapping his arms around your waist as your legs wrapped themselves around his. 

You laughed, pushing against his broad shoulders.

“Not sure yet. I’m thinking about it.” 

He gave a toothy grin before peppering a small cluster of kisses against your lips, “You look so good.” He mumbled quietly against your mouth.

You rolled your eyes at him, before returning the kisses.

“Oi, get a room you two!” You laugh as Tom covers the front of you, ultimately taking the hit of water from Harry.

He gives you a light squeeze round the waist, and a soft kiss on the cheek whispering a quick, “Hop on.”  

Wrapping your arms across his warm shoulders, you eased yourself fully into the water, feeling the immediate chill up your sides before wrapping your legs around Tom’s waist. Leaning forward against his back, he held onto the backs of your thighs – propelling you both through the water.

As you arrive next to the boys, you lightly floated away from Tom and were pulled into a one-armed hug by Tuwaine. As Harry held up a fist for you to bump against, you flicked your wrist just under the surface of the water – splashing him as payback.

Tom tread water with the cheesiest grin on his face as all the boys’ eyes immediately trained on you.

“Come on then, what’s this ‘mermaids’ game you were talking about – and how do we play?” ****

The air con hummed lowly, wispy curtains gently blowing in the cool breeze from the open balcony doors. The ocean twinkled in the late afternoon sunshine. You were sprawled out on the large king-sized bed wrapped in one of the hotel’s fluffiest white towels, legs dancing in the air behind you. Lounging on your front, wet curls drying in the cool air you could hear the faint sound of spraying water from the en-suite shower. It soothed you as you continued to follow the written words on the pages of your, now slightly wrinkled and rough to the touch, paperback.

Your phone vibrated from the opposite side of the room, plugged in and charging atop the rustic, vintage vanity table where your new camera, battery pack and Tom’s wallet had all been left.

The camera had been a special gift from Tom which he’d surprised you with on your birthday, celebrated only the other evening. He’d been so giddy the morning of. The carefully, yet haphazardly, wrapped parcel had protruded just slightly from under the bed in the hotel room you shared, where he’d attempted to hide it. You pretended you hadn’t noticed. Puppy dog eyes shone as he eventually handed it across to you, surprising you in bed as the sun was going down, casting golden specks across your bodies, as he whispered a soft ‘happy birthday’ against your lips. Beaming at you once he saw your sheer shock and joy at his thoughtful gift, he had kept the first photo you’d taken in his wallet from that evening. Just the two of you - both sleepy shadows, full from all the sweet lemon sponge cake that has been especially ordered up to your room - cuddled together, legs entangled as you fell into each other’s embrace.

You’d all taken a boat to one of the smaller islands for a special celebratory dinner the next evening; where Harry had surprised you with the battery pack, his smart quick-thinking leaving Tom with a pink blush upon his cheeks. You thanked him with a smile, the rest of the crew spoiling you rotten with drinks and food. As the boys parted ways, you and Tom had waited around for the sunset, high off the sparkling, sweet tasting wine you’d both consumed all evening – bewitched by each other’s titillating company. A small wrap was knotted around your waist, as you had all stayed in your beachwear, black bikini top on show as a server snapped a picture of you both with your new camera per Tom’s polite request. The sun burned low behind you both, it’s vibrant orange glow glistening across the water towards the cove. 

Posting the photo in your wine induced haze, you captioned it with a simple 23 and a golden heart before tagging Tom in the blurry, sepia quality polaroid.

You knew the vibrating would be your phone going into overload. A common occurrence that happened anytime you posted a photo with your boyfriend, the hordes of fans coming in full throttle to interact in some way.

Leaving it to buzz in the background, you turned your attention to the bathroom door opening. Tom stepping out as he shook his wet hair, towelling it dry as it stuck up in multiple directions haphazardly.

“Come here.”

You sat yourself up, legs crossed beneath you as he walked over to you – that soft smile high on his lips.

He sat on the end of the bed as you brushed through his temperamental curls, “Please leave it curly,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his tanned shoulder blades, running your hands through the brown locks.

“We’ll match.” He said, turning to you as your hands fell back into your lap.

“Would it be too much?” You asked, as he gently tucked a rogue drying curl behind your own ear.

“Oh definitely. But I love it.”

With that, he pushed forward. Noses brushed as you both relaxed into each other’s embrace, mouths eagerly seeking out each other, the sweet smells of lotion and ocean spray engulfing you both.

****

“Right, it’s my round! Get your orders in!” 

The whole group hollered at Tom, who pressed a firm kiss onto your forehead as you tilted it upwards towards him, his two hands cradling either side of your head. Your eyes closed involuntary at the warmth before you turned to watch him leave the table and join the small crowd up at the bar. Dressed in a tropical patterned shirt, unbuttoned and billowing just slightly due to the aircon, you took a minute to admire him from afar. He worked hard to look the way he did, muscles contracting and relaxing again with each breath. 

You pulled the thin material of your summery dress down further, eager to cover up some of the bare skin you had on show after seeing Tom’s. You paled in comparison to the web-slinging actor, and sometimes if you focussed on it too much you couldn’t understand why such a gorgeous man would be interested in you. 

“Hello. Anyone in there?”

A hand waved in front of your eyeline. Shaking your head, you returned your attention back to the table where the boys were trying to mask their laughter. 

“She can’t take her eyes off him for two minutes. Outrageous.” 

“What? I’m on holiday, leave me alone!”  

Tuwaine smirked slightly, as Harrison patted your arm reassuringly.

“Why did we agree to have a couple on this trip again?” Harry complained cheekily, grinning his cheesy grin at you. You reached an arm across the table and pushed a hand against his forehead, playfully shoving him back.

“Shut up, you love me.”

As Tom came back with the tray; a colourful array of cocktails, shots and ciders, the group continued to laugh and joke around, cheers-ing to your recent birthday and to the remainder of their holiday under the heat of the Mexican sun. 

**** “Uh oh, incoming Tom.”

Everyone was rosy cheeked as they tumbled out of the restaurant, laughing and giggling as the sun cast its low golden glow over the glistening blue waters. Waves gently caressed the edge of the shore as you revelled in the drunken clinginess of your boyfriend, and the support and love of your friends. 

You walked with Tom - the pair of you in your own little bubble, as he tucked you into his side, his arm slung casually across your shoulders as you wrapped yours around his waist. You could hear the thumps of his beating heart beneath the now buttoned up fabric of his shirt.

As the words spilled from Harry’s mouth, catching you all off guard mid conversation, Tom whipped his head round; immediately sobering up as his arm tightened around your shoulders. You peeked over his.

Behind a cluster of people, the striking black camera was obvious as the paparazzi pushed forwards, eager to catch a glimpse of the web-slinger himself.

You felt a brush of cold air sweep over your body, the hairs on your arms rising like tiny pinpricks as little goose bumps littered your skin. You straightened up, unwrapping yourself from Tom’s side.

“You okay?” He murmured into your ear, eyes hardening as he focussed on the path ahead of him whilst navigating the drunken, bustling crowds.

You nod.

“How did they even find us?”

You could sense Tom’s frustration and anger at the situation, resting a comforting hand on his arm. You knew what this meant, if the paparazzi had caught wind of where you all were, it wouldn’t be long before they figured out where it was you were staying and you couldn’t imagine that they’d leave Tom alone for the rest of his trip.

“I posted a photo the other night. Someone could’ve recognised the restaurant.”

It was during your worried ramble that the shouting started, camera-wielding men desperate to get a photo of Tom.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault, okay? Let’s just head back.”

Your heart was racing as you were led through the dimly lit cobbled streets of the small village, losing Tom’s hand you were flanked by Tuwaine and Harrison – Harry hurrying up ahead with Tom. The camera shutters were getting louder and louder, the constant clicking ricocheting off the stone walls surrounding you as you attempted to block out the shouting and the grabbing hands of the people around you. The once happy, bustling streets now felt claustrophobic.

It was so easy to forget who Tom was in regards to his public image and celebrity status when you were together. Forcing you to recall that he wasn’t just your boyfriend, he was suddenly an A-list celebrity, ‘Spider-Man’ himself. Back home you could easily be together in public without too much attention – only having to accommodate for the occasional fan photo or dinner interruption. Premiere’s and special events weren’t so bad because the press was supposed to be there, and whilst extremely intimidating, you understood it was part of the job.

You noticed Tom and Harry slip down a small alleyway to the right, a blink and you’ll miss it move – as you and the boys continued up the cobbled paths to the main street. It was a distraction technique discussed every time the five of you went out together and had to deal with any irritating situation.

“They said they’re getting a car, and they’ll meet us back at the hotel.”

As Harrison organised your transport, you reached the main road – twinkling lights from the city and the roaring of cars sweeping past you. The paparazzi slowed behind you, their shouts less desperate now that it was obvious Tom was no longer with the group. Their frustration was obvious as they all grouped together, scanning through the photos that they had managed to sneakily take.

Then there was a stupid comment.

As the paps brushed past you all, one leaned in far closer than you had anticipated, stabbing a pointed finger straight into your chest and leaning in close.

“Think you’re so special. Girl like you. So many other beautiful girls out there.”

Whilst the language was slightly broken, you pieced enough together before Tuwaine stepped in front of you both.

“What the hell man! Fuck off, you’re just a bully, why don’t you just leave her alone, yeah? Pick on someone your own size!”

You grabbed at Tuwaine’s arm, shaking your head in silent surrender.

“Just leave it. It’s okay. It’s not worth it.”

“I just hate them so much. Never let anyone have a bit of privacy. Constantly looking to bring people down, and start fights - assholes!” He shouted down the road at the small cluster of men as they continued on their way, “Are you okay?”

You nodded, “I’m fine. They’re just mad they didn’t get their picture. Let’s just get out of here. Should probably make sure that they don’t follow us back to the hotel.”

Harrison came jogging over, hand beckoning to follow him to a sleek black car parked just around the corner.

“Car’s here,” He paused for a minute. Noticing your smaller stature and Tuwaine’s puffed out chest and frown, he tilted his head, “We all okay?”

“Yeah, we’re good. Let’s go.”

Smiling a small, grateful smile you gave Harrison’s arm a comforting squeeze before sliding onto the black leather seats.

***** “Can’t even give us a couple weeks off. I love this job. But I would pack it all in if it meant that paparazzi just fucking left us alone.”

“Tom. Think we should call it a night.”

Harrison nodded over at you. Whilst your body was curled into Tom’s frame, your eyes unfocussed, having found a spot on the wall to gaze into as the boys all had a drink in the private hotel lounge.

You didn’t want to admit that the photographer’s words had any impact. And you really didn’t want to bring down the light-hearted, fun energy that your vacation had been full of. You were usually so good at brushing off any unwarranted comments, which were usually inevitable seeing as your boyfriend had such a large fanbase. There was no way everyone was going to like you, and you could cope with that. It wasn’t like you hadn’t been doing so for ages now. But whether it was the alcohol you’d already consumed, or something else – you just couldn’t stop thinking about what the man had spat at you.

Tom’s body shifts beneath you, holding out a hand for you to take as you both rise from the luxurious chaise. Shaking your head out of your daze, you smile softly as you grasp his hand and haul yourself up.

“We’ll see you guys tomorrow okay. Thanks for tonight boys, and sorry for ruining it.”

“Tom, you didn’t-” Tom waved them off with a shrug, before sliding his arms across your shoulder and entwining your fingers at the other side.

“Night guys.” It came out as more of a whisper, as you processed to walk with Tom up to your floor, your head nestling gently into his collarbone.

****

The hotel room was suffocating.

You lay on your side, facing the firmly locked balcony doors. The room was cold. The air conditioning incessant with its obnoxious whirring. There was a rustle. The thin cotton sheets slide across your body as Tom hops in next to you.

“I’m sorry.”

His soft words caused your entire tension-filled body to exhale.

“Tom.”

You turned to face him. His eyes were closed, tiny creases etched into the space between his eyebrows. Tom didn’t like being vulnerable, you knew he was staving off his true feelings – the striking anger that was coursing through his body. Gently smoothing the creases out with your fingers, he leaned ever so slightly into your touch.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.”

You pressed a soft kiss on his brow bone before settling in next to him, bodies warm to the touch.

“I love you. You know that, right? Whatever they’re all saying, it’s rubbish.”

The lump in your throat that you had been impressively swallowing down all evening came back to the surface, the pressure building.

“How did you know?”

He shrugged.

“I saw some of the comments.”

The pictures had been released pretty quickly. By the time you had all arrived back to the hotel they were already circulating across the internet, which people took as the perfect opportunity to hurl insults at your social media pages.

He shifts his head to the left to look at you, eyes softening.

“Hey. You can let it out. It’s just me. C’mon.”

You curl further into him, as his lips caress your forehead.

“People suck.” You mumble into his chest as he wraps himself around you, lightly trailing his fingers up and down your arm, the skin bursting with tiny goose bumps. You revelled in the soothing comfort.

“Sometimes I just forget. I forget that there are thousands – maybe even tens of thousands - of people out there who just don’t like me,” Tom squeezes you that little bit tighter, “And it’s okay. I don’t mind, really. I just wish they didn’t have to be so vocal about it – about how I look, how I act, how I dress. About whether I’m good enough.”

“You are good enough. You’re more than good enough. You’re amazing.”

Your lips pull up into a small smile as you look into those concerned brown eyes.

“You’re biased.”

He let out a small huff, chest vibrating beneath you, “Am not.” He sighed, those fluffy brows saying a thousand words, “I’m supposed to make all that crap better, not make you feel worse because of some so-called fans on the internet, and those stupid idiot paps; I’m so sorry.”

“Maybe if you just…weren’t so damn attractive. That would help.”

You both laughed.

“Oh, really?”

You nodded, as he pulled you in, peppering more soft kisses along your temple until he made his way down to your mouth.

“You’re ridiculous. And beautiful.”

Another kiss.

“And smart.”

Another kiss.

“And kind.”

Another kiss. “And I am so in love with absolutely everything about you. You’re enough. You’re everything.”

You felt your eyes glossing over. Scrunching your nose to avoid an onslaught of overdue tears, you felt Tom move beneath the covers – his arms wrapping around your torso, his curly messy hair resting on your stomach.

“I love you too.”

[the-blind-assassin-12]

The Jilted Tourist - 1

A/N: Hi friends! Just sneaking in here at an ungodly hour to drop off this first part of the first one of the title game winners! This one kicks off a three part prequel to everything that has happened for Benjamin and the It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like... and Too Good To Be True Reader, and it takes a look at what is essentially the beginning of the end for Benj and Julia. Benjamin’s just gotten some bad news and decides to get a drink to take the edge off. But his plans change when he bumps into someone who’s had an equally bad day, and one drink turns into a few more. 

Word Count: 4,187 

Warnings: drinking, swearing, pub stuff. 

Benjamin silenced his phone and sighed as its weight slid down into the bottom of his coat pocket. I know I shouldn’t be surprised… He used that hand to remove the glasses from the top of his head. Pinching one arm between his thumb and forefinger, he swung them down to comb the rest of his fingers through his hair. I guess… With a shove, he returned his glasses to his face, pushing them up the bridge of his nose as it wrinkled with a sniff. I guess I’m not. 

Heading towards the staircase, he tossed the small bouquet he was holding into a trash bin. Stupid. Though the weekend had been planned as a celebration of Benjamin finishing his first year of graduate school, he’d wanted to give her something as a way to thank her for her support, to show her that he cared, that he he was always thinking of her, even when his nose was in a book or he spent an entire evening writing a paper. As a way to show you that you were wrong. Recently, Julia had told him that he only ever gave her flowers when he was apologizing for something. But I’m sure this will turn into something I’ll have to apologize for. Maybe this time I’ll skip the flowers. 

He winced as he reached for the handrail and started climbing the stairs, immediately feeling guilty for being spiteful. That’s not helpful. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure that flowers, no matter what the occasion, were helpful either. Though the last few weeks had been good ones, he and Julia spending a decent amount of time together on days when he didn’t have classes or study sessions, it gnawed at Benjamin that he had to mark time between arguments in such short increments. Maybe she feels like I only bring her flowers when she’s upset with me but… He reached the top of the staircase and suddenly the idea of going back to an empty hotel room felt like the last thing he wanted to do. Maybe it’s because she’s always upset with me.

A loud, raucous cheer went up then as he followed the foot traffic at the top of the stairs, passing a crowded sports bar packed with patrons wearing kits and scarves supporting Brentford. The team had been making a run at the Premier League, and suddenly everyone had been swept up in their underdog story, following along and becoming inadvertent fans. Not where I want to be right now. He continued on, passing small shops and cafes until he found another pub, this one much quieter and less crowded. There, that looks more my speed, just want to get a pint and-  

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple reuniting on the platform below, arms flying around one another. They look happy. He felt a half-hearted smile lift one cheek, but it fell as he found himself thinking that the likelihood of Julia greeting him with that much enthusiasm when she arrived in London tomorrow was slim. If she arrives tomorrow. He shook his head and turned away from the platform and back to the smaller, less populated bar. I need to get that pint. 

Stepping out of the bright light of Waterloo’s main terminal and through the arched doorway of the small, dimly lit pub, he blinked a few times to adjust to the lighting. It’s just one night that she’ll miss, we have the room all weekend. I shouldn’t let it… With another hefty sigh,  he unbuttoned his coat. He didn’t want to be upset that his wife had stood him up on the first night of their getaway. He wanted to believe that there was still some way to salvage the trip. She knows how important working towards this degree is to me, maybe tomorrow she’ll… But he was tired of breathing life into his hopes only to have them slashed and soured. We’ll see about tomorrow tomorrow. Glancing at the few people gathered around the bar rail, he chose to avoid the cluster of chatty looking middle aged men, instead finding a spot near a young woman sitting alone with her phone in one hand, the other wrapped around a nearly empty pint glass. She seemed the lesser of the two evils, and since Julia wasn’t there to create her own version of why he chose to sit where he did, he pulled out a stool that was two down from where she sat. 

The bartender shuffled over and raised an eyebrow, reaching for a mug from the shelf below the bar counter. “The Tyne Bank, please.” Benjamin indicated the tap handle of the beer he ordered as he sank into his chair. “Thanks mate,” he sighed as the drink appeared in front of him, pulling out his wallet to hand over his card. “Open a tab, would you?” Wordlessly, the balding, apathetic man took it and nodded, already turning away in the direction of the post he’d been leaning on prior to pouring Benjamin’s drink. Don’t know how long I’ll stay but… He pushed two fingers up under the left lens of his glasses, pressing them into his closed eyelid before rubbing them down and out from underneath. Damn it, Julia, this was-   

“Opening a tab at a commuter bar, huh?” He looked immediately in the direction of the woman two stools down, her slightly slurred accent hitting his ear. American. Her eyes were glued to the rim of her glass, watching her own pointer finger trace around the edge to create a high-pitched squeaking sound. “You must be having a day.” You could say that. She looked up, pulling her fingers from the glass so that she could wrap them around it to drain the contents. She was younger than he first thought, no more than 24 or 25 if he had to guess. She’s Leo’s age. 

He noticed that her eyes looked red and puffy when she swung them over to him, and not just from the alcohol. She’s been crying. He picked up his glass and nodded. “Suppose I have been.” Bringing his glass the rest of the way to his lips, he took a sip and let the coppery colored ale coat his tongue before swallowing it down. 

“Well then, you sir, have chosen the right seat because this end of the bar-” she flipped her hair over her shoulder in a dramatic fashion, like a matador might flourish their cape, and used the same finger she’d been tracing around her glass to point down at the wooden bartop. “Is for tying one on.” Lifting her hand from where she’d just pointed, she waved the bartender down to order another drink, the man huffing audibly at the fact that he had to move again. 

Benjamin set his glass down and cocked his head to the side as the bartender grumbled under his breath, something along the lines of ‘she couldn’tve ordered when this bloke did, of course she couldn’t.’ The young woman either didn’t hear him, or didn’t care, and Benjamin had a sneaking suspicion that it was the latter. Once he’d slid the woman her beverage, the bartender looked pointedly at Benjamin, even though he’d only taken one sip that hardly even cracked the foam. “I’m fine,” he assured the man, who was only getting less hospitable by the moment, before turning to face her. “Not trying to get too tanked up here, just,” he sighed as she picked up her glass, pausing before bringing it to her lips. Just what? What are you doing, Benjamin? And why are you talking to a stranger about it? He shook his head. “Just wanted to take the edge off.” 

“Well, that makes one of us.” She held her glass out and it took Benjamin a few seconds to realize that she was waiting for him to clink his against it. He blinked a few times before picking up his pint glass and tapping it to hers. “To me getting tanked up, and to you...well, not.” She blew out a breath in a sarcastic laugh, shaking her head.  

That was a terrible toast. His mind flashed back to the one he’d delivered at his and Julia’s wedding- how hard he’d worked on it, how he’d practiced in the mirror for days before rehearsing it the morning off, how he felt invincibly bolstered by the love that he had for the woman he was pouring his heart out to. Good toasts don’t guarantee anything though. 

“Cheers,” he responded as she took a large swig, her left hand combing her hair back out of her face as she drank. A falsely hearty sounding round of laughter rose from the opposite end of the long, straight rail, and even though it didn’t seem as though he would be granted the quiet drink he wanted, he was glad he had stayed away from whatever that was. “So,” he set his glass back down as he cleared his throat. “You had a-” 

Her phone started vibrating on the bartop next to her glass, and Benjamin couldn’t help but notice the contact photo when the screen lit up. “Shit.” She picked it up and fumbled with the buttons on the side, her fingers not completely in compliance with the task at hand. “Fuck you, Eddie,” she mumbled as it buzzed again in her palm before she slid the bar across the bottom of the screen to shut it down. 

Benjamin returned his eyes to his drink, trying to pretend that he hadn’t just seen a photo of the woman next to him laying a fat kiss to a smiling young man’s cheek and the name Edmund accompanied by a string of heart shaped emojis flash on her phone before she struggled to turn it off. I’ve got enough on my own plate to figure out, I should just finish this drink and head back to the ho-

“Damn it, sorry that was…” She reached behind her for the purse that was hanging on the back of her stool, grabbing the strap to pull it into her lap before jamming her phone into it. “Just my-” 

Benjamin leaned over the empty seat next to him. “It’s fine, you don’t have to-” 

She let go of her purse and slid from her stool onto the one next to it, leaving only one between them now. Oh, no, that’s… Benjamin straightened back up and seized his glass, but she didn’t come any closer, only reaching for her own glass to scoot it over in front of her new position. “No, I meant to turn the damn thing off anyway because I do not want to hear from him tonight...or…” she groaned into her pint. “Ever.” The last word echoed against the glass before she cut herself off by filling her mouth with liquid. 

So I guess I’m not the only one having trouble in paradise tonight. He frowned, looking down at his left hand and the wedding band he’d been so eager to earn. I love her, I know I do, but she… He closed his eyes and took a drink, swallowing slowly. Does she? Benjamin curled his hand into a fist, until his knuckles blocked his ring from view. Stop. Don’t...not here. He flattened his palm back, eyes still on the gold band around his third finger. Not now. 

“Oh, hey, you don’t have to worry about-” Huh? The woman laughed under her breath as she angled herself away from him. He looked up to see her motioning towards his flattened hand. “I saw you looking at your ring. You’re married.” She used one hand like a blade to cut a straight horizontal line through the air. “I get it, and anyway I’m not…” Her head shook from side to side, face tilting downwards as she picked up her glass again. She wasn’t kidding about...what did she say? Tying one on? “I’m not trying to flirt with you or anything I just-” Another little snort of laughter interrupted her sentence and she used the pause to take a drink. “Literally, just, broke up with one of you English assholes and I’m-” Benjamin raised one eyebrow, adjusting his glasses with a shove to the rim. “Shit, I don’t mean you’re an...ugh.” 

The laugh was out of his mouth before he had time to question where it came from. It was small, not enough to lift him out of what he was feeling, but it wasn’t forced. “You never know, I might be one.” She picked her head up and gave him a gracious smile. “And anyway, on behalf of all of us,” he gestured around the bar with his glass. “I’m sorry that things didn’t work out with your boyfriend.” 

Sighing, she let her shoulders drop as she sunk back into her stool. “Yeah, thanks.” Tilting her glass around, she swirled the half-empty contents, watching the foam cling to the sides and then run down them. “I’m sorry you’re having a shit day too.” 

“Yeah,” Benjamin looked down his nose into his glass. It didn’t start out terribly, it was actually… He blinked and downed the rest of his glass. “Thanks.” I should go. 

“I’m Jocelyn, by the way. Joss, really.” She spread her fingers to push her hair back before twisting to retrieve her purse again. Digging through, she pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Figure I should introduce myself, if we’re going to sit here drinking our woes away together.” 

Looking down at the square shaped card he read the purple print. Jocelyn Hall, Copyeditor, R.J. Tully & Associates. Huh, what are the odds? He set her card down and reached for his wallet, pulling out one of his own. “I started out as an editor, too. I’m only part-time because I’m back in school, but they have me writing copy now. Big move.” He rolled his eyes and handed over his own card. “I’m Benjamin.” Jocelyn read his card over before flicking it against her thumb. “It’s nice to meet you, Joss, though I wish it were under better circumstances for… well for either of us.” 

She laughed, turning to stuff his card in her purse before letting it swing back around the stool again. “It’s nice to meet you too, Benjamin.” When she turned back to him again, her eyes, though still puffy, looked less sad. Good. “But you know who’s having a worse night than either of us?” Well, we both had to turn off our phones because we’re avoiding people, so… She jerked her head in the direction of the bartender. “This guy really hates his job.” 

With that she stood on the rung below her stool and waved the bartender over. His humph and trudge illustrated what she’d just said, and Benjamin felt a small smile form. Joss swallowed what was left of her drink before the man had finished his long and arduous journey down to their end of the bar, then pointed at Benjamin’s empty glass. “Can I buy you another beer and tell you about my shitty day, Benjamin? Or you can tell me about yours, or,” she blew out a breath. “Or fuck, we can talk about copywriting if you really want, it’s just that I’m not…” She was speaking more quickly, her words tumbling out as the bartender finally reached them. “Not ready to go back to an empty hotel room just yet and-” 

“You want somethin’ girlie?” The man’s gruff voice cut her off as he leaned over the bar, his knobby knuckles gripping the curved edge. 

Benjamin’s palms were sweating and a warning jolt went through his stomach. What would Julia have to say about me accepting this drink? It was a rhetorical question to himself, and even though Jocelyn had made it clear that she wasn’t interested in him- and I’m not… I love my wife, I’m not interested in this woman- he knew that if Julia were there she’d be plenty busy making up her own version of things. But she’s not here. She chose not to be. He noticed Jocelyn’s face falling as she nodded, reaching again for her purse, and he narrowed his eyes. Piss it. “Yeah, set us up again would you, mate? On my tab.”  

Jocelyn smiled, letting go of her purse strap again, letting the small bag swing. “That was supposed to be on me.” I know. She leaned her elbow on the bar, setting her chin in her hand. “Thank you,” she said it as the bartender set her drink in front of her, though her eyes were on Benjamin. “For sticking around I mean, I just…” The gruff, wrinkled man passed Benjamin his ale before responding to the waves and calls of the men at the other end of the bar, grumbling as he headed in their direction. “I…” She pressed her lips together, running her fingers up and down the outside of her glass. 

“Hey,” Benjamin lifted his glass. I get it. “My most thrilling copywriting story is about the time I had to write nine thousand words on mattresses in twenty four hours,” Jocelyn blew air through her nostrils in a laugh as Benjamin took a drink. “But if you want I can try to remember which ones were rated best.” But that’s not what she wants to talk about, is it? “Unless you just want to...talk about your day.” 

She hummed, picking up her glass to take a sip. “I don’t want to,” she sighed and settled against the backrest of her stool, drawing one foot up to the seat so her shin was pressed to the edge of the bar rail. “But, I have been sitting here drinking for hours, and I have yet to say the words out loud.” Looking down into her drink, she took a breath before bringing her glass to her lips for another long swallow. “So,” she placed her glass back on the bartop and spread her arms wide, fingertips nearly brushing Benjamin’s shoulder. “Here goes. Today, I, Jocelyn Hall, boarded a plane in Washington D.C. and crossed the fucking Atlantic Ocean to visit my boyfriend in London, only to find him fucking some other woman.” Benjamin winced, sucking air through his teeth. That’s awful. Jocelyn took another big swig, clearing nearly half of her glass before Benjamin had had his second sip. “And you, Benjamin,” she pointed at him, finger swaying, “are the first person I’ve told. 

Damn. He recalled the way it had felt when Allie had delivered the double blow to his heart that not only did she not want to marry him, but that she’d fallen in love with someone else. That betrayal was unlike anything he’d ever felt prior, and he handled it about as well as Jocelyn was handling things. “That’s terrible, what a prick.” 

“You know, I never thought he was a prick.” Of course you didn’t, that’s why you were with him. “I thought he was,” she rolled her eyes and groaned at herself, one hand going to her head. “I thought Eddie was perfect.” She scoffed. “Stupid.” 

Benjamin shook his head. “It isn’t stupid to want to see the good in people.” He raised his eyebrows and brought his glass to his mouth. “Especially the person you’re with.” He let another mouthful of ale slide down his throat. Julia has so much good in her. I saw it right away, but now its… He sighed.

“All my friends told me this would happen,” she reasoned, wrapping both hands around the base of her glass, condensation dripping over her knuckles. “They all warned me, when Eddie and I met, and,” she tilted her head, eyes widening. “They were right.”    

   “They couldn’t have known- you, you couldn’t have known when you met him that things would turn out this way though.” He tried to console her with the fact that there was no real way to prepare for the unknown; that Jocelyn or her friends couldn’t have possibly foreseen that Eddie would cheat on her. That I couldn’t see that Julia would push me aside. He shook his head and rubbed on hand over the top of his hair. Change the subject. “How did, um… how did you two mee then?” Shit, she might not want to- “I mean, only if you want to tell me, it’s-”

“We met while we were both spending a semester abroad in Florence.” Another eye roll. “We both accidentally signed up for a class that we thought was Italian, but it was actually Italian Literature, taught entirely in a language that neither of us spoke and,” she gestured with one hand while the other held her glass. “Well, we were able to transfer out of it, but we hit it off and started spending time together. A lot of time, all our time. Looking back on it now I...well,” she tapped the nail of her pointer finger on her glass. “It happened too fast, got... “ she made a sudden swiping motion. “Swept up in it I guess.” 

Yeah, that tends to happen. He knew how easy it was to let the current carry you away once those first few feelings started swirling, especially when the circumstances were right. “Still, that doesn’t mean that you should have been able to predict that…”

“Our entire relationship was like a vacation, Benjamin, that should have been a clue. I mean,” she sniffed. “Weekend getaways in Vienna and Barcelona. Going here, seeing this, doing that.” She ticked her words off on her fingers. “Before the semester was even up we were already making plans to visit one another at home. He came over to the U.S. and stayed with me for ten days and it was great. It was a great ten days, but again, it wasn’t real life.”  

Like Julia and I. The thought made his mouth go dry but the beer he tried to drink only caused him to choke, coughing and covering his mouth with his hand. In the beginning of their relationship they’d holed themselves up in hotel rooms, ordering room service and visiting tourist sights. It was so easy. 

“But the crown jewel in this story,” Jocelyn smacked her palm down on the bartop causing Benjamin to snap his attention back to her. “Was me deciding to surprise Eddie by getting here three days earlier than we’d planned, and him deciding to surprise me by banging some redhead.” He frowned. Why do people cheat? I’ll never understand it. She sniffed again. “So, surprise. My friends were right, and I’m an idiot.” Her eyes were starting to shine again, and she snorted into her glass. “A drunk idiot.” 

“You’re not.” She looked at him incredulously. “An idiot, I mean.” You’re definitely drunk. He put his glass down and leaned his forearms on the bar. “You dove in, really gave it a go. Now this Eddie? He sounds like an idiot if you ask me.” He licked his lips and scrubbed one hand over his beard. “It’s not stupid to trust people or to...to fall for someone.” Am I trying to make her feel better or myself? He sighed. “It’s shitty. It’s a shitty thing that he did to you and I’m…” I’m an expert at shitty things happening so I know what I’m talking about. “I’m sorry that it happened to you.” 

Joss smiled sadly, but nodded and wiped her knuckle under her eye. “Thanks, Benjamin, that’s…” She let out a breath. “I appreciate you listening to me and trying to...just, thank you. It felt good to get that all off my chest I guess.” I’m sure. Since he married Julia he had been spending less and less time with friends like Bianca and Zach, and the few classmates he’d spoke with over the last year were no substitute, so he’d had no one to really talk to about the perceived problems in his marriage. He was glad that he was able to be a set of ears for Jocelyn to vent to. 

“You know, I am about as far away from sage council as you could probably get, but if it’ll make you feel better to talk about your shitty day, we can put the next round on my tab.” A few more patrons had shuffled in since he’d sat down that Benjamin hadn’t noticed until he’d looked up at Joss’ alcohol and emotion flushed face. I shouldn’t… But why shouldn’t I? He asked himself the question almost immediately, knowing fully that his only intention in talking to Jocelyn was conversation and possibly some mutual empathy, nothing more. 

He finished the rest of his drink and stood from his stool. “Alright,” he agreed. “But I’m going to step out for a smoke.” Joss made a scrunched face and he chuckled. “I know, bad habit, I’m trying to quit. But… yeah. Grab another round. I’ll be right back.” 

“Great,” she stood to flag down the bartender. “Misery loves company.”

.

.

.

@something-tofightfor​ @its-my-little-dumpster-fire​ @malionnes​ @suchatinyinfinity​ @gollyderek​ @thesumofmychoices​ @becs-bunker​ @warriorqueenofnarnia @elanor-of-imladris​ @traeumerinwitzhelden​ @obscurilicious​ @octosapiens​ @luminex3​ @songtoyou​ @with1love1anu​ @dearmarii​ @pheedraws​ @valkblue​ @alraedesigns​ @fific7​

Thank you for reading! If you would like to be added or removed from my taglist for this or any story/character please feel free to let me know! 

[wyofabdoms]

Don’t Say Anything

Characters: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Original Female Character

Summary: OC Natalie has been broken up with Frankie for going on three months. A fateful night out with the girls ends in an interesting encounter.

Rating: Smut, 18+ ONLY 

Warnings: Sex in a car, rough sex, angry sex, choking, implied/referenced drug use (if you look carefully), dry sex, angry kissing, post-breakup sex, angst

Word Count: 3988

Notes: This is part of what I hope will become a much longer story centered around Frankie and an original character, but this scene just would not leave my brain so I had to write it. I think it works as a standalone right now.This is my first time writing Frankie. He's so sweet but fierce in the movie, I tried to convey that. I love him so much, I just want to hug him around the tummy! Anyways...hope you enjoy and maybe I'll get my tail in gear and start fleshing this larger story out sometime.

Nat smiled wistfully as she watched Meredith twirl herself around the two good natured older bar patrons that had been wrested onto the makeshift dance floor by her tipsy friend.  Next to Natalie at the bar, a few other of her close friends from work and her social circle were chattering away, tittering over Meredith’s shenanigans, talking shop, or gossiping about someone named Kelly’s botched boob job.  Despite the cheerful energy and upbeat vibe coming from her friends, she felt like everything around her was moving slowly, like she was trying to run through water. 

She might have considered that she had been slipped something in her drink, but she had been feeling this way since she had started getting ready earlier this evening, before even a drop of alcohol had touched her lips. Though she didn’t want to think about it too much, she knew what the cause of the fogginess was:

She missed Frankie.  She missed him so much sometimes she couldn’t breathe.  

Meredith had called her earlier that day and insisted that she join her and the others to celebrate her belated birthday.  When Natalie had tried to protest, Meredith had called her on her self-imposed hermitage over the last three months, had told Natalie that she was worried about her.  That if things weren’t going to change between her and Frankie, then she at least needed to step back into the land of the living, even if just for a drink or two.  

“You need to socialize with someone other than your cats,” Meredith had squawked through the phone.  Nat had made a face at the implied “crazy cat lady” reference but, she had thought, perhaps Meredith was right.  During the week, she had summer school (which she had in previous years avoided like the plague but for which now she was grateful.)  She could beg off outings on school nights, claiming the pressure from working with the high-risk students left her exhausted each evening.  She had been skulking around the house most weekends; doing her level best to eradicate any and all memory of Frankie Morales. 

Having not been able to sleep in her own bed for several weeks after he had left, she had repainted and rearranged her bedroom.  Still, sometimes she would wake up crying, swearing that she could feel his weight in the bed next to her, hear his soft (or loud) snores in the darkness, smell their sweat and sex in the sheets.  Everything in her home seemed to possess an echo of him. She had eventually sold her couch for a new one after remembering the very first night he had visited her home, when their lovemaking commenced with a steamy make out session on the leather sofa.  Along with the new couch, she had also moved the rest of the furniture around.  Out of nowhere one evening making dinner, she remembered the way he had sat her up on the counter one particular Sunday morning, pulled a chair from the table and spent almost an hour with his head between her legs.  That particular memory had resulted in purchasing and installing new backsplash along with replacing the countertops and repainting the cupboard doors.  She had turned into a veritable DIY guru with the cosmetic changes to her home, but that chosen method of trying to forget Frankie was proving to be exhausting...and expensive.  Maybe, she had thought, it would do her some good to get out of the house for a night.  

She had reluctantly agreed to join Meredith and the girls, but had almost immediately regretted it.  The slogging through water feeling had begun as she had tried to make herself not look wretched and sleep deprived, then continued when she had left to pick up Meredith.  She had done her best to not be a downer, engaging in small talk with the other girls and even surprising herself by laughing a few times.  But now, as the night wore on and the alcohol loosened the women up more and more, Natalie just wanted to go home and crawl into bed.

That’s a lie. She thought as she sipped the watered down cocktail she had been nursing for a good thirty  minutes.  What I really want is to lay on the couch with Frankie and watch something stupid on Netflix and fall asleep with his arms around.  She felt tears start to sting her face and she shook herself.

This all felt a farce, trying to pretend like going out with girlfriends was even close to what it used to be back before Frankie; before she had let herself fall so deeply for that man.  She only noted with half an ear when one of the women in her group leaned across her and whispered, “Damn, incoming!!  Grey jacket, coming towards the bar...hellooooo handsome!”  Would she ever again be able (or even ever want) to look at another man with desire like that again?  Her girlfriends assured her she would; that it would just take time, but right now, she wasn’t so sure.

“Hey man, can we get another round for the back?”  The booming voice of who she could only assume was the grey-clad target in question was a familiar one and caused her to start.  She glanced over her shoulder.

“Benny?���  The eyes of the younger Miller brother lit up when he saw her and before she knew what was happening he had slid down the bar and wrapped her in a bear hug, pulling her from her seat.  

“Hooooly shit, Nat!  It’s good to see you.  How the hell are you?”  She chuckled at his enthusiasm; Benny’s attitude was infectious, she had always liked that about him.

“I’m…” She shrugged, not quite sure what to say.  She was sure that Ben and the others knew about her and Frankie.  What should she say?  Lie and say she was doing great?  Tell the truth and say she missed his friend?  Whatever she said, it would surely get back to Frankie; life with five brothers of her own had taught her that men talk almost as much as women.  “I’m…ok.  I guess.”  She gave him a small smile and another shrug, and avoided his eyes to keep herself from asking him how Frankie was doing?  She looked instead at the pitcher of beer and four clean glasses that the bartender had just placed on the bar in front of Benny.  Her eyes froze on the four drink receptacles and Benny followed her gaze.

“Uh….shit...yeah…” Benny looked almost embarrassed and jerked his head towards the back of the bar.  “We...uh...we’re all in the back...playing pool.”  She didn’t need to ask; the look on his face told her that Frankie was part of that “we”.  She nodded and took a deep breath.  Of course they were.  She remembered now that night when she had first “the guys”, after dinner they had come here and commandeered one of the back rooms for several raucous games of pool.  She remembered how much she had laughed that night, how it had made her heart sing to see Frankie so at ease with his friends, giving each other shit and swapping inside jokes.  

The memory made her eyes prick with tears and she stood up quickly. How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she realized where Meredith had brought them?  She should have checked the parking lot for his truck.  Dammit!

“Hey, Nat, listen…” Benny made to stop her from moving away and she paused and looked at him, waiting.  He opened his mouth to say something, but then seemed to think otherwise and just shrugged.  “...Nothing. Never mind.  It just...it really sucks...what happened with you and ‘Fish’.  I know he…” again, he seemed to stop himself from saying too much.  “Well….it just sucks,” he finished lamely. She could feel the tears welling now, threatening to spill over.  She felt something like panic starting to rise in her chest at the realization that she was so close to Frankie after not seeing him for three months.  The last time she had seen his face it had been marred with pain...pain that she had put there.  His eyes had glittered with unshed tears and she remembered how his lower lip had trembled.  She couldn’t see him now...there was no way she could face him!  

She suddenly felt like the water she had been slogging through all night had suddenly risen above her head and she couldn’t breathe.  She yanked her jacket and purse off the back of her chair, scrambling to pay for her drink.  

“Yeah.  Thanks, Ben.  Me too...I mean, yeah.  It does suck.”  Her voice cracked.  “It was good to see you…” she let her voice trail off, hoping that maybe he could read her mind; that maybe he would know to tell Frankie how empty she felt without him, how much she regretting asking him to pack his things and leave, how she wished she could do a thousand things differently.  Instead, she just choked out “Take care, Benny.” And she whirled away before she lost the last shred of control of her emotions she still had.  She didn’t want to be THAT girl sobbing into a drink at the bar.

She quickly let Meredith know what was going on.

“Nooooo!” Meredith crowed, slinging an arm around Nat’s shoulder.  “He’s HERE?”  She squeaked, craning her neck to look around the room and nearly toppling both of them over.  Nat quickly untangled herself from her friend and made sure she was left in the capable care of one of the other sober women in the group.  Then she shoved her arms through the sleeves of her jacket and headed out the door.

The heavy, humid Florida air seemed to suffocate her, but he evening had brought a blessedly soft breeze along with the darkness and she was grateful for the air that cut the mugginess, though she could still see clouds of humidity suspended within the shining lights of the parking lot lights.  She shivered as she walked past the first row of vehicles and then the second, out of the relative comfort of the lights and further away from the music and ambient noise seeping out from the bar.  She had parked in the furthest row earlier because of all the cars that had filled the lot when she and Meredith had arrived, but since they had been there, the second and third rows had diminished and her car now sat in solitude, the next closest at least five parking spots away.

Approaching her vehicle, she was putting her finger on the unlock button when she heard something that stopped her dead.

“Natalie.”  

Her heart felt like it was being pulled up through her throat and she suddenly felt lightheaded.  That deep, gruff voice like warm honey.  She hadn’t imagined she would ever hear her name spoken by that voice ever again except, perhaps, to curse her.

She turned and there he was, charging towards her across the parking lot.  She wasn’t sure what she had expected to see as far as emotion from Frankie, but the anger on his face was the last thing she imagined on his usually kind face.  His brows were furrowed low over his eyes, his jaw clenched tightly, fists balled at his sides.  His eyes seemed impossibly hollow and overflowing with hostility all at the same time as his heavy stride kicked up gravel and crunched loudly as he strode towards her. 

“Frankie,” she said, her voice wavering a bit at the darkness in his face as he passed beneath the last parking lot light and continued his beeline towards her and her car.  “It’s ok, I’m leaving.  I didn’t know you were here...I should have figured.  I remembered too late you guys come here sometimes and I-”  

Before she could finish, the rest of the words along with her breath was ripped from her chest as he slammed her body back against the side of her car with his, his mouth on hers, pinning every single part of her between every single part of him and her car.  His lips were desperate, hungry; it was sloppy...she could taste beer on his tongue as he shoved it into her mouth without hesitation,seeking and prodding, attacking her own.  It was all so abrupt and so unlike her sweet, gentle Frankie that she did nothing for a moment.  Then she felt a moan slip from somewhere deep within her and climb her throat, seeping into his mouth as her arms flung themselves around his neck.  

He suddenly rutted his pelvis into hers, hard, eliciting another moan from her when she felt him stiff and solid beneath his jeans and now pressed against where she so desperately wanted him to be.  

“Open the door.”  He grunted against her mouth, never taking his lips away from hers, his tongue leaving its assault on her only as long as it took to form the words.  Her brain couldn’t focus on anything other than his kiss and it took her several long moments to even realize that he had spoken.  “Open the fucking door.”  Once again mouthed against her lips, this time it was a command, guttural and growled, like nothing she had ever heard from him or anyone else before.  Breathless, he ripped his tongue and lips away from her, but kept his hands gripped tightly on her hips, pressing his forehead to hers and closing his eyes as she fumbled with the key fob in her hand.  The car’s headlights blipped, giving a soft ca-chug as the locks disengaged and in the next instant, he had ripped her away from the car, yanked the backseat door open behind her, and shoved her backwards inside.

Her bottom landed awkwardly on the seat and she bumped her head on something as she moved to right herself.  She didn’t have time, though because Frankie was right behind her, looming over her and manhandling her further across the seat, hauling her legs into the car with one hand and slamming the door shut behind him with the other.  

It was dark in the backseat without the parking lot lights in this row, but she could make out his face, grim and determined as he yanked one of her legs up forcefully around his hip and knocked the other wide and into the footwell, widening her legs so that he could crouch between them.  She heard the distinct metallic clink of his belt buckle being undone, then almost immediately the pop of his button and soft shush of his zipper.  She could feel the heat radiating off of him and she saw again that dark gleam in his eyes as he shoved her shoulders down, made her lie back with her neck and head propped uncomfortably against the opposite passenger door.  

She wondered for a moment how much he had had to drink.  Was that why he was being so aggressive?  No, that couldn’t be it.  She had been with him before when he’d had too much to drink.  He got still and smiley and loved to put his face in her hair and sniff , or tangle their fingers together and make them dance on his stomach and chest while he sang a love song off key. 

This wasn’t her Frankie.

This wasn’t the Frankie that had called her his angel and begged her not to send him away the last time she had seen him.

This wasn’t the Frankie that was always so caring and gentle and thoughtful and slow.

This wasn’t the Frankie that always whispered to her that she was beautiful when he was inside of her, that told her how he was so lucky she had chosen him, that made sure she was always comfortable.

This Frankie?  This Frankie was something else entirely:

Dark.

Dangerous.

Angry.

And holy shit did she want him to fuck her.

His hands ripped at her skirt, pulling it high around her waist.  He didn’t stop to remove her panties, merely shoved them to the side as he pulled himself from his jeans.  He paused for just a moment, leaning over her, one hand next to her head on the seat holding himself up, the other hand gently tugging on his swollen cock.  She gazed up into his face trying to see his eyes, but he kept his head angled downward, seemingly mesmerized by the pump of his hand hovering over her heat.  She brought her hands up and twined them in his hair, uncovered now when his ball cap had been knocked from his head at some point.  She reveled for a split second in the feel of the silky brown locks between her fingers and thought briefly of those lazy Saturdays when they had laid in bed reading or napping or talking, his head resting on her stomach and her fingers carding through this same soft hair.  She felt him draw in a sharp breath at the touch and felt his body shudder.  But he still refused to look at her.  

She gathered more of his hair in her hands until she had two fist-fulls.  She slowly tightened her grip, then gave a firm but insistent tug with both hands.  His head finally lifted and she saw his eyes.  

The hurt that she remembered from the last time was still there, raw and real as ever.  Simmering below it was the darkness she had seen only a moment ago.  Covering all of it was a thin sheen of desire that colored everything else.  His eyes spoke to her clearly.  

He wanted her.  He knew that he shouldn’t want her.  But he was going to have her.

And it was not going to be gentle. Or sweet.  Or soft.

She nodded.  Yes.  Please.

Without warning, his eyes still locked with hers, he shoved himself inside of her with one hard push, fully seating himself.  It was abrasive and she hissed as his dry cock entered her core without any type of preparation.  She had only a split second to feel it though, before he yanked himself out, then back again, repeating the motion again and again.  Thankfully, as he thrust in and out of her, her own wetness spread, easing some of the pain from his initial entry.

There were no sweet, breathless pants of pet names, no cries of affirmation.  No calls to deities or lusty moans of pleasure.  There was simply the ragged sound of both of them breathing heavily in the small space, an occasional quiet gasp lighting the air.  The muffled sounds of his denim clad hips smacking into her naked thighs and ass drowned out most everything else.  His pace was manic and he rammed his hips into hers over and over so hard she imagined she would for sure have bruises on her hips tomorrow.  She squeezed her eyes shut more than once against the sharpness of his thrusts, trying not to cry out in pain.  It hurt a little, but the fact that it was Frankie made her want to sob with pleasure.  He pressed his forehead into the door behind her head, his breath puffing into her ear with each hard thrust and she snaked her arms up his back and shoulders the way she had always done, digging her nails forcefully into her skin along the way, making him hiss.  She whispered his name into his ear.

“Frankie…”

He yanked his head up, his eyes flashing with anger again and moved one hand from her hips to her throat.  He squeezed...hard, and she panicked for a moment.  This had never happened before.  She had never been afraid of him before but for an instant she was as she felt her windpipe close beneath his hand. She knew...she had never asked for details, but she knew...Frankie had killed people before, that he was capable...she had no doubt he could snap her neck right here in her own car if he wanted to.  But just as the thought entered her brain he released his grip, but kept his hand firmly wrapped around her throat.  He buried his face back next to her ear, growling and spitting out words between each powerful thrust of his hips.

“Shut up.  Don’t say my fucking name.  Don’t say anything.  Just shut up. Shut the fuck up.”

His voice was dark, but she heard the desperation lacing the edges.  

This was only for this moment.  This was nothing past the inside of this car.  

Frankie needed to feel her, needed to get off.  This frantic, off-limits, out of control act of violently fucking his ex in the backseat of her car was not something he wanted to be doing.  But the alternative-what he had chosen in the past, before Natalie-would ruin any slim chance there might be of ever getting this woman back if again.

He could have found someone else; a warm body.  It wouldn’t have been that hard...some willing woman in a bar on any given night.  But he couldn’t make that choice, either.  He couldn’t  find peace in someone that wasn’t her...because no one else could make him feel at peace and whole the way she could.  His angel.

So, rather than hold her close and tell her he loved her and worship her body and bring her to ecstasy over and over and over again, here he was treating her like a cheap fuck, pretending that she wasn’t the woman he loved; the woman that had broken his heart.  And he couldn’t pretend when she was breathing his name into his ear.

Without any words, without him having to explain any of that, Natalie understood.

He thrust into her once more...twice...three more times, each seemingly harder than the last and then he let out a cry filled with desperation and sadness as he spilled himself inside of her.  Tears welled in his eyes as he felt himself twitching inside of her, the familiar feeling of her walls cradling him nearly sending those tears pouring down his face.  He felt his stomach turn to water and his neck began to burn with shame.  He hated that he hadn’t taken time to get her off, that she had read his need and had willingly let him take her, allowed him to be selfish.

He hated himself.  

He pulled himself out of her slick heat, practically kicking the car door open and tucking himself back into his jeans as he stepped out of the vehicle.  He couldn’t look her in the eye.  Without a word, he turned and walked away from her car, crossing the parking lot as fast as he could, climbing into his beat up old pickup and peeling away.  Natalie still lay breathless in the backseat as she heard the roar of his truck engine, the door of her car still wide open, her legs splayed and her skirt hiked up to her waist, his cum dripping from inside of her and pooling onto the seat beneath her.

****

Later, when she pulled into her driveway, she realized she had no idea where her purse was.  She remembered she had had it in her hand when Frankie had kissed her.  Without looking, she reached behind the front passenger seat and grasped blindly into the footwells until her hand knocked against something solid. She grabbed it and realized immediately it wasn’t her purse, but she couldn’t identify it.  When she brought her hand forward to examine the item, she stopped breathing.

It was Frankie’s baseball cap.

Clutching it to her chest, she felt herself shatter into a million pieces. She caught a whiff of Frankie: his shampoo, his cologne, the sweat from his brow.

She buried her face into the cap and sobbed.

Read on Ao3

[terrorhqs]

𝟒 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲, 𝟏𝟖𝟒𝟓

You join the Promethean after thirty days at sea as they pull into a Danish whaling station in Disko Bay after rounding the southern tip of Greenland. The weather proves far chillier than Greenhithe and London, though it is nothing compared to what the sailors claim the Arctic will prove out. On the ghost-fringes of the horizon, bergy bits and growlers float silently upon the teal sea, enclosed by a grey basalt landscape. The colors are muted, milk-white and harsh - but islets of liveliness stand out. The shore is dotted by little red houses and shacks, their breadth already half-hidden by the lava plateau. This town, Godhavn, will be the last major stop before heading into the thick of the Northwest Passage and its merciless chill, and it is here that the Promethean, along with an accompanying transport ship, disembark for a week to restock. But the reasons behind this layover extend beyond coal and supplies. The crew aboard is getting ready to hunt for fresh fish and caribou, while the guests are stepping with dainty gait to pluck their impressions from this strange new earth. During the span of this week, the transport ship that was docked in Greenland will carry live cattle to be transferred onto the Promethean, as well as a surplus of medicine, spirits and rations. After the week is over, the transport ship will set sail for England once more, and with it, official dispatches from Captain Dowling and any personal letters from the crew and guests. The next missives, the captain says, will be sent from Hong Kong.

It is on the third day that the Commander proposes an idea: One last Carnivale before they buckle down and traverse the trying Northwest Passage - for the morale of the crew, for the leisure of the guests, he suggests. After the restocking, the Promethean has enough food and supplies to sustain them for nearly five years - more than twice the expected duration of the expedition. What is one night of revelry to the plenitude that abounds in the hold?

With the captain’s express permission on the strict condition that the crew be in proper shape bright and early the next morning to scrub the deck down with holystones, preparations begin.

Upon the barren grounds, a tarp-tent is raised, high enough to dwarf Godhavn and the stars alike - inside, lighted within and without by scores of torches, stretch canvas walls dyed in vibrant colors, sectioned and painted with images reflecting each theme. Brightly clad and strangely garbed figures with papier-mache faces twirl around with comet tails of gold-cloth, and the whole world yields to these fantasies. Pirates with masks of blue death, unicorns made from tin foil and brass, generals of Napoleon’s army, members of the Greek Chorus filled the space. Beside the entrance, a large trunk of costumes, masks, and props lay waiting. “Feel free to mix and match,” says a satyr with a paper fan. Along the walls are tables lined with punch bowls, from which princesses in feline masks and a Lady Brittania ladled the liquor into teacups. Where the cooks prepare beef tongue, smoked hams, and Gloucestershire cheeses for the officers and esteemed guests - with thin portions of roasted caribou, vegetables medley, and canned fruit for the rest - the tarp grows black with oven-smoke and humid with steam and scent. In the midst of all this...

𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐔𝐂𝐇?

✹ TAROT READINGS: One of the smaller tents houses a slender figure hidden behind a cloak and cloudy mystique - The Clairvoyant. The fortune teller’s tent is dimly lit, the only light permitted in is that of the undulating torch outside. Incense permeates the air - you sit, and a shot of whiskey is placed at your elbow. Have your cards or palms read or, if you’re feeling particularly brave, you may ask The Clairvoyant to hold a seance - alone or in a group. Don’t worry; the Chaplain is there to oversee the turning of this blasphemous tide. Do you call upon the spirits? 

✹ THEATRE: A short walk away, sectioned off by stacked barrels and sheer sheets and hanging crepe paper, is a makeshift stage surrounded by wooden chairs hauled off the ship’s messes. Seamen with painted faces wielding props and steins brimming with strong grog reenact one of The Songbird’s operas in admirable falsettos. One might swear one of the men has nabbed one of her dresses and donned it just for the show. Loud music blares from a mechanical music player cranked by a wood sprite. Do you sing along?

✹ HALL OF GAMES: In another tent, racing horses painted into the canvas oversee gamblers engrossed in card games, ‘hazard’, and ‘chequers’. Tobacco are the prizes to be won, but some bet their favorite books or their week’s ration of chocolate and biscuits. The Veteran is seen taking the hide off several sailor’s backs at the card table. If one prefers to bet on horses, there are those who eagerly volunteer to don hobby horses and race laps around the tent to raucous cheers and jeers. Chiefly among these, the Scion leads the tracks as would-be winner. Do you make merry? 

✹ TENT OF WONDERS: The intricate workings of a maze, but rendered picturesque enough to rival the best (and strangest) of palazzos. A projector, the most recent invention of the time, is casting fragments of wonder upon the walls - silhouettes that leave the seer gasping, morphing reality into a dreamlike land. Costumed crew and miscreant guests will jump at you from behind the scenery and boxes, and you catch sight of the Noble, a laughing blur racing past,  just as you think you are nearing the maze’s end. The Lover is overheard saying there’s no maze quite like the court of England - but other sailors assure you the prize at the end is worth finding. Do you discover what the center leads to? 

✹ TOPSY-TURVY SOVEREIGN: The stage of a contest, only not one of skill or mettle, but rather of the intrepid bravery it takes to render oneself a fool. For it is this that makes the target of this competition: who can play upon the highest jest - from pranks to games of imitation, form singing to hopping on a hobby-horse - earns their just reward (the Doctor, of course, standing by should he be needed). Whoever will stake the most refined act as royal buffoon is named topsy-turvy sovereign of the Carnivale. Do you earn your crown?

welcome to terrorhqs’ very first event! this event will start TODAY, 6/3, and extend until 6/19 when the second part of the event will be dropped. this also marks our very first task: post either a graphic of your muse’s carnivale finery OR write a diary entry containing their thoughts on godhvn and the carnivale! if you’re feeling especially ambitious, you may certainly do both! we ask that members keep their threads related to the carnivale event and to tag their task with THQTASK. happy writing!

[juniperwindsong]

Necessary Monsters (8/16)

Warning: this chapter will contain M rated themes including alcohol abuse, sexual situations, and some iffy decisions that I'd like to make clear I do not condone. PLEASE NOTE that just because characters act a certain way does not mean I agree with their actions. While I have refrained from including any smut out of respect for people who don't care for that sort of thing, I did write it. So the explicit version of a certain scene from this chapter can be found in my new story, Advanced Dragonology, which is where I'll be sticking all the smutty excerpts I'm not including in the story proper to keep it from being NSFW. It is posted only on A03 here or Wattpad here in order to comply with Tumblr’s content agreements.

Summary: "That was..." "Unexpected?" "Very." "So, does that prove this is real?" "If I say no, will you do that again?"

Proper socialisation is an essential part of a pureblood upbringing, so in his first seventeen years Felix has attended what he considers an excessive number of parties. Which is why it doesn't occur to him to be nervous until he steps up the squat house's ramshackle walk and realises he has never attended this sort of party: a gathering thrown by young people for young people, specifically for the purpose of "having fun". Although, wincing at the loud thumps of what he can only assume is intended to be music, Felix wonders exactly whose idea of "fun" this could possibly be.

The front door is slightly ajar; lucky, since he doubts anyone could hear a bell over all the noise. There's no host to greet him or make the necessary introductions, so Felix is left to stand awkwardly just inside the run-down east end townhouse, hands stuffed in his pockets and feeling entirely out of his depth.

A quick glance around at the crowd of milling teenagers informs Felix he isn't dressed appropriately. Exceptionally casual muggle attire appears to be the evening's dress code from what he's able to make out. Darkness also seems to be the fashion at this sort of party. There's hardly a candle to be seen anywhere, most of the light coming from a single flickering floor lamp tucked into a corner. There's a thin cord trailing from its base into the wall, and Felix remembers this from Muggle Studies as a tell-tale sign of a muggle invention. He puts two and two together, and his eyes widen in panic.

This is a muggle house; a muggle party. What on earth would Juniper and her friends be doing here? Tonks must have given him this address as a joke.

Fumbling behind him for the doorknob, Felix is just considering what sort of retribution would be fitting for the idiotic Hufflepuff, when a sudden outburst of applause draws his gaze to the corner of the packed room. Half a dozen teenagers are clustered around one garishly-dressed person and Felix's eyes narrow as he recognises the spiky pink hair. Tonks, grinning toothily, throws a jacket over her head then sweeps it off with a flourish, revealing hair, still short and spiky, but now electric blue. Another round of cheering and clapping from the spectators, and Tonks takes a dramatic bow, tripping over her own boot-laces. Felix can only stare, indignation flagging in the face of his open shock.

"Never seen a metamorphmagus before?" says a voice near his ear.

Tulip Karasu appears just beside Felix's elbow, leaning in uncomfortably close to be heard over the din. She's wearing muggle clothes as well, and considerably few, at that, but it's hardly the most concerning thing to Felix at the moment.

"I've never seen a metamorphmagus reveal herself in front of a whole pack of muggles, on purpose and in direct violation of the International Statute of Secrecy, no," he retorts waspishly. His voice is almost lost in the room's overbearing babble, but Tulip seems to understand the gist at any rate. She shakes her head with a wry smile.

"They're her cousins, or something. Her father's muggle-born," she says loudly into his ear again. "Besides, muggles don't believe in magic. Tonks could turn herself into a bear right there in front of them, and they'd still say it was a trick. It's fantastic."

Tulip glances around Felix.

"The rest of the entourage with you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know," Tulip shrugs a shoulder. "Rowan Khanna...Penny Haywood."

It's painfully obvious, even in the dim light, that Tulip's nonchalant attitude is all a show, but whatever's happening between the tiny Ravenclaw girl and her Hufflepuff counterpart does not interest Felix in the slightest.

"No. I came alone. To see Juniper." Felix's brow furrows suddenly. "Please tell me she's not outside showing off her Comet 260 or something?"

Tulip's enigmatic smile sours slightly.

"Don't worry. Everyone's favorite curse-breaker is currently getting soused in the kitchen. Drinking contest, I think." Misinterpreting Felix's expression, she adds, "Don't worry. She always wins. Always wins everything, doesn't she?" And she saunters off in Tonks' direction without further comment.

-

It takes Felix several minutes to navigate the dark, over-crowded hallway and locate the dingy kitchen. He's relieved to find it more brightly lit then the rest of the house, and slightly quieter. A linoleum table takes up most of the room, covered in plastic cups full of unidentifiable liquids. A long bench set into the wall lines one side of the table, and at its end sits a girl with curled hair sipping through a plastic straw directly from a sloshing pitcher. A group of mostly male on-lookers eggs her on, giving a raucous cheer when she finishes. The girl pushes the empty pitcher away from her with a cry of triumph, and it isn't until she looks up that Felix is positive it's Juniper.

"Felix?"

He can't quite hear her over the continued cheering, but he recognises his name on her lips, painted an unlikely shade of electric pink. She's smiling, which might have been a good sign if it didn't seem so vacant, and she gestures at him wildly with a wrist full of clinking bracelets. Juniper's fans all turn to see who's captured her attention, and Felix pushes through them primly, seating himself next to Juniper, rather closer than strictly necessary. He shoots his patented prefect's glare at the gaggle of boys, most of whom take the hint and sidle away.

If Juniper notices her audience disperse, she doesn't show it. She hooks her wrist around a plastic cup and pulls it toward her. She plucks the straw from the pitcher with two fingers, and Felix is pleased to see her grip last long enough to drop the straw into the cup, before leaning down and chugging the drink nearly in one gulp.

When she finally comes up for air, Felix leans in close to her ear.

"Can we talk?"

Juniper turns so their faces are suddenly very close.

"I doubt it. It's quite loud in here." She smiles lop-sidedly, but her eyes are still dark and dead-looking underneath a thick layer of blue powder.

"Then, let's go somewhere else," urges Felix. Juniper shakes her head.

"Half the reason I come to these things is specifically because it's too loud to talk," and Felix has no counter-argument for that.

Juniper drags another cup across the table and leaves it in front of Felix, then pulls a third toward herself and inserts her straw once more. At a loss for anything else to do, Felix lifts the drink to his lips, but he can only take a small sip before returning it to the table in disgust. He swallows hard, trying to rid himself of the bitter taste.

Next to him, Juniper smirks. It's a nasty expression when combined with her empty-looking eyes. She dunks her straw into Felix's abandoned cup and leans over it. The drink hadn't tasted exceptionally strong to Felix, just rancid, but three plus a pitcher in less than five minutes seems dangerous. He's about to voice his concern when Juniper looks up.

"But would you like to dance?"

"What?"

Juniper nods at the dark room just beyond. It's full of people clumped together in groups and pairs, and Felix stares helplessly at the mass of bodies, their movements hardly recognisable as dancing. Even if he had the inclination to join them, he wouldn't have the first idea how to mimic them.

"I - I don't...really...I mean - that's not - "

"Suit yourself," Juniper interrupts with a shrug. She has to climb across him to exit the bench, using his shoulder for support, and once again Felix's entire attention is devoted to the sight of Juniper's legs, now covered only in black stockings. Not the kind worn with school uniforms, but the sort full of large, criss-crossing holes, like netting.

Without sparing a backward glance at Felix, Juniper joins a small cluster of girls just inside the other room, all moving in time with the thudding beat, arms rising and falling, close but not quite touching. Perhaps it's the current lack of blood in his brain, but Felix can suddenly see the appeal of the movements, clearly designed to call attention to certain parts of the body, and for the remainder of the song he's caught up in enjoying the sight. Juniper is smiling, and from here he can't see the haunted look in her eyes, and he can pretend it's the Juniper he knows, enjoying herself with friends like there's nothing wrong at all. Until the music changes seamlessly into a song with a more intense rhythm, and several young men take this as an invitation to join Juniper's group. Far from looking harassed, the girls seem to enjoy the company.

One particular boy positions himself just behind Juniper; far, far too close for Felix's liking. He runs distracted fingers through his hair, that primal call to action he associates with danger to Juniper tugging at him furiously, demanding he intervene. He contemplates whether a banishing charm might go unnoticed in the dark, or a stunning spell. He's just considering whether a Bat Bogey hex is too much, when the boy's hands are suddenly on Juniper's waist, guiding her back against him, and a mad rage erupts in Felix like he's never known. He stands, unsure what he's going to do but determined to do something, and his sudden, sharp movement knocks drinks from the table. In the split second he looks away to inspect the spill, there's a small bang, then a loud scream, and when Felix's head whips back round, the young man is on the floor.

The song plays on like nothing has happened, but the dancers around them have all stopped and stepped back, their collective whispers carrying over the music like rushing water. Juniper's chest is heaving, her head flicking warily from side to side. She reminds Felix of a cornered Vipertooth, evaluating its enemies, searching frantically for an escape route, and something about the comparison and the adrenaline still coursing through him activates his instincts. He crosses the room determinedly, grips Juniper by the elbow and pulls her out of the sea of muttering on-lookers, back through the kitchen, and out a door he hopes is an exit.

The warm night air hits him in the face as they step into the narrow alley between this house and the next, mercifully empty except for rubbish bins. Juniper rips her arm from Felix and totters a few steps away. She leans against the brick of the building, hands over her face, still breathing heavily.

"What happened?" asks Felix, voice calm in the way it always manages to be when he's focused.

"I didn't mean to. It - it just...happens sometimes."

"What did you do to him?"

"Just the Knock-Back jinx. I think."

Felix raises a curious eyebrow. "You can use your wand, now?"

Juniper shakes her head behind her hands. "No. Like I said, it just happens. I can't control it. It's like - being a little kid again, when you're angry and the magic just - just comes out." There's panic or hysteria at the back of her voice, and Felix reaches for his most soothing tones.

'It's alright. I doubt anyone saw you. And you're over seventeen, you don't have the trace on you anymore. You're not in trouble."

Dropping her hands, Juniper stares at Felix and the ice in her eyes make him shiver.

"What would they do, anyway? Snap my wand?" She tries to laugh, but it becomes a dry heave. Nerves begin to threaten Felix's composure.

"Juniper," he takes a step toward her, cautious as if she were an injured dragon. "Why don't you let me take you -" But Felix stops, unsure how to finish. Now he thinks about it, he isn't sure where to take her. The same idea occurs to Juniper.

"Where? To Tulip's house? She'd love that. Her parents don't even know she's gone. And I doubt anyone's been in my family's house in years. Unless maybe Jacob's camped out there." She forces another bitter laugh, clutching her stomach tightly.

"What about Khanna's place, then?" Felix suggests, when inspiration strikes him. "Or Hogwarts! Dumbledore won't mind, I'm sure of it. He's worried about you. Everyone is."

Somehow, this is the wrong thing to say. Juniper snorts, and tries to stand up straighter against the brick wall, an echo of anger flaring up behind her dark eyes.

"No. I'm not going back there. You know they're only worried about me because I'm the Cursebreaker." She pronounces the word like some vile epithet. "You think if they didn't need me for information or weren't worried I might turn out like my brother, they'd care about me at all? Dumbledore or Snape or the aurors? They don't worry about anyone else's safety! They don't keep tabs on Beatrice or any of the other students who've been hurt at the school. It's because they need me to take care of everything for them. That's the only thing I'm good for." Juniper wipes at her eyes viciously with the heel of her hand, smearing blue and black lines across her face. "And I can't even do that now, so, really, I don't matter at all, do I?

Felix shakes his head slowly, taken aback by this heated rant.

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is!" insists Juniper doggedly, wrapping her arms about herself as if the night were cold.

"That's not why I'm here," Felix argues, but Juniper only rolls her eyes.

"You're here because they sent you. If you're really here at all. This whole thing could just be some awful dream." Her words dissolve into a groan, and she slides down the bricks to the ground, arms clenched around her knees. Felix watches her in mounting frustration.

"Juniper, do you realise I left my job to be here? Without permission, without telling anyone. Probably, I'll end up sacked when they notice I'm gone, but I came anyway. Because I care more about you. And you know that I never cared about cursed vaults. I always wished you weren't so wrapped up in curse-breaking. I'm not here to help anyone use you for all that rubbish. I'm here to help you."

Juniper looks up at him, eyes still empty but her mouth trembling slightly. "I don't need help," she says stubbornly. Then she turns and heaves against the side of the building.

It's lucky, thinks Felix vaguely as he kneels next to her, that none of this happened three years ago, before he spent time in the wild. He can only imagine how he would have reacted to a girl vomiting in front of him when he was still at school. But Peruvian Vipertooth venom leaves one exceptionally ill, even after taking the cure, and Felix has spent more than his share of days sick as a pig, waiting for the toxin to leave his body. He's helped others on his expedition team, as well, so he lets practice take over, gathering Juniper's hair back for her and producing a handkerchief from the tip of his wand. Felix waits for the contractions in her stomach to subside, wishing uselessly that one of the bins next to them would suddenly turn into a dragon, maw open and flames spitting. Because that's more the sort of monster he'd prefer to rescue her from.

After a few minutes, Juniper climbs shakily to her feet. Felix takes her arm to help her, but she pulls away, letting the brick wall support her weight.

"I'm fine," she mumbles, wiping her hand across her mouth with a grimace. And Felix's temper, so patiently tamed throughout this entire bloody evening, flares unexpectedly.

"Are you physically incapable of saying anything else?" His sudden shout makes Juniper wince. "Juniper: You're. Not. Fine. And the only person who expects you to be is you. And pretending like you are isn't helping you or anybody else. Now, I can't make you let me help you - and you can carry on acting like a bloody idiot if that's really what you want - but you'll have to put up with me following you about everywhere because I'm not going to let this go."

Felix stops, panting slightly. He pushes back a bit of hair that's fallen into his eye. His anger now vented, he feels like a prat for shouting. He knows being angry at Juniper, so obviously irrational, won't solve anything, and he waits for her bitter retort or angry retreat. But Juniper only shakes her head, eyes still closed, and it isn't until tears leak from under her eyelids that Felix recognises her shaking as silent sobs.

"Juniper," he steps forward and reaches carefully for her, and for once, Juniper doesn't pull away. She leans into him, arms trapped against his chest, and buries her face in his shoulder. Felix can feel her crying quietly. "Juniper, I- I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No," she interjects, voice muffled against his robes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Felix, I - I'm a mess, I know it. I'm such a mess right now. Everything's just - wrong, and I don't know how to fix it. I don't know why I'm like this right now. I don't know - how I feel or - or anything, and I'm - I'm so sorry."

Felix lets her cry, stroking a cautious hand across her hair. Tentative relief trickles through his veins, giddy and intoxicating, but a part of him can't help feeling ultimately disappointed. Supporting a crying, hopeless Juniper is far less romantic in real life than in his fantasy.

"Come on," he says quietly once her shaking has mostly subsided. "Let's get you out of here."

Juniper lifts her head from his shoulder and dabs at her eyes. "I can't apparate," she admits. Her face is too red and blotchy to tell if the confession embarrasses her.

"We can take the Knight bus. I've never actually ridden it before, but I think-"

"No!" Juniper shakes her head frantically, her curls coming unpinned. "No, please - I don't want anyone to see me like this. It'll be in the papers, for sure. That Skeeter woman's been sniffing around me all summer."

Her voice quavers again, and Felix wraps one arm tightly about her shoulder, pulling her against him to support her weight.

"Alright, alright," he reassures her, coaxing her feet forward. "We'll think of something else." They shuffle awkwardly out of the alley. "Aren't there muggle motors that take people places? Can't remember what they're called. Not buses."

"You mean a taxicab?"

"That's it." They turn onto a road lined with houses, but no motors. Felix guides her down the walk in the direction of city lights.

"How do you know about taxicabs?" Juniper asks between sniffles.

"Muggle studies," Felix admits. "You need at least an OWL in the class to work at the Ministry."

They have to walk another block before they reach a street full of lit shops and the occasional passing motor. Felix flings out an arm and one screeches to a halt. He fumbles with the handle on the door, struggling with the mechanism until the exasperated driver climbs out to assist him, mumbling about drunks. The man eyes Juniper suspiciously as she clambers into the back of the motor, giggling through scattered hiccoughs.

"Where are we going?" she mumbles as she leans back against the plastic covered seats. Felix climbs in next to her, eyeing the inside of the car dubiously.

"The Leaky Cauldon," he says as the driver returns to the front. The man glares at Felix from his little mounted mirror.

"You off your face?"

-

"Do you know, I've never actually been in the Leaky Cauldron before. Except in passing," remarks Juniper. She inspects the shabby room from her seat near the fireplace, lit in spite of the warm summer night. "It's nice."

"It's alright," shrugs Felix. He wishes he had somewhere more impressive to take her, but his room at the Leaky Cauldron is the only place he could think of where Juniper would both be safe and where they might have an uninterrupted conversation. After washing the vomit, tears, and smeared makeup from her face and having a quiet sit by the fire, Juniper seems in strangely serene spirits, and Felix sits across her nervously, wondering how to broach his desired topic.

"You stay here often?" inquires Juniper politely.

"When I'm in England."

She cocks her head curiously. "Why don't you stay at home?"

"I'm not currently welcome there. Not until I'm ready to 'give up this ridiculous dragon nonsense and return to my family obligations,'" Felix quotes wryly, but Juniper doesn't smile.

"I'm sorry."

Felix shrugs her sympathy away. Silence ticks between them again, and Juniper settles deeper into the winged armchair, closing her eyes. With her elaborate makeup gone, Felix thinks she looks pale again. Her hair has come out of it's pins, and something about the way the new length frames her face makes it seem thinner.

"Why did you cut your hair?" he asks.

Juniper sighs. She opens her eyes, but keeps her gaze firmly on the fire. Her fingers fiddle absently with her fallen curls.

"Sometimes, I sort of...space out. I feel like I'm back there - like it's happening to me again."

"I thought you said you couldn't remember what happened," Felix interjects sharply.

"I can't," Juniper confirms. "Not fully. Not like a story I could tell. It's just...bits and pieces. And they sort of...pop into my head sometimes when I'm not expecting. Or I have nightmares - I don't even know if they're about what really happened or if they're just my imagination - but I wake up and I...I don't know if I'm awake." She shudders. "That's the worst. Not knowing what's real. Not trusting myself. I thought - I don't know - I thought...if something were different about me - like my hair - then... maybe, it would be easier to tell the difference between the past and the present. Does that makes sense?"

"Sort of," Felix agrees vaguely, although he's not at all sure it does. "Does it work?"

"No." Juniper shakes her head. "Not when I need it to, anyway. The whole world just feels so...unreal sometimes. Like, for all I know I'm dreaming, and maybe I just cut my hair in my dream." She sighs heavily, and rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes as if they ache. "Maybe all of this is just a dream."

Worry crawls up Felix's spine. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, maybe I am cursed." Juniper pushes off from her chair and sidles to the window, arms clasped about herself. "Maybe I'm still in hospital and none of this is really happening."

"Juniper," Felix says firmly, trying to call her attention back to him. "You know this is real."

She shakes her head, back still turned.

"I don't know. I don't know what's happening with me. I just feel so..." She leans her forehead against the glass. "I don't know what I feel."

Felix stands, one hand rubbing nervously at the scar across his neck, entirely unsure how to approach this strange admission.

"I think...that's probably normal. Considering," he offers carefully.

"Not for me," argues Juniper, turning from the window and raking her fingers through her hair. "I'm scared all the time. I never used to be scared of anything, and now...I jump at shadows or sudden movement or people touching me unexpectedly." She pushes off from the sill and paces the room in quick steps. "It's like it is in a duel. You know that feeling? When you're dueling someone and your whole body is just ready...ready for action, ready to dodge a spell or attack. All tense, and defensive. But it's like that all the time. I can't shut it off, and it's...exhausting."

On the last word, Juniper leans back against a bed post. "Even when I sleep I have these awful nightmares and I'm more tired when I wake up then I was before. I know it's making me mad. I watch myself acting mad and stupid, and saying these horrid things to people. To my friends. Maybe I have gone mad." She lets her head loll back against the wooden post. Felix approaches her tentatively.

"I think, if you can be worried that you're mad, then you're probably not." He says reassuringly.

"I don't know. None of this seems very likely, does it?"

"None of what?"

"All this? You?" Juniper lifts her head to look at him, gesturing vaguely about the room. "Why would you be here when you're supposed to be Romania. That's not rational, is it? Probably you're just a visual representation of my conscience or better sense or something." She chuffs a mirthless laugh.

"I'm here because I was worried about you," Felix reminds her.

"But isn't that exactly what you'd say if I made you up in my head?" she retorts.

There's something about this abstract train of thought that irritates Felix. It's irrational, which means it isn't an argument he can win with facts. But she's finally talking, perhaps more than she's talked to anyone since the attack, and he's afraid to say anything that might shut her off again.

"So, how can I prove that this is real?" he asks, hiding his frustration. Juniper shrugs listlessly.

"I don't know. Say something...unexpected. Something I couldn't make up."

Felix wants to laugh, wildly. He's full to bursting with things he's never said to her that he's dying to say: that he loves her, that he's never really loved anyone but her, that he'll do anything to make her better again. He screams the words in his head, as if she might hear them if he just thinks loud enough, but he can't force his mouth to speak.

Instead, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her soundly.

A/N If you want the explicit version of this next scene, visit one of the links above, but be sure to return for the end.

It's in no way the perfect first kiss Felix has fantasized about: full of sparks and unspoken declarations of love. Juniper isn't expecting it, so her mouth isn't ready and their teeth clash. A few seconds of decidedly unromantic fumbling, and he pulls away to inspect her reaction.

Juniper's eyes are wide in surprise, but for the first time that day, there's a light behind them Felix recognises. She doesn't move, only stares. She wets her lips, shoulders heaving with the force of her shaky breath.

"That was..."

"Unexpected?" Felix provides when she cannot find the word.

Juniper nods, smiling faintly. "Very." And it's her smile. Her real smile. And her eyes. And the relief is a rush almost as heady as his proximity to her body. Felix's smile in return is small but genuine as he asks softly:

"So...does that prove this is real?"

Juniper meets his eyes the way she always has, quietly confident and determined to get what she wants.

"If I say no, will you do that again?"

This time, it's exactly how he pictured. Juniper's lips are so soft against his, they're almost insubstantial. She pauses after each long, light kiss, lips lingering on his mouth for a moment as if to savor it.

War rages in Felix as he tries to keep himself calm. Somewhere underneath the excitement and relief and joy of finally getting what he's wanted for so long, there's nagging doubts over whether this is really a good idea. But the need for more is stronger. He slides his hands into her hair, pulling her face closer to his to deepen their kiss. There's no resistance. Juniper softens against him, opening her mouth to let him explore. She presses her trembling hands against his shoulders, steadying herself against the onslaught. It's minutes before they break apart for air, still clinging to each other.

Felix wonders if its possible to get drunk from the alcohol in someone else's mouth. It's what she tastes like, and it leaves him heady and unbalanced. It's not at all what he imagined, but what with her has ever been?

Juniper's eyes are glassy as she stares transfixed at his lips, and Felix has to fight a primal urge to press her hips as tightly against his as he can. Some voice at the back of his head is warning him to stop, now, before things go too far. He opens his mouth to find a way to tell her, when Juniper bites the corner of her lip and the words evaporate. Felix grips her waist until she's flush against him, the way he's wanted to do since he saw her at that Quidditch match months ago. She's on her toes to make her body line up exactly with his, and the pressure against his trousers drives him mad.

It's really only minutes, but Felix isn't aware of time as he explores her body. It's another thing he's never managed to picture correctly, but it's better than he dreamed. So focused on feeling everything, Felix doesn't notice when Juniper move her hands until they're against skin. His skin. His shirt is untucked from his trousers, and her fingers slide under the waistband and there's another rush of blood and his mouth is suddenly dry.

We can't, thinks Felix automatically as Juniper's fingers trail across his lower belly, tracing the light outline of muscle. But is there a reason? Or is it only because it isn't usually done this way? There's dates, time spent, he thinks frantically, you have to earn the right. But Juniper never does anything the regular way. And haven't the best parts of his life always started with her dragging him along somewhere unexpected? Then her hands stroke across his hip bones, and Felix's body makes the decision for him.

His hands creep up her legs, where there's more muscle than he expected, and Felix wants to take time to explore them more thoroughly but he isn't in charge of his movements anymore. His fingers are just there when Juniper jerks, and this time her gasp isn't quite the same. There's something less pleasant in it, and Felix's skin turns cold as he pulls his hand back, unable to meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't-"

She stifles his apology with her lips, kissing him with new furvour as she fumbles for his wrist, pulling his hand back into place.

"It's good," she murmurs against his mouth. "So good, I've just...I've never actually done...this before."

How hasn't he thought of that? Felix cringes with shame. Perhaps because Juniper was dating Barnaby at the same time he was with Aurelie and so he'd just assumed all relationships follow the same natural progression. True, she and Barnaby were still in school, but that hardly means anything. School can't have changed that much since he left, and students were always finding ways to do this in spite of their prefects' best efforts. It never even occurred to Felix to hope that Barnaby hadn't had her first, he simply chose to overlook that fact in all his fantasies of her. The sudden knowledge that he might be the first, perhaps the only person, to touch Juniper like this is both elating and terrifying.

Felix is suddenly acutely aware of the rickety iron bed, and the peeling paint, and the raucous sounds from the pub below. This isn't romantic. There's nothing about this room or this situation that would make for a beautiful memory. He might be able to see past that, but this is more than their first time, it's her first time. Felix is sure he doesn't understand what that means for a girl, but he thinks, in general, it's supposed to be better than this.

"Juniper,' he mumbles against her mouth. "This-this isn't right."

"What?" 

Juniper freezes against him. He can feel her frantic heart beat against his chest, and he wraps his arms safely around her waist speaking into her hair.

"I mean...not like this. You're...this...it's supposed to be...perfect," Felix finishes, thankful she can't see how red his face his. He can feel her giggle, causing her body to ripple against him deliciously.

"Perfect? My life is hardly a novel, Felix."

"Special, then," he insists, his lips now pressed against her ear, searching for a safe place to kiss her that won't add any further fuel to the fire already burning through him. But Juniper turns, on her toes again, so she can press her forehead against his and speak directly at his face in a breathless voice

"It is special. I'm with you." Her trembling fingers slide across his cheeks, burying themselves in his hair. "It should be you. I want it to be you."

If Felix kept a diary, he would have accused her of reading it. How else could she know exactly what he's always wanted to hear? He can't suppress a shaky gasp. His lips brush hers as he asks:

"Are you sure?"

Juniper meet his gaze steadily, eyes dark, but a different sort of dark than this morning. There's something on fire behind them as she nods.

"Positive."

And for all the ways this isn’t how he planned, it's still perfect. Because it's her. It's them. The two of them together, finally joined the way they're supposed to be, as close as two people can get.

A short time later, Juniper shifts underneath Felix as their heart rates return to normal, and he rolls to the side to keep from crushing her. He snakes an arm under her to pull her back against him, not wanting to be away from her body for a second. Juniper curls up half beside, half on top of him, and rests her head on his shoulder, eyes closed and smile tired, and Felix realises she must be nearly as exhausted as he is.

"Juniper," he says softly, trying to infuse her name with everything he's feeling. Any other words would surely sound trite in the wake of what they've just done. Her smile widens, though her eyes remain shut.

"Felix," Juniper answers in a voice as full of meaning as his, and Felix sighs, familiar warmth spreading through his chest the way it always does when she says his name. Only now he has brand new memories of the way she can say his name, and he clutches her more tightly against him, satisfied in finally having one dream play out just right.

-

Felix wakes up in little waves. There's soft warmth surrounding him he doesn't understand, until the memory of Juniper from last night returns and he smiles. He reaches out to stroke her hair where it lays pooled on his chest and his hands clench against fabric. He opens his eyes. It's a sheet draped across him. And the bed beside him is empty.

Felix shoots up, instantly alert. A quick scan of the room reveals he's the only one in it. Throwing back the sheet, Felix leaps from the bed and searches the floor for his clothes. He has a vague memory of shedding them somewhere around the bed's foot, but they're nowhere to be found. He swivels around, looking for any kind of clue, and this time notices his robes laid across the chair by the fireplace. Definitely not where he let them drop in a careless heap the night before.

An uncomfortable writhing wakes in Felix's stomach as he tugs on his trousers. This is not how he was hoping this day would begin. He fumbles under his robes for his shirt only to find it isn't there. He barely has time to contemplate this new mystery when the door opens and Juniper enters, a tray with two steaming cups and a plate of scones hovering beside her. She starts upon seeing him, cheeks turning rosy, and Felix realises she's wearing his shirt on top of her skirt and stockings from the night before. The look is less openly suggestive than her sheer blouse, but he finds the sight of her in his clothes impossibly arousing.

Juniper's thoughts seem to be somewhere near his own. She grins sheepishly, still blushing, and turns to push the door closed. The tray makes its own way to the little table near Felix and sets itself down.

"Morning," says Juniper, and her voice is almost bright. So much like what Felix remembers of her, and he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He settles for smiling at her as she lifts a mug from the tray. It's a beer mug, he notices, the kind with a large handle on the side and she threads her entire hand through it, balancing the other side with her wrist. His smile falters a little.

Juniper plops heavily onto the edge of the bed, curling her legs up underneath her and breathing in steam from the mug. Felix glances wistfully into the remaining cup, a regular tea cup, and entirely bereft of the coffee he craves. Forgoing drink, he sits down carefully beside Juniper, self-consciousness beginning to twist his stomach into knots. There's no reason he shouldn't be allowed to lean across and kiss her, surely? But something about her sipping tea, eyes wandering everywhere but at him reminds him too much of mornings with Aurelie, and the memories play havoc with his confidence.

"How are you feeling?" he asks uncertainly, watching Juniper sip her scalding tea without a wince.

"Honestly?" She ponders this a moment, before replying candidly. "Awful. Absolutely miserable. The worst I've ever felt in my life, I think." She takes another sip of her drink before adding, "But, if I can admit that, then I guess I'm a good sight better than yesterday, right?"

Juniper looks at Felix as if in confirmation, but he isn't sure what to say. His face is blank, an exact match for his current thoughts. Juniper sets her mug carefully onto the floor.

"Had to borrow your shirt, I hope you don't mind," she says, interrupting the awkward silence, and beginning to undo the buttons. "I had to run a quick errand. And I thought Tom might chuck me out if I showed up downstairs like this." She indicates the ridiculously thin and clinging fabric underneath his shirt that served as her blouse from the previous evening.

"Of course not," murmurs Felix. It's a moment before he processes her words, distracted as he is by her new state of undress, but before he can ask any questions, Juniper continues.

"I may need you to conjure something up for me to wear, if you can. I've got a fair bit to do this morning and I can't do it in this. And I don't really carry my wand much anymore," she admits with a small, resigned smile.

This rouses Felix from his stupor. He scoots across the rumpled sheets to sit closer to her.

"Juniper, it's...good that you feel a bit better, but you really shouldn't overdo it. If there's things you need to do, let me take care of it. You need to take it easy for a while. Get back to Khanna's before that Auror - Moody - finds out."

This time, Juniper's smile reaches her eyes. Which still seem tired and sad, but no longer have the terrifying dead look of yesterday.

"Felix," she begins, then shakes her head as if overcome with what she has to say. "You are...extraordinary. But you can't do everything for me. I've got about a dozen apologies I need to make and they need to be done sooner rather than later. Starting with you."

"Me?" Felix raises his eyebrows in surprise. "What for?"

"Everything." Juniper shifts on the lumpy mattress to face Felix more fully. "Ignoring you. Worrying you. Making you come all the way up here. Just being stupid and selfish. You've no idea how embarrassed I am about all this."

"You don't have to be embarrassed," argues Felix, but Juniper interrupts, face screwed up as if in pain.

"I could have cost you your job, Felix!" she exclaims. "You've given up your whole life for this job, and worked so hard, and this is the second time I've almost jeopardised that. But I promise it's the last." She takes a steadying breath and picks at the fabric criss-crossing her legs. "Look, I'm not pretending like - like I'm better or-or back to normal or anything, I know I'm not. I don't even know what normal looks like for me anymore. I'm sure it's not what it used to be. But, I think...I might be past the worst of it now. Entirely because of you." Juniper shoots him a small, embarrassed smile. "I think... I'm thinking more clearly than I have in a while, and I- I know the direction I need to go, even if it's going to take me forever to get there. So you don't have to worry about me anymore. And I- I just need to know that nothing's changed - between us, I mean."

Everything in Felix's chest crumples. His insides sinking toward his feet, leaving his legs heavy and leaden and his head too light. Keeping upright is suddenly the only thing he can concentrate on. Juniper, still looking determinedly at her legs where she's plucked a hole in the fabric of her stockings, notices nothing.

"I know I've still got a long way to go, and I think the only way I can get through it is if I know that you're - that we're - still friends. That I haven't messed that up being...being stupid."

She finally lifts her eyes to peer furtively into his face, and Felix can't imagine what it looks like now, but it feels like it's been turned to stone.

"Of course," he hears himself say, and Juniper sighs, shoulders relaxing in relief.

"I know it doesn't make up for everything I've put you through, but," she fumbles with the waistband of her skirt, retrieving a small slip of parchment. "I've got a portkey all arranged for you. It's set up to leave in an hour, and it'll actually take you inside the Reserve itself. Or it should. I've got it from a, well, a source that owed me a favour, and he's really only semi-reliable at the best of times, but he staked his hoodie on this portkey working, and that's really the highest promise I could wrench from him."

Felix listens to Juniper prattle on without really hearing. At some point, she pauses, and inspects his face more closely.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Felix can't respond. He doesn't feel anything. He feels nothing when they say goodbye, a brief embrace and an awkward smile all Juniper is willing to bestow. Nor when he arrives in Romania, marching straight to the Peruvian Vipertooth grounds to relieve Rashbold, who is fortunately too exhausted to ask many questions. Felix continues to feel nothing as he takes the next shifts, his body going through the familiar motions without the help of any conscious thought. It's only when he returns to his quiet, dusty room, crawls under the tatty sheet of his camp bed, and buries his face in his pillow that tears finally come.

-

Read Chapter 9 |Here’s the link to the Masterpost.

[hispeculiartreasure]

All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Three | B.B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: Teen | Due to language

Word count: 2,930

Chapter 3/24

Warnings: Very brief language

AN: Y’all are getting this chapter a night early because I have had a supremely shitty week and could use some cheering up. So far, this has been the chapter I was most nervous to write because it’s from Bucky’s POV. I have felt so incredibly unworthy of trying to delve into this character because so many fantastic writers I know and love write him flawlessly. It’s been so intriguing for me to explore what Bucky would be like post-war and I think I’m liking where this is going. This chapter has actually turned into one of my favorites and I’m proud of how it came out. Sidenote: Did y’all REALLY think I was going to write something completely void of Steve Rogers???? If you did, you don’t know me that well 😉

Chapter Two

Series Masterlist

Mondays usually were accompanied by drowsiness and wistful thoughts of a weekend passed.

Not for Bucky.

For Bucky, Monday meant he could return to a life where he blends in, where he gets to be the one who observes everyone else. Washing windows is not what he wants for the rest of his life, but for now it felt good to be doing something useful, to have tangible results in front of him everyday. Monday morning means having someplace to be, a set schedule for his day, someone counting on him, and quiet stretches of time alone and away from the worried eyes of his family members.

The pitying glances over breakfast were becoming a bit much for him. Bucky loved his family to death, wouldn’t trade them for the world. But for all their ability to give him space to figure his life out, they sure were clueless that he was keenly aware of the way they looked at him, the way they spoke to him. He doesn’t really blame them, he wouldn’t know how to handle himself either. Most days he pastes on a smile, tells them not to worry, he’d be back on his feet soon. Maybe if he said it enough times, he’d actually believe it too.

Unfortunately Monday also meant dealing with the rest of the boneheaded window washing crew. He was constantly reminding himself to go easy on them, they were just kids. But nothing made him more aware of his age and veteran status than being around them. Compared to their carefree countenances, he realized how much he’d been through, how much he’d seen, how much he’d survived. He should be grateful they were able to be total idiots instead of being shipped off to war. But most days he was tempted to share the number of his confirmed kills so they would leave him alone.

Bucky scales down the building, wind tousling his hair as he looks up to count how many floors he’s finished.

That makes this. . . six.

He peers through the window, pretending to be checking the glass. Scanning the office, he doesn’t see you - his disappointment surprising him.

In the week in which he’d been working on the east side of the building he’d seen you every single day. The way you carried yourself was what first caught his eye - you were confident, poised, not demanding attention but not morphing into a wallflower. You cared about your work, always looking intense and focused. And you saw him. Not in the way people usually saw him - as a figure in the window, someone to be ignored and walked past. In the smallest of ways you were kind to him. You waved every single day, always had time to spare him a smile. There was something about you that was calming. Granted, your interactions were minimal and nonverbal. But you didn’t make him nervous. Which was a rare occurrence these days.

Something in him just wasn’t working lately. Every girl he took dancing, he stepped on her toes. Try to share a meal, he couldn’t find anything to chat about. Dating was easier before he left. Or maybe everything had gotten harder since he’d returned home.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit it. Bucky knew he’d changed, he just hadn’t realized how much. Steve had echoed the sentiment a few nights ago.

Reluctantly, Bucky had allowed his idiot friend and Peggy to drag him to a bar after dinner - how the times had changed. It wasn’t one of their old haunts from before the war. Neither Bucky nor Steve could handle the cacophony of noise a club filled with energetic people brought. They bumped into several groups of those kinds of people, including a raucous group of slightly inebriated young women. Suddenly they felt old, weary, uneasy in a place where they used to belong. Or at least where Bucky used to belong, Steve always argued.

This place was quiet, refined even. Conversations were at a dull murmur while a band played casually. No one was here to drunkenly drown their sorrows or celebrate being alive wildly. Almost like everyone here knew the patrons just needed a rest.

“You realize you two don’t have to invite me on all your date nights, right?” Bucky huffed as the three settled at a table near the back.

Peggy smiled coyly.  “Don’t worry, James. You aren’t welcome for the entire night.” Steve choked on his drink, coughing violently while his ears burned pink. Bucky’s response had been something along the lines of “gross”.

After the usual chit-chat, Steve had waited for Peggy to excuse herself to refresh their drinks before broaching the subject.

“Doing okay, pal?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky responded, rolling the last sip of his whiskey in its glass.

“You sure?”

Bucky recognized that voice. Eyes flicking back to Steve’s guilty face, his suspicions were confirmed. “Alright, who’s been in your ear this time? Ma? Becca?”

“I’ve got my own eyes and ears.” Steve waited a beat before adding, “But your ma did mention-” Bucky groaned, not hearing the rest of the sentence. “Don’t be like that. They just care about you, Buck.”

“I know,” he snapped. Then he repeated quietly, “I know.”

“You’ve been dragging a lot. Gotta admit you haven’t been yourself.”

Bucky leaned back, leveling Steve with a hard look. “To tell you the truth, Steve? I don’t know who I am. Nothing that mattered to me before means anything anymore. Once I got to Europe. . . I stopped making plans. Didn’t seem to be much use in dreaming about things that I’d never come home to. But then you, being the punk you are, saved my ass countless times - even caught me falling off a damn train - and somehow I’m back in New York. I didn’t plan on having a 29th birthday or hugging my family again.” He idly scratched at an itchy patch of his beard. “Yet here we are.”

“We’re all lucky to be alive, Buck.”

“But for what?” Silence hung thick in the air at Bucky’s question.

“You know. . .” Steve started, then paused. “I do know where you’re coming from.”

“Don’t try to sell me that bullshit. You’re literally a god-damn hero. There are comic books written about you, movies carrying your name, and you have job security for the rest of your life. You had dinner at the White House on your birthday and bagged a kickass partner in crime. If that’s not purpose, what is?”

Steve had the nerve to look embarrassed. “It may be purposeful. . . but it’s not normal. You know better than anyone else that all I wanted was to do my part in the fight. To say I got more than I bargained for is an understatement.” Bucky could only respond with a snort. “But none of us thought I’d survive the scarlet fever, the arrhythmia, or the anaemia. I was lucky to make it as long as I did. The chances of me surviving the serum injection were laughably low.”

Memories of many days spent at Steve’s bedside float over the table, somehow sobering Bucky even more. “But each year was a surprise. My ma would’ve called it a blessing. I never knew what to do with myself, especially when the war started and I was the only man not being shipped off. . . I was desperate to feel normal. What I got was a hard swing in the other direction.” Steve’s eyes shifted to Peggy at the bar, a whisper of a smile on his lips. “I’m grateful for it, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes I wouldn’t hate it if I had ended up with a stable job, a calm life, and a happy home.

“So I get it. Purpose, normalcy. . . we’re all struggling to find what we lost the last few of years.” Steve clasped Bucky’s shoulder, “But Ma taught me that we always have to stand back up. I don’t care if I have to drag you to your feet, Buck, we’ll get you back up. Whatever we have to do to make it happen.” Bucky knew the stubborn fool in front of him wasn’t going to let him wallow much longer. The tables had turned harshly.

Peggy returned to her seat with three drinks in hand, instantly catching on to the shift in mood that had happened during her absence. Misty-eyed, Steve and Bucky cleared their throats and shifted in their seats.

“And while the pair of you are gallivanting around saving the world, I’m washing windows and living with my family, who don’t know what to do with me.” Bucky had meant it as a joke, but it came out much more bitter than intended.

“Still haven’t heard back from the VA?” Bucky just shook his head at Steve’s question, tossing his drink back in one gulp. “You know you’ll always have a job waiting for you at the SSR as long as me and Peggy are there.”

“Eh, that’s not the kind of normal I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Peggy asks softly, even gently, for her.

“Guess that’s the million dollar question, huh? A coupla years ago, all I cared about was having a good time and getting through school. Dancing with pretty dames. Maybe get hitched, have some kids.”

“And now?” Peggy prompts in a way that allowed no room for a vague answer.

“I wish I could tell ya, Peg. I really do.”

Peggy’s voice echoed in his mind again.

And now?

Bucky shakes that night from his mind, still not spying you anywhere in the office. Deciding you were either taking a late lunch or were sick, he gets on with his job. Halfway through cleaning the window he notices someone sit at your desk, which was strange. You’ve kept your workplace meticulously tidy since the first day he saw you - surely you wouldn’t appreciate this. Out of the corner of his eye he kept track of the stranger’s movements as he continues to work. Part of him wants to tell the lady to buzz off for you, another part of him can’t wait to watch you take down the person scrambling up your desk, the other part of him. . . . is definitely attracted to the Desk Invader.

He only catches glimpses of her during his task and her chair is angled away from him to tend to a filing cabinet adjacent to her desk, so he can’t see her face. But Bucky could tell she was graceful. Ruby red nails carded through the mounds of files, curled hair shined in its rolled-back fashion. Her dress was a bold blue - and fit in all the right places if he let his mind wander.

Right when he was getting desperate for a look at her, she swivels her chair back to the desk - revealing half of her face. Fine powder, bright red lipstick, nothing he hasn’t seen his sister don at the beginning of her day.

She’s made up like every other girl he’s seen pass through the office. Well, not every girl. You seemed to prefer a utilitarian approach to your appearance, which he didn’t ha--

And then the stranger turns fully towards the window, smiles, and waves at him.

It was you.

Is that actually her?

Bucky leans back in his rigging and takes you in fully. Yeah, looks like the utilitarian approach was out. In was a dame on-trend and truly pulling it off. Before you were beautiful, charming. Now? With the makeup only serving to highlight your features? You were stunning. Shaking his head, he can feel the heat in his cheeks with the realization that he’s been ogling you while you watch. Your smile falters, shoulders drop ever-so-slightly. Not very gentlemanly of you, Barnes.

Bucky touches his own face and hair, raising a brow. Making it obvious that he was looking you up and down, he quirks his head to the side in question.

You roll your eyes so far into your head, a chuckle escapes from him. After a surreptitious glance over your shoulder at the rest of the bullpen, you point towards the office he assumes belongs to your supervisor. He nods. Quickly, but clearly, you raise a certain finger in the direction of the office door.

A laugh emanates from deep in his chest, Bucky’s shoulders heaving. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed hard enough that his eyes are forced shut. When he opens them again, a similar smile is echoed on your face, definitely pleased with his reaction. You’re sassy. He likes that.

With a remnant of a easygoing-Bucky he’d almost forgotten about, he sticks out his lower lip appreciatively while nodding towards you. Accompanied by a wide grin, he knows you’ve gotten his point. You look good.

You duck your head, but he catches the smile you aim toward your lap. A little something stirs in his chest.

And now?

Then and there, he decides he’s going to allow himself to be impulsive.

Just this once.

Bucky knows for certain he has never completed his job so quickly -and probably never as sloppily. He checks his watch as he smooths down his hair. Just as planned, he’s finished earlier than usual - much to the confusion of the rest of the window washers. After stashing his supplies in the outdoor service closet designated for his team he rounds the building, the front entrance being his destination. The remainder of the team was still cleaning several floors up.

From above Bucky hears his boss shout, “Where you going, Barnes?”

“Don’t worry about it, Harrison,” he shouts back. “I finished. Got something to take care of.”

“You better be here early tomorrow!”

Tucking the tail of his shirt into his slacks, he favors the stairs for the elevator as he climbs to the sixth floor and is met with a giant bullpen of desks and offices.

That’s when it registers exactly how many women work in this office - funny how he hadn’t noticed before you walked in. He’s become accustomed to having little attention paid to him due to the nature of his job but now at least a dozen sets of cat-eye-lined eyes are set on his every movement.

Oh boy.

Trying to be as nondescript as possible he begins to head to your desk when the abrupt clearing of a throat stops him. Sitting at a huge desk immediately in front of the elevator is the most intimidating woman he’s ever seen. Tall and rail-thin, her features seem to be pulled tight with the fastidious bun resting at the nape of her neck. A gold sign affixed to the front of the desk reads: M. Flannery, Office Manager.

“May I help you. . . sir?” Scrutinizing him behind thick-framed glasses, she somehow dons an expression that makes her more severe.

“Umm. . . I’m just looking for someone. . . ma’am.”

“May I inquire who it is you have business with?”

He waves a hand, warding her away from the chock-full appointment book she was reaching for. “No, I don’t have an appointment or anythin’ like that.”

“Then what exactly is the reason you are here?”

“There’s a typist I was hoping to speak with.”

“What is her name?”

Shit.

“Umm, I- we’ve only exchanged pleasantries. I was hoping to catch her name today.”

Mrs. Flannery hums disapprovingly.

“I know where her desk is,” he points to the furthest corner of the office, “she had on a blue dress today. Can I pop over there and say hello?”

“I am afraid unauthorized persons are not allowed past the front desk.” An argument bubbles in him, but he swallows it down after her stern gaze tells him that it was a lost battle.

“. . . Could you ask her to meet me out here, then?”

“The woman you are looking for has already left for the day.”

“Oh.” All his nervous energy deflates and the letdown weighs heavy in his gut. He turns to leave when Mrs. Flannery speaks again.

“You may leave a note with me and I will deliver it to her when she arrives in the morning.”

“I would appreciate that, thank you, ma’am.” He looks down at his empty hands, then scratches the back of his neck. “Got a pad and pen I could use?” She sighs heavily, as if his request is the most inconvenient part of her day. Once she shoves the utensils in his direction, he stares at the paper. In the heat of his impulsivity he hoped he’d see you and know exactly what to say. Now the blank page mocks him. Mrs. Flannery’s pointer finger taps on the desk, urging him to hurry up.

Bucky glances up at the office manager again. “I’m guessing I can’t convince you to give me her name, huh?”

“I am not in the habit of giving out young women’s personal information to every dandy that walks in. I will make sure it gets to the girl in the blue dress.”

Becoming increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze, he scribbles the only thing he could think of and folds the paper twice. Holding out the note Bucky asks, “For her eyes only, ma’am?”

Mrs. Flannery’s eyes narrow as she takes the note from him. “I am offended at the implication that I would violate the privacy of a person’s correspondence.” With an upturned nose she swivels away from Bucky, promptly dismissing him.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

With a spring in his step he returns to the stairwell, whistling a happy tune; purposefully ignoring the room of women still watching his every move.

Chapter Four

Tags:

@abovethesmokestacks @barnesrogersvstheworld @ursulaismymiddlename @moderapoppins @lookwhatyoumademequeue @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @thinkwritexpress-official @fearless2tobeme @laneygthememequeen @past-perfect-future-tense @drhughgrection @wildsageleon @promarvelfangirl @connorshero @the-canary @anditwasjustus @p3nny4urth0ught5 @just-add-butter @katiemarks1942 @usernamemingmei @thorfanficwriter @blueskiesbleakeyes @silverwing2522 @satansmushroom @nerd-without-a-cause @firewolf-marvels @reginaphlanageadams @kiliakit @forsaken-letters @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @hiddles-rose @part-time-patronus @biavastarr @ellaenchanted91 @ihopeyousteponarosepetal @thisismysecrethappyplace @palaiasaurus64 @fanfic-diaries @fangirlfictionmain 

[kaesaaurelia]

should auld acquaintance be forgot

This is a rough draft of the first chapter of a fic I’m writing, which will be called Hustler’s Blood.  It is Aziraphale/Crowley, with numerous OCs and historical figures, and is set in 1926 in Chicago, although it starts on December 31, 1925.

I’ve posted the first scene here before, as well as a few other bits and pieces, but since it’s New Year’s Eve and the fic starts on New Year’s Eve, and also since it’s my birthday and I just wanna, I’m going to share the whole first chapter here.

(I’ve been serializing it on fail_fandomanon but I’m a little over 100k words into writing it and it’s just reached the middle of the plot so it’s a lot to catch up on at the moment.)

6,666 words.  (There were 6667 but it was too perfect, so I deleted one.)  Small content warning for brief mention of pet death and resurrection.

Aziraphale looked right, then left, then walked into the dark alley in front of him. It was the fifth place he'd tried that evening, and the twelfth since he'd arrived in Chicago. Heaven had sent him to thwart Crowley's terrible wiles and keep him from pulling this entire city into Hell with him, but if even half of what he'd seen had been Crowley's doing, Aziraphale was going to be very impressed, and also extremely annoyed at his violation of the Arrangement.  Then, maybe it was rowdier than usual right now; it was New Year's Eve, after all.  Maybe things calmed down.

He knocked on the nondescript door in front of him. A hatch in the door slid back, revealing a suspicious-looking pair of eyes. "Yeah?" said the young man behind the door.

"Ah! Hello, thank you, the password is..." Aziraphale reached into the man's mind and plucked it out. "...Mirage."

The hatch clicked shut, the door swung open, and Aziraphale walked in. "Thank you!" he told the doorman, and looked at the scene in front of him. People were laughing and drinking and smoking and generally having a lovely time, although there was much more close dancing than was probably strictly necessary, and of course it was all dreadfully illegal and Aziraphale therefore disapproved wholeheartedly. He looked around for Crowley, or, failing that, a menu. He could really use a nice drink.

Aziraphale handed his coat and hat off to the coat-check girl, then returned to the door.  "Young man, I don't suppose you've seen my... acquaintance anywhere in here, have you?  Dark glasses, red hair... doesn't seem to know how to walk?"  Whatever form Crowley had taken probably had those three attributes.  Unless he'd been discorporated in the war.  Oh dear.  What if Crowley had an entirely new form?  Not that it was any business of Aziraphale's, of course, but it would make him much more difficult to find.

"You lookin' for Mr. Crowley?" said the young man. "You sure?" Behind him, the fistfight had metastasized into a brawl between four or five barflies.

"That's the one, yes! Where is he?" asked Aziraphale.

"Look, mister, I'm here to keep the trouble to a minimum --" Aziraphale somewhat doubted this, as no one had moved to break up the fight -- indeed, the patrons were cheering on their favorites and making bets "-- and I'd love to help ya out, but Mr. Crowley is kinda, uhh... he ain't gonna be happy if he don't know you, and I hear he's a lot of trouble if you do."

"I've known him for quite a long time. Trust me, I am aware," said Aziraphale. He smiled patiently, and waited for the boy to get on with getting him Crowley.

Aziraphale sensed a familiar twinge in the fabric of reality as the brawl ended abruptly. The last man standing cheered, and he could see money changing hands between winners of bets. "Well, uh... lemme see what I can do, okay?" said the doorman. "No promises."

"Oh, I don't think you'll need to go get him," said Aziraphale, for he could see a familiar swaggering figure coming towards them, pocketing a fistful of green paper and peering through dark glasses at the doorman.

"My ears were burning, is there something -- Aziraphale!" he said, breaking into a grin that made odd things happen in Aziraphale's chest. "How the Heaven have you been? He's okay, he's an old, old friend," he said, waving the doorman away.  He turned back to Aziraphale, still grinning.  "Hey! Come on to the bar, I'll buy you a drink!  Didn't think you'd turn up here."

"No, I would imagine not," said Aziraphale, trying to maintain an air of polite disapproval. "What happened to the Arrangement?" he whispered.

"Relax, angel, I haven't been doing anything," said Crowley, guiding him towards the bar.

Aziraphale glared at him, but followed. "You have!  You ended that fight early just now."

Crowley shrugged. "Would've gone that way anyway, though, eventually. I just sped it up a bit. What are you here for, anyway?"

"I was sent by Heaven to thwart whatever nasty things you're doing here," said Aziraphale. "Gabriel was very cross with me when he'd found out I lost track of you. Why didn't you tell me you'd left London? How long have you been here?"

"Why would I tell you?" Crowley asked. He was no longer grinning. "I thought you were sick of all that... hmm, what did you call it? Fraternizing."

Aziraphale stared at him, open-mouthed. "What -- that's not -- I didn't mean -- what about our Arrangement?"

"Well, since you called it off --"

"I did not! And anyway, you were sulking and I tried to wake you up but --"

"So are you saying you'd like to pick up where we left off?" Aziraphale wished he wasn't wearing those dark glasses, because then he might be able to tell what was going on in Crowley's head. Aziraphale thought he sounded hopeful, but maybe that was just wishful thinking.

"I..." He's tempting me, Aziraphale thought. He's only tempting me, and I should do my job properly, and I should never even have let on that I was here.

Crowley watched him silently.

"I -- I do, yes," Aziraphale admitted. The grin on Crowley's face made him feel a lot better about being a failure of an angel, though.

"Well, that's all right, then! Come on, I'll get you that drink."

"Are the drinks here any good?" Aziraphale asked.

"Mmmh." He made a sort of ambivalent whole body wriggle. "The recipes are good, but the alcohol they're working with is terrible. Been trying to fix that, but there's only so much you can do. Free will and all that. They keep cutting my stuff with drain cleaner and gasoline."  He made a face.  "At least I can report it as a success downstairs.  I'll see that you get something you like, though."  He sat down at the bar.

Aziraphale sat next to him, and it was remarkable how much better he felt now.  Wandering a strange city full of hooligans was all well and fine, but meeting up for drinks with Crowley was safe.  Crowley called over the barman.  "Oi, Pete!  Get me another old fashioned, and a gin fizz for my friend here!"

They weren't even supposed to be friends.

He's just tempting me, Aziraphale reminded himself again.  The problem was, all too often, it worked.

---

Crowley had been telling himself he was having a grand old time for the past few years, and especially this evening. Drinking alone was just how he happened to enjoy spending the evening. On New Year's Eve. It was fine. He'd picked the most raucous hole-in-the-wall he knew, or at least the most raucous one where they all knew him as Anthony Crowley and not any of his other aliases, and he had at least been enjoying seeing everyone reveling in ways they weren't supposed to.

(He'd been spending most of his free time as Anthony Crowley.  He had three other aliases, all with slightly different faces and bodies, but sometimes the roles he'd chosen for himself got tiring, and he'd... well, wanted to be recognized.  By anyone who happened to know him under that name.  Not specifically Aziraphale, but should Aziraphale come and check in on him, Crowley felt he shouldn't make it too hard for the poor bastard to see just how well Crowley was doing without him.)

If he was honest with himself (and he tried not to be) seeing all these attractive people with their equally attractive companions for the evening made him a little bit lonely.  He'd watched two couples break up tonight and another get together, and near the back of the room there was a group of three who seemed to be aiming to be more than friends by the first dawn of 1926.  He'd considered finding somebody, just for the night, but nobody really appealed.

Then the door had opened, and a chill wind had carried a slight scent of vellum and sanctimony to him, and he knew without turning around that Aziraphale was here. So he'd thrown his voice, whispered some insults from one zozzled patron to another, and started a fight so he had an excuse to not turn and look at the newcomer, to be totally absorbed in this fight, to make a bet...

And then he really, really wanted to know what Aziraphale was doing here. And to see him. And to talk to him. And to watch him try a really good cocktail and show him all the best restaurants in town and take him to concerts and impress him with how very well-connected and influential Crowley was now that he'd been free of the Arrangement for sixty-four years.

So he'd ended the fight with a snap of his fingers, collected his winnings, tried very hard to look suave, and then failed as soon as he actually set eyes on Aziraphale.  And now he was buying drinks. Well, not buying, precisely, but he was putting forth the fiction that at some point he would be paying for said drinks, and Aziraphale politely pretended to believe that.

"Ooh, this is good!" Aziraphale said, after a sip or two of his gin fizz.

"How long have you been in town?" Crowley asked.

"A few days. I spent Christmas on a ship to New York." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. "It was a bit much. The food was good, though. You?"

"Oh, I've been here a few years. They wanted me to be sure the States didn't become a bastion of holiness overnight just because of this Prohibition nonsense."

"And?" Aziraphale asked.

"I traveled around, saw that humans still don't need much help humaning, and settled in here to take credit for whatever horrible thing they came up with next. Considered New York, stayed in LA for a few months, tried out New Orleans -- you really need to get down to New Orleans, angel, it's amazing, you'd love the food -- but this seemed to be the best place to hang around and watch everything go to Hell in a handbasket. Not so much going on that I can't keep track of most of it, but definitely plenty of havoc to be had. I did think I'd made an awful mistake in '23, because they elected a mayor who I think might actually... not be a crook --"

"Is that unusual here?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley snorted.  "Don't really pay that much attention usually, but everybody was so impressed with themselves for voting for somebody decent that I got worried."

"Ah, well."  He took a thoughtful sip of his drink.  "So what happened to him?"

Crowley laughed harder, and shook his head.  "That's the best part, angel!  The poor bastard's still mayor.  Everything he does to clean up the mess just makes everything worse!  I don't have to do a blessed thing.  I just write my reports and enjoy the show."

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale.  "You know, my lot think you've ruined this city personally."

"Nah," said Crowley, shaking his head.  "Barely touched it, really.  It was broken when I found it."  He shrugged.  "Fun, though.  So, what, did they send you here to clean my mess up?"

Aziraphale nodded.  He stared at his glass contemplatively.  Crowley watched him, wondering whether he saw it as half-empty or half-full.  Finally, he said, "I was worried about you, you know."

Of all the things Crowley had been prepared to hear Aziraphale say to him about their long absence from each other's company, this wasn't it.  "Worried?  What?  You were worried?  About me?"

"Well, you..."  Aziraphale trailed off.  "After our... misunderstanding, I stopped seeing you anywhere, so I --"  He was avoiding Crowley's eye now, looking over his shoulder at the other bar patrons.  "I checked in on you.  I -- I don't know if you remember..."  He looked down at his drink again.  Definitely half-empty, if Crowley was any judge of expressions.

"I don't," Crowley said softly.  He hadn't realized Aziraphale would care that much.  Or at all, really, given their last conversation.

An uneasy silence lay between them.  Finally, Aziraphale said, "And then when the war started up you were nowhere and I found a bunch of complete strangers living there!"

The expression on Aziraphale's face made him want to reassure, to apologize, to comfort.  To stop being everything he was.  "I thought you didn't want me hanging around anymore, that's all," he said.  "I thought you were done with our Arrangement.  And war is hell, so... I had a job to do."

"In the war," Aziraphale started, and then paused.  "Did you --"

"No, angel," he said, rolling his eyes.  "I didn't start the war, I didn't do much to make it worse, and frankly I don't know if I could have made it any worse than it was going to be already.  I did take credit for it because it got my head office off my back for a few years, and if you're going to judge me for that --"

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, looking wounded.  "I was only going to ask if you had to see much of the front."

"Oh."  Crowley took a long swallow of his old fashioned then, so as to avoid looking Aziraphale in the eye, not that Aziraphale could see his eyes.  (Thank Satan for small mercies.)  "Yeah.  I saw... enough."

"I'm sorry," said Aziraphale.

"Don't be.  Don't think I was ever really in danger, I just hung about asking questions, trying to get people to disobey orders, slack off...."

Aziraphale stared at him.  "That wasn't you, was it?  In 1914?"  Crowley frowned at him.  "Christmas?"

"That?  I thought that must be you!" said Crowley.  "Seemed exactly like something you'd come up with except for the football part, although I did wonder how you'd managed it.  Don't know how I'd even pull off something that big," he admitted.  "No, it wasn't me.  How could I possibly justify that to Downstairs?  It was so treacly too, and on Christmas.  Eugh."

"It most definitely was not," said Aziraphale.  "I got a very angry letter about it from Gabriel.  I'd sort of hoped it was you.  I thought... you know, you'd like people questioning authority and not doing their jobs, even if their jobs were murdering each other.  But I didn't tell Gabriel that, of course."

Crowley took another swallow of his drink, and said "Gabriel's a wanker."

"Crowley..."

"He is.  I loathe him and I think I've only ever met him properly once, but everything you tell me is always awful."  Crowley finished off his drink and waved the bartender over to get another one.  "He got angry at you for it?  What, did it show up in his miracle queue under your name by mistake?  Or however that works."

"He said it didn't show up at all and asked if I knew of any rogue angels operating on the Western Front.  I suppose I was the nearest agent they had.  I was... not really asked to leave London but I felt I should check in on the front every now and again.  You know, do some rounds at some hospitals.  Brush up on my French and German."  Aziraphale could have been discorporated, Crowley thought.  It was probably a good thing he hadn't known about it until now, although part of him mourned the loss of an opportunity to sweep in and be very impressive and good-looking and save Aziraphale's life.

He didn't want to think about all of that now, so he turned the conversation back to 1914.  "So... nobody did the truce, then?" Crowley asked.

"Humans did it," said Aziraphale.  "Must have.  Nobody else was involved.  Unless one of your lot had a very strange change of heart --"

"They didn't," said Crowley.

"-- or one of my lot thought, you know what, today I'm going to upset the Archangel Gabriel, it'll be fun!" concluded Aziraphale.

"Well.  Maybe.  I would.  I bet it would be fun," said Crowley.

"Yes, but you're a demon," Aziraphale insisted, in that infuriating tone of voice that suggested maybe Crowley had forgot.

Crowley ignored him.  "Why didn't they want it happening?  Really seems it ought to be right up your lot's alley."

Aziraphale shrugged.  "Wasn't part of the plan, I suppose.  Gabriel didn't really specify.  It is, after all --"

"Ineffable," Crowley finished for him, rolling his eyes.

Aziraphale made no reply.  He finished off his gin fizz instead.

"You can't plan for humans, that's the trouble," said Crowley.  "All you can do is plan for them to go haring off in some wild direction --"

"And whose fault is that?" Aziraphale asked, pointedly.

Crowley glared.  "I didn't make her eat the apple, you know.  Still don't see what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil.  For one thing, I'm not sure it took."

Aziraphale sighed.  "Much as I hate to admit it, you may have a point, my dear."

---

They soon got to reminiscing about times past, drinks past, temptations and miracles past, and somewhere after his sixth or seventh or... possibly tenth drink, Aziraphale stopped feeling guilty and let himself just feel warm and happy in this boozy, smoky barroom.  These newfangled sugary drinks really weren't as bad as he'd assumed they would be, and the people here seemed to be having such a good time.  It was a shame it was all illegal, and also apparently immoral.  Aziraphale was enjoying listening to Crowley tell a complicated story about an enterprising fellow he'd met in Cincinnati.

They both looked up from their conversation when a young lady shouted "Hey, it's almost midnight!" from one of the tables near the back of the room.

"Oh, are they going to be counting down to midnight?" Aziraphale asked.

"I s'pose so," said Crowley.  "In New York they have this... ball."

"Oh!  Like with masks?" Aziraphale asked.  He'd rather enjoyed those.  All the costumes were so much fun, and the food was usually quite good too.

"No, no, like... big round bastard," said Crowley, with an evocative gesture.  "Falls down at the stroke of midnight."

"Oh," said Aziraphale, frowning.  He tried to picture this, but it still didn't quite make sense.  Not that he was drunk.  As an ethereal being, he could put away a fair amount of alcohol, and all these silly sugary drinks couldn't possibly be very strong.

"You know, like a circle, but more," Crowley added.  His evocative gestures were getting more and more patronizing, and Aziraphale wasn't having it.

"Yes, I know what a sphere is, thank you very much," Aziraphale said.  "Why does it fall down?"

Crowley considered this.  Aziraphale was beginning to think Crowley might be a bit drunk, silly sugary drinks notwithstanding.  "Gravity?"

"So you don't know either," Aziraphale said.

Crowley chose not to answer this.  "I think they used to use them as... as a signal, for ships?  Only the New York one's just a signal for drunk people.  I think... I think they might have one at Greenwich," he said.  "For ships, not drunk people."

Aziraphale felt he was on firmer ground now that they were (conversationally) back in London.  "You know, they moved Greenwich."

"Did they?" Crowley asked.  "That must've been a lot of work.  Where's it now?"

Aziraphale tried to remember.  "Not in Greenwich.  I think it had something to do with trains.  To be perfectly honest I wasn't paying attention."

"I'll have to find out where they put it, then," said Crowley, making a face.

Aziraphale peered at him.  "Crowley, I didn't know you were interested in astrono--"

"I'm not," said Crowley.

Well then.  "So why are you --"

"To avoid it, obviously.  Last thing I want to do, find myself surrounded by a bunch of boffins who think they know everything about the stars."  Crowley somehow managed to visibly roll his eyes despite his dark glasses.

"I didn't know you were so against astronomy," said Aziraphale.

"I'm not against it," snapped Crowley.  "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well... that's fine, then," said Aziraphale.  He wished he hadn't brought it up.  Being back on good terms with Crowley had been so nice, for this evening, and he didn't want to lose that over... astronomy.  "So what happens at midnight?  The ball drops, and...?"

"I think they all kiss each other," said Crowley.  "You know, for luck."

"Oh!"  Aziraphale remembered a little village in Swabia with a tradition like that.  He thought it had been very touching.  Actually, it had been a bit more touching than Aziraphale was entirely happy with, in the press of humans enthusiastic to ensure their luck and their family's and neighbors' luck for the next year, so he'd gone invisible after the first few friendly little pecks on the cheek from people he'd never met, wishing him luck he didn't need.  He'd been biding his time, waiting on the right timing to perform a miracle.  "That's a nice tradition.  A bit lonely, though, if you don't know anybody."

Crowley shrugged.  "I'm a stranger everywhere.  I'm used to it."

Aziraphale realized then how much worse it must be for Crowley, who couldn't even feel the love and happiness of others as they shared their well-wishes en masse, of whom humans' first impressions tended to be untrustworthiness.  "No!  No, you aren't," he said.  "Not really."  He was having trouble putting this into words.  Maybe he had had a few too many drinks.

Crowley frowned at him.  "Sorry?"

Somewhere in the crowd beyond, Aziraphale heard someone shout "Ten!"

"You're not a stranger, Crowley.  Not everywhere," said Aziraphale.  It was, he felt, absolutely vital that Crowley understand this, especially right now.  Aziraphale didn't want to lose him again over astronomy or something stupid like that.

"Nine!"  There were more voices joining in.

"Ah.  Thanks?  How many of those have you had, Aziraphale?" Crowley asked, indicating Aziraphale's empty glass.

"Eight!  Seven!"

Aziraphale was having trouble concentrating on counting the drinks he'd had with everyone shouting numbers around him, so he dismissed this question.  He didn't see how it was relevant anyway.  "That has nothing to do with anything, Crowley," he said, over the entire rest of the room counting down.  "You're not a stranger to me, my dear."

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, sounding worried.

"Four!  Three!"

"You aren't, and you never will be, and I'm sorry we haven't spoken in so long, and --"

"Two!  One!"

Aziraphale decided, at this juncture, that since it was midnight, and since they were among humans who would presumably be expecting it anyway, he might just as well express himself more traditionally, as it were, so he leaned over and kissed Crowley.

His lips tasted like cognac and lemon, and he smelled good -- well, evil, technically, but in a way Aziraphale had always quite liked -- and it was all actually very nice until Crowley pushed him away, and said "Right, then, you'd better sober up."

"I'm sober!  I'm fine!  Can't be much in those drinks anyway, mostly sugar and --"

"Sugar and industrial alcohol, yes," said Crowley.  He stood, a bit wobbly himself.  "I'm sorry, I should have been paying attention --"

"I'm fine, Crowley, I'm not some lightweight," said Aziraphale, and he tried to stand too, but the room was surprisingly spinny and he ended up leaning against Crowley for support.

"Oof.  You definitely aren't," said Crowley, putting an arm around him.  "Come on, you can sober up or I can get you home, but I think you've had enough for now."

"I'm fine," Aziraphale insisted once more.  But, in order to humor Crowley, he tried to extricate the alcohol from his system.  Only it wasn't... normal alcohol, and he was having a bit of trouble, drunk as he was.  "Oh.  Oh dear."  He stumbled forward.  "Oh, you were right.  This is -- this is very strong stuff, Crowley."

Around them, people were singing Auld Lang Syne very badly.  They'd got through old acquaintance being forgot and never brought to mind, and now they were faltering.  Aziraphale considered helping them out, but all he remembered was something about cups of kindness, which he had probably had enough of tonight anyway.

"Come on," said Crowley, gently.  "I'll get you a cab.  Where are you staying?"  He managed to help Aziraphale through the smoky room, and with a snap of his fingers they both had their hats and coats back.

"Not staying anywhere in particular," said Aziraphale.  "I didn't think I'd need to.  Not as if I sleep."

"Ah," said Crowley, frowning.  He went strangely quiet as he held the door for Aziraphale.

The cold wind rushed into the room, crashing over Aziraphale like a wave.  It did clear his mind a bit, at least, as he stumbled into the alleyway.  He paused, waiting for Crowley.

"Well," said Crowley, following him out, "you could... you could stay at my place.  I've got plenty of room."

"Oh, I don't want to put you to any trouble," said Aziraphale, although if the headache he was getting now just from the minuscule amount of alcohol he'd managed to get out of his bloodstream was any indication, he would appreciate somewhere quiet and warm and safe very soon.

"It's no trouble at all," said Crowley, and he sounded like he meant it.

"Oh... fine," said Aziraphale, feeling he had put up enough token resistance to the idea to concede.  He leaned up against Crowley for support again.  "You are... such a good friend."

"I know," said Crowley, sounding miserable.  "Don't rub it in."

"Without you things were very quiet," Aziraphale said.  "Nobody to talk to.  I joined a club and that was all right for a while.  You might've liked it.  Or maybe you would have hated it, I don't know, but it would have been nice to find out."

Crowley sighed.  "I missed you too, angel."

---

The cab ride home was too long for Crowley's taste, but the last time he'd miracled a cab to go faster, the cabbie had panicked and they'd almost crashed, so Crowley put up with it.  He'd never bothered to learn himself; he hadn't enjoyed driving carriages with horses, because... horses, and he assumed cars would be much the same, only even stupider and harder to control.

Aziraphale was drunk.  Aziraphale was drunk and having trouble sobering up -- that was how drunk he was.  Aziraphale had been in the city for two days; had in fact only been in the States for maybe four days.  Had not known what the drinks on order were.  Crowley should've been clearer in his warning about the quality of American alcohol; should have mentioned that the reason they put so much fucking sugar in it these days was because it tasted extremely bad, was possibly laced with poison by the distributor, and occasionally made people go blind.

The actual government had been poisoning it lately too.  Crowley had written an entire report about it; governments murdering their own citizens for their own good always won him praise downstairs.  Well, not praise so much as grudging acknowledgment that that was actually pretty evil.

Anyway, Aziraphale would probably be fine in the morning.  At least, he would be fine physically.

Maybe he wouldn't remember kissing Crowley?

No.  No, Crowley always remembered everything he'd said and done while drunk, unfortunately.  It was probably one of the dubious perks of being a celestial being.  So Aziraphale would remember everything he'd said and did and he'd be horrified at himself.  And he'd be absolutely insufferable towards Crowley.

It hadn't even been a very good kiss, although Crowley felt that was probably because he'd been too surprised to respond in kind.  He looked across the back seat of the cab, to where Aziraphale was watching buildings go past, and decided he didn't dare ask for a do-over.

Hooray, 1926.

Ah, well.  He'd been hoping to invite Aziraphale back to his new digs for a nightcap anyway, so he could rub Aziraphale's face in just how completely, utterly, totally, undeniably, fantastically well Crowley was doing without him, but all those over-earnest pronouncements about what a good friend Crowley was had made him feel rather undemonically guilty about that plan.  He'd expected the Aziraphale who insisted they weren't friends and he'd got beatific smiles and endearments instead.  It had thrown him off.

There was also the matter of sleeping arrangements.  It was quite a large house, but there was only one resident, so Crowley had only bothered to put one bed in it.  Were Aziraphale sober, there was no question what Crowley would have done, given this predicament -- he would have apologized profusely, then suggested they share it, because obviously Crowley didn't have any other furniture at all upon which he could sleep; none of the couches would do, or the arm chairs, or even the pool table, oh no.  Because after all, if he was sober, Aziraphale would probably just opt to sit up and read all night rather than discomfort Crowley in any way.  It was fair if Aziraphale was sober.

(Read what?  Crowley's small and haphazard pile of paperback novels and pulp magazines?  Crowley decided that his first order of business once they pulled up to the house would be to miracle himself a library before Aziraphale could discover the lack of same.  And after that, he would just have to miracle a second bed.)

So Crowley sat in the back of the cab, watching the dark water of the lake lap up against the snowy beach outside, wishing things had gone differently.  He couldn't even put his finger on which things.  Should he have kissed back?  Should he have told Aziraphale he'd better go easy on the cocktails?  Should he have sought him out before sixty-four years had passed?

Maybe he just shouldn't have Fallen.  That would've solved pretty much all of Crowley's current problems neatly, and doubtless replaced them with an entirely different set of insoluble problems, mostly to do with Heaven being full of bastards with all the self-awareness of a chunk of pumice.  Also, he would never have met Aziraphale, so it was a rotten solution anyway.

"What a beautiful night.  From inside of a taxi, at any rate," said Aziraphale, watching the lights of the houses go past.  There were only mansions along this stretch of the road along the lakefront, and every light was blazing.

"From inside a taxi, lots of things are beautiful," said Crowley.  "You don't have to look too closely from inside a taxi."

They drove in silence for a few more minutes.  Crowley tried to watch the scenery passing by on Aziraphale's side, and not look at Aziraphale himself.  Now the mansions had been replaced with greystones and courtyard buildings.  Here and there tipsy people wandered out of buildings, or stared out at the dark, flat lake from chilly balconies.

"Crowley, I haven't ruined your evening, have I?" Aziraphale said, quietly.

The question took him by surprise.  "No!  Why would you say that?"

"Well, I mean, if you had plans..."

You showed up and you made my evening, angel, thought Crowley.  I can ruin my own evenings without you.  Aloud, he said, "I didn't, especially.  Er.  Speaking of plans, have you got any meetings with Head Office scheduled yet, or can we do brunch tomorrow?"

"Oh, heavens no, they're not expecting me to check in for a good long time.  To be -- to be perfectly candid I don't think they expected me to get here so quickly, my dear.  Should have some time to myself.  Brunch would be lovely."

Crowley grinned to himself, then remembered then that he barely knew any restaurants that were open in the daytime, because he only ever really had meals once every two weeks or so.  And surely none of the diners he frequented counted as good, although their rat populations had all taken a drastic hit as soon as Crowley had started coming around when he was peckish.  He'd have to call around to some of the people who showed up at his parties.

He wondered what Aziraphale would think of his parties.  Probably not much.  Not enough food.

He could fix that.

When they got to the house, Aziraphale stumbled out and handed the cabbie a fistful of cash before Crowley could stop him, and they made their way to the front door.  "Quite a house," said Aziraphale, looking up at it.  Crowley could not tell if he was being sarcastic or not.  "Lots of columns," Aziraphale added.  "And stairs."  Crowley realized Aziraphale had fallen behind, and went back to help him up the stairs.  "Thank you," said Aziraphale.  "What do you need so much house for?"

"What does anybody need it for?" Crowley asked, because if Aziraphale was going to be drunkenly judgmental about his house he'd also better sniff superciliously at everyone else in the neighborhood.

"Just asking.  I'm certain it's lovely," Aziraphale said.  He stared up at the house for a moment, and nearly lost his balance.

Crowley caught him and steadied him, then unlocked the door and held it.  "Come on, Aziraphale."

"Oh my," said Aziraphale, leaning against the doorframe and looking up at the vaulted ceiling of the entry.  "Looks almost like a chur--"

"If you must know," said Crowley, guiding him forcefully into the house with an arm around his shoulder, "I need it for parties."

"Parties?" Aziraphale asked.  They continued into the living room.  Crowley quietly added some built-in bookshelves and filled them with books while Aziraphale was looking at the grand piano.  Were those enough?  Aziraphale didn't even look at them as Crowley led him through a corridor and once more offered him help up the stairs.

"Sort of obligatory, parties," said Crowley.  He was trying not to enjoy how Aziraphale was leaning on him.  He could probably offer more support with his arm around Aziraphale's waist, but that seemed... dangerous.  "If you're going to show up out of nowhere being extremely wealthy and mysterious and clever --"

"Who's doing all that, then?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley pointedly ignored him "-- you've got to throw parties."  They paused at the landing.  "I'm practically carrying you up these stairs, you know, you should be nicer to me."

"I'm always nice, Crowley, I'm an angel.  Who do you invite?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley made a noncommittal noise.  "I don't really invite people, I just sort of decide, eh, it's been long enough between, let's have a party, and people think I invited them last week and show up, and sometimes they bring a friend or two.  Nobody I already hate, though.  Then I keep them around 'til the neighbors are angry enough to come over, or I'm sick of them, whichever comes first."

Aziraphale tsk'd.  "Poor neighbors."

Crowley left him to hang onto the banister for balance while he went to inspect one particular section of the wood paneling.  There was a forest motif here.  Or rather, a garden motif.  "Oh, don't pity them, angel, they deserve to be upset.  I returned their lost cat once and they've hated me ever since.  Couldn't stand the thought of it rubbing... cat elbows...? with new money.  Somebody'd hit it with a car, too, it was an awful job getting the poor thing back in working order."  Crowley found the tree he was looking for, pressed the third apple up, and the panel swung open.  "Be careful here, there's a step up," he said to Aziraphale.

He'd sort of hoped Aziraphale would say something about the secret door, like maybe, "Oh wow, a secret door," or "What an impressive secret door you have," or perhaps even "Take me now, you beautiful secret door owner!" but Aziraphale seemed unmoved, and merely took his offered hand and stepped through the secret door as if it was a blatant and conspicuous door.  "Well, that is a pity," he said.  "Still, you did them a great kindness."

"Oh, don't, angel, don't act like I did them a favor.  I reanimated their cat.  It's probably haunted or something," said Crowley.  "Perversion of nature, sort of thing."  The cat seemed pretty normal, from what Crowley had seen of it, but sometimes it left eviscerated birds on his doorstep, and tried to trip him when he went out to get the mail.  So probably it'd been a bad deed.  (Crowley did not know much about cats.)

"I don't think that's how it works, my dear," said Aziraphale.  He stumbled a bit, and when Crowley caught him, he beamed apologetically.  "I'm so sorry, you're being terribly hospitable and I'm..."  His face was so close Crowley could feel his breath.

He swallowed, and looked away.  "No problem at all."

They were slowing down now, because Crowley, specifically, was slowing down, because this whole "Oh, by the way, I only have one bed in this whole mansion, whatever shall we do?" conversation felt much less fun to have now that it was imminent.  They'd shared beds before, in other times and places when that was perfectly normal for two man-shaped beings who were merely friendly acquaintances, and it had been... well.  It hadn't been much, but it'd been nice.  This wasn't that, though; this was Aziraphale sloppy-drunk and overaffectionate, who would already wake up the next day and realize he'd done too much.

Crowley finally lost his nerve, and decided he'd have to just make a new bedroom.  There were plenty of other rooms here; it was only that they were unfurnished and completely packed with smuggled liquor.  The Canadian whiskey would be easiest to replace, so he sent a hundred and sixty-one crates of Old Log Cabin into the lake.  Then he realized he didn't know what sort of decor Aziraphale would like, except that probably it would be hideous and incorporate tartan, and he froze up.

"Is everything... all right, Crowley?" Aziraphale asked.

"Fine, just -- fine," said Crowley.  "Which... which bedroom would you like?" he asked.

"What are my options?" said Aziraphale.  "Can I see them?"

"No!" said Crowley.  "I mean.  Not all of them.  It'd take a while.  Just, you know.  Describe... a bedroom."

"It doesn't really matter, Crowley, I just need somewhere to rest while this awful stuff makes its way out of my blood stream," said Aziraphale.  He was frowning at Crowley, which Crowley didn't like, and then suddenly he was smirking at Crowley, which Crowley liked even less.  "Have you got any tartan?"

Crowley knew he had been caught now, but there was nothing for it.  "I might do," he said, faintly.  "What, er, sort of tartan?"

"Oh, there's a lovely pattern I just don't see enough of these days," said Aziraphale, and he went on a long drunken ramble about the particular history of some ill-fated Scottish clan, and by the end of it Crowley still didn't know what bloody colors the tartan was, but he sort of wanted shortbread now.  He managed to get a color scheme out of Aziraphale (red and green, with occasional rogue blues and yellows, because fuck consistency) and tried to make the bedroom cozy, and by the end of it he was slightly regretting dumping all that whiskey into the lake, given that he could use some of it now, and that Aziraphale probably floated better.

Instead, he opened the door to the former whiskey storage room, and waved Aziraphale in.  "Oh, it's lovely!" said Aziraphale, seeing the awful, hideous room Crowley had made for him.  He beamed at Crowley.  "Thank you for everything," he said, eyes wide and earnest, and he took Crowley's hand, and squeezed it.  He looked at Crowley, expectantly, still holding Crowley's hand.

Crowley panicked slightly.  "Yes -- well -- it's nothing.  Goodnight!"  He took his hand back and retreated quickly to his own bedroom.  Upon arriving there, he took his glasses off and placed them carefully on the nightstand, sent his hat and coat down to the hall closet with a dismissive wave of his hand, and then fell back onto the bed, clawing his hands down his face.

[twistedrunes]

Rauðr - Bjorn Ironside

Hi friends, as I posted earlier I’m taking headcanon and short fic (1000 word max) requests all weekend to try and get out of my writing slump (see here for the ‘rules’). Here’s the second one.

Prompt:  Vikings, y/n pretending to be weak when a Khal wants to kill her for an offence but then shocks everyone by being a highly skilled fighter surprising everyone (any Vikings would be witness you choose) maybe they help her as well?

A/N: Thank you for the prompt. I hope you enjoy this I would love to hear what you think. 

Word Count: 1900 (yes I know I broke my own rules)

Warnings: Implied violence, threats, actual violence, blood. 

Bjorn lay on the floor of the cabin, fever burning his body. Dreams and fragments of memories haunting him.

He’s chasing Erica, red hair trailing behind her as she looks back over her shoulder, laughing. She had beaten him in a sword fight as she always did. But this year he’d grown and so had manage to flip her on her back. She’d kissed him quickly, catching him off-guard just long enough to scramble out from under him.

She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Each year when her mother came to his, Erica came too. Every year he looks forward to the summer more. He closes the distance between them and his fingers graze her dress, she laughs as she ducks under his arm and changes direction. His fingers close around air and he trips, falling heavily in the soft spring grass. He can hear his father and uncle laughing down by the shore of the lake. But he doesn’t care. Erica jogs back and squats down beside him and holds out her hand. “You planning on lying there all day?” 

The gob of spit sits on the Earl’s eyebrow, dripping onto his eyelid as he backhands you. The top table had fallen silent when you spit in the Earl’s face after his fingers had worked into your rich auburn hair, bringing a strand to his face to sniff it. The entire hall, your hall, silent at the sound of his skin striking yours. He uses his sleeve to wipe his face as you regain your senses. You straighten quickly holding his eye with ferocious defiance.

The Earl looks around the hall, filled with his own men. Your men, your father's men piled up outside in pyres burning. The stench of their burning flesh filling your nostrils and turning your stomach. He laughs, it’s hollow and empty an approximation of a laugh. Everything about him was a poor imitation, his power, his wealth all stolen from others. “It seems the girl has spirit yet!” He cries lifting his goblet towards the ceiling. A raucous cheer and the banging of tankards on the table rises in reply. The Earl holds up his hand to quiet the crowd. He stands and takes a handful of your hair in his hand, yanking on it to move you towards the door. “Where was that spirit, girl, when we raided? Why did you not take up arms like your parents?” He mocks as he crosses the room, tugging you along with him. He pauses for a moment, allowing the jeers from his men to assault you, before calling out. “Fritjof!”

A young man steps forward from the crowd, he’s young, barely a beard to speak of and his armband still shiny and new. “Father?”

“Come here, boy.” The Earl motions to his son with his free hand. The boy comes meekly to his father. “In honour of your first battle, you shall have the choicest of the spoils.” The noise from the assembled Vikings is deafening as the Earl drags you from the hall.

As you stumble through the dark towards your home, the one the Earl had claimed as his own as soon as the battle was over, he hurls insults at you, your family, and your father. But it’s the memory of your own mother’s last words which fills your ears. “Do not fight them, they are too many. Bide your time, let them think you weak and powerless. They will underestimate you. Then, when you see your opportunity, run. Run to Kattegat and Bjorn.” You chastise yourself for your earlier outburst, for not heading your mother's words, unused to playing at being subservient to any man, least of all a man so unfit to lead.

As soon as you enter your home you collapse on the floor, curling yourself into a ball and wailing, making yourself seem as weak and pathetic as possible. The Earl looks down on you coldly “Stop your noise girl, you have the honour of my son in your bed tonight.” He turns to his son, “Have her. If you like her we will take her back as a slave. If not she can stay here and rot.” With that he leaves, the door slamming shut behind him. The young man stands rooted to the spot, silent. You can hear the Earl instructing men on the other side of the door telling them to stand guard. The young man remains silent and still in the middle of the floor.

Bide your time. You sit up, wiping your hands over your face to brush away your tears before taking a clean linen drying by the fire to wipe your face clean. You look up at the Fritjof, eyes as wide as possible, “May I get you some mead?” He doesn’t reply. You get to your feet slowly and walk to the larder. “It’s much better than the mead in the hall, it’s my father’s personal stock.” You explain taking a mug from the shelf and pouring some in. You hold it out to him.  He steps forward and takes it, you notice the slight tremor in his hand.

They will underestimate you. He turns his back on you as he takes a sip. You set the jug back on the shelf and scurry around him, your hands tugging lightly at his sleeves. “How rude of me, please take a seat. Here, by the fire, a seat for honoured guests.” You chatter softly.

“It’s good,” Fritjof says holding up the mug of mead.

When you see your opportunity. You smile sweetly and nod taking the mug from him “Here let me refill it for you.” You refill the mug, with your back to Fritjof, adding a few drops of the sleeping draught your mother made for your father when the pains of his past glories gnawed at him and kept him from sleep. You smile sweetly as you turn back to Fritjof, “It’s my mother’s special recipe handed down from her mother.” You explain pushing the mug into his hand.

Run.

In the early morning light, the valley glows with an ethereal blue, the snow silencing the dawn activities of the creatures of the forest. Bjorn rolls his shoulder against the stiffness brought on by the cold. He winces as the cauterised flesh tugs. He watches a deer on the edge of the forest below, sniffing the air for predators. For a moment he considers stalking it, before changing his mind. He had done what he came here to do, he had survived; he had slain a bear and defeated the Berserker’s sent to kill him. He was a man. His own man, not merely a son of Ragnar. He was Bjorn Ironside and it was time to go home.

Standing he looks at the deer again, watching as it is startled and bolts across the snow-covered lake. His attention shifts focus as he hears the roar of a man. His eyes scan the tree line looking for the source of the noise. A flash of fiery red passes between the trees. He takes a few steps forwards, sure he’s seeing things. Another longer, anguished roar rolls up the mountainside to his position and again he glimpses the flash of red between the trees. Bjorn’s heart begins pounding, he begins his descent down the mountain towards the noise. Axe drawn in one hand, knife in the other.

Acting on instinct you spin and duck, facing your assailant, barely taking in his features you plunge your knife into his side. His mouth drops open and eyes widen as he realises what’s happened, his eyes travel from your hand to his own, still clutching the handful of your hair. Taking advantage of his surprise you yank the blade free and drive it in, higher this time, between his ribs and into his lung. The wound making a sucking sound as you remove the blade preparing to strike again. In desperation, the man swings his fist, but he’s dying in front of you and so his blow is delivered with much less power than he would have liked. A minute ago the same blow would have killed you. Now, it simply stunned you, ears ringing and vision clouding, desperately you plunge your knife into his neck. Hot blood spurts over your hand as you fall against each other sinking to the ground. He collapses against you, his weight forcing you backwards, his hand clutching at his throat. Trapped between the earth and the dead weight of the man you lay stunned. Unable to do anything but listen to him gurgle, watch the light fade from his eyes, and feel the heat of his piss and blood soak your tunic.

Relieved to have put down the last of the men the Earl had sent after you, you lay for a moment focusing on your breath. The sound of something, someone, crashing through the undergrowth sharpens your senses instantly.  You yank the knife from your enemy’s neck, turning your face just in time to avoid the gush of blood that follows. You push against the lifeless form above you, but your limbs are like logs, stiff and unyielding. Deciding to play dead you close your eyes and hope you have the advantage of surprise.  

The sound of pounding feet halts next to your head replaced heavy breathing. You adjust the knife in your hand ready to attack. You concentrate hard, trying to locate the man’s foot. Thrusting out with your hand you plunge the knife down hoping to incapacitate the man by stabbing him in the foot.

“Fuck!” a voice cries. The sound of scrabbling and the lack of resistance against your blade tell you you’ve missed. You tense in preparation for the coming attack.

“Erica?” the voice asks above you, before a grunt and you feel the weight of the dead man slide off you.

Opening your eyes cautiously, you look up. Bjorn Ironside stands above you. He’s changed in the years since you’d last seen him, taller and broader. “Bjorn?”

“Are you injured?” He asks squatting down in front of you, brushing the hair back from your forehead.

“No, not really.” You reply, overwhelmed to see the familiar face of the warrior in front of you.

“Are there more? What’s going on?” He asks, scanning the area. He extends his hand out towards you.

Waving it away you groan as you sit up, slumping forward with your elbows on your knees, knife dangling from your fingers, the tip resting between your feet. “No, that was the last of them. What are you doing here?”

“I came to help.” Bjorn grins, “But, not much has changed I see.” He chuckles, unable to hide how pleased he is to see you.

“Earl Karlsson attacked the village, I escaped.” You say quietly. “Mother and father were killed. I was on my way to Kattegat to get help.”

Bjorn kneels in front of you, taking you in his arms and holding you close, his fingers running through your hair. “I’m so sorry, we’ll go together.” He says sitting back on his heels.

You nod and stand holding out your hand towards him. “Well then come on, or are you planning on staying there all day?”

[wsmith215]

Froch-Groves 2 began a golden era in British boxing and broke boundaries in broadcasting, writes Sky Sports Boxing’s Adam Smith | Boxing News

Carl Froch and George Groves reignited their rivalry six years ago at Wembley

Carl Froch’s epic rematch with George Groves began a golden era for British boxing, broke new boundaries in broadcasting, and emphatically ended a rivalry, writes Sky Sports Boxing’s Adam Smith.

May 31, 2014 – that raucous 80,000 at Wembley.

Did you know Carl Froch boxed in front of 80,000 – yes 80,000. Was that 80,000, Carl? Surely not 80,000. Do you think Floyd Mayweather remembers you telling him too?

Didn’t Carl also flatten and brutally knock out George Groves with a thunderous right hand in the eighth round? In front of 80,000 people.

I think we might have got that telegram Carl…

Yet there was of course so much more surrounding one of the biggest boxing, even sporting, events in modern British history.

You see prior to the great happening it was something almost everyone felt was mission impossible in 2014. Taking boxing to Wembley Stadium.

Yes Britain’s ‘Basking’ Jack Bloomfield boxed America’s Tommy Gibbons on August 9, 1924 – the first-ever fight at the old Wembley (Empire) Stadium – built in the wake of World War 1 – in front of 50,000 spectators. It was an experiment which was deemed a failure because the sparsely-filled ringside standing areas and distant seating made for an awful atmosphere. The promoter, one Major Arnold Wilson, even filed for bankruptcy after the fight.

There were two clashes at Wembley between Jack Petersen and Walter Neusel in February and then June 1935. Sixty thousand were at the rematch.

1963 saw British Champion Henry Cooper tackle the 18-0 brash American Cassius Clay. The infamous Henry’s ‘Hammer’ sensationally knocked Clay down at two minutes and 55 seconds of the fourth round. Yet it was soon all over for Cooper…

In the early Sky Sports days, we were at the old Wembley stadium for what became one of the most emotional British, patriotic events. You might remember those amazing scenes when Nigel Benn and Naseem Hamed led the celebrations after the nation’s favourite Frank Bruno had survived that torrid last-round attack from America’s ‘Atomic Bull’ Oliver McCall to finally lift the world heavyweight title at the fourth attempt. A crowd of around 30,000 braved the cold but momentous evening in September 1995.

The national stadium was of course redeveloped and the new Wembley was opened in 2007. During those years, boxing had the odd big night, but more and more of the action was beginning to take place in small sports and leisure centres. A huge change came around the London Olympics of 2012. We had the emergence of both Anthony Joshua and promoter Eddie Hearn; Sky Sports MD Barney Francis’s new strategy of bigger arena shows (with Carl Froch back on Sky) and a real buzz beginning again in the UK.

Still, Wembley was a complete pipe dream for a pugilistic return.

Then something strange happened. A new match was made and it sparked extraordinary interest and intrigue. This was such an engaging boxing tale, a narrative of two contrasting fighters and characters which just grew and grew. Polar opposites who at the beginning were frosty and within weeks were sworn enemies. The Froch and Groves storybook had opened.

November 23, 2013 was the date at the Phones4U (Manchester) Arena when Nottingham’s Carl ‘The Cobra’ Froch (31-2,22KO’s) defended his WBA and IBF super-middleweight titles against ‘Saint’ George Groves (19-0, 15KO’s) from Hammersmith, London.

There was icy tension at their first press conference in Manchester, and we felt that we should follow up with a cosy appearance on Halloween night on ‘Ringside’ where we could really fan the flames.

What happened provided incredible momentum towards a fight where Carl was a heavy favourite and many merely saw it as an easy mission.

George had other ideas, as he began these odd mental games to ruffle Froch’s feathers. The tension on our set was something Johnny Nelson and I just hadn’t seen or felt previously. Froch would not even look at Groves, staring at us while wind-up tactics, words, and icy moments of spooky silence filled the studio. George kept asking a stunned Carl if he was going to cry. Again and again. It was just brilliant, and when the cameras went off, a real deep hatred had begun.

Social media was taking off at the time and the clips just ran and ran. Everyone began talking about the bad blood between the pair, and there was a real anticipation when Froch and Groves locked horns for their first encounter. Most expected Froch to stop Groves – and early – but of course, amid a cacophony of noise, it was Groves who caused a sensational shock by decking Froch heavily in the very first round.

Things just became increasingly torrid for the double champion and a major upset looked on the cards. Yet Froch has always had an iron chin and will, and even on a really poor night, he rallied, driving Groves back in the ninth round and finding enough shots to prompt Howard Foster to halt the action.

It was of course seen as highly controversial, too early, Groves naturally bitterly complained; fans who were loving the intensity of the fight were left disgruntled. Then another twist – it really is just not very often in boxing when a fighter (Groves) gets booed into an arena and then cheered out – plus he lost!

There was a huge outcry in the hours and days which followed and poor Howard Foster – one of our finest officials – received horrendous, uncalled for abuse – and as it turned out helped make both fighters a massive amount of money from the second dance.

The rematch was a certainty. It just simply had to happen again. After a tense time with the governing bodies, purse splits and usual boxing politics to agree terms, we had a second fight – but which venue would be the chosen setting? It was suggested we went outdoors, but these two weren’t heavyweights and there is a big risk factor with any open air shows in the UK – in terms of ticket sales, operational issues and of course, the good old British weather.

We had a long look around Arsenal’s impressive Emirates Stadium – where we would have had early access during the week and far more television preparation time, but there suddenly became a call for Wembley. There were plenty of naysayers who thought that there was no way the national stadium would be filled and that it would be way too heavy a task to successfully mount the vast operation with the strict timing and curfews in place.

You see England had a final World Cup warm-up against Peru late into the Friday evening – so everyone would have had just 18 or 19 hours to turn our natural and national footballing stadium into a totally different boxing venue.

A canopy was essential because of the risk of rain in May. This was a major assignment and needed several dress rehearsals. I remember so many meetings to discuss that canopy build, never mind the screens, the lighting, the seating and everything else.

Wembley was transformed into a stunning setting for boxing

I just felt it was big enough – and we went for it. We sold Wembley out within 48 hours and the rest is history!

Eddie Hearn

Promoter Eddie Hearn was prepared to take his biggest punt yet in the boxing world.

“I remember calling my Dad from the player’s tunnel and said we’ve got to do it at Wembley – and he said be careful – these rematches aren’t always as big as you think!

“Eubank-Watson 1 was controversial at Earls’ Court and he decided to put the rematch on at Spurs and it just didn’t sell well. He said you’d be mad to go to Wembley with 80,000 and only sell 30 or 40 thousand which would still be good, but you’d look like an idiot.

“I just felt it was big enough – and we went for it. We sold Wembley out within 48 hours and the rest is history!”

Sky Sports former Managing Director Barney Francis picks the story up.

“It was Barry who first rang me with the idea of Wembley. I remember saying he was mad, he’d never fill it and that the trade-off would be a negative impact on PPV buys. I remember saying that I understand the need for a big atmosphere, and that if I only cared about PPV buys then I’d insist on it being ‘staged in a telephone box’.”

“But then I started to get excited and by the end of the call, we agreed this could be a huge shot in the arm for British boxing and would take it to another level.”

Carl Froch believes: “The key was the crossover outside boxing. Once in a decade you get a Eubank-Benn, or if there had been Hatton-Witter or Khan-Brook. AJ-Fury of course would be.

“Eddie said we could take over a stadium, I thought no chance, but suddenly the press exploded and everyone was talking about it, the next-door neighbours, down at the Post Office. It was all because of the first fight, and the huge controversy. I was getting beat up for six rounds, Howard Foster stopped it and everyone went crazy!

Froch and Groves were reunited for another world title fight

“When Wembley was confirmed I was really nervous and also really excited. A mixed bag of emotions. I thought I have to win as it’s massive. I have just got to.”

George Groves recalls: “Telling Eddie Hearn that the rematch will be huge and he was sceptical. I’m sure he was just being reserved because he was worried he’ll have to pay me more money! I told him Wembley sells out and I had had a site visit at Twickenham stadium which is down the road from where I live, so if not Wembley I’m bidding for Twickenham.

“It wasn’t long after this we all did a deal to fight at Wembley. Hearn made arrangements for capacity to reach 80,000 providing we sold 60,000 first with demand still there. Tickets were to go on sale at noon on the day of the first press conference. I didn’t know if it would sell the same as the first, and if the boxing fans would buy into the rematch.

“After the press conference, Hearn told me we had sold out, 60,000 gone. I’m sure he knew this was the case. Maybe before they even went on general sale but I didn’t, and I was so happy. This show was going to be a success. I remember a feeling of pride wash over me. Excitement at the thought of all those people there. Creating history.”

Wembley’s former Head of Music and New Events Jim Frayling adds: “I’d been trying to get boxing back to Wembley since we re-opened in 2007. We had massive pictures of the Bruno fight and Cooper vs Ali in our staff canteen. We fought hard to get the event and agreed a flexible deal that suited all parties.

“There hadn’t been a major London stadium fight for a while – easy to forget now – so there was big risk on all sides. The scheduling was an issue. There was an England game on the Friday night, which management didn’t want to move earlier as they had a pre-tournament schedule fixed in their minds. Just as importantly, the One Direction tour was arriving on Sunday. Overnight turnarounds are only normal in arenas, not stadiums.

“Working with Sky and Matchroom, we just kept going round all our suppliers and stakeholders (e.g. Transport for London) asking them to find the one thing that would prevent us staging the event. In the end, nobody could find one.

“There were so many things that could go wrong and the big risk was with parts of the build that overlapped with each other, especially the broadcast overlay on a PPV event. We staged a rehearsal in April after the FA Cup semi-finals to test our processes and it went better than expected but we couldn’t test everything.”

Sky Director Sara Chenery told me: ‘We invested money in that full overnight rehearsal to know as best we could if the key elements could co-ordinate in the time frame we had.”

The Sky Sports Boxing team took on a massive task at the national stadium

“So the stadium was literally turned around from hosting the England-Peru match on the Friday night to doors opening to the public at 5:30pm on Saturday. ITV had to de-rig, before an access road was installed to allow the ring and 7,500 seats onto the pitch. Normally we would have a rig day, or in the US they plan for many more. We only had hours. There were literally mass numbers thrown at the operation, but the key was the astonishing teamwork.”

I went to the game and then overlooked some of the incredibly fast, effective, pitch transition before leaving at 2am to get home, have four hours sleep and then celebrate my youngest Tilly’s third birthday breakfast. She turns nine today – it is a date that will naturally always be celebrated in the Smith household!

Meanwhile back at Wembley, new cabling for 20 of the 23 cameras brought unforeseen issues on fight day while seating and pyrotechnics were far from simple. An astounding 500 people were working on rigging and production.

This was a major collaboration between Sky and Matchroom with Telegenic also providing 54 technical crew, a T21 truck, edit vehicle, technical trailer and the international feeds, including commentary for TV in Argentina and BBC Radio 5. CTV looked after HBO. Over 80 countries took the action around the world. Broadcast RF provided wireless cameras. HSL ran the lighting. Wireless audio installation came from VME.

It was surely the most complex situation Sky and Matchroom boxing had ever tackled.

Frank Smith, current CEO, former Head of Boxing Operations for Matchroom told me: “I remember walking out just before the main event walk on to a packed out 80,000 Wembley Stadium. After 16 weeks of intense planning to see what was created is a memory I will never forget. Being so closely involved you don’t always realise the scale of what’s been created.”

Sara continues: “It was just amazing how Sky rose to the challenge and applied our usual ‘how can we make this happen’ attitude when most said it couldn’t be done.”

The build-up had of course been electric and the anticipation was at fever pitch. This time Froch had employed a psychologist to block out the increased Groves noise, and leading communication coach Hugo Simpson helped control those awkward confrontations. Carl vowed to send George “back to the hole he crawled out of, after antagonising me for so long”.

We had the Groves’ Rubik’s Cube conquered in about a minute, Carl’s brother Lee causing mayhem, Tom Cruise excited on the red carpet, Emily Blunt picking her West London compatriot George. Helicopter arrivals for ‘The Gloves Are Off’ – where we can all have a push and a pull – the rammed Wembley Arena weigh in – as their animosity heightened, and the public were gripped by the increased mind games and the simple question – would it be Froch or Groves?

Hollywood duo Tom Cruise and Emily Blunt gave their opinions on the big fight

It was magical – the whole shebang.

What of George’s entrance on the night…

“Throughout the entire build-up I wanted to create a new type of boxing event,” George told me.

“Try to cement the sport in the mainstream. Bring back some entertainment value that had been missing since Naz or Eubank. Huge personalities who put on a show.

“An open-top bus felt special. It was big enough to match the occasion. I knew Carl wasn’t interested in these attractions and was just focused on his fighting. I wanted to make a spectacle.

“Downton Abbey’s Jim Carter brilliantly audio read ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more’ ahead of my main event. Kasabian’s Underdog began ringing through the stadium. Underdog was what I was. I didn’t want anyone to forget it after the fight. I climb out of the bus and onto a huge stage waiting for The Prodigy’s ‘Spitfire’. Spitfire is the track I always use to ringwalk. I zone in, ready to go to war.”

Meanwhile most of the production team led by Producer Declan Johnson were seeing things rather differently…

Groves made a spectacular arrival on an open-top bus

“My real memory,” Sara tells me – “George on that open-top bus – Groves not budging – even though it only cleared the underneath of Wembley with about six inches to spare! He was so hyped we had our Assistant Producer James Leith with cameraman Scott Drummond lying down on the floor of the top deck to stop Groves leaving too early. I seem to remember cries of ‘He’s going Sars – I can’t stop him.'”

Froch’s entrance was altogether more business-like. As he walked purposely to ‘We Will Rock You’ by Queen and ‘Shoot to Thrill’ by AC/DC.

I had the pleasure of taking in the atmosphere. With my Head of Boxing hat on, and Nick Halling on comms, I could actually sample it all. Breathe in the Spring night air. I remember a feeling of immense pride for my incredible inner boxing team.

Jim Frayling decided to watch from high: “The event itself was brilliant. The undercard was strong, with James DeGale fighting and a chap called Anthony Joshua, who was relatively unknown at that point.

Anthony Joshua appeared on the Froch-Groves undercard

“As we got nearer the main event, the atmosphere built and built. We’d managed to get to around 80k tickets sold and were limited by the transport capacity in the end, but Wembley only needs about half that to sound okay.

“The ring walks were electric. George Groves insisted on doing his own thing, with a London bus and his own entertainment with dancers. Carl Froch more straightforward but the place was buzzing anyway. You know it’s a good event when your own stewards struggle to turn away from the action to watch the crowd.

“We’d been worried about the crowd migrating too much and blocking exits, especially as we couldn’t put as many seats on the pitch as we normally would with a longer build time. But the majority of people behaved well and stayed where they should and those that didn’t did move when asked by our safety team.”

Barney Francis was at ringside with Sky’s CEO Jeremy Darroch.

“Jeremy was very keen to come to his first boxing event,” Barney recalls. “And with the build-up and marketing by Sky Sports, it was clear this was going to be a huge event. He was very excited, and not disappointed.

“I went into Carl’s dressing room beforehand. I just remember him being very calm and rubbing Vaseline into his heels. It struck me as incredible that he had the mindset to worry about protecting his feet when he was soon going to get punched in the head. Back at ringside, a who’s who of sport all around us, and I remember Phil Taylor being sat behind me in the second row. He commentated on the whole fight. Fair to say he was a better player than commentator!”

The rematch itself was completely compelling but lacked the raw drama of the first fight. This can often happen second time around when the same boxers have a healthier respect for each other. It was more of a chess match and it was close, until of course that vicious right hand landed and Froch’s team were in ecstasy. We all felt for Groves. The sport can be so brutal, so full of fine margins, and there he was knocked out and exposed to the world.

Froch soaked up the celebrations after his explosive victory

The triumphant champion bowed out of boxing after defending his titles

Wayne Rooney and some of the England players were there and the story goes that when Carl won, a hot dog and a few drinks were launched upwards from the Nike Box they were in. Some of us finished the night with Wayne – who is a massive boxing fan, Ross Barkley and others amid a great party at the top of the Hilton hotel.

Jim Frayling concludes: ‘While everyone celebrated at the Hilton, we had the next day with 1D’s crew to prepare for. Their promoter had apparently asked my boss to sack me if we mucked up the first date on their world tour by scheduling the boxing the night before, so I was grateful when the Wembley production crew got everything sorted and the Sky and Matchroom teams were off site in a timely manner.

“Having had one event that was such a success, everyone at Wembley had the boxing bug. Until I managed to get the Joshua-Klitschko fight just before I left as my last sporting hire, all my colleagues up to and including the Wembley board regularly asked when we were getting boxing back.”

What this did of course was take our sport onwards and upwards.

Carl of course looks back so very fondly.

“It was the catalyst for PPV, it completely transcended the sport. It totally reignited the love from the fans. It was a big awakening for boxing and it took our sport to the next level.

“The story needed Groves to beat me up in Manchester. Then like holes in Swiss cheese, they somehow line up. You had the young guy, the old veteran with no real regard for the challenge. That fight, that ending, his great performance – it was a combination of so many things and it all aligned. I have to say though it was Eddie’s ambition.”

Eddie’s quotes of course roll off the tongue as he concluded: “It was one of the biggest nights in British Boxing history and a night that really changed the sport forever. It was the turning point for British boxing.

“Going into the first Groves fight there was momentum, we were back on Sky Sports Box Office and I almost felt popular! That changed quickly when people felt Howard Foster jumped in too early in the first fight. What it did do was set up a historic night for British boxing.

“The week after the first Froch-Groves fight I realised how big this was. We started to look at potential venues – Emirates, Nottingham Forest. Then we went to Wembley, I walked out of the tunnel and said this is where we’ve got to do it.”

Carl of course went out on the high. There was talk of ‘The Cobra’ defending against Julio Cesar Chavez Jr, the time when commentating on Golovkin-Brook that he got up and eyed up GGG, and I always felt he missed out on the Calzaghe challenge, although I constantly tell him he’s better off that one never happened.

But he retired and joined our team of analysts.

George fought back in the ring and has also become a straight-shooting pundit outside.

Their rivalry was bitter, genuine and looked set for life. I remember when Carl and I were in Vegas for a Carl Frampton fight and George was in the media room. I said to Carl to go and sort it out, make up – but he felt George wouldn’t want to. Yet Froch was first on his feet applauding Groves when he finally lifted that world crown in Sheffield.

Froch and Groves have since patched up their differences

“I have so much respect for George,” Carl told me. “If I had lost I couldn’t have retired. I would have had to try and come back. Look what George did. I admire him hugely. He persevered and he stuck with it to become world champion.”

What of their newfound friendship as they stand side by side now for many big fights? What finally happened?

“It changed because of Sky Sports. It was a talent meeting hosted by Ed Robinson,” Carl explained.

“George walked in and I thought I’d finally go over. I congratulated him on his new baby and we got talking. It was good. Believe it or not – well you know me very well Adam, I am actually a nice guy! George and I are now on really good terms – I’d like to get him into a bit of poker. Sport is sport and I am so pleased that there will be a good future for both of us.”

You see like great rivalries before them Froch and Groves are entwined in history together. Carl won both fights, but there is no doubt George made the story, controlled the narrative and sold the show.

So let’s leave the last word to the Saint this time.

“It took a good few years before I could look back at Wembley with some pride,” said George. “For the magnitude of the event. For getting that far, at my age and experience, and even though I was soundly beaten I played a major part in shaping a new style of boxing here in the UK.”

That you did George. But you never did teach me to solve that damn Rubik’s Cube.

Happy Anniversary both. Maybe you are in some darkened room secretly playing poker today and plotting that trilogy fight…

Source link

The post Froch-Groves 2 began a golden era in British boxing and broke boundaries in broadcasting, writes Sky Sports Boxing’s Adam Smith | Boxing News appeared first on The Bleak Report.

from WordPress https://bleakreport.com/froch-groves-2-began-a-golden-era-in-british-boxing-and-broke-boundaries-in-broadcasting-writes-sky-sports-boxings-adam-smith-boxing-news/

[geekmama]

Resolved

I have a lot of fic to catch up on, have been letting everything slide in favor of furiously scribbling this sequel to the original three stories in my Victorian Sherlock A/U, A Fork in the Road. I was having a lot of trouble posting here yesterday, so it’s a day late (Sundays and Wednesdays, 7 chapters). 

After an idyllic honeymoon in Italy, new adventures, complications, and deception are among the primary elements of Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes' first year of marriage.

Chapter 1: That Other Eden

As their train sped toward London in the final hour of their idyllic honeymoon, Sherlock Holmes found his lips quirking in a secretive smile as he watched his wife, sitting opposite him in the luxurious private compartment he had insisted they hire, just as he had done on the outward journey to Portsmouth seven weeks before. He had waved aside her mild objection to the extravagance. After all, it wasn’t every day that one brought one’s new and much beloved spouse to the home of which she would now be mistress. 

Molly would, of course, share the management of 221B Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson, as she had done for several months prior to their marriage. She had been retained to do so after the elderly landlady took a fall down the front steps, injuring herself badly enough to need temporary assistance. Molly had taken over the majority of the responsibilities associated with the running of the residence during that time, and had done an exemplary job, too, considering she had little direct experience in such things. However, Mrs. Hudson had been fully healed and able to resume her role in time for Sherlock and Molly’s honeymoon, and would now continue to assume the greater portion of the work since her erstwhile assistant would be otherwise occupied. In a fortnight’s time, a new year would begin for the students of the London School of Medicine for Women and Mrs. Molly Elizabeth Holmes would once again grace its hallowed halls. Menial tasks such as cooking and cleaning would take second place to her demanding studies -- or rather third place, when one considered the undeniable importance of her other wifely duties. 

He watched her now with great pleasure. She was wearing an elegant traveling suit of deep green velvet, a charming foil for his own plaid tweeds, but she had one small, booted foot tucked up under her, and her posture was not quite erect as she leaned against the squabs, relaxed and intent upon the book in her lap: Osler’s Principles and Practice of Medicine. 

So studious. Her brown eyes so innocent as they absorbed the challenging material. Yet he now knew in glorious detail what lay beneath that fashionable ensemble, the prim clothing of a young matron. He knew every curve, every dimple; he’d counted the fine bones of her slender feet, run his fingers over every inch of smooth, pale skin, explored all her secret places, sometimes with slow reverence that brought hissing moans and soft gasps, and sometimes with a burgeoning, abandoned skill that made her curl into him, desperate to muffle her cries against his neck or shoulder. He had kissed tears of replete ecstasy from her cheeks. He had held her trembling form warm and tight until she was a little recovered -- or until she slept, completely undone. 

And God knew -- God knew! -- she had favored him with similarly intimate services, rejoicing as she began to realize the power she wielded over his mind and body.   

It was strange to think that two months ago he’d had no idea what love could be, had scoffed at what had seemed the nonsensical nattering of poets. And now… well, he could almost write his own. 

Molly looked up at him, suddenly, and saw his expression. She must have felt the weight of his eyes upon her, the tenderness of his gaze. She gave an answering smile and set down her book. 

He held out his hand, and she reached for it and allowed herself to be pulled smoothly, if a little abruptly, across the space that had lain between them. She landed, laughing, in his lap. 

“Were you missing me?” she asked, and kissed his cheek. 

“Yes,” he said, and turned his head, taking her lips with his, a sensual delight. Tongue… teeth… the taste of her heating his blood… 

“Oh!” she breathed, when he pulled back a fraction. She laid a hand against the side of his face and kissed him softly again, then said, “We should wait… won’t we arrive in London soon?” 

“We have half an hour.” He gave her a wicked smile as he reached down and began to ruche up her heavy skirts. “I can wait, but let me touch you.” 

“But husband...” she muttered with a frown. 

Yet she made no further objection, and, indeed, facilitated his plan as best she could. With some effort he finally managed to slip a hand beneath the mountain of various materials that hid his objective, but then it was his turn to frown as he made a startling discovery: beneath the layers of stylish frock and snowy linen she wore only a scandalous scrap of undergarment, rather than the chaste, frilly knee-length drawers he’d expected. “Oh, shameless!” he accused, trying not to laugh at the smirk that was now gracing her lips. 

To his great satisfaction, her impudence quickly grew less as he set aside his astonishment (and an almost painful surge of desire)  and proceeded toward his stated goal. She did manage to look into his eyes for a few more moments, though, and uttered in reply, “Yes… God knows, I am shameless… but only for you, my heart! Only for… ah! Sherlock… Sherlock!” And then words quite failed her, and he had to kiss her again.

 *

 In spite of his imperative need to be private with his wife, Sherlock realized that a liaison would have to wait when their carriage drew up to 221B Baker Street and an ecstatic Mrs. Hudson and raucous Archie rushed out to greet them. Molly, once again precise to a pin thanks to the mirror and basin that had been a feature of their first class compartment on the train, embraced their two housemates joyously, blushingly assured Mrs. Hudson that every moment of the honeymoon had been nothing short of heavenly and she would presently tell them all about it -- well, not everything (her blush deepened at this, and she glanced at Sherlock, who probably looked as smug as he felt), but all about their travels and the sights they’d seen. 

“You can have no notion how beautiful Italy is, Mrs. Hudson! And the people are so kind, too. Every moment was an adventure!” 

Martha Hudson gave Molly an impish smile, with a bit left over for Sherlock. “I have no doubt of that, my dear Mrs. Holmes. But come, let’s go in! There are some surprises waiting for the two of you, and I do think you’ll be vastly pleased by them. It will soon be time for us all to sit down to dinner, and then you can tell me… almost everything!” 

Sherlock said, “Come, Archie, help me with these cases. Ladies require an unconscionable amount of luggage, as you can see.” 

Molly turned to meet his teasing glance, looking so pink-cheeked and happy that he could not help but grin. 

But Archie said, “No! Mr. Holmes, I’ll get the bags and things, You have to carry Molly across the threshold! Mrs. Holmes, I mean.” And the boy gave Molly a little bow and a grin by way of apology for addressing her in the familiar style of former days, when she was merely Mrs. Hudson’s hired companion. 

“Oh!” Molly exclaimed, and looked at Sherlock uncertainly. 

He said, however, “You’re quite right, Archie, and I thank you for the reminder. There are far too many niggling traditions surrounding weddings, but this is one to which I can give my unequivocal approval.” And with that he swept Molly up into his arms. 

Archie gave a cheer, and he and Mrs. Hudson (and the cabbie, and a couple of random passers-by) stood back, applauding as Sherlock carried his lovely, laughing bride up the steps and over the threshold of their home.

 *

 Mrs. Hudson’s surprise was a new kitchen, and a French chef to go with it. 

“It was your brother’s idea,” she said to Sherlock. “He paid for the remodeling of that old back parlor and the adjoining anteroom -- such a to-do, and the noise and dust! You wouldn’t credit it. But it’s done now, and really it has everything the modern kitchen ought to have. And Alphonse may be a little condescending and high-handed at times, but he makes the most wonderful food!” 

“Mycroft has always been quite the slave to his stomach so I have no doubt of that,” said Sherlock dryly, as they walked down the hall to the new kitchen to investigate. “Let’s see what this Alphonse has in store for us tonight.” 

But though Alphonse favored them with a polite bow, the look in his eye told a different story. He obviously didn’t like being disturbed in what he considered to be his domain, and, though he rattled off a menu at Sherlock’s insistence, it was all in a heavily accented French that Molly, to her mortification, could barely understand. Her old governess, Miss Beaufort, would be so disappointed. 

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Sherlock was absolutely fuming as he and Molly made their way upstairs to change for dinner, and once they were behind closed doors he launched into a diatribe that basically consigned his brother, Alphonse, and the entire breed of personal chefs, particularly those of the French persuasion, to a special hell. Molly listened patiently and did her best to interject a soothing word or two, but it was not until just before they went down that his ill-humor was assuaged by her efforts -- and that seemed more to do with her appearance than with any words she had uttered. 

“You look beautiful,” he said, quite sincerely, looking her over with regret. “To think that I wasted the last hour complaining of such trivia when I could have taken you to bed -- or had you on the couch, or in the bath…” 

“Sherlock!” 

“You protest?” he exclaimed, obviously wounded. 

“Of course I do!” She came to him and brushed light fingers across his chest, over the heart that beat so strongly for her beneath the superfine broadcloth of his dress coat. “We would not have had enough time!” 

His expression lightened considerably. “My dear, I believe there may be something to be said for haste in these matters, if the moment is propitious. But time has run out and we must postpone that debate.” He bent down and gave her one last, lingering kiss, then straightened, looking quite satisfied that he’d once again left her dazed.. “Later!” he said, low and soft, and tucked her hand in his arm.

 *

 By the end of the meal, even Sherlock had to admit that Mycroft might be a slave to his stomach, but he was also a discerning gourmet, and apparently was well aware of Alphonse’s capabilities. The man could cook. Every dish was not only a prime example of its kind, but was made exceptional with Alphonse’s inimitable touch. Finally, after a pudding of apple tart and homemade ice cream, Sherlock had Archie fetch him in from the kitchen and told him, “That was probably the best dinner I’ve had in my life, sir, and I can only offer my deepest thanks -- and a small douceur.” Sherlock smiled and handed Alphonse a fifty pound note. 

“Hear, hear!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, and began the applause to which the other three added their mite. 

Alphonse beamed, and bowed to Sherlock, then took himself off to his kingdom again. 

“Ah, I’m glad you like him,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “He really is a marvelous cook, and it leaves me free to pay more attention to the rest of the house.” 

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to thank Mycroft. I wonder what sort of favor he’ll demand for this.” 

Molly frowned. “It was our wedding gift!” 

Sherlock lifted a brow. “If you think there will be no strings attached you don’t know my brother. I expect I’ll be off on one of his assignments within the week.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Molly, dismayed. 

“Hopefully, in light of the fact that we’re still newlyweds, it won’t be anything too long -- or dangerous.” 

She lifted her chin. “Perhaps I could come with you.” 

“Mmm. Now there’s a thought.” He smiled at her, then turned to their tablemates. “Mrs. Hudson, our thanks for playing hostess as we celebrate our first night as man and wife in Baker Street. Archie, it’s time for you to be abed, I have several errands for you to run in the morning. And it’s time for the two of us to get some rest, too, don’t you agree, Mrs. Holmes? It’s been a long day of traveling and I know you must be quite exhausted.” 

“Oh… yes. Of course,” Molly said, feeling her cheeks growing warm. She saw Sherlock’s laughing eyes and his imperfectly suppressed smirk and gave him a look of admonishment, even as memory and anticipation provoked the familiar yet still disconcerting physical response that he’d no doubt intended. Not that she was at all averse to retiring early… it would be the first time they would share his bed in this house… 

She cleared her throat and rose from the table. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Can we talk more about Italy in the morning, when I’m… um… more awake?” 

And Mrs. Hudson, actually giggled. “Of course, dear. Plenty of time for that. But don’t try to rise early on my account. I know very well how tiring long days of travel can be.”  

 *

 They’d left a lamp burning -- “The better to see you with, my dear,” Sherlock had said smiling wolfishly as he’d teasingly stripped her bare. But their laughter had faded, changing to something more akin to worship as they began to make love to each other, eyes wide open to take in every shadow, every pure line, every subtly changing expression. Her name had been a desperate prayer on his lips twice in as many hours, but before he had taken his own pleasure he had made her grasp the carved posts of the headboard of his bed -- their bed! -- and had done things to her body that would once have seemed barely imaginable to her, making her beg, making her shriek in spite of their housemates’ proximity; then crawling up and taking her that first time when she was still limp and far too sensitive. She had wrapped herself around him, crying out again and again as he moved within her, short, sharp strokes that presently -- miraculously -- brought her to completion a second time, and then he was overtaken himself. 

“Molly…Molly!...oh my God! “ 

His fingers had left bruises that time. On her shoulder, her hip. Something similar had happened before, in Florence, during the second week of their honeymoon, and she remembered how pleasantly sore she had been, wandering the Uffizi the following afternoon -- and how gentle he’d been with her for a few days until she’d finally had enough of that, had informed him that she was not some delicate flower, nor was she made of glass. He had apologized most sincerely, his eyes alight with laughter and love, and had rectified his fault in the most delightful ways from that time forward.  

This night, after that first time, they dozed, holding each other close, but they stirred again after a while, and again made love, slow and drowsy, with soft gasps and deep kisses and whispers of encouragement, languorous until the end when suddenly it was not, not at all. After that second time they lay close, facing each other, nose to nose on the pillow. 

It was after midnight, and the lamp was now burning low. She could barely see him, though she could feel his even breath. 

“Are you asleep?” she asked softly. 

“Mmm,” he replied, not opening his eyes. “Did you like that?” 

“You should know,” she said with a smile. 

And at that he did open his eyes, they glinted in the faint light. “I love you, wife.” 

She kissed him. “I love you, too.” 

He smiled back, boyish and content. 

Before his eyes were quite closed again, she spoke. “Husband…” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Are you… will you take me to Madame Celeste’s in Bennet Street, as we discussed in the train station? On our very first morning -- you remember?” 

“I remember.” But his smile had faded somewhat. 

“I… but don’t you want to?” she asked, a little worried. “It’s just… I want to give you as much pleasure as you give me.” 

“If you give me much more you’re like to kill me,” he murmured. But then he reached up and stroked her cheek. “Molly, I… I felt differently about things then. I don’t think… well, I know it sounds utterly bourgeois, like something your execrable brother-in-law would say -- either of your brothers-in-law, actually -- but it wouldn’t be fitting for you to go to such a place.” 

“Oh.” She was surprised, and really quite disappointed. 

“Perhaps I can find a book or two for you on such matters. They do exist, and some are most instructive. And you could speak to Mary Watson, over tea and cakes? God knows she seems to have the knack of keeping Watson happily tied to her apron strings.” 

Molly had to smile at both his bitter tone and the thought of discussing such things with a woman who was no more than a casual acquaintance, though it was true that she hoped to become better friends with the wife of her husband’s colleague. But she now said to Sherlock, “No, I could not! And books might be informative, but would not answer in the same way at all. I wanted to speak to those women… ask them any number of questions. In a spirit of scientific enquiry, you know.” 

“Ah. Well. I admire an inquisitive and perceptive mind as I do few other things in this life, but in this case, I fear you must content yourself with exploring sources of knowledge other than those available at one of the most notorious brothels in England. And further experimentation will not go amiss. I am certainly at your disposal.” 

“I daresay you are,” she said fondly, and gave him another kiss. But then she sighed, and said with some resentment,. “Very well. But you are a tyrannical beast, you know.” 

“Not at all. A benevolent despot at most. Now go to sleep, my love. Mrs. Hudson will be wanting to hear more about Italy -- and will probably have something to say about those shrieks you let out a while ago, when you were supposedly exhausted and asleep.” 

“Oh!” she cried. “You are a beast. How could I help it, when you were doing such things to me? It was entirely your fault.” And she shoved at his chest, and moved as if to turn away. 

But he pulled her close, subduing her, as she’d known he would, and kissed her, and then said, with laughter in his voice,. “Go to sleep, my darling, prickly little wife.” He drew the covers up around them both. 

She gave a dramatic sigh, resigned (and warm, and much cherished). “Good night, you horrid, wonderful beast.”

[davidpwilson2564]

Bloglet

Thursday, November 7, 2019

Bloomberg (we hope) is about to throw his hat in the (presidential) ring.  This would be great.  He is his own man and he's got Trump's number.

 Friday, November 8, 2019

Trump comments on Bloomberg's entering the race.  Refers to him as "Little Michael."

Walking east on 57th.  A couple inspecting the posted menu outside the Russian Tearoom. The man says to his wife, "Twenty four dollars for a bowl of soup!" I think I've only been there twice.  I remember, and sort of miss, their old radio ad: "The Russian Tearoom, slightly to the left of Carnegie Hall." I remember nothing about their cuisine.

Evening.  Striking a blow for culture, Essa-Pekka Salonen conducting the New York Phil. (Note: There are two Essa-Pekka Finnish [excellent] conductors.  The other one's surname will come to me presently.)  Hindemith's raucous "Ragtime," new to me.  Two exquisite orchestrations of Bach, by Schoenberg. A composition by Maestro Salonen.  (During those years conducting the L A Phil he soaked up a lot of local color.  He could write great film music if he wanted to but has bigger fish to fry.)  The second half: Hindemith's "Mathis der Maler" Symphony. 

Erratum: Re the above.  The "other" Finnish conductor is Jukka-Pekka Saraste. 

And this: Schoenberg's orchestrations are masterful. A favorite of mine is his orchestral setting of the Brahms Piano Quintet No. 1 which he transformed into a symphony.  The final movement is a toe-tapper and he added a xylophone.  Critics would later call the work his "Looney Tunes Brahms."

Saturday, November 9, 2019

My actions somewhat curtailed because of what I think might be a stomach bug. But I rally and play duets with Dale. 

The president attends the Alabama vs L S U game in Tuscaloosa.  I find out later he is cheered.  Unlike the crowd at the World Series that chanted "Lock him up" this group chanted "U S A."  Here he is among friends.  This is his base.

Alabama's first loss of the year.  The L S U coach quite emotional about the win.  Says "God put me here."  I wish sports people would refrain from this kind of talk.  God as water boy. 

Turn on the TV later: The Tennessee Vols squeak out a win over Kentucky.  Now there is a good chance that they will end the season with an equal number of wins and loses, qualifying them for one of the lesser (and obscure) bowl games. 

[theclaravoyant]

Simmorse Body Guard-Celebrity AU

AN ~ IT BEGINS. This turned into a 6-parter! Hope you like it! I should be updating approx every 48 hours.

CW: references to animal cruelty (the subject, no actual occurrences)

Read on AO3

Sparks - Ch. 1

Outside a storefront in LA, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Not one of sport-stadium proportions, but certainly respectable, and slowly growing as passers-by and new arrivals joined the throng. Some were drawn simply by the presence of the others; some by their curiosity about the film crew who had been setting up and milling about for some time now. Some, though, were there clutching favourite books and pens, beaming at each other, hardly able to believe that their author lived among them, walked among them, and was here, now, almost close enough to touch.

Jemma Anne Simmons did not look like the sort to be writing about gruesome crime and torture and intrigue. She almost looked like she was more prepared for the position of First Lady; always poised, clean and neat, a lover of pantsuits and blouses and brooches and otherwise never looking like she’d just pulled her hands out of a corpse. It was well known, though, that she had a PhD – and, some speculated, more than one - in forensic biology, and had worked as a Medical Examiner for a good part of her career. It made for intriguing if at times gruesome writing, and a personality juxtaposition that was in itself a curiosity. Jemma was the very antithesis of morbidity as she smiled to her fans and waved, a frenetic and happy wave. The crowd cheered and waved back. Critics liked to complain that she was cold and superior, amongst other things, but her fans knew better.

So did the reporter, Stephanie Garnett, who was herself a little awed to be out here today. It was hard to curse the fluff-news shtick when she got opportunities like this. She gestured for Jemma to prepare herself as the message from the station came through and the signal switched over to them.

“… Yes, that’s right Troy,” Stephanie introduced, “I’m here with the marvellous Doctor Jemma Simmons, who’s doing a reading of her next book, All the Madam’s Men for us here today. And now, Jemma, this reading’s for charity I understand?”

Stephanie glanced at Jemma, who smiled, well-accustomed, at her and then at the camera.

“Yes, Ms Garnett, that’s correct,” Jemma agreed, with charming showmanship. “As you can see behind me, we’re back at my good friend Daisy’s store Afterlife, where I launched The Singularity last year. She’s been through some renovations recently - how exciting! - as the store just keeps growing and growing. Daisy! There she is. Come up here, come on up here. Daisy Johnson everybody.”

Gesturing to the audience, Jemma – and Daisy – received raucous applause. As it died down, Daisy blushed a little.

“Ah, hi everyone,” she greeted. “I guess I’m not used to being on television. That’s why I was hiding in the back there.”

An amiable chuckle passed through the crowd, and Daisy smiled. Stephanie gestured for her to continue and, a little more confidently now, she obliged.

Jemma smiled to herself as Daisy spoke. The camera loved her, of course it did, and while Daisy didn’t exactly love it back, she would do anything for her mission. Jemma was just glad to give her the platform. As Daisy recited her origin story and the details of her store’s Winter Appeal, Jemma turned her own attention to the pile of Madam’s Men books beside her on the dais. They’d certainly picked a good cover image: the half-shadowed face of local model Agnes Radcliffe, her eyes and cheekbones cutting a fierce shape that demanded attention. Still, as usual, Jemma second-guessed herself. The Winter Appeal was primarily directed at supporting children. The passage she’d picked was probably not appropriate. Then again, being a writer of crime and espionage novels – and often fairly graphic ones at that - she doubted anything she wrote would appeal to that demographic. It was the parents, she reminded herself, that she was primarily after: the parents, and any other philanthropic adults, like herself and Daisy, who were interested in supporting the disadvantaged youth of their city… and who were also interested in steamy and dramatic spy novels.

“…But if you do have any children of your own, though,” Stephanie was saying, “it might be time to pause this video or tell them to play outside because –“

“Because that woman’s a murderer!” called a voice from the crowd. Or on the street? Daisy, Jemma and Stephanie glanced at each other in confusion. Blushing a little, Steph continued -

“Because next up, we’re hearing an exclusive first segment of Madam’s Men, straight from the horse’s mouth. Doctor, if you would –“

Jemma cleared her throat and picked up the book. She glanced back at the crowd, in case that voice interrupted again, but saw nothing out of the ordinary: just a little movement, but they were on a street-front after all. Feeling the weight of the pages in her hands, Jemma tried to think of the grit of the novel – a twisted romance, a race against time, a daring rescue and the power of true love – and when that became too abstract, conjured the more grounding and immediate thought of her own attraction to the model that she’d felt compelled to choose. Her Ophelia, right from the moment they’d met. Agnes was a lovely woman really, more into flowers and ballerinas than the stark ferocity of Ophelia, but the transformation from character to character had been just as inviting as each character itself.

Now feeling better grounded – and all the more satisfied for the moment of suspense she’d given her audience – Jemma opened her mouth and began to read.

“Skye didn’t know where she was.-“

“BOO!” shouted the voice. A crotchety woman’s voice. Jemma tightened her grip on the page. Was she having a nightmare? Had she fallen asleep in front of the Princess Bride again?

“BOO. That woman is a liar and a hypocrite and a murderer! Don’t fall for her goody-two-shoes appearance!! Don’t fall for her false charity!!”

“Ignore them,” Daisy suggested, in a whisper, at the same time one of Stephanie’s cameramen turned a camera to face the woman, who was still yelling, and now pushing her way through the crowd.

“The first- the first sensation,” Jemma read, pushing on, “was a rush of air, and water. Soap filled her eyes, and burned –“

“Just like you burned the eyes of those poor animals?”

“Excuse me?”

Jemma’s heart clenched. Her eyes snapped up from the page. The woman, the interrupter, was closer than she’d thought – now climbing up onto the small dais they’d set up as a stage. Bewildered fans glanced around at each other. Was this a stunt? What should they do? What could they do? A few of them started filming. Jemma staggered to her feet. Too late, she realised what this must be about.

“THIS is what your beloved Doctor supports behind your backs!” cried the heckler, raising an image to the crowd. A dismembered rabbit, if Jemma saw right. Immediately, there were gasps of horror. Parents passing across the street covering their children’s eyes. More people pulling out their phones, to post about it, or Google Jemma. Was she sure she was not living in a nightmare? She couldn’t move. Her vision spun.

“Shit.” Daisy muttered. “Jemma? I think we should go-“

Jemma couldn’t move. She couldn’t tell if Daisy was touching her or not. She was chilled through with fear, anxiety, and shame - and through the cracks was beginning to break a defensive fury.

“Her public face is a lie!” the woman continued to scream. “Her good face is a lie! It’s for business, not charity! She’s an animal abuser! And she built not one career on it, but two. SHAME Jemma Simmons. SHAME.”

“Ex- excuse me,” Jemma managed at last, clenching a fist by her side, “but I-“

“LOOK OUT!” Daisy cried, but Jemma barely had time to blink before it happened.

There was a flash of red.

Then black.

--

A flash of red, then black, as Bobbi Morse opened her eyes.

The tiny room from her dream stretched out into something nearly three times the size; a small apartment, for sure, but not a prison cell. She coughed the stench of mildew away. Her real room smelt like vanilla, which was a little cloying, but was so unheard of in her nightmares that it never failed to pull her back to reality. Bobbi breathed it deeply, until she felt herself steady. She had a window now, and a ceiling fan, and that whirring sound was just the refrigerator.

She breathed, and sighed, and dragged a hand through her hair.

(It needed a wash.)

She groaned. It was midday on a Tuesday and she was still in the dark – but at least this time it was of her own accord. Sort of. She had been sleeping, mostly because there wasn’t much else to do these days. She had no friends. She had no job. She had nothing to stimulate her mind or her passion, or to give her any real reason to get out of bed in the morning.

And she needed a real reason.

Because getting out of bed sucked.

Fortunately – or unfortunately, or somehow both at once – Bobbi’s hunger and other bodily functions were still in operation, and they occasionally gave her a kick in the pants. This was one of those times. Gritting her teeth, and hissing her breath, Bobbi dragged herself to sitting. Her knee roared with pain. She hadn’t stretched it properly in a few days, and it complained about this in no uncertain terms as she staggered to the bathroom to do her business. She staggered back into the kitchen, and made a cup of tea in yesterday’s cup. She looked around her apartment. A mess.

(Not that much of a mess. She was a soldier. She lived Spartan so she didn’t own enough things to make a proper mess. She could certainly afford to take out the garbage though. And her hair really did need a wash.)

With a grunt, Bobbi sat down at the little table in the kitchen. It still had wrappers on it from dinner with Hunter the night before. Kebabs. She smiled – a little fondly, a little in pain – as she flicked the wrappers into the bin. Both trained servicemen and practiced liars with egos and stubbornness to spare, she and Hunter had a complicated history, but he would never let her rot alone. This, she loved and hated him for. Usually somehow in equal parts.

Bobbi’s phone went off then, and she rolled her eyes. Speak of the devil.

STRETCH.  

STRETCH.

STRETCH.

ARE YOU STRETCHING?

“Screw you, Hunter,” she muttered, and started to type as much when the little typing dots appeared once again on her own screen.

Also, buy vegetables, the next message said.

And razors.  

And something to make your eyes pop.

Bobbi scoffed. “Asshole.”

Then another message came through. A link, with a brief annotation:

May have just got you a job interview.

[devils-gatemedia]

Spoiler alert! Haken are awesome. They certainly were tonight (and every other time I’ve seen them live). Of course, I can’t make such an assertive and argumentative statement without the ability to back it up factually, so here goes: Haken are awesome. Fact!

Hot from their South American dates culminating in their Cruise To The Edge stint in the Gulf of Mexico, Haken (say it like Kevin Bacon) visit the cooler climes of Glasgow tonight for their show at St. Luke’s – a relatively attractive graded structure with its backdrop of stained glass windows and original pipe organ (not used tonight). There’s something profound about a building once used for religious activities now used for a different kind of religion – prog!

Tonight’s congregation comprise of elders of prog and worshippers of metal alike all apparently eager to witness Haken’s sermon of soaring melodies and searing riffage. It’s also pleasing to see a good compliment of younger fans there, ensuring the gospel according to Haken is being spread from generation to generation. This is unsurprising however, since their music spans the gamut of rock/metal, from Periphery-style djent chugging to gentler passages more synonymous with the old guard of progressive rock.

Their 2016 album ‘Affinity’ shifted gears quite considerably to a more aggressive, edgy style. These elements have always been present in their earlier work, but not to such a degree. Their latest offering, ‘Vector’, again moves in this direction, although still maintaining the foundations of their open-minded style, infused with complex arrangements and quirky moments. These are features that may cause some apprehension in the predominantly metal side of the fan base, but conversely, there are those not entirely at ease with Haken’s definite swing to a chunkier sound.

Tonight however, the audience is gathered together for an evening of great music provided by Haken and their support acts, Vola and Bent Knee. I’d never actually heard either support band before, although I was aware of the online chatter regarding Bent Knee, so I was curious to hear what they were offering.

They entered the stage to a cacophony of keyboard noise and a surprisingly reserved murmur from the audience. I’m not sure many knew what to expect from them. Bent Knee first appears as an odd assemblage of characters which probably matches their style of music, which I can only describe as avant-garde. A breath of fresh prog air perhaps as they launch headfirst into their startlingly raucous set. The music is comprised of twists and turns, time signature changes and bizarre vocals, which I couldn’t actually make out most of the time due to them being awash with effects and processing.

The stage at St. Luke’s is not large by any means, and accommodating a group of six members and their equipment in front of Haken’s gear was an exercise in shoe-horning. Poor rhythm guitarist and sound designer Vince Welch must have drawn the short straw, and was stuck somewhat awkwardly at the back of the stage. The lack of space didn’t seem to bother the band however, as was evident by the amount of fun they were having, with Levin leaping about in his designated spot and the smiles on everyone’s faces, which is always great to see. It’s fair to say they were enjoying themselves and the Scottish reaction.

There were elements of traditional prog definitely, but not as we know it, Jim. This transcended prog, entering a seemingly new dimension of experimentation and slightly unsettling guitar chord structures, shifts in tempos and tone but balanced by lush melodies and washes of keyboards. The musicianship is first class however (both vocalist Courtney Swain and guitarist Ben Levin attended Berklee College of Music) and despite sections of ostensibly random note selections and discordance, it was also amazingly tight and together. By the end of their set, the audience were won over, as the applause and cheers clearly indicated.

The downside to touring as support is that once your part of the show is finished your job isn’t done yet. The band dons their roadie hat and starts the task of dismantling their equipment to clear the stage for the next band in full view of the crowd.

And the next band on this bill is the Danish/Swedish Vola. Playing as a three-piece tonight (and most of the current tour apparently) the lack of keyboardist Martin Werner didn’t seem to distract from the mass and volume of their music. (Backing tracks have their uses!) Kicking off with ‘Starburn’, with its beautifully melodic intro before smashing into a metallic riff underpinned by syncopated rhythm patterns, as is prevalent in many if the harder-edged prog bands these days. Singer/guitarist Asker Mygind has a great voice that can more than handle the smattering of screams throughout the set.

Playing songs from their two albums, 2017’s ‘Inmazes’ and last year’s ‘Applause Of A Distant Crowd’, they next launch into ‘Smartfriend’, continuing with the rhythmic syncopation right through their 40 minute slot. Describing their music would again be a tricky endeavour; combining progressive rock and 70’s infused rock intertwined with more modern industrial themes and contemporary metal grunt. I gave up trying to follow the time signatures and instead just wallowed in the mostly excellent tunes.

Vola had a good number of fans in the audience and did not disappoint them. Ending with the stonking ‘Stray The Skies’ they confirmed their status as one of the more exciting new prog bands around.

After a short break while the road crew set the stage up for tonight’s headliners, the lights dim to a slightly manic and digital rendition of the William Tell Overture. This mania fits with the theme of Haken’s latest offering, ‘Vector’, a dive into the world of psychosis and human experimentation.

The short instrumental album opener, ‘Clear’, fills our ears and gets the crowd cheering, ready for what is to follow. The organ pipes at the back of the stage absolutely compliment the organ playing in this tune almost as if it was part of the stage show. As the band members appear on stage to rapturous applause, they head straight into the next track ‘The Good Doctor’. The 80’s synth drum sounds so prevalent on ‘Affinity’ are also heard in this song. Somewhat amusingly, it works. And why not?

It’s during ‘Puzzle Box’ that you really get a sense of how incredible these musicians are. Drummer, Ray Hearne and bassist Connor Green lock together effortlessly in the stuttering rhythmic passages, while guitarists Charles Griffiths and Richard Henshall trade riffs and solos on their 7 and 8 string axes. As with most of the songs from ‘Vector’, there is almost a sense of stifling complexity, and one can’t help feeling it’s just a matter of time before somebody screws up and brings the whole thing to a grinding halt. But it doesn’t. Instead, we are treated to an exercise in virtual perfection.

They take a trip back to their 2014 album ‘The Mountain’ for the lengthy ‘Falling Back To Earth’, before launching into a doozy of an instrumental, ‘Nil By Mouth’. This wouldn’t seem out of place on a Periphery album with its jarring chunky groove and intricate rhythms.

Singer, Ross Jennings returns to the stage for ‘1985’ from ‘Affinity’, complete with 80’s specs that light up. He throws a couple of extra pairs into the audience so the lucky recipients can share in the fun. This throwback of 40 years is done so well, complete with the aforementioned synth drums and guitar solo sounding like it’s from a Mike Post TV show theme tune.

The twelve and a half minute, Dream Theater flavoured ‘Veil’ follows, displaying again a faultless performance. We are treated to an unleashed Diego Tejeida, who comes forward sporting a very black metal looking keytar, complete with little skulls all over it. Diego is having a whale of a time during the show, engaging with the crowd almost as much as Jennings.

Surprisingly, to me anyway, Haken play through Radiohead’s ‘Paranoid Android’, and do an excellent job of making it sound like one of their own tracks. After performing ‘The Architect’, they leave the stage for the obligatory tension building gap before the encore. They return minutes later for the grand finale of ‘Crystallised’ from the ‘Restoration’ EP before calling it a night.

This was a skilful and faultless presentation of progressive music of the highest technical order. The fact Haken made it look so easy and so much fun is why they are cementing themselves as one of the most prominent prog metal bands in the genre. Their move toward a heavier sound has now initiated mosh pits and crowd-surfing, neither of which I expected at a Haken show. Sadly, my glasses came a cropper during an overhead surfer assault. I eventually found them so twisted you needed a head shaped like a corkscrew to wear them! As twisted as Haken’s music is, and despite the mathematically precise complexity of the instrumentation, they still manage to write great (and listenable) songs. The audience left St. Luke’s fully satisfied tonight, and probably already thinking about the next Haken UK tour.

Review: Tony Hodges

Images: Lara Vischi

Live Review: Haken – St Luke’s, Glasgow Spoiler alert! Haken are awesome. They certainly were tonight (and every other time I’ve seen them live).

[newsintodays-blog]

Brazil presidential election thrown into chaos after front-runner stabbed

New Post has been published on http://newsintoday.info/2018/09/07/brazil-presidential-election-thrown-into-chaos-after-front-runner-stabbed/

Brazil presidential election thrown into chaos after front-runner stabbed

SAO PAULO/JUIZ DE FORA, Brazil (Reuters) – Brazil’s presidential race was thrown into chaos on Friday with the far-right front-runner Jair Bolsonaro in serious but stable condition in an intensive care unit after being stabbed at a rally one month before the vote.

Bolsonaro, a congressman, was knifed in the stomach while being carried atop supporters’ shoulders in a street rally on Thursday and was being treated at a Sao Paulo hospital. A Tweet posted on Bolsonaro’s verified account said he was “doing well and recuperating.”

The attack further clouds Brazil’s most unpredictable election in three decades. Corruption investigations have jailed scores of powerful businessmen and politicians in recent years, and alienated infuriated voters.

Bolsonaro, 63, has for years angered many Brazilians with extreme statements, but is also seen by his many supporters as a politically incorrect gust of fresh air in a rotten system.

He has repeatedly said the country’s notoriously violent police should increase their killing of suspected drug gang members and armed criminals. That plays well with wealthier voters, but is terrifying for the 50 percent of Brazilians who said in a 2017 Datafolha poll they feared being victims of police violence.

Surveys consistently give Bolsonaro around 22 percent in simulated first-round votes. However, those polls find he would badly lose to most rivals in the likely event of a runoff, which takes place if no candidate wins a majority in the first ballot.

ELECTION BOOST?

Some Bolsonaro backers and analysts, especially in financial markets, forecast the attack could give Bolsonaro a huge boost. They argue it will draw in some of the 28 percent of voters who say they are undecided or will not vote for anyone.

“I just want to send a message to the thugs who tried to ruin the life of a family man, a guy who is the hope for millions of Brazilians: You just elected him president. He will win in the first round,” Flavio Bolsonaro, the candidate’s son, said on Friday, echoing sentiment many spread across social media.

Carlos Melo, a political scientist with Insper, a Sao Paulo business school, said Bolsonaro may gain some votes. But he doubted there would be a big shift his way, especially given that 44 percent of those surveyed in the latest Ibope poll say they would never cast a ballot for Bolsonaro, the stiffest rejection for any candidate.

“I see no reason why voters who have previously said they reject him would now automatically support him,” Melo said.

The political scientist thinks that once the commotion of the attack passes, voters may soberly think about the roots of the political polarization and aggressive rhetoric that has engulfed Brazil.

“Jair Bolsonaro is a symbol of that process,” Melo said. “Voters may be awakened to the thought that politicians who propose loosening gun laws, for example, end up giving unbridled power to crazy people, like the man who carried out the attack yesterday.”

LITTLE TIME

Bolsonaro was stabbed while being carried on someone’s

People surround a man suspected of stabbing Brazilian presidential candidate Jair Bolsonaro (not pictured) as he was campaigning in Juiz de Fora, Minas Gerais state, Brazil September 6, 2018. Felipe Couri / Minas Tribune / via REUTERS

shoulders in a crowd of cheering supporters in the city of Juiz de Fora.

TV pictures showed him screaming in pain, then falling

backward into the arms of those around him.

Police video taken at a precinct showed suspect Adelio Bispo de Oliveira telling police he had been ordered by God to carry out the attack.

Speaking earlier in an online video from hospital in Juiz de Fora, Bolsonaro said the pain of the attack at first was like being hit by a soccer ball.

“It was intolerable and it seemed like maybe something worse was happening,” he said, talking in a weak, raspy voice with a tube in his nose and monitors beeping nearby. “I was preparing for this sort of thing. You run risks.”

Bolsonaro was stabilized and in the intensive care unit at the Einstein hospital in Sao Paulo on Friday.

Dr. Luiz Henrique Borsato, who operated on the candidate, said the internal wounds were “grave” and “put the patient’s life at risk” but that he was stable. Doctors were worried about an infection since Bolsonaro’s intestines were perforated.

Bolsonaro likely needs to spend at least a week in the hospital and would be unable to campaign for at least three weeks – or just before the Oct. 7 first-round vote.

That could seriously damage his run.

Bolsonaro’s tiny coalition has almost no campaign time on government-regulated candidate commercial blocs on television and radio. He must rely on social media and raucous rallies around the country to drum up support, events he is now unlikely to attend for some weeks.

Running as the law-and-order candidate, Bolsonaro has positioned himself as the anti-politician, though he has spent nearly three decades in Congress.

He has long espoused taking a radical stance on public security in Brazil, which has more homicides than any other country, according to U.N. statistics, and has openly praised Brazil’s military dictatorship, which he has said should have killed more people.

Bolsonaro faces trial before the Supreme Court for speech that prosecutors said incited hate and rape. He has called the charges politically motivated.

His stabbing is the latest instance of political violence, which is particularly rampant at the local level. Earlier this year, Marielle Franco, a Rio city councilwoman who was an outspoken critic of police violence against slum residents, was assassinated.

One supporter camped outside Bolsonaro’s hospital room, Bruno Engler, 21, who is running for a Minas Gerais state congressional seat on Bolsonaro’s Social Liberal Party, said if he could, he would lynch the suspect.

Slideshow (4 Images)

“They call us on the right the intolerant, the violent ones, but those who are intolerant and violent are them,” Engler said, referring to leftist voters.

Reporting by Brad Brooks in Sao Paulo and Gabriel Stargardter in Juiz de Fora; Writing by Brad Brooks; Editing by Daniel Flynn and Alistair Bell

Our Standards:The Thomson Reuters Trust Principles.

Source link