#to be able to afford to catch so many of their concerts

[ryverbind]

Faceless Fixation {Sal Fisher}: Respect the Birth [13]

*SMUT WARNING!!!!*

Me and The Faces made it home hours ago. I still haven't texted Sal back and I don't plan to. Not now at least-- I'm going to have to let it marinate. He's still a dick and I'm exhausted from the hellhole that was the Dark Autumn Complex concert.

Don't get me wrong, the music itself and meeting North, East, and South was fucking amazing. But I learned way more than I ever wanted to.

Ash and I took quick showers earlier then climbed into bed, ditching all three of the other boys.

It's about two in the morning. Ash is snoring softly behind me and I haven't been able to fall asleep at all yet. I've just been sitting here, staring up at the ceiling and feeling sorry for myself. And worse, I've had to pee really bad for the past fifteen minutes.

But I'm afraid to get up-- I really don't want to disturb Ash. At the same time though, if I don't run to the bathroom, I'm just going to be miserable all night.

Todd was the pampered prince in this living situation. He got the one room in the suite that has a bathroom inside. Meanwhile, the rest of us have to venture out of our bedrooms to go do whatever we need to do.

After a minute of cursing my stupid bladder, I slowly scoot out of bed. I can't afford many expensive things, but I'm really fucking thankful that The Faces can because it's so nice to be able to sneak out without the floor or bed squeaking. My trip out of Ash's bed is so simple and quiet.

Before I slip out of the room, I grab my mask. I can't risk getting caught without it.

I walk toward the bathroom, mask haphazardly wrapped around my face just because I honestly couldn't care less. I'm tired and I need to pee-- no one can see my face even if I just threw this thing on half assed.

I drag my feet, smacking my lips and rubbing my eyes as I turn the corner into the kitchenette where our bathroom lies just beyond.

Moonlight glitters into the small kitchen, illuminating the cold, tiled flooring with a pale blue sheen. It lights up my path, making it seem as though it's almost glowing. If I weren't particularly groggy and exhausted tonight, I'd admire it a bit. But at the moment, I'm more than ready to crawl back into bed with Ash and snuggle into her warmth.

I pass the kitchen, walking right up to the bathroom door and leaving the hypnotizing moon behind.

I lick my lips and slap a hand onto the light switch, hearing a resounding grunt in response that has a shriek building in my throat. Since when do light switches grunt? And since when do light switches feel like skin?

A hand slaps onto my mouth and the building scream catches before it can leave my mouth. I just watch ahead of me, trying to see through the dark.

A bare, pale chest finally makes it's way into my line of vision and I blink, squinting my eyes as my gaze travels up until I'm looking into two prosthetic eyeholes.

Relief and anger simultaneously swell within me as I shove Sal's hand off of my face. "For fuck's sake," I hiss out, taking a step toward him. An intimidation tactic, I guess? "What is wrong with you!? I was about to drop kick you, dick-head."

"As if you could," he grumbles back, eyes midnight black with the lack of lighting. But the itching at the back of my brain says he's staring right at me.

"Oh, yea?" I bite back. "Wanna find out?"

I don't wait for answer, just shove past him and into the bathroom, finally switching on the light I was so desperately seeking. But as I go to close the door, Sal's hand catches it, his long, pale fingers wrapping around the side of the wood and keeping it in place even though I try to put more pressure into closing it.

Sal just meets my force with some force of his own, easily getting the door to open again until he's standing in front of me in all his... bare chest... toned tummy perfection.

I huff out a sigh, thankful that my mask can hide the sudden blush on my cheeks, though it can't do a single thing for the way my eyes immediately trail down his body. Still, I manage to force out the words, "What do you want?"

Once I finally peel my gaze away from his body and look at his face, Sal looks stuck for a moment. Something about his slightly wide eyes and risen eyebrows hints that he may be gaping under that damn prosthetic of his.

So, I tilt my head, waiting for a response through the mild shock of seeing him not so confident and all lost for words. It's... it feels really weird to see him like this.

But then his eyes relax, as do his eyebrows, and he steps into the bathroom. Crosses the threshold. And shuts the door behind him.

He's either here to bitch at me, or...

I gulp down the wave of expectations and emotions that rushes through me all at once. Part of me is warm, wondering if he's here to honor the promise I'd given up on. The other part of me-- a bigger part-- is on guard. This is not like Sal. In fact, this is a bit concerning.

I don't know. Maybe he's going to kill me. I wouldn't be all that surprised with how much he seems to despise me. Just as I despise him in some cases.

He still says nothing. And I'm tired of waiting.

I take a shaky breath and take a little step back. "Look, if you have nothing to say, can you let me pee in peace? Argue with me later."

"Do you have to go that bad?" He finally speaks. But his words are stupid as shit.

I stare at him, dumbfounded as awkwardness pulses between us. "What-- I-- why would you even fucking ask me that?"

Sal narrows his eyes and bends his head down, a tinge of aggravation flashing in his eyes. "Just answer the question."

"Holy fuck," I groan out, shoving a hand into his chest until he takes a staggering step back. "Yes. I actually do have to go that bad. Now fuck off."

Sal turns without a word and leaves the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Okay. He must be on drugs. There's no damn way that interaction just happened with both of us sober. Something has to be making him act all weird. I'm so... I'm so weirded out that I'm considering saying fuck it and just running back to Ash's room.

But I use the restroom instead, just so I'm not miserable through the night, wash my hands, then open the door and flick of the light.

Only to get shoved back into the bathroom.

Rage consumes me. This guy is starting to tick me off. Something weird is up with him tonight and I genuinely don't want to stick around to find out. "Sal, what the fuck are you--"

"I'm trying to keep my word and I don't know about you, but this seems like a perfect opportunity to me," his deep voice rasps at least an octave lower. Barely hidden desire is reflected in his tone that only grows quieter and closer as I find my breath catching in my throat.

I look every which way, trying to catch a glimpse of him in the darkness as my heart thumps wildly in my chest.

Is this really about to happen? Do I want him to honor his promise? Am I ready to do this-- here, with all of our friends just a door or two away?

Honestly... yes I am. Weird or not, I have this ridiculously frustrating attraction to Sally Face.

Still...

I'm about to tell him he doesn't have to do this. That our friends are too close and it doesn't matter anyway. But his fingertips brush over the shirt covering my waist. Desperately and hesitantly. But I don't move, and he pauses, assessing my reaction or waiting for one.

When I simply stand there and hold my breath, listening to my wildly pounding heart in my ears, Sal drags his fingertips farther across my waist until his entire hand is under the hem of my shirt and gripping onto my skin, pulling me a step closer.

This feels... it feels funny. Though, I suppose when any two people who have, for example, in our case, bickered so often and are now trying to appease some stomped down desires... I guess it's understandable to be awkward. I just hope that Sal can squash out the odd tension because I don't have the gall too.

Even weirder is how things are going to progress if I can't even kiss him.

As clueless as I may be on occasion (or more so, often), I'm not dumb enough to think that Sal is just going to miraculously pull off his prosthetic and kiss me willingly. He's not some emo knight in shining armor and his prosthetic isn't his weapon. It's a barrier. Everything about him is a barrier. The most impenetrable one that I've ever seen.

I push past the awkward bit just a little, wondering how he'll do this without either of us being able to use anything above our necks. It's incredibly intriguing, especially since, overall, he's pretty confident.

At least, I would assume he's confident considering his hand just moves lower, his fingertips brushing over the waistband of my shorts.

I lick my lips as electricity courses through my body at just the whereabouts of his skin on mine. As frustrating as he is, he manages to make up for his shit personality by being hot in everything he does.

Sal is meticulous. He makes everything he does personal, intimate. It always shows even if he tries to hide it. Shows in his blue hair that brushes my cheek as he leans a bit closer to me. Shows in the curling of his fingers against the fabric of my shorts. Shows in just the sound of his slow breathing. All confidence. All focus.

I wish I could see him more than anything-- even if I'd be looking into his prosthetic. Just to see his outline, his body, his eyes on me.

The odd tension is all but gone as Sal and I stand quietly, his one hand on me and anticipation of what happens next rippling in the air around us. My body is growing warmer by the second, my heart picking up speed and my fingers shaking just a bit.

"Do you remember what I told you that night?" Sal whispers, his otherwise monotone, but raspy voice holding back all of his emotions. But I can see through him. I know he's struggling to move slow. But like I said, he's meticulous. He wants to turn this into something that will resonate with him just as much as it will resonate with me.

And that's something I'm starting to like about him, especially when it comes to moments like this.

"Which part?" I ask in return, my voice coming out soft and shaky despite how hard I try to keep everything together.

The condition of my words must give Sal the last bit of confidence he needs to do something more. The way I nervously put my words together, regardless of how short, tell him that my walls are down for now. And he's him. Of course he'll openly take that opportunity.

Sal's other hand, previously at his side, trails along my other side, skimming over my torso then up the length of my arm. Leaves a trail of fire the entire way. It takes him a frustratingly long time to tease me, just with his hands on such a seemingly uninteresting part of my body. It's aggravating how easily he's able to turn something innocent into something sinful.

His fingers finally run up the side of my neck until they brush along my jaw. I take a quick breath, all of the air in my body stolen at just small, fleeting touches. Fuck, I hate the way I like this so much.

I look up to where I assume his face would be, but I still see nothing. In a way, that makes things ten times more tense. I can't see him-- I can only feel him. Every other sense is heightened and I can feel him, smell him, hear him everywhere.

Sal's hand moves farther, his palm enveloping my ass and squeezing roughly. The feeling shocks me and excites me all at once. I stagger toward him, which is what he wanted, and gasp as I stop myself from knocking both of us over with a hand on his bare chest.

"There you go," he purrs quietly. So that was his game. To get me to touch him too. "And I'm talking about a very specific part. I need you to remember what it is." His voice is thickly coated in lust that he's given up on hiding from me. He's felt how I'm reacting to him. He doesn't have to keep anything at bay when I'm not either.

"Are you--" my voice fails and I clear my throat quietly, trying to will my fingers to stop trembling as I flatten my palm against his chest. It's crazy to think that I'm finally touching him after all this time, even crazier to feel his soft, cool skin beneath mine. "Are you talking about... you wanted me to wait until you were-- until we were--" I can't seem to spit it out. I don't have the confidence to actually say it.

"Speak, Vi," he says, voice dark with warning. "Remember what I told you about using words."

A shiver runs through my body and Sal grips onto my ass even tighter, only heightening my emotions and senses and my nerves. Fuck.

I choke over my own breath, trying to stop myself from having such obvious reactions to every little thing he does. But I can't fucking help it. He's too good. Too good at this.

I swallow thickly over my anxiety. I need this to happen more than my fear needs to control me. So even if it makes me cringe slightly, I whisper, "The part where you told me not to cum until you had me in your hands."

Sal's fluffy hair brushes along the top of my shoulders as he leans closer-- close enough for the tip of his prosthetic nose to tap against the nose of my mask. I hold my breath, eyes wide when his hand moves from my butt to the small of my back, his arm wrapping around me. "That's definitely an important part," he rasps, "but not what I'm talking about."

My heart skips a beat as a rush of air passes through my lips. I'm not sure if it's because I'm relieved or disappointed, but if he doesn't want to make me cum, then what the hell is he here for?

"I--" Damn me and my faltering brain. Why can't I just fucking speak? "I don't know what you're talking about." There we go. Even as I finally speak the words, I feel my heartbeat thrumming throughout my entire body, just under my skin. It's so evident that I'm afraid Sal's going to feel it, but that's impossible, I'm just letting fear get to me again.

His fingers press into the side of my neck a bit harder and he hums, the sound one of satisfaction and a lot of pride. I swallow again, blinking into the darkness.

"Your pulse is impressive," he whispers. "Makes me pretty pissed about taking so long to approach you when you're so open to me already."

Fuck, maybe it wasn't just fear. I failed to realize that his fingers were perfectly placed over my pulse. I tried to warn myself and I just didn't even listen. Welcome to a day in my life.

"Fuck off," I bite out shakily, cursing quietly upon realizing I still have no control over my trembling voice. "Just tell me what you're getting at," I say quietly, the words barely registering in the darkness around us.

Sal breathes deeply, almost like an obnoxious sigh while his fingers play with the edge of my shirt at my back. "Careful with what you say. I want you to speak, but not like that," he grunts, forehead pressing into mine.

I take a deep breath of my own, almost choking on the sudden influx of fresh air into my body after I'd hardly been getting any for a good couple minutes. "Then say it," I hiss. "You're so worried about me using my words, why don't you use yours too?"

"Because I'm in charge," his rough voice holds so much edge, so little patience, and never-ending anticipation as his hand that barely brushes along my neck moves quickly until his fingers are gripping my jaw, forcing my face closer to his.

Sals fingers dig into my cheeks as my lips skim along his prosthetic. We're so close now, and all the breath I'd just taken in is lost on me again. "Maybe I don't want to tell you," he rasps out, fingers squeezing a little tighter.

A shaky breath falls from my lips and suddenly I can't look anywhere near him s as my palms grow clammy and my knees begin to tremble. I'm so close to... I don't know what I'm close to doing, but I really want to do something. It's killing me to sit here with his hands on me this way and play the submissive bit.

"You were the one who told me to speak more," I whisper, glancing from where I think his eyes are to the rest of his prosthetic-- all of which are, unfortunately, invisible to me in the darkness. "The same should go for you."

He's quiet, fingers still gripping at my side and my jaw. But after a moment, his hold loosens and then he's trailing his fingertips across my chin. His touch is featherlight, tickling every inch of skin that he touches until he stops at the middle of my neck. And he pauses for a moment, makes me wait with bated breath and a pounding heart.

Then, the breath gets knocked out of me when he quickly and aggressively wraps his hand around my throat. Sal squeezes, causing a rush of air to push past my lips-- a last bit I didn't know I had. "This seem familiar?" he rasps.

I blink through the shock, listening as Sal grunts quietly, waiting for me to do or say something. I gulp as best as I can with his restricting hand on my neck.

His fingers flex around my skin and he takes a step closer, causing butterflies to form in my stomach. They invade my mind, clouding all rational sense that I once thought I had. The butterflies are dark and carry around all the sinful feelings I've tried so hard to ignore, to push aside.

But the truth is that no matter how hard I try to hide it, I'm attracted to Sally Face and it's probably time I do something about it. It's time to get him out of my system. Once will do.

With a raspy breath, I drag my hand farther up his bare chest and all the way to his shoulder to wrap it around the back of his neck.

My heart pounds relentlessly against my ribcage, fighting to try and tell Sal to have his way with me itself. It's sickening, really, how far I've fallen into the depths of this ridiculous attraction toward him. And now I'm trying not to wrap myself around him. Trying to calm my racing heart. Trying to stop my quaking hands. Trying to prevent my legs from giving out.

With the last bit of confidence I have at the moment, I use my hand to bring Sal's face to mine. His prosthetic forehead meets my mask with a little clack that echoes around the small bathroom. He huffs out a laugh in response and it takes everything in me not to slap him fucking silly. "Yes," I try to say against his tight grip.

It's one word. One syllable. But it's all it takes. All it takes for just one of us to snap. And the snap is beautiful.

Sal takes a deep breath, like he's either preparing himself or trying to calm down. Either way, something in him loses whatever fight he was in the middle of. He wraps one arm around my back, tightens his hold on my neck, and walks me backward until I'm roughly smashed against the wall.

He loosens his grip just a bit so I can catch the breath that fell from me upon hitting the wall, but then he's using the hand he had around my back to trail it down the outside of my thigh. His fingers are cool against my sensitive skin as he grabs onto my knee and lifts it, wrapping my leg around his hips.

Neither of us make a sound. My heart continues to yell for Sal to do more. I'm starting to think he may hear my internal pleas because he answers them each and every time.

With my leg securely placed around him, he wraps his arm around my waist again. Then, he slides his hand past the waistband of my short and into my underwear until he's gripping onto my bare ass.

My mouth drops open and I shut my eyes. No words pass between us for a minute as he massages my butt, getting a good grip on it to yank me closer to him.

And then our hips meet. His sweatpants do absolutely nothing to hide his hard cock as it slams against my clothed pussy, creating such delicious friction that I nearly cry out at the feeling. And he knows.

His hand falls from my throat and is soon replaced by his prosthetic face, his nose running along the length of my neck. Just knowing he's so close, alongside the rough surface of his prosthetic leaving a trail of goosebumps on each inch of skin he touches, makes me push myself closer to him.

He hums, satisfied when I bring my other hand to the side of his throat. I can't see his tattoo, but I can imagine it there. Covering the warm side of his neck, just below my fingertips.

"Listen to me," he says against my neck, bringing his face up so that his nose is brushing mine again. His voice is shaky, deep, raspy. Dangerous. "I'm going to show you how to use your words. Okay?"

I nod softly against him, breathing deeply. "Okay," I whisper back, my voice betraying whatever front I was hoping to keep up. It almost sounds like a whine.

He nods back, running a veiny hand through my hair. He starts at my forehead, dragging his fingers through the tendrils until he hits the base of my neck, cupping it and tilting my head up a bit more. "Good."

"Here's what I'm going to do to you," he starts off, breathing deeply. He tilts his head and the only reason I can tell is because his nose is at an angle now, still brushing mine. And then his prosthetic lips gently touch mine again. "I'm going to slide my hand into the front of your shorts, under your panties, and I'm going to fuck you with my fingers." His voice is ragged and his hand squeezes my ass tighter. Meanwhile, my own breath catches in my throat and the panties he was just talking about grow wet. No way is he able to say shit like that and not feel nervous about it... but at the same time, his words definitively broke the last bit of that awkward barrier between us.

"And all you have to do," he continues, pulling his hand away from my butt and out of my shorts, bringing it up and between us. His tone is casual and a bit sprightly-- desire swirling around underneath, hardly hidden at all. "is take it like a good girl. That sound good?" Then his index finger boops the tip of my nose.

I'm so sure my stomach has dropped out of my ass and I'm thrust onto the cusp of cumming just because of his dirty words. It happens so quickly that I'm holding him tighter and mentally cursing myself when a low, quiet groan escapes my throat.

Sal chuckles in response. But it almost sounds like a childish, excited, dark little giggle. "Eager, are we?" he asks, using the same hand he booped my nose with to grab my chin, bringing me just a tad closer to him. "You need to tell me if that plan is okay. If you don't say anything, we'll sit here like this all night. Consent is key."

I couldn't speak right now even if I wanted to. There's no oxygen left in me. I lost it all when he told me this plan he formulated in the depths of his salacious mind. But I want him to implement that plan too. And it won't happen if I just continue to sit here, breathless with my leg around his hips and his hand buried in my hair.

"I can hold out, Vi," he decides to say, voice biting in a way that's meant to push me along. "But can you?"

No. I absolutely fucking can't. My pussy is aching and he hasn't even touched it yet. My underwear is uncomfortably wet and my legs are quaking like a leaf-- I'm sure he can feel it.

So I take a breath and prepare myself for the hell that is to come. "Sounds like a plan," I force out quietly, trying to keep the background mewl to minimum. I'm not a fucking cat and this guy isn't going to make me purr for him... though, he does have potential.

"It better," he replies to me, voice suddenly much deeper and dangerous compared to the last thing he said to me. The sound sends a jolt of electricity through my veins and suddenly, I think my expectations of this aren't set too high. If anything, my expectations aren't high enough. All this time, I assumed he'd never actually be able to do as well as I was hoping he would, but I'm starting to see that he may be better than I could ever comprehend.

Sal is desperate as he slides the hand on my chin down my body. Between my breasts, over my stomach, and all the way to the top of my shorts. He waits there, seeing what I'll do. But I'm breathless, shivering from his light touch and about to kick off my shorts myself because of how ridiculous soaked my underwear is.

A man can be good in bed, but a man who's good with words is ten times better. The two together? I didn't know it was possible. But I'm pretty sure this combination could cure the world of depression.

I hold my breath, pushing my hips a bit closer to him when he drags his fingertips along the waistband of my shorts. I can feel my heart pounding in every inch of my body and it's starting to make me feel insane. All I can hear is my rapid, pitiful heart waiting for something that... honestly, something that he's probably teasing me about. I doubt he'll actually do anything. He probably just wants to humiliate me, use this as leverage. Tell everyone that I tried to fuck him and he had to reject me.

This fear works through me quickly-- so quickly that the lust I was just feeling freezes and gets replaced with embarrassment. I'm about to pull my leg away from him and push him back, get him away from me. But he must sense something because he finally pushes his cold hand into my shorts and immediately under my panties, slowly inching closer to my swollen, aching clit that's skipped the anxiety and gone straight to wanting.

Where I was just about to get him away from me, I arch my back off the wall instead, hoping and wishing his hand would travel faster and relieve me of the ache slowly building in my abdomen. He's the only one who can do it now-- I wouldn't be able to finish myself off after this scene.

And as always, regarding tonight at least, he listens in on my thoughts. His cold fingers gently brush over my needy clit. It's a light touch full of meaning and unspoken promises. That alone has me tipping over the edge that I had to ignore the past few nights after Sal told me to wait for him over our phone call.

I swallow down a moan that so desperately wants to escape and hold onto him a little tighter, using my free hand to reach over his shoulder and grab onto his back.

He hums lustfully, rubbing his nose against the cheek of my mask. He's so close. I can smell the musky scent of his cologne and shampoo, the fresh rain-like scent of his body wash. I can feel his hair tickling my neck and shoulders. I can feel his heart slam against his chest-- and that's when I realize that maybe the quick pace of my heart isn't the only heartbeat I've been feeling this entire time. His embrace is all-consuming; makes my head spin.

"You're being so good and quiet," he whispers to me. "Keep doing that." He applies more pressure to my clit with his index and middle finger, moving them in a slow circular motion that drives me up the damn wall. "Such an obedient slut."

I'm about to pass out.

It turns out he's smart. Before he puts anymore focus on my clit, he moves his hand down and slides his fingers against my wet folds, breathing deeply upon feeling me. "Fuck, you're soaked," he acknowledges, voice shaking with what I would assume is barely held back consideration for what I want. But I really don't care-- I'll take whatever he'll give me. And right now, I'm desperate to feel his fingers sink inside me. And for some ridiculous reason he doesn't do it, just teases my folds and soaks up whatever little bit of my juices that he can.

He presses me farther into the wall, a groan following his movements. I think he's as desperate as I am now.

He finally does something more with his hand again, bringing it back up. Just as his now wet fingers touch my clit, a startlingly loud knock sounds on the door.

The spell that had captured us ruptures as Sal practically jumps out of his skin, fingers digging into the base of my neck as his other hand disappears from my shorts.

I swear my heart stops for a moment upon hearing who knocked on the door.

"Sally, is that you, man?" Larry's sleepy but frantic voice says from the other side of the door. I hold my breath, and Sal holds me. "I need to piss so bad that I swear my uterus is about to burst."

I can hear Sal audibly gulp and that's how I know that the situation is bad.

At any other time, I'd be cackling over Larry's claim. But right now, I'm horrified because Sal and I are about to get caught in the bathroom together.

Suddenly, I'm yanked away from the wall and pulled in another direction. I almost stumble over Sal's quick pace, but follow him anyway. But when my calves hit the edge of the bathtub and a gentle shove on my shoulder makes me lean back, I grab onto his wrist because no. Fucking. Way.

"Sal," I hiss quietly. "Are you insane? I'm not hiding in the fucking bathtub!"

"Just shut up, it's only for maybe three minutes, okay?" he whispers back, agitation tinging his voice-- as per usual.

"No! This is even more incriminating than you and I doing the walk of shame out of this damn bathroom together," I reply to him, squeezing his wrist tighter.

Sal makes an aggravated sound then grabs onto the back of my knees. He forces them to bend, holding me up with his weight as I fall back toward the bathtub. I want to scream. No way is this about to happen-- no way did he literally just force me into this tub.

My ass hits the bottom of the tub with a little thump that automatically makes Larry start banging on the door.

I look up to where I imagine Sal is, leaning over me as I curl up onto the ceramic floor. "Wait," he says. "Don't say a word. All you have to do is exactly what I told you, 'kay? Take it like a good girl. Sit there and be quiet. Don't even breathe if you think it'll be too loud."

He pulls his arms away from me and I feel like I'm going to vomit. "I'll reward you for this." I don't want a damn reward. I want to disappear. But before I can object, his fingers gently grip onto my chin. I'm shocked by the his soft touch, especially by his next quiet words that send a wave of heat through my body. "Don't worry, little lamb. I won't lead you to the slaughter," he adds that sweet promise of guiding me correctly, but I've never trusted him before. Why should I put my faith in him now just because he used that oddly adorable pet name?

But the curtain is slowly being closed and I find myself doing as he said-- curling up on my side and holding my stupid fucking breath. It's the only option I have left. Fuck, this is humiliating.

I hear his soft footsteps grow quiet, and then the door opens. My heart races and my entire body tenses up.

"Lar," Sal's raspy voice starts, tinged with equal amounts of amusement and frustration. "You'd be shitting out babies left and right if you had a uterus."

The light flicks on and my eyes widen. Oh, fuck.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Larry retorts, not even bothering to close the door as he moves closer to the toilet and, consequently, closer to me. My eyes are about to pop out of my damn head. "You don't know that."

"Actually, I do. You fuck so often that you'd have to have been pregnant a couple times by now," Sal immediately responds. I can just imagine him leaning against the bathroom door with his arms crossed over his chest, watching Larry.

And the Larry in question has pulled his dick out at this point because I'm suddenly able to hear a relieved groan. And then he's pissing. Larry fucking Johnson is peeing right next to me and his best friend was just about to finger fuck me. What the hell kind of situation is this?

"Yea well, maybe I'm immune to children then. I don't know," Larry mumbles. I'm trying so hard to keep it together right now. I don't know if I want to cry or laugh, but neither of them are a good idea.

"You better hope you are," Sal says in response. "I don't need more of you running around here. Not to mention, those children would have to be pushed out of your dick so... not sure you'd want that." His tone screams disgust and pain and just thinking about it makes me shiver a bit too. Sounds painful. But other people go through childbirth all the damn time too. It's a painful thing all around, I'd bet.

I hear Larry hiss as he flushes the toilet then turns on the water in the faucet, washing his hands. "Yea, I think you're right then," he says, pretending to gag over the thought. "I definitely don't have a uterus. I can't imagine birthing a kid from my dick."

"Other people do it all the time. Respect the birth," Sal says nonchalantly. "Now get out. I need to take a shower."

"What?" Larry asks, clearly confused. "You took a shower earlier. Oh-- wait," his tone changes into something more playful, knowing. And then, his voice goes quieter "Did you have another wet dream about Vi?"

I bite down onto my bottom lip to contain my betraying throat that suddenly wants to choke on that little bit of information.

Nah, no way. Larry's just fucking with him.

I hear a smack and then a giggle and "Ouch!" that sounds a lot like Larry. And then Sal grinds out, "Shut the fuck up. I've never had a wet dream before in my life, especially not about Vi."

"Ah, you're so in denial!" Larry laughs viciously. "You can't hide it now. You literally begrudgingly admitted it to me two days ago. You dreamt that you and Vi fucked. I'd call that a wet dream, man."

"You're fucking delusional, Larry," Sal grunts out ferociously. Oh, he's so pissed. And I'm about to piss myself in this tub. I'm so going to give him shit for this later.

"Um, I'm not delulu, dude," Larry says matter-of-factly. "That term is reserved for you. So, come on. Admit it."

"I'm going to punch you, dude," Sal says, and he's concerningly calm. Which, if anything, should be a warning sign for Larry.

But Larry doesn't heed that warning. He only continues. "Admit it or I won't leave," he says, giggling all the while.

I flinch upon hearing a loud thud followed by the bathroom door slamming against the wall. Larry starts throwing out whispered profanities. "Fuck, sorry!" he says, still managing to laugh. Did Sal actually punch him?

"I told you I'd do it," Sal says nonchalantly.

These two are going to be the reason I get caught. They need to end this shit before I actually start laughing.

"I'm not even worried about the punch. You've got a mean ass right hook. I bet you fuck bitches good with that hand," Larry says suggestively.

Sal scoffs, likely in disgust at Larry's words-- but I'm tuning in because hopefully he does fuck bitches good with that hand, especially since I'm currently considered one of the bitches in question.

"So I've been told," Sal says snarkily. "Now get out. Please."

Larry barks out a laugh that could very possibly wake everyone up. "Test that theory out on Vi."

"Okay, Larry. Seriously, fuck off." Sal's growing agitated again and he throws every bit of it into his voice.

"Fine, man. Fine," Larry says cooly, his voice moving farther away from me. "Respect the birth." Another cackle, and then the door slowly shuts.

I wait silently, too afraid to move. One sound might send Larry right back over here.

But Sal moves, and this time the light stays on.

He throws the shower curtain open and looks down at me with his stupidly pretty blue eyes. Right now, they hold a ton of agitation, but some very surface-level lust, too. I can see it so well.

He watches me as I move into a sitting position, both of us just staring at each other. I don't want this to be awkward. He's literally already had his hand on my pussy-- that's more than enough. I'm perfectly fine with calling it a night and heading back to bed.

Sal, on the other hand, has other ideas. He looks over at the shower curtain, grabs it, then hops into the bathtub with me, crouching down in front of me. He closes the curtain again, then looks to me.

It's so frustratingly nice to see him with the lights on now. Even though it's cramped with both of us in the tub together, he looks so pretty. Messy cerulean hair brushing his shoulders, azure eyes alight with curiosity and barely veiled desire. Pale, toned tummy on full display for me. His tattoos darkened by the obscurity of the curtain. While his dagger tattoo is hidden, I can see the other beautiful tattoos on both his arms.

My breath catches in my throat. Sal is nowhere near Larry's level, but he has some muscle on him. I've always assumed that his biceps came from playing guitar so much, but abs are a different story. And he definitely has those.

And that shirtless photo of him that Larry sent me a while back? The one where I could see part of a tattoo peeking out from the top of his pants? Oh yea, I can see it again and I'm about to start foaming at the mouth. Somehow, I knew deep in my soul that getting to see him during this entire ordeal we've created would make everything feel so much better.

And my claim still stands as Sal bends his head forward a bit, making a shadow cross his face. It darkens his pretty blue eyes and fills me with exhilaration.

"I'm not done with you," he says darkly, eyes raking over me. He leaves a trail of heat on every inch of skin that his eyes observe and I find my self scooting backward toward the other end of the bathtub. But, I still nod my head at him, watching his eyes narrow upon noticing my nonverbal response.

My brain is on overdrive as Sal follows me, crawling my way until he's hovering over me. Both of his hands are resting on the floor beside my bare thighs. He keeps his gaze on mine, watching me like a hawk. I feel like I can't breathe. Everything is so tense but... I like it.

"You don't have to speak," he says, tilting his head to the side. "I'll let it go for now. That's your reward."

That makes me furrow my brows even if he can't see it. "That's the reward?" I ask softly, still more than nervous with him leaning over me like this, knowing he had his hand in my shorts just a minute or two ago. "I expected something better," I add, sucking in a quick breath.

His eyes slowly squint, like he's smiling beneath that prosthetic. "Yea?" he says seductively, trailing his eyes over me yet again. "I don't think I need to say this, but you shouldn't expect shit from me. Ever." His eyes meet mine again and my heart stutters over the heat in his gaze. "But I'll humor you for once. Only once," he warns. "So, let's see if I can do better that."

He leans back a bit to distribute his weight, pulls my knees apart, then grabs onto my hips, yanking me toward him suddenly. I gasp quietly when my hips collide with his, creating that same friction between my pussy and his hardened cock just like earlier.

A little mewl echoes off the ceramic around us and Sal closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and seems to relish in the sound. He groans then looks down at me again, devilish intentions swimming around in his sapphire eyes.

My underwear never dried in the first place, but that sudden heat is back. I don't want to run away like I previously did. I'd much rather sit here and see what he has to offer.

I shimmy my hips a bit, rubbing over the bulge in his sweats. Sal groans again, gripping my hips tighter.

"Enough of that," he rasps huskily. "I'm not fucking you in this small ass tub."

I roll my eyes as if to say whatever, but he doesn't comment on it. Only narrows his eyes before letting go of my sides to lean over me again.

He puts one hand down beside my hips then uses the other to tap on my waist. "Take them off," he says quietly.

I gulp down my nerves. I don't have to be nervous. He probably won't even look down to see what he's doing, and even if he does, he'll literally be touching me so it doesn't matter.

With a quick breath, I lean down a bit and grab onto my shorts. I push them down as far as I can, then kick them off the rest of the way.

Sal nods once I'm finished and then that free hand of his brushes over my stomach, pushing my shirt up. His fingertips drag over my bare skin, and then he travels lower to meet the top of my underwear. My breath catches in my throat again, and even more so when he pauses. He gives me a sideways look that makes me cock an eyebrow in response.

"I meant these too," he says, hooking a finger into my really pretty and really expensive black lace underwear. And to my utter horror, he twirls his finger into the fabric, bunches it up in his hand, and then with a little grunt of effort, effectively rips it apart.

I'm gaping now. Lace isn't hard to tear, but I didn't fucking want him to rip my underwear off of me.

But the little smile in his eyes says that he wants to make me mad, and somehow, he just knew that my lace panties were the perfect way to get the reaction he wanted.

He pulls the broken fabric out from under me and I can't help but brood a bit as he does so.

It all falls away as he cups my pussy in his now warm hand though. It was cold earlier, but after fighting with my underwear, it's warmed up a bit and the feeling makes heat rush through my body in response.

I squeeze my eyes shut, whimpering pathetically beneath him. Sal breathes deeply, a satisfied little hum leaving him just like it did earlier.

He moves his hand, dragging two digits between my folds to wet his fingertips, and then he's rubbing slow circles on my clit.

Every circle he draws against my bundle of nerves is thought-out, methodical, and borderline painful. It's just the same movement over and over again, but it feels amazing. I can't help but wonder how much he's practiced to be able to get me with the simplest form of pleasure, but I don't care. He's touching me and it feels better than I ever could have imagined. That's what matters.

I let out a shaky breath, finally opening my eyes to see him nearly glaring at me. It's not something out of anger, more so intense focus. And he's watching me so closely, mapping out the way my lips part. Glancing to my chest as I take a deep, shaky breath.

"That feels good?" he says softly but darkly, blinking up at me.

I nod, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. He applies more pressure to my clit, nodding back at me as his slow circles pick up speed.

I shiver beneath him, gulping down sounds that so desperately want to be out in the open air.

"Do what you want," Sal says, seeing my obvious struggle. "As long as you're quiet, I don't care. Whore out all you want, I certainly won't stop you."

I keep my eyes on him, contemplating his words. I'm not sure that's a great idea. Larry could still be up. Ash could wake up. Todd could come out to look for food. It's too dangerous.

But Sal doesn't seem to like my reluctance. He uses his knees to spread my thighs, giving him more space to move his fingers quicker and to keep me pinned beneath him.

I sigh, leaning my head back against the back of the tub. Pleasure is rolling through me in waves. All the frustrating, desirous pain I felt earlier is slowly building up into what I'm sure is going to be an amazing orgasm.

I buck my hips up to force his hand to put more pressure on my sensitive pussy. Sal answers by leaning back a bit and using his free hand to push my hips back down to the floor. I open my eyes again, my breathing growing quicker the longer he teases my clit.

A lustful moan finally breaches the seal of my lips and that seems to sate Sal quite a bit. He finally answers my unspoken request, pressing into my clit harder and rubbing faster. I can't help but arch my back, nearly writhing beneath him.

Despite the initial fear I felt about being bare beneath him, I glance down at the space between us, noting the way his fingers work me so prettily-- chipped black nail polish, bracelets, and all. But, no rings.

I note that little observation in my head, my panting breaths catching in my throat when I realize he has all the opportunity in the world to make me cum like he originally promised.

The sight and the new knowledge makes me gulp and I look up again, trailing my eyes over his torso, over his tattooed arms, up his neck, and back to his prosthetic face. He watches me ogle him, taking me in as well.

But just this focus on one part of me isn't enough anymore. I'm in the clear for more and I know that now. So without breaking eye contact, I murmur, "More."

Sal breathes deeply, using his free hand to gently brush over my boobs. It's a gentle touch, but without a bra on, I feel so much especially when his fingers rub over my hardened nipple.

And then, I'm mewling like the kitten I swore I wasn't earlier. I can't help it and he knows that well enough.

Sal holds me still as I twitch and shake beneath him, calming me with a soothing, "Shh. You're okay. Stay still for me."

I try to follow his command, attempting to stop the way my thighs instinctively clamp around his legs. He doesn't seem to mind that bit all that much. But he keeps that free hand on the inside of my thigh, pressing it down and leaving me shaking.

Finally, his fingers move from my clit back down to my folds. But instead of sinking into my pussy, he teases me yet again, simply rubbing his soaked fingers up and down while watching my facial reactions.

"Do you want my fingers?" he asks, voice raspy and serious. So different compared to the usual icy tone he uses with me.

"I want your dick," I answer breathlessly, moaning out softly when his fingers dip just a bit into my dripping cunt. "But yes. Your fingers will suffice."

Sal laughs, finally obliging me by plunging two fingers into my sopping pussy. I cry out, wincing at the sound just as he slaps a hand over my mouth.

"Be good," he says gruffly, breath heavy as he glares into my eyes. He pulls his fingers out then shoves them back in, making my eyes squeeze shut. "And yea, they'll suffice," he continues, carefully pulling his hand away from my mouth as he curls his two fingers within me. A whimper fights past my lips at the sweet, carnal feeling he gives me. And then he whispers, "For now."

My eyes fly open and I stare at him in shock. For now? So, this isn't the end?

He seems to see the words dancing in my head, so Sal squints his eyes at me and starts relentlessly pounding his fingers into my pussy to shut me up. My head flies back, nearly slamming into the back of the tub. My lips part and the sound I'm about to make is going to be awfully loud, but Sal probably predicts that too.

He shoves two fingers into my mouth, pushing them back as far as my throat allows.

I moan against his fingers, quaking as his brutal pace never lets up. He continuously thrusts his digits into me quickly, pausing only to curl his fingers. Which only elicits more muffled and unintelligible pleas from me.

I don't even know what I'm begging for anymore-- for him to finish me off or to make this last even longer.

He pushes his fingers deeper into me even though he's reached the top of his hand and can't possibly go any farther. Doesn't stop him from trying though. He grunts, slamming his fingers deeper and harder. Curling his digits, using his thumb to rub quick circles onto my clit. Doing all he can to push me over the edge.

I suck on the fingers he shoved into my mouth, grabbing onto his wrist to keep him there.

Sal's breath hitches in his throat and he seems to choke for a second, but then he gathers his wits and continues to fuck me good just like he promised. His fingers curl again, hitting a spot that I didn't know existed before. I cry out, squeezing his wrist in my hand and grabbing onto his shoulder with my other hand. Fuck, that felt good. I could cry.

Sal repositions his legs between mine, bending a bit lower as he slams his digits into me, hitting that beautifully delicious spot again. "There?" he rasps out breathlessly upon hearing my dirty groan. I nod my head vigorously, silently begging him to stay right where he is.

I watch him with tears in my eyes and note the second his eyes widen a bit, never-ending focus and dedication dancing in his cerulean gaze. "Got it," he says darkly, "Give me thirty seconds."

Just as quickly as he says this, Sal pulls his fingers out of my mouth and wraps them around my neck instead, squeezing tightly. My quiet mewl is broken up from the lack of air, but I don't fight him. I hold on tighter and let him do his work because he hasn't led me astray at all. I trust his thirty second claim.

Sal pulls his fingers nearly all the way out of my pussy and I open my eyes, groaning at the loss of his digits that filled me up. But then he's pushing three fingers into me. They squeeze against my restricting pussy, but he still manages to hit that same spot that made my vision blur after about two seconds.

My mouth falls open and my chest rises and falls quickly with my panting breaths. I close my eyes, tilt my head up to the ceiling, and let the shivers and quakes take over my body as Sal's fingers pound into my sopping cunt with no hesitance. His movements are so fast, so deep, so filling that it's just enough to push me over the edge within the allotted time that he promised.

My orgasm hits me like a brick wall, making the building ache fall away and leave only the most mouthwatering debauchery I've ever experienced in my life. My ears ring, I lose all feeling in my limbs, my vision blurs again, and so many unintelligible words tumble out of my mouth. Words that he nor I can hear or comprehend because of the hand restricting my airways.

I cum all over his fingers and he rides me through every second of it. He slows his pace and his hand loosens around my neck, letting me breathe a bit easier.

I huff over the pounding in my chest, letting my body go limp against the bathtub floor.

I breathe heavily, still panting like I just ran a marathon when Sal slowly pulls his hand out of my soaked, worn-out cunt. But he keeps his hand languidly wrapped around my throat, praising me with a light squeeze followed by a purred, "Good girl."

After a moment of catching my breath after that ridiculously mind-blowing orgasm, I open my eyes to see Sal hovering over me with a refreshed look in his eyes.

Neither of us say a word. And I'm more than satisfied. I got far more than I expected from him and that's both awesome and a problem. Because I definitely don't want this to be the last time we do this. It was too fucking good.

I take a breath, watching Sal fully sit up from the corner of my eyes. He wrings his hand, tilting his head as he look down at it. "I did a fucking number on you, didn't I?" he proudly states, blue eyes glancing up at me. "I never took you for a dirty whore. But you're a good one."

His words make my cheeks turn a dark shade of pink while my heart slams into my ribs. Anyone else would think he's insulted me, but I know he doesn't mean it that way. If anything, this is more praise. This is common knowledge to me after finding out that he has a degrading kink. Shit, I guess I have one too, then.

I decide to sit up, face-to-face with him. My mask's nose brushing against his prosthetic nose. And I look him dead in the eye, watching and waiting for his reaction as I trail a hand up his leg, over his thigh.

I hear his sharp intake of breath and he leans away from me, getting into a position similar to the one I was just in moments ago. So now I hover over him, meaningfully passing my hand over the impressive bulge in his sweats. That's a nice size.

His eyes flutter shut and a wave of heat hits me again. He's really going to let me do this and I'm all in for it.

I grab the waistband of his sweatpants and work them over his hips and down his thighs. He does much like I did earlier, kicks them off and on top of my shorts. Sal groans when there's less restriction against his hard cock, his sweatpants quickly replaced by my hand as I palm him through his boxers.

Sal hisses, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I should rip these off of you too," I say softly, sweetly. His eyes snap open again and he glares down at me, though that glare is clouded by the lust swimming around in those pretty eyes.

"Don't you fucking dare," he huskily replies, squirming a bit when I squeeze his dick.

"And why shouldn't I?" I ask him, tilting my head inquisitively. "Give me one good reason."

He grunts disapprovingly, glare turning into something more ferocious. "Do it and I won't let you touch me at all."

I shrug. "That's not too bad. After all, you honored your promise. As far as I'm concerned, I don't have to return the favor at all." I say this all while rubbing his dick, watching excitedly as he twitches with each stroke of my hand.

"So what, is this a pity job?" he says between breaths, gasping lightly.

"No," I answer him, squeezing his cock again. "This is me giving in."

His glare morphs, turning into a lustful gaze. He just stares at me, gulping. His hair falls behind him, giving me a perfect view of his dagger tattoo. I can't help but reach my free hand up to trace it, still keeping my hand over his dick that flexes here and there.

Suddenly, it's clear he's had enough of my teasing. He clamps both hands onto my hips, fingers still slick from my liquids. He growls out dangerously, "Come here." Then, he's yanking me toward him. I stumble over his spread legs and clamber on top of his cock-- and he stops me there. I'm tethered onto him, his biceps flexing as I try to move off of him, but he doesn't let me.

"Really?" I say shakily. "You can't let me have your dick? You said 'for now' earlier." I'm not sure where the words or the confidence is coming from, but it's here.

Sal scoffs, shuddering despite his conflicting emotions. "Who says you can't have it?" he grumbles. "Stop being a fucking brat."

"Don't tell me to stop the impossible," I tell him, placing a hand onto his chest to stabilize myself. Don't get this confused, I'm losing my shit on the inside. I didn't expect to be sitting on my arch nemesis's dick with just a thin piece of fabric between us tonight.

"You're gonna be like that? Really? You just came all over me. Be grateful and fucking behave for once," he says, gasping as I move my hips to try and get off of him again.

Our gazes connect when I realize what I've done. And that gives Sal the opportunity to do exactly what he had in mind when he pulled me on top of him.

He squeezes my sides and shimmies his body a little lower. Then, he uses his grip on me to grind my hips down on top of him.

It's a nice feeling, the friction against his swollen cock and my still needy clit. We both groan quietly, the combined sounds so dirty that they become pretty. And I guess that's the way all sexual things work.

I grab onto his shoulders and grind down onto his dick again, biting my bottom lip. Sal groans at the feeling, fingers digging into my hips. I don't mind this at all. In fact, I've decided that I won't be moving. But that doesn't mean I'm about to let go of what he just said.

"You're the one who should be grateful," I whimper, sucking in a breath through my teeth as I push myself onto him again. "I doubt you get cummed on every day, huh? I've behaved long enough tonight. That ship has sailed," I bite out, wrapping a strand of his hair around my index finger as I rut against him.

Sal guides my hips, pushing me to move faster against his throbbing cock. I mewl in response, digging my fingernails into his pale skin.

"That's not a good excuse," he says, his voice grated as he forces the words out through his undoubtedly clenched teeth. "You don't have to be a bitch all the fucking time. Give me a break."

"Never," I tell him immediately, grinding even faster against him as I feel myself working up to another orgasm. It's quick, seeing as I'm still sensitive from the orgasm I had just seconds.

A mind-boggling, erotic, and downright lewd moan leaves Sal's mouth when I thrust particularly hard against him. He sucks in a quick breath and throws his head back, staring up at the ceiling as ragged breaths make his body shake.

I repeat the motion, rubbing myself harshly against him just to hear him make that sound again. It was so unexpected but so welcomed. I felt it in my soul, felt it in my stomach. It was everywhere.

But when I do it a third time, Sal pauses our movements with a hand on my hips. "Vi, stop," he hisses. "We can't be loud. And if you keep doing that, that's what we're both going to be."

I look at him like he's stupid, though I'm reeling on the inside over his admittance of being pretty vocal. That'll be good info to utilize in the future. "How do you expect to cum if I can't make you feel good?" I ask him dumbly, shoving his hands off of me so I can grind my hips into his yet again.

He doesn't seem to like my blatant ignorance of what he just told me. He sits up, looking me dead in the eye with a nasty glare. I guess he expects himself to be intimidating enough to make me stop, but if that's the case, he's got another thing coming.

Even in this position, I slide a bit between his legs and rut myself against him again. Sal's glaring eyes quickly widen in surprise and he watches me for a moment, just lets me pleasure myself against him.

I guess he decides on the fuck-it option eventually because he soon joins me, meeting each little thrust I put out.

He groans out again, wrapping an arm around my waist and the other around my shoulders, holding me close against him. His head drops onto my shoulder as he pushes his hips up to meet mine, his cock brushing my clit so perfectly.

"So good," he whimpers breathlessly, holding me tight against him. I release a shaky sigh chewing on my bottom lip as I throw an arm around his neck, burying my hands in his soft azure hair. "Fucking slut."

My eyes squeeze shut and we're both feeling fucking amazing for the time being. He's decided to ignore me, which means I win, especially if that degrading pet name is anything to go by. And I'm going to cum for a second time. This is damn wonderful.

"I'm close," Sal warns, a whimper falling past his lips as he grips onto me tighter. Holy hell, it didn't take him too long. That's so flattering. "Say something," he breathes.

Say something? What does he want me to say? Does he want permission to cum or something? That's nothing like him. Doesn't feel right.

But then I think back to that phone call we had, when he told me to tell him how much I hated him.

I gulp, scratching a hand up his back. "You're such an asshole," I whine, burying my face into his hair. "You make me feel so dirty, disgusting. And what's even worse about it-- what's worse about you-- is that I fucking crave it."

He groans, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. I yelp quietly, opening my eyes as he takes control, thrusting his hips against me. The yelp quickly turns into a dirty moan that makes him grip me even tighter.

"Going to cum for me again?" he says between quick breaths and erotic grunts. "What a good bitch."

A shuddering breath falls from my lips as addictive pleasure works its way through me again. I want to tell him to shut up, but I really fucking enjoy when he says things like this. It's so damn nice, makes everything else we're both feeling ten times better.

"Please," I rasp out. "Faster."

Sal obliges, running his prosthetic nose down the length of my neck as we grind harder and faster against each other, the head of his cock rubbing my clit in all the right ways.

And suddenly, I'm thrown into my second orgasm of the night and fighting to stay sitting upright. What helps is Sal's strong grip around me. He lets out a primal grunt of his own before shuddering and moaning deeply, and the warmth that grows beneath me makes my own orgasm last even longer.

When it's all said and done, Sal and I are a mess of bodily fluids and heavy breathing, wrapped up in each other like it's natural.

But as we come down from our highs, the problem with this situation is that this isn't a natural thing for us. What's natural is anger, contempt, frustration. Hate.

So when I've finally caught my breath, I look into Sal's tired, glazed eyes. He looks back at me, no emotions visible as far as I can tell.

"I want a new pair of underwear," I whisper, watching and waiting for what happens next.

Sal takes a deep breath, eyes glancing over my face for a second before he lets the arm around my shoulders fall away. But his arm around my waist doesn't fall, only loosens. Then he shrugs. "Sucks to suck."

Well, it wasn't too hard to put us back right where we were all day. "Oh, you're such a dick," I huff out angrily.

"And you just rode mine," he says proudly, tapping his fingers against my side and tilting his head.

"Not by technicality," I inform him, rolling my eyes as I clamber off of him. I quickly turn around as I fetch my shorts off the tub floor behind me. I'd rather him see my ass over my still throbbing cunt. For fuck's sake. I can't believe I did this.

I step into my shorts and pull them up to my hips then grab the remnants of my lace panties and frown at them.

I turn back to Sal who's still sitting up, looking down at his boxers that are covered in his and my cum. "And what do you expect me to do about this?" He scoffs. "I'm a mess."

"Don't ask me," I tell him, opening the shower curtain and stepping onto the tiled bathroom floor. Sal looks up at me with glaring eyes. I smile slyly at him. "Sucks to suck."

He rolls his eyes and stands up, grimacing at the sheer amount of fluids on his underwear. I bet that's starting to get cold. "Don't be a bitch about it," Sal bites out.

I pinch my lips together and cross my arms over my chest. "I'm not being a bitch," I say. "I'm just... returning the favor."

Sal's head snaps up, that aggravation back in his eyes. That's what I'm used to.

"Get the fuck out," he says darkly. But this time, it's not in a sensual way. It's a warning.

So I turn my back to him and head toward the door, forcing my mind to go numb. This was our moment and that's it. It's smarter to keep this as a one time thing even if I'll still crave him for a while.

I twist the door numb. "Gladly."

_________

A/N::::: i did my best to edit in like the keep reading thing so i don't blind everyone with smut LMAO so we'll see if it works :3

HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEHHEHEHEHEHEH

now i literally don't know where the story is going. this is a rollercoaster, you guys are just the unlucky bunch stuck on the ride with me.

i hope you all enjoyed :3 trust the process! all my love <333

[thelonesomequeen]

I have a random question. How is everyone doing in these trying times? Like it’s so hard out there right now while my partner and I both make what I thought was good money, yet we’re both really struggling. He just got a second job and I’m looking for another job where I can work from home. We were hopping to have a house by now, but are still living in a dinky apartment. Don’t know if we can ever afford kids. Forget a vacation. Social media has given me extreme fomo and made me feel like a failure compared to my friends despite having an MA. Seriously how are y’all managing? It’s hard out there. Sorry, I know sometimes you like to discuss other things 🫶🏻

The world really is a hot mess. It’s crazy how expensive everything keeps getting while wage remains stagnant for most people. It’s a really rough spot to be in for so many people.

I’m personally within the “ok, but I wish things were a lot better” camp. I’ve found myself in what’s now being called the millennial golden handcuffs. Golden meaning I was fortunate enough to buy a house before prices and interest rates skyrocketed, but handcuffed because I can’t afford to move from where I’m at. The house we live in now is a cute little starter home, but around the 5-10 year mark my husband and I had planned to sell our house and upgrade to something bigger before we had kids so we had the space we’d feel like we’d need to fit a growing family. Well. I’m fortunate to have a house, and I will never take that for granted, but selling it and moving now is out of the question because home prices have literally almost doubled where I live in the last 6 years. I literally could not even afford to buy the same house I already live in right now. It’s seriously insane.

But I feel with you on everything else. I thought my life would look a lot different by now and I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever have the things I originally wanted for myself out of my adult life. I always wanted 2 kids when we were ready to start a family for various reasons I won’t get into right now, this will be long enough as is, but I don’t know if we can even afford 1 child in this economy when I see the prices of diapers, formula, and childcare. And it all just keeps getting more expensive every time you turn around. I try to think about those costs being tacked on to our already expensive bills and I’m not sure that we’ll be able to swing it. Not without making severely drastic changes anyway. I also wanted to see so much of the world by now through travel. Covid ruined a lot of travel plans I initially had, and now that we’re mostly in a post Covid world (yes, I acknowledge Covid isn’t truly over yet) the cost of travel has gone up so much that it’ll eat away too much of my savings that I’m not willing to part with. I’m always worried about needing that money for things like medical or home emergencies and spending it down on something like travel just doesn’t feel like a wise choice right now. And it’s hard to continue to save money when the cost of everything keeps increasing. It’s like a never ending circle where you just can’t get ahead.

I wish I had some sound advice to share with you that would help or make you feel better. (Shit, I need it too sometimes). Just try to keep in mind that sometimes what we see on social media isn’t always reflective of what’s happening in reality. For example, a good friend of mine had two babies during Covid, she and her husband bought a new, massive house for their little family, new cars, she’s always posting stories about new jewelry he bought her, and they’re constantly going on lavish looking trips or going to concerts and sporting events. Looking at their life on social media it’s like “wow, must be nice.” It’s really easy to feel envious when we see those things. There’s times where I’ve even wondered “how are they doing it?” and it turns out they aren’t. After a conversation she and I recently had about life in general while we were catching up, she told me they are $2.5 million dollars in debt between their student loans, mortgage, car payments, and maxed out credit cards. They are one small emergency away from losing everything they have because they can’t take on another expense. Their life looks beautiful on Instagram, but that’s a level of debt that makes me feel physically sick and I’d absolutely not want to trade her places for it. The jewelry, trips, concerts, and games are not worth that level of debt to me. Sure, it’s nice to experience those things. But not in exchange for being that financially unstable (IMO-you’re all free to disagree of course). Some of the debt is understandable, they need a home to live in (although their last house was still very nice and perfectly fine for the four of them), they need cars to get to work, and whatever expenses that come with raising their children. That’s understandable debt/finances that most people have. But they could easily be saving thousands of dollars a year on frivolous spending that’s done for the sole purpose of putting up a false facade on Instagram about living that easy high life. I personally don’t know why they feel compelled to do it, they aren’t trying to be influencers, nor are either of their families materialistic like that. But sometimes those great Instagram feeds aren’t always what they seem. 🦎

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

“We couldn’t have chosen a worse date to visit Paris.”

London, England, United Kingdom – March 1846

~Cloudia~

With her intent spoken into the world, Cloudia set out to make plans. Under normal circumstances, she would have been able to watch out for any social events and work to get her hands on the guest lists. Then, she could have “coincidentally” run into Milton at a soiree or ball or garden party or whatnot, and no one would have thought anything odd about it. Unfortunately, Milton was in mourning. His father had died in early December; now that the three-month mark was reached, Milton could frequent concerts or musicals again, but was still barred from attending balls, dinner parties, and the opera. Mourning rules were significantly laxer for men than for women when it came to attire and bereavement length; the societal etiquette rules that came with death were for all, however. Cloudia did not know much about Milton. The fact that she had never even heard of him until the reception at the Layton Gallery was a strong indicator that Milton did not itch to go to social events though. Cloudia doubted she would catch him at a concert or musical either.

This meant Milton would not show up in public again until June, and Cloudia could most definitely not wait another three months until she could speak to him. She needed to sort out her odd feelings and figure out what was wrong with her, him, or them both soon; she feared she might perish otherwise.

For that reason, Cloudia had to resort to lingering around the Salisbury Villa.

It was a terrible plan; I was well aware of that. Alas, there was very little I could do, so I had to make do with the little that was within my possibilities – even if the saner choice would have been to wait for June. But Milton was also a traveller, and the chance was high that he would simply leave England after the six months had passed. And who knew when he would return then? He had been away for two years and only returned when his father was on his deathbed. If Milton left again, I might never see him again.

At least, one month after the hunt and one month after I had returned to Phantomhive Manor, I received a letter from Queen Victoria and, with it, a reason to head to London without raising any suspicions, or having to find an excuse why I would want to go there for a longer stay before the Season. The task assigned to me was ridiculous (someone was hanging men from clotheslines), but my personal endeavour did not shine with reasonableness either.

Thus, my time and attention were split, divided into unequal parts between the Hanged Men Case and the Milton-Related Idiocy (which case was given the larger portion depended not how silly I felt that day).

Today, I woke up feeling particularly stupid and went to stake out by the Salisbury Villa.

The weather might have begun to thaw, but England would not be England without unpredictable weather. Today, it was bitter cold while Cloudia promenaded around Milton’s neighbourhood. She wore a good, albeit understated dress so as not to raise any frowns if she were to run into Milton (while she might have had an explanation why she had dressed up as Keegan for the hunt, nothing could explain why she walked around London looking like a milkmaid) and to ensure that she did not give herself away. Cloudia had chosen a slightly oversized bonnet and a large cloak too. The Salisbury Villa was in Kensington, right where many, many other nobles lived, and Cloudia could not afford to be seen by anyone she knew. If people noticed her running around unchaperoned and walking circles around someone’s house (skilled gossipers were like amateur detectives at times and might possibly piece the ugly truth together), it would dent her reputation. Further, because the Hanged Men Case was progressing at a snail’s pace as it was remarkably layered for such a silly-sounding case, all of Cloudia’s Aristocrats of Evil had arrived in London one by one. Oscar was even lodging at her townhouse. Even though Cecelia and Barrington were thankfully staying at their own places, it was still a dangerous undertaking to pursue the Milton matter concurrently.

All in all, Cloudia felt like the world’s biggest fool every time she went on these walks. This time, she was a frozen fool too. And she deserved the embarrassment; after all, it was a horrid kind of endeavour and Cloudia had not even seen Milton once so far.

Staring at his house and feeling like a criminal while doing so had taught her the schedule of people going in and out. There was staff that went about without a pattern, of course, just like there were some who followed strict routines. Arrivals for work. Deliveries. Rubbish disposals. Breaks. Finishing times. At no point, no matter if Cloudia found time to do her questionable rounds in the morning, at midday, or in the evening, she had never spotted Milton. Did he never leave his house? Was there some secret entrance she knew nothing about? Cloudia could tear out her hair at the futility of it all.

Milton might be a master at unwittingly avoiding her; Wentworth, on the other hand, was an easier find.

About every two days, Cloudia could see Milton’s butler enter and leave the villa running errands. On the other days, he was as elusive as his master, likely having too much to do within the villa that he could go out. Butlers were generally not known to run around outside their workplace or apart from their employees. Today, however, Cloudia had not even seen Wentworth.

Pulling her cloak tighter around herself, Cloudia gazed at the Salisbury Villa. She knew little about the Salisburys. Cloudia had forbidden Cecelia to research Milton’s background, and though this ban obviously did not extend to her, it still felt weird and hypocritical to look into his family herself. It was unnecessary too; she wanted to know more about Milton and could not care who had lived before him in that house. The little Cloudia knew was that the Salisbury baronage was not particularly old – not by noble family standards. About a hundred years ago, Milton’s great-great-grandfather had been bestowed a peerage; around that time, he had also built the villa.

A hundred years were etched into the stately Salisbury Villa; nonetheless, it looked fresh and young next to its older neighbours. They seemed to frown contemptuously at the villa, envious of its comparative radiance, just like their inhabitants and many other nobles regarded the Salisburys. Cloudia had heard many scoffs and much ridicule directed at Milton’s family and Salisbury Trading in the past few years. From the grapevine, she also knew that neither Milton’s father nor uncle had ever cared for that chit-chat. Cloudia had never met Leland and Herbert herself; she had merely seen Leland from afar a few times at gatherings, and Herbert had died before she began attending any. (She had read about Herbert’s death, his murder, years ago and had followed the case from the beginning. When Scotland Yard’s investigation had not gone anywhere, Cloudia had secretly hoped the case would be handed to her as Herbert was a nobleman after all, but the matter had only quietly gone cold and unsolved.)

After another hour of wandering the streets around the villa and stealing glances at it, Cloudia decided that she had made enough of a fool of herself today and headed to her townhouse.

***

A few streets away from the Phantomhive townhouse, Cloudia met up with Lisa. Like the last times, she waited for her in a corner with another cloak and bonnet. Cloudia hadn’t told Lisa the specifics of her odd, solitary walks. Perhaps, she would have divulged her embarrassing secret to Newman if she could have made him her helper instead of Lisa. Unfortunately, his tall, broad stature made him as noticeable as an elephant within a crowd of mice.

“Already back, Lady Phantomhive?” asked Lisa with a grin and held out the change of clothes. Cloudia only nodded and quickly switched out the bonnet and cloak.

To what lengths I went to conceal my stupid undertaking from people – from passersby, my own servants, and, most importantly, Oscar. As much as I did not want him to know, I also wondered what his reaction would be. I could guess Cecelia’s (I would never hear the end of it) and Barrington’s (he would try to fight Milton), though not Oscar’s.

“This has been going on for quite a while now,” Lisa said when Cloudia fastened her cloak and pulled it close. Without answering her, Cloudia turned to return to the townhouse.

Lisa was quick to follow behind her. “Won’t you ever tell me what this is about?”

“No,” Cloudia replied sharply. “It’s not your business.”

“For something that is ‘not my business,’ I’m awfully involved,” Lisa pointed out. “It’s horrifically boring to wait around for you, you have to know. Can you, at least, tell me when you will be done with your very secret mission? If this keeps on, I might have to ask Al to lend me one of his books. I don’t even like reading, but it’s not like I can mend any clothes while standing in some dark alleyway. I would look like the world’s strangest dollymop.”

Cloudia walked a bit faster. Even though she could not see Lisa, she was certain she was rolling her eyes right now. “I have to say that whatever you are doing is not damaging clothes at record speeds for once,” Lisa continued, undeterred. “If I had known I would essentially become a glorified seamstress, I might have acted on those second thoughts about accepting your offer to become your handmaiden. You make me participate in this clothes exchange for whatever reason, but you never let me come with you to one of your clothes-destroying missions. Maybe, I should still act on my second thoughts about this position.”

“Do what you like,” Cloudia said finally when they arrived at the townhouse’s gate. A footman opened it for them. “Though I have to remark that harbouring second thoughts for a year is an awfully long time, Miss Greene.”

***

The days passed with Cloudia working on both her official assignment and her personal goal. The Hanged Men Case kept proving itself more complex than anyone could have anticipated with every new aspect Cloudia and her Aristocrats of Evil uncovered. Additionally, Cloudia continued to be unable to steal even a glance at Milton Salisbury. She did, however, spot more hanged men during her stakeouts. Certainly, half the adult male population of London must have been hanged on clothesline by now.

Four days later, Cloudia finally admitted to herself that her plan wasn’t working. It hadn’t been a good plan from the start, more of an embarrassing endeavour than a strategic scheme; still, Cloudia would have never fathomed it would lead to no results whatsoever. (At the very least, she was very thankful that neither Oscar nor Cecelia and Barrington had noticed that anything was amiss. Their seemingly endless Watchdog case was occupying them enough; they must attribute all her frustrations and odd behaviours to that.)

Hence, while Cloudia stared into the mirror of her vanity this morning, her brain concocted a secondary plan. One as ridiculous and mortifying as the one before but, this time, it might be successful as well. Lying low and waiting patiently had never been her strong suit, never her way to do anything.

With new determination, Cloudia picked out her clothes for the day and headed out.

***

The headquarters of Salisbury Trading did not look at all like the villa. Whereas the villa was of light stone, shimmering grey from age and silver in the right light, and simple symmetry, the headquarters was a much taller, much darker, much older building. It hadn’t been built new by the Salisburys but purchased and transformed into a place of bustling business, right in the heart of the Square Mile. Like the villa, the headquarters looked oddly out of place too with its additions and expansions that mimicked the original building well, albeit not perfectly; the discrepancy in age and material was equal times subtle as it was glaringly obvious.

Cloudia hoped that, unlike the two Salisbury edifices, she would vanish in the crowd effortlessly. Dressed for the second time like a man in just as many months, Cloudia strode into the Salisbury Trading headquarters.

There was very little I knew about Milton. He was maybe friends or not with the Disaster Trio. He liked Dickens like me. He disliked hunting even though he was very good at it. He seemed to be a hermit of the highest order, as long as he was in London.

He was the new Baron Salisbury and director of Salisbury Trading.

Milton’s words regarding the Disaster Trio did not leave me particularly hopeful that he was seeing them a lot, and mourning etiquette prevented him from such visits anyway. I could not keep tabs on every single bookstore in London and its surroundings. I had a watchful eye at one, and the probability that Milton would end up at the Sainteclare Bookstore was very small.

No; apart from the villa, the only place where I had even the slightest chance of meeting him was his workplace. Mourning curbed jovial activities, but business needed to go on as best as possible. While Milton might have a deputy and a council and whatnot, this did not change the circumstance that he had just assumed this position – and that went hand-in-hand with lots of work.

Yesterday, Cloudia had scrutinised the building from afar and realised that there was only one person at the reception desk, watching everyone come and go and handling questions and requests. Her plan was simple: Wait for lunch hour to ensure that the corridors would be bustling with people, go to the reception desk with a lie to lure the clerk away, search his place for a floorplan, and locate Milton’s office.

It was never that easy, of course.

Upon entering, Cloudia noted the cleanliness of the building, a few decorative knight’s armours lining one side of a corridor, and the fact that, indeed, the clerk at the reception desk was the only staff member on duty in the entrance hall.

Hopefully, this was though.

***

No five minutes later, Cloudia found herself in a waiting room, wondering what had just happened. She had managed to enter the building without any problems, though many of the passing-by employees had raised an eyebrow or frowned at her. However, before she could even utter the entirety of her lie to the receptionist, a man had placed his hand on her shoulder and beckoned her to follow him. His grip had been surprisingly iron-clad and, not wanting to risk a full-blown commotion, Cloudia had complied.

Now, the man was in front of the door, watching her. If Newman had stood next to him, he would have looked small and insignificant despite his own considerable height. Some places employed laughably subpar security guards; to Cloudia’s misfortune, the man’s stance, the way he carried himself, and how he had kept a tight grip on her as he had guided her here showed that he was most definitely not one of those.

Why was my luck failing me like this? What had I done to deserve this?

Cloudia let her gaze wander through the room, over the lovely grandfather’s clock on the back wall, the polished knight’s armour in the corner, the paintings on the wall, and the sofa opposite hers. When they had entered the waiting room, the man had spoken a single sentence to her: “Sit down and wait for someone to come.” Since then, Cloudia had formulated a lie to explain herself and get out of here, all while pondering who would come. She hoped it would be the security guard’s direct commander and feared it to be someone from Scotland Yard. If Arthur Randall came through this door, Cloudia’s already bad day would turn positively abysmal; she had neither nerves nor patience to see him and engage with him.

She did not have to dwell long on that fear though as someone loudly knocked on the door then. The guard opened the door for a tall man with curly brown hair and red-rimmed glasses. Cloudia recognised him from a newspaper article she had read some time ago: He was Theodore Sycamore, the deputy chief of Salisbury Trading; he had held this position since Milton’s father Leland’s time as baron.

How unexpected that someone so high-up would come to me.

Sycamore exchanged some whispered words with the guard before he glanced at Cloudia, and Cloudia could not help herself but grin at him. To her surprise, this seemed to unnerve Sycamore; she had not expected him to be so skittish. He immediately turned to address someone standing in the corridor, hidden from her sight. While Cloudia could not hear what Sycamore was saying, the reply he received was as clear as day: “Let me see for myself,” said a familiar voice. Cloudia’s heart fluttered in excitement.

I could almost hear Cecelia cackle.

Cloudia could not believe her luck when Sycamore stepped aside, and Milton entered the room. Under different circumstances, she might have jumped up at the sight of him or even punched the air in a terribly unladylike fashion. Instead, Cloudia remained still and fought back a smile when Milton’s gaze was set a moment too long on her face before he looked discreetly away – the indicator, as she now knew, that he had recognised her.

“Thank you, Theodore.” Milton said to Sycamore in a calming voice, “You can go now. I can handle this on my own. We will have to continue our conversation later if you do not mind.”

“Not at all,” replied Sycamore. Though he looked as if he wanted to say more, he ultimately only nodded and left the waiting room.

“Lucas, you are dismissed too,” Milton addressed the guard. With a tilt of his head, he followed Sycamore. Milton closed the door behind him and visibly deflated, shedding his role as company head with an exhale.

Milton turned to Cloudia and took a slow, deep breath. “That was very bold and brave, Lady Cloudia. How do I come to this honour?”

Cloudia smiled at his words. “I did not anticipate being caught immediately. I briefly feared that I would either be sent to Scotland Yard or someone from the Yard would come to collect me. Maybe I would have been more successful sneaking into Buckingham Palace instead.”

“I apologise for the trouble,” Milton replied and pulled on his sleeves. “We had some problems with intruders in the past, so everyone has become rather wary of unknown people, and security had to be heightened.”

“Still, you bring them to a nice sitting room to wait until someone comes to talk to them instead of immediately alerting the Met,” Cloudia pointed out. “I suppose, some must have been violent? Won’t someone grow suspicious or, at least, worried that you’re alone with me? Is the corridor outside lined with guards who are ready to kick open the door and bludgeon me to death if they hear me threatening or attacking you?”

Milton shook his head. “The walls of this room are very thick. Even if someone was standing outside the door – and I assure you, no one is –, they would not be able to hear anything we say. It would have been different if I had not been here and either my deputy or someone else had come to see you. They would have someone from the security department with them; some would be outside waiting too.”

Cloudia blinked at him. “Does that mean, if you come, you always come completely alone? Are you not afraid, Milton?”

“I have no reason to be.”

“Why? Surely, an intruder wants to harm your company. As you are now its director, shouldn’t they want to harm you too?”

“They do not want to harm me though,” Milton replied with surprising, almost eerie calmness. “More often than not, they have only been sent by someone who wants to. And no matter if an intruder comes because they were sent or out of their own volition, their ‘motive’ is usually despair, not ill-intent. It would be wrong to transport them to Scotland Yard without listening to them first, and they only rarely get violent.”

“‘Rarely’ is not ‘never,’” Cloudia remarked, then nodded to the knight’s armour behind her. “You are also making it very easy for others to hurt you. There’s a sword here, and you can throw the furniture, amongst others.” She shook her head. “One of these days, you will get yourself killed, Milton.”

A smile appeared on Milton’s face for a moment, just a moment, before it was gone again. Cloudia wondered not for the first time how his smile would look like if it stayed for more than a fleeting moment.

“The armours are recent additions,” Milton said.

“Just because no one has had the opportunity yet does not mean it will never happen. One of these days, Milton. Why are the armours here anyway? There were some in the corridors too.”

Milton fumbled with his sleeves absentmindedly. “They were placed all over the building because ‘knights provide protection,’ don’t they? Also, the swords cannot be removed without exerting considerable force.”

Cloudia raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” she said before she, in a sudden surge of silliness, stood up and walked to the knight’s armour. She put her hand around the hilt and thought of King Arthur as she pulled. Unlike him, she could not remove the sword though. Cloudia tried again with both hands, but the sword did not even move a millimetre. She then tried to break off the arm – in vain. Even her attempt to move the armour as a whole proved fruitless; it was firmly secured to the ground and surprisingly heavy too. Such armours were decorating the Knights’ headquarters too, and they hadn’t weighed as much. Barrington had taken her once years ago, albeit they hadn’t been able to stay for long before Barrington’s successor, Harold Midford, had kicked them out, as he could not stand Barrington.

“Good for you,” Cloudia said, trying to keep the embarrassment out of her voice, and returned to her seat.

Milton, thankfully, did not comment on what she had just done. Instead, he hovered indecisively by the door before he ultimately sat down on the sofa opposite from her. “I suppose you have not come to talk about armoury,” Milton began. “What has brought you to me, Lady Cloudia?”

Slight panic rushed through Cloudia, but she shoved it away and said, “I simply wanted to talk to you.”

Milton became very quiet for a moment. “You only wanted to talk to me?” he slowly said at last. “For no reason in particular?”

“For no reason in particular,” she confirmed. “I wished I could have initiated this differently, only I could not possibly have done this any other way: After all, you are in mourning, and I am a lady you have no relation with. This must seem quite silly and mad.” Cloudia brushed her hands over her legs. “And now you have seen me more often in trousers than in a dress. I…” She trailed off when she noticed how taken aback Milton looked. “I am sorry to have intruded on you like this. This must be very weird to you.”

“No, I…”

“I can leave if you want me to.”

Milton ran a hand through his hair. “I cannot talk right now,” he said hesitantly, “but it would be rude to send you home after you’ve made such a great effort to see me. I need to finish a few things, and if you do not mind… would it be fine to meet up in an hour?”

Cloudia’s eyes widened.

Even knowing that Milton was not the kind of person to laugh at me and kick me out, this came wholly unexpected.

“Unless you cannot wait,” Milton hastily added. “You surely must be busy and…”

“Meeting in an hour is fine,” she was quick to say. They fell into silence for a moment before they burst out almost at once: “Where should we meet?”

Milton flushed, and Cloudia chuckled. “How about we meet at the café around the corner?” she suggested.

He nodded. “That would be fine, I suppose.”

Cloudia took a deep breath. “It would be best if I did not get changed and if you could… find something less conspicuous to wear?”

There was it again – his shadow of a smile. “Of course.” He stood up, and she did too.

“What will you say if someone asks about me?” she enquired, walking to the door.

“Let that be my worry.”

Cloudia put her hand on the door handle. Instead of pushing it down, she turned to Milton once again. “And I can just leave? No one will stop or question me?”

He shook his head. “No. You would not have been able to leave freely if I had not cleared you. Everyone knows that.”

“This is a very strange place, Milton.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cloudia smiled at him. “Until later,” she said.

“Until later,” he said, fidgeting with his right sleeve. And then, she was gone.

***

Of course, Cloudia had no reason to think that Milton could have been lying. Even so, she was stunned by how easy it was to make her way downstairs and out of Salisbury Trading’s headquarters. No one stopped her. No one went to talk to her. No one suddenly appeared behind her to drag her to a room like before. Cloudia received some passing glances; that was all. It was as if everyone was perfectly sure that she had most definitely not killed Milton in the waiting room and strode out humming afterwards. It was a little unnerving; nonetheless, it was not that experience that bounced through her head when she left the building and took a walk around the block to pass the time.

No, her head was full of panicked thoughts.

For over a month, Milton had haunted her. For over a week, she had been staking out around his villa. Now that she had managed to arrange a meeting to talk, Cloudia was at her wit’s end, and it greatly troubled her. How many cases had she solved? How many mysteries unravelled? She had been trained since childhood to find ways to make the best out of every situation, to turn every situation around in her favour – may it be about fighting or conversing. It was a sheer impossibility to plan a fight or conversation step by step. There were patterns, of course, but opponents and interlocutors always brought the factors of surprise and randomness with them as well. Not even a fencing tournament with strict rules and guidelines could be planned because of how competitors might act within the area of possibilities. None of that was new to Cloudia; she had mastered far, far more difficult and worse situations.

With that, why was my body and mind betraying me by sending me into a panic? Over something as simple as talking to someone in private?

By the time Cloudia went to the café where she had arranged to meet Milton, she hadn’t been able to calm her racing thoughts. In fact, they had even picked up speed while she had been walking around.

Again, I could hear Cecelia in my mind so clearly as if she was right beside me, teasing me about a supposed “crush” that did not exist. And when Milton finally appeared from behind a corner, Cecelia’s voice got louder for a second before it vanished, successfully silenced.

It took Cloudia a second to recognise him. Not because Milton was wearing a dock worker’s clothes but because he had hidden his hair under a cap in such a way that none of his golden locks was visible. Still dressed in dark clothes, Milton now looked more like a wraith than a person. And while Cloudia watched him approach her, she frowned at the sight.

“I hope I did not make you wait for too long,” Milton said when he arrived beside her.

Cloudia shook her head. “Not at all. Come, let’s go somewhere else to talk.” She looked around and then pushed herself off the wall she had been leaning against. “If you do not mind,” she swiftly added.

“I don’t mind at all.”

Cloudia nodded. Without another word, she led him through the streets and towards the Thames. She had thought about their destination a bit during her earlier stroll. They could not simply sit down in a café; that would necessitate them to engage with the staff which would increase the likelihood of getting recognised. Her disguise as a man had worked out well enough with the Disaster Trio, but it was more possible for there to be keener-eyed people in public spaces. Further, Cloudia did not want their conversation to be overheard. It was more likely that someone could listen to them if they were in a café sitting down than if they were outside. A park would have been sufficient; however, the Thames’ steady, loud run would help to conceal their words, and Cloudia had not been by that one specific bridge in a while.

They did not exchange a single word on the way. From time to time, Cloudia checked if Milton was still with her. Then, she would always note with great annoyance that the sight of him startled her; there was something off about him with his hair hidden like that, and Cloudia had to suppress the urge to rip the cap from his head.

When they arrived by the river and walked along the embankment, Cloudia first caught Milton keeping his gaze on someone for a bit too long. Curious, she craned her head to glimpse at whoever Milton had recognised in the crowd. Although she was surprised to find someone who looked like an ordinary factory worker, Cloudia decided not to enquire. Just in case, she memorised that man’s appearance (patched clothes, thick dark blond moustache, unruly hair beneath a cap and curling along his ears, faint scar on his left hand, etc.). Two more times did his eyes get stuck on someone; two more times did she memorise them, and then she guided Milton to the bridge of her choice.

Not everyone had a favourite bridge, but Cloudia did. (She had once tried to talk to her cousins about it; even Cathleen had only smiled politely at that.) It would have taken less time to walk to London Bridge; however, even though it might be important historically as the first bridge across the Thames (its primary iteration at least, not its current one), Cloudia despised the nursery rhyme created for it, and her traitorous brain always replayed it in her mind whenever she crossed it. No, Cloudia had taken Milton to Blackfriars Bridge instead which was, in her eyes, infinitely more beautiful than London Bridge.

The irony that Cloudia liked the wonky Blackfriars Bridge so much despite hating “London Bridge Is Falling Down” with a passion had not escaped her. Blackfriars had had to undergo extensive repairs multiple times already – the last time had only been five years ago –, and Cloudia knew in her heart that the bridge would be dismantled and likely replaced one day. Nevertheless, when Barrington had brought Cloudia to London for the first time, and they had crossed Blackfriars Bridge, the light had hit the brownstone bridge and its nine arches so perfectly that it had looked like it was glowing. She had been to London beforehand with her cousins, though nothing she had glimpsed of the city then had fascinated her as much.

Today, the sky was hung with clouds, and Blackfriars Bridge did not shine. Regardless, Cloudia felt a jolt of warmth when she stepped on the bridge for the first time in a long while.

Cloudia and Milton walked to about the midway point before she halted and went to the railing. The Thames was, as always, grey and unremarkable, so she kept her eyes up and stared at the neighbouring Waterloo Bridge, though she could not say that the granite bridge presented a prettier sight. In recent years, it had become infamous as a popular place for suicide attempts too. Thomas Hood had written a poem about one; Cloudia refused to read it.

Cloudia noticed Milton stepping beside her. When she gazed up at him, his eyes were closed, and he was looking rather serene for a wraith. A moment later, when Milton reopened his eyes, Cloudia said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as realisation dawned upon her, “You imagined being on a boat, right? I heard you travelled a lot in the last few years.”

Milton blinked at her before he presented her with yet another small, fleeting smile. “You are right, I did. I apologise; it was odd. It simply has been months since I last travelled anywhere, and I got carried away.”

“No, it is all right,” Cloudia assured him. “I have been on boats before, though I bet the sensation of being on a ship that travels away from the kingdom is something else entirely.” She nodded to the bleary Thames. “It must help if the waters aren’t as grey and drab as here.”

“It is; it does.” Milton looked out to the river. “I was rather nervous when I left the Isle for the first time,” he said. Although he spoke softly, Cloudia could hear him clearly over the waves that hit and bullied her little faulty bridge. “My mother… My mother was afraid of great water masses. She never set foot on a ship and closed her eyes when she drove across bridges. I could only think of her and what she might think if she was alive; to know me crossing the Channel. But… I think being on a ship and travelling is one of the best feelings in the world. If you stand by a railing and close your eyes, feel the ship move beneath you and the wind in your hair, it feels as if you are walking on air.” Just when he had finished speaking, Milton’s face reddened.

Cloudia chuckled. “It’s a lovely description. Today, you cannot exactly feel the wind in your hair though.”

Milton raised a hand to his cap and briefly touched it. “It can’t be helped, unfortunately. My hair colour is not exactly inconspicuous, particularly when I am in mourning clothes.”

“I barely recognised you earlier, with your hair hidden like that,” Cloudia admitted. “The disguise works well.”

“That’s good to know.” Milton turned to look at Cloudia. “How have things been?”

I’m investigating a bothersome case involving clotheslines. Cloudia shrugged. “Unremarkable. What happened at the hunt was the event of the year for me. I doubt anything that will occur during the Season will be as notable.”

“I, too, hope nothing of the sort happens again anytime soon,” Milton agreed with a nod.

“And what about you? Have you managed to finish The Cricket on the Hearth in the meantime?”

Milton shook his head. “No. I still haven’t been able to move on from its first chapter. I did start something else though.” His gaze softened all of a sudden, and Cloudia shifted a bit under his eyes as if he had caught her doing something illicit. “Do you really want to talk about books though?”

“Yes,” Cloudia said automatically. “No,” she substituted her answer right after.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, but…” Cloudia sighed and plucked a non-existent dust particle from her jacket.

“We can talk about anything you want,” Milton said. “You have brought me out here for no reason in particular after all.” His eyes shone for a moment, the green in them seeming glaringly bright for a second, before he directed them to the Thames again.

Cloudia mustered Milton. Questions were roaring through her mind; they were as cluttered as they were numerous. She could simply choose one to nudge the ball, set it rolling, and see where it would take her. Only she could not. Her stomach clenched. No thought stuck. She felt numb and nervous at once which was as annoying as it was infuriating.

I hated, hated this.

I hated, hated that all my determination seemed to have vanished into thin air.

I hated, hated that I was at a loss for words.

Because I knew that I had a thousand questions but no idea of what I even wanted to ask exactly.

Because it felt like something was wrong with me.

Because I didn’t want to insinuate that something was wrong with him.

Because I was still…

Because I could not stop thinking about…

“Or,” Milton’s gentle voice brought her back with a start, “or we could not talk about anything at all. If you want, we can just continue with our walk.”

***

They didn’t speak a word as they crossed Blackfriars Bridge to reach the other side of the river. As they crossed bridge and bridge in a zigzag. As they walked along the beach to Waterloo Bridge. Along the embankment, all the way to Big Ben and then across Westminster Bridge. And then all the way down to Putney Bridge and beyond.

What a strange thing it was; to walk beside each other without a set destination, without saying anything at all for hours. Yet, Cloudia did not feel strange in the slightest. With each step, the tension that had been building itself within her in the last weeks left her body. By Waterloo Bridge, it had dissipated, leaving her feeling as light as she hadn’t felt in ages. Cloudia and Milton never touched each other either, never even grazed each other as they wandered and wandered, no matter how crowded it became. There was something oddly soothing and reassuring about Milton, his presence paradoxically both faint and steadfast. At times, Cloudia felt as if she had lost him along the way, though he remained by her side all the time without complaint.

When they reached Hammersmith Bridge, they did not cross it. Instead, without a word, Cloudia turned and headed back towards the Square Mile; Milton quietly went with her. By the time they arrived in Kensington, the sun was setting.

At Hyde Park, Milton halted. Although Cloudia had navigated them throughout London until now, and they had not stopped once for anything, the end to their walk did not startle her at all. “Should we find you a hansom cab, or can you find your own way home?” Milton asked nonchalantly.

Cloudia blinked at him for a moment. “I think I will be fine without one,” she said.

He nodded. “I hope you arrive home safe and sound.”

“You too,” Cloudia replied, and added after a brief pause: “And take care of yourself; I do not want you to get hanged from a clothesline.”

A ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. “I will. And…” Milton fidgeted with his sleeves. The entire way across and along the Thames, he had not adjusted his clothes once. Another paradox; truly, how could Milton be a source of calmness and so full of unrest at once? “And if you want to talk again,” he continued with a soft voice, “you can simply write to my office. I do not mind, and I assure you no one will find out. You can give a false name and address and put a star on a corner so that I know it’s you.”

Cloudia simply nodded.

“I wish you a good night, Lady Cloudia,” Milton said, lowering his voice when he spoke her name.

“Good night, Milton,” she replied, saying his name just as quietly.

With another smile and the spectre of one, they turned to go towards their respective homes. Then, Cloudia saw that Milton was heading in the direction of Kensington Palace and did not, as she had assumed, turn back towards Holland House. She stopped in her tracks, confused. “Where are you going?” she called to him. “Isn’t your villa in another direction?”

Milton paused and turned to her. “Ah, I do not live there. I cannot stand the sight of that place.”

***

Paris, Seine, France – June 1848

~Cloudia~

Smoke was rising from the locomotive, beckoning her forward, and Cloudia ran and ran.

The wind tore at her hair, at her clothes, brushed its fingers over the wound on the side of her face. It pushed against her, though not as much as she pushed against it.

Running had always made her blood sing, not just from the strain but from the bliss. No matter the situation, no matter the reason why she was running, her blood was singing whenever she did. When she had chased down John Francis, when she had hurried across the country roads towards St. Lacey, when she had dashed after criminals or cousins in childhood – it had all felt the same, the bliss, the ecstasy. Even on that day, that terrible day, when she had been unable to run, that grey, grey day with the endless rain, her whole body had yearned for that movement.

And now that yearning for running, for the wind, for the sensation of it all powered Cloudia’s tired body forward and forward.

Her focus was on the smoking locomotive – and the person hastening away from it and towards the Gare du Nord ahead. At first, the smoke had obscured who it was; now, the person had gone farther away and out of the cloud. Despite the soot and grime, it was clear that it was Yvette. Cloudia quickened her pace, raised her gun to aim.

She could not allow Yvette to pass through the train station’s arches and disappear into the city.

Cloudia loved to run – but a shot was another great way to close a distance.

She fired once, and Yvette didn’t fall. She fired twice – and fell.

Torn out of her momentum, Cloudia landed hard on the gravel. Her gun slipped out of her hand in the fall; pain exploded in her back; her head just missed the train tracks. Someone was above her, his weight heavy on her legs, on her body, but her arms were free. He pulled back his right arm, ready to punch her. Swiftly, Cloudia took out a knife and rammed it into his side before his fist hit. He yelled out, caught off guard. She shoved him away from her, pulled herself away. Keeping her eyes on the man, she reached without looking for the gun. He ripped out the knife, threw it away, lunged for her. Her fingers curled around the metal.

A shot – and a bullet scraped her cheek.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Cloudia threw herself to the ground, and another bullet sailed above her.

Damn. There was nothing to hide behind; the station, the locomotive, and the wagons were all too far away.

I rolled around, my gun in my hand. Where was this bastard? And then, of course, there was…

The man who had tackled her earlier picked her up from the ground. Cloudia yanked up her hand to fire at him when another shot rang through the air. No bullet found its way to her this time; only an unfamiliar scream accompanied the shot.

The cry distracted Cloudia and her assailant; and at that moment, someone appeared behind him. Large and shadowed by the midday sun in his back.

Newman grabbed the man’s shoulders, and he let Cloudia go. She fell back into the gravel and watched her butler punch him in the face and put his limp body next to the train tracks.

“Lady Cloudia,” Newman said and held out a hand to her. “Are you all right?”

Cloudia took his hand and let herself be heaved up. “Yes. I’m sure I’m covered in cuts and bruises but nothing serious.”

With nimble hands, Newman brushed some of the grit and dust from her clothes while Cloudia quickly looked around to assess the situation. She had not seen her attacker before; he might have been hiding in one of the wagons or waiting for them by the station. Cloudia clenched her teeth. And she had lost sight of Yvette, though she should not have been able to get far yet.

“Newman, I need to hurry,” Cloudia told him. Though Newman immediately let go of her, he also said, “One moment, Mylady.” He then retrieved a knife from his pocket and handed it to her. No, not a knife, a dagger – her father’s dagger.

Cloudia’s eyes widened. “It was on the ground in the fourth wagon from the back,” Newman explained. “I cleaned it as blood got on it.”

“Thank you,” she said, her heart skipping a happy beat when she wrapped her fingers around the hilt. The patterns of waves and waterdrops on the blade flashed in the sun as if in greeting. “But now, I really have to go.”

Newman bowed his head. “And I will follow, Mylady.”

***

~Cedric~

Dumbfounded, Cedric blinked at the place where Cloudia had been standing just seconds ago. Only when he noticed a figure moving next to him, noticed Milton taking a step to the door, did Cedric snap out of it. Without a second thought, Cedric grabbed Milton and yanked him back.

“What were you thinking?” Cedric yelled. “You could have fallen off the train, Milton!”

The explosion, the sudden, screeching halt, and Cloudia’s hurried exit had jumbled my mind; now, everything was coming back to me, sorting itself neatly in my brain.

Milton and I hurrying to the first coach, the one right behind the locomotive. Seeing two men holding Cloudia down and at gunpoint. My mind going red with alarm. Being inattentive for a second and unable to prevent Milton from…

Cedric tightened his grip on Milton’s arm at the memory. Milton looked at his hand before he glanced at the open door. Passengers were gradually streaming out of the compartments and carriages, wondering what was going on, and wanting to get away from what was happening. Cedric pulled Milton farther to the side and away from the people.

“I am sorry, Kristopher,” Milton said softly. “It was the best way to handle it. And I have practice in that.”

“Practice in running on top of moving train carriages?” Cedric pinched his nose with his free hand. “If I didn’t already have grey hair, I would be saying that you’re giving me some! A moving train, Milton!”

“I filled in as a brakeman a few times,” Milton explained as if that made anything better. “I wanted to try it out; that’s why I know how to move even atop running trains.”

“Isn’t a brakeman a particularly dangerous job? Because they often fall off wagons?”

“Yes. Bram only let me do it twice for that reason.”

“Wentworth shouldn’t have let you do it once.” Cedric pinched his nose again. “We were riding for hours to Creil, Milton – you had ample time to tell us about the protective clothing and your stint as a brakeman and whatnot! You didn’t have to surprise us, or rather me, with all that! Next time, please don’t hold back and ramble how you have never rambled before. Recite your entire résumé. I don’t care; I just don’t want to be surprised like that anymore.” Cedric looked at Milton. “And speaking about brakes and telling us – me – things, what was up with the ropes? How did you know they were there?”

“Because,” Milton said, his face reddening, “this is my train.”

Cedric stared at him. “Your what?”

Milton smiled sheepishly and peeked to the door again. “I can explain later. Shouldn’t we go out first?” He moved towards the exit, but Cedric held him back.

“Milton, is there anything else I should know?”

Milton locked eyes with him. “Nothing I can tell you,” he said quietly before he pulled himself free and ran out of the coach.

Cedric followed Milton outside, thrusting some passengers away to get to the door. Outside, the sun was shining. People were clambering out of the train, filling the area with shouts, panicked voices, annoyed grunts, and their presences and belongings. Milton was heading towards the locomotive; smoke was still rising from it. Cedric quickly scanned the area for Cloudia. After he spotted her hurrying into the left train hall (Newman was with her; his large size was hard to overlook), Cedric ran after Milton.

He blew up dust and gravel as he hastened after him, and the wind blew his hair into his face. Cedric brushed the strands away and saw a man jumping out of the locomotive and starting to sprint away. If that was Townsend, Cloudia must be chasing down Yvette right now. And if that was Townsend, where was Florentin? Still in the locomotive?

Cedric quickened his pace. Behind him, he heard the passengers’ hysteric, confused chatter, their steps on the dry grass and gravel – chatter and steps that concealed whoever was creeping up on Cedric. In one moment, he had nearly reached the locomotive; in the next, someone grabbed his hair and yanked him back, hard.

A scream escaped Cedric’s throat as he was pulled back and down to the ground. Pain swelled on his side and the back of his head. It spread across his stomach too when his attacker rammed his foot into it. Air was ripped out of his lungs. Once, twice. The edges of his vision were darkening. When the man set out to drive down his foot a third time, Cedric collected his strength and reached up to his leg. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his trousers and the skin beneath and dragged him sideways with all his might.

The man cried out when he lost his equilibrium and crashed to the ground. Cedric gasped for air and fleetly rolled himself away. He needed to get up, to get up first, but first, he needed oxygen and a second to compose himself.

Cedric got up second; nevertheless, he was on his feet when the man tried to punch him. With a pang, Cedric noticed that it was the person who had held Cloudia down earlier, the man he had knocked out. He must have woken up and left the carriage from the other end while Cedric had talked to Milton.

Shit, Cedric thought and dodged the punch. He tried to grab the man, but he jumped back, taking out a knife in the process. Shit, Cedric thought anew. The man lunged at him with his knife, and Cedric stepped back. He evaded all the man’s lunges, was forced farther and farther back and away from the locomotive. He waited for an opening; his concentration was set on it.

He only faltered when he noticed something in his periphery: Kamden was making his way through the crowd.

Cedric slapped the knife out of the man’s hands. It clattered away, but Cedric didn’t pay any attention to where it fell. His eyes were on the man farther back amongst the masses – the man who was clearly after Kamden. Cedric recognised him as the person who had lain crumpled behind Newman in the fourth wagon. “Emyr!” Cedric screamed. He wanted to run to him and was promptly wrestled to the ground. He groaned as he landed again on the hard grit.

“Emyr!” Cedric shouted between dodging punches and trying to get the man off him. “Emyr! Behind you!” But Kamden didn’t hear him. His eyes only widened when he saw Cedric and ran towards him. This only ticked off the man from carriage four. “Emyr!” Cedric yelled again and held his arms protectively over his face as he was pummelled with punches. “Emyr – look behind you! Emyr!”

“Kamden! Duck!”

Without another thought, Kamden ducked right when the man had reached him and raised his gun. Cedric managed to switch places with his attacker, rolling him to the ground, as the gunshot sounded. His blood running cold, Cedric scrambled to his feet and kicked the man in the chin before he made a run towards Kamden.

No, no, no, not Kamden.

The crowd had dispersed and come together again in the wake of the shot, clustering around the possible victim. Cedric elbowed his way through the mass, his heart racing.

Great relief washed over him, calming his nerves, when he spotted Kamden.

He was safe and sound, sitting on the ground and blinking in confusion at Milton who was talking to the onlookers, likely to explain the situation. The man from wagon four was unconscious. The travellers turned more to the man now, shifting around him. Some of them took hold of him and bound him with clothes pulled from their suitcases.

Adopting Kamden’s expression, Cedric skittered to a halt in the small clearance. Immediately, Milton turned to him. “Kristopher! Are you all right?” he asked. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. I was running after Townsend – I think it must have been him – when I noticed the commotion behind me and…” Milton tightened his grip on the pistol in his hand; as his own was in its holster, it must be the gun of Kamden’s attacker. Milton must have shot it out of that man’s hand and then knocked him out somehow afterwards.

“It’s fine,” said Cedric, still not quite comprehending what had just happened. “And I am too, I think. Only superficial cuts.”

Kamden tried to get up, albeit a bit too quickly, and stumbled. Milton extended his hand to him, wanting to steady him, but Kamden caught himself and took a step back. Sadness flickered in Milton’s eyes as he retracted his hand. “Townsend got away, I’m sorry,” Milton said then, matter-of-factly.

“The Countess and Newman were heading to the train station. They might be able to intercept him. You two should go there too,” Cedric said and turned to run, having remembered something. “And I will go to the locomotive for the Clockmaker.”

***

~Cloudia~

Cloudia ran to the left tunnel; Newman was right behind her, protecting her back. Passengers continued to come out of the train carriages, puzzled and terrified. Their voices, steps, and the ritter-ratter of their suitcases on the gravel were growing louder as they came closer and closer to the train station. The Gare du Nord, however, was not the opposite of the scene outside but its mirror: The people at the station had noticed the commotion, of course. A train had stopped with great noise. Something in its decoupled locomotive had exploded, and the resulting smoke kept on rising. People were beside and on the tracks. And then, there had been the gunshots, the shouts, the fighting.

Cloudia would have been surprised if the people at the train station had not noticed anything.

The Gare du Nord must always be busting at its seams already as, with only two tunnels, two platforms, and six tracks, it was a remarkably small train station for a capital. Now, the panic and turmoil made Cloudia fear that the building might begin to shake.

Station personnel were doing their best to calm down and navigate the horrified travellers, but it was still a mess. Again, Cloudia found herself in a situation with too many civilians and far too little place.

And in this madhouse, Yvette had stolen herself.

It was like looking for a needle in the haystack; only that the haystack was moving and putting Cloudia at risk of being trampled down. Even entering the tunnel came with great difficulty, for people were not simply heading towards the front doors to leave. No, of course, many had set their heart to be obnoxious onlookers, leaving the station from this side of the tunnel to see from up close what had happened.

And that’s why I didn’t like people.

However, their idiocy meant that not only Newman and I would have a horrible time getting into and through the train station – it would be the same for Yvette and Townsend and everyone else on their side.

Cloudia and Newman had just managed to get inside – Newman and his intimidatingly large physique worked wonders as people, despite their worry and curiosity, seemed to instinctively step aside for Newman, even if it looked as if it was physically impossible in this cramped place – when they heard shouts that made their ears perk up. Many were yelling right now, from travellers to personnel, but what set those shouts apart from all the others was that they were in English.

“Girl, don’t thrash around that much! Are you a fish?”

“Oh, let me go, you…”

And then their exchange was cut apart by screams.

***

~Cedric~

When Cedric arrived at the smoking locomotive, Florentin was leaving it. Albeit not by walking on his feet; instead, Florentin, bound, gagged, and bloody, was on his stomach and wiggling himself out. Cedric could not help himself but laugh at the sight and earned a seething glare for that.

“I’m sorry,” Cedric said between snorts and while trying to unfurl the rope, “but you should have known that would you look like a caterpillar if you did that.”

Florentin scowled at him and pressed out what must be expletives; the gag prevented Cedric from understanding any though. When Cedric could not undo the knot by hand, he cut through it. As soon as the rope fell off him, Florentin sat up and tore the gag from his mouth. “Could you not have done that earlier, you fool?”

“And that’s why I didn’t remove the gag first.” Cedric sighed. “You are being awfully ungrateful to the person who has come to save you.”

“Remind me, why I am in this situation in the first place?” Florentin rubbed his wrists. “Decades I’ve lived in that cabin without anyone finding it. And then you come and get spotted instantly.”

Cedric lifted his hands. “I did warn you that someone would come. Why didn’t you fight back?”

“And risk the life of the Marquis’ grandson?” Florentin coughed and scrunched up his nose. “Now, enough of this. I want to leave this ineffable smoke behind before I die again.”

Cedric offered to help him up, but Florentin only swatted his hand away and got to his feet alone. He brushed briefly over his clothes, saw that it was futile, and simply set out towards the train station without another word. Cedric wanted to follow him right away; a movement he perceived from the corner of his eye, however, made him stop and check. The train driver was still inside the locomotive, bound and gagged as Florentin had been. Clenching his jaw, Cedric entered the locomotive and quickly freed the train driver. He assisted him outside and pointed to the train station with a nod before he hurried after Florentin.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the train driver?” Cedric asked Florentin.

“What does he matter to me?” Florentin answered and put his glasses back on. He must have found a clean tissue in his pocket and scrubbed them on the way. “And don’t look at me like that. I told you I don’t like people.”

“He could have died!”

“You might have inhaled too much of the smoke,” Florentin replied dryly and then nodded to the coaches. “Or hit your head when the train stopped. If that man had been fated to die in that locomotive, there would have been a Grim Reaper – an active, French one – inside it, waiting to collect his soul. Now, have you seen one? No? Considering the scene around us, I suppose a Grim Reaper must be near though. As such, rather than preoccupying yourself with my apparent cold-heartedness, might I suggest that you turn your attention to leaving this place as rapidly as possible? Neither of us can afford to be seen.”

How I hated him being right.

“How did you fare anyway?” Cedric asked in an attempt to change the subject. Instantaneously, Florentin side-eyed him, knowing of his scheme, though he decided to answer his question for once.

“How I fared?” Florentin replied in a tone that made Cedric regret his decision. “What an unsurprisingly idiotic question coming from you. My workshop was invaded by a fool and his entourage. I was almost willing to try my hand at opening the puzzle box, simply to bring that man’s endless, asinine chatter to an end. For so long, the only fools I would encounter were at the marketplace when I’m selling my clocks. Of course, the universe could not allow me to forget that fools are everywhere and send me an overabundance of them to my home. I followed that fool…”

“Nicodemus Townsend,” said Cedric.

“If I had cared for that man’s name, I would have remembered it the first time,” Florentin said curtly.

“Then, I will feel a bit honoured that you remembered mine.”

“If that satisfies your small self, so be it, Mr Rimrod.”

Cedric stared at him.

“I was jesting,” Florentin clarified dryly before he proceeded, unbothered, “I followed that fool and his entourage to ensure the safety of both Jacques Beauchene and me, as his grandfather would not go easy on me if something happened to one of his grandchildren because of me. Of course, the fool troop could have forced me then and there to open that box, only the main idiot intended to make a spectacle out of it and chose to bring me to Paris. He also hoped to be more undisturbed in the city because he knew Countess Phantomhive was chasing him.

“When the locomotive was decoupled from the rest of the train and the engine exploded, he tried to take me with him, but I struggled against him. In the end, he made the, for once, sensible decision to escape on his own. After all, securing the box is of more importance than securing me. He could search for another Clockmaker or whatnot but would never find another Queen’s box.” Florentin pinched his nose. “If only he had come to that conclusion earlier. He could have sought out another person rather than me when he had realised that the Marquis’ grand-niece was nearby. None of you would have noticed that he had left France until later, and the neighbouring Germany is known for its clockworks too.”

“I guess, it’s a case of an inflated sense of self,” Cedric remarked. “Townsend thought he could still continue his plan and get away too.”

Florentin looked at him. “Now, tell me, where is that fool right now?”

***

~Cloudia~

The screams sent a surge through the crowd and Cloudia into action. Ahead, people were simultaneously turning away from and heading towards the source of the cries. As Cloudia made her way through, she noticed a commotion, and when she heard yet another scream, she stiffened.

I knew that voice. The voice of the man with whom Yvette had spoken. The first few screams had been hers and screams for help; this one was one of agony and clearly his.

Newman was a great help to get through the masses, but upon hearing his outcry, Cloudia rushed through on her own and ended up reaching him first.

Surrounded by people, Quentin Thibault-Nichols was sitting on the ground and holding his side with one hand. With the other, he tried to shoo away people and pleaded for them to please go and stop the soot-covered girl instead of trying to tend to him.

“Mylady!” Quentin exclaimed with surprising vitality and joy when he spotted her, though he looked pale, and a sheen of sweat was glistening on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you and your butler here.”

“And we didn’t expect to find you here either, Quentin,” said Cloudia with a little smile. “Though I faintly recall that you did tell Milton you would meet him in Paris.”

“Indeed! You have a remarkable memory, Mylady.” Quentin winced from the pain. Yet, when a woman tried to reach out to him, he energetically waved her away. Cloudia told all unhelpful helpers to leave and that she would take over. This time, having seen her furious gaze and heard her slightly threatening voice, they listened, and the crowd around them dispersed.

As soon as he arrived, Newman dropped to his knees next to Quentin and spoke to him, but Cloudia did not listen to what he was saying. Instead, she searched her pockets for the roll of gauze she had taken with her while she scanned the tunnel for Yvette. Her heart beat loudly in her chest; Yvette was nowhere to be seen, and Quentin was injured. Cloudia gritted her teeth and then knelt by Quentin’s other side, the roll of gauze now in her hands.

“That girl… I had her,” Quentin pressed out while Newman gently lifted his hand from his wound to inspect it. Yvette didn’t seem to have hit anything major; nonetheless, she had left him with a wide, deep wound that was bleeding far too much for Cloudia’s liking. “But she protested and then started screaming. Of course, people… people assumed I was doing something awful to her. And in a way I was as I was trying to drag her away, but only… but only because I saw her running out of the wrack! I figured she must know something. Anyway, people came to her rescue – and she… she used the chance before I could explain to free a hand and take out a knife…” Quentin grimaced when, presumably, a fresh wave of pain rolled over him.

“Quentin!” Cloudia heard Milton’s voice behind her. A blink later, he was already by Quentin’s other side, next to Newman. He let his eyes wander over the injury, worry unfurling on his face when he took it in.

“Milton,” Quentin strained to say. “I… I had her. I restrained her, but she managed to pull a hand free and get out her knife… People were around us; it was all so chaotic, and…”

“It is fine, Quentin,” Milton said softly. “Please don’t say another word. Everything will be fine. I…” Abruptly, Milton halted his sentence and stared at Cloudia with wide eyes as if he had only just noticed her presence. He tensed up, and Cloudia would have enquired about it if Kamden had not appeared then. He briefly touched Milton’s shoulder to get his attention. “Go away and let me,” he said.

With an odd expression on his face, Milton stood up and stepped away. Kamden swiftly took his place and rummaged in his bag. Cloudia handed him the roll of gauze before she went to Milton. By now, the train station had emptied significantly of travellers.

And Yvette and Townsend too.

I shouldn’t be standing here; I should be running after Yvette, at least. She might have managed to get away, but she could not have come far yet. Only my priority was not her; it was Townsend and the box – and where did he go? I had simply chased after the first person who had come out of the locomotive like an idiot. Maybe Cedric had been able to follow him. Hopefully, Cedric had been able to follow him. Otherwise…

“How on earth am I supposed to find them now?” Cloudia said aloud and rubbed her face. Newman and Kamden were fixing up Quentin. Elsewhere, station staff was shouting about the wayward train and leading people out. There were the sounds of suitcases and shoes scraping over the ground. Panicked, curious, annoyed chatter. The cries of children, and their parents’ soothing coos. The tick-tack and screeches of machines. Quentin’s whimpers. All sounds were deafening in the echoing tunnels.

Cloudia’s head shot up.

Something was wrong.

She whirled to Milton. Cloudia hadn’t been able to take a good look at him yet, not since before she had begun jumping from wagon to wagon. Earlier, in the last carriage before the locomotive, everything had happened so quickly – the attack, the braking, the smoke – that she had barely paid any attention to him. Now, Cloudia raked her eyes over him. His jacket was gone, and blood was splattered on his clothes. There was blood dried on his left hand, but he seemed otherwise fine physically. Cloudia worried about the odd, absent-minded expression Milton wore while he was fumbling with his right sleeve and watching Kamden and Newman tend to Quentin though.

“Milton,” she said and faintly touched his arm. This instantly ripped him out of his thoughts, and he let go of his sleeve and wrapped his fingers around his right wrist.

Milton turned to her and said, “I’m sorry, Lady Cloudia. What did you say?”

“Milton, are you all right?” Cloudia asked cautiously.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he replied and gave her a little smile that made her stomach churn. “I’m sorry for making you worry. And I apologise for ignoring what you said and not staying behind; I could not stand back, and I have every right to be here.”

“You could have got yourself killed, Milton! You’re lucky that you only injured your hand.”

“This?” Milton let go of his wrist and glanced at his wounded palm. “This is nothing, Lady Cloudia.” He looked up at her, and his gaze softened. “Lady Cloudia, I promised you I would keep myself safe. As I told you again and again, there is no reason to worry about me – and this wound is…”

“… not nothing,” interjected Kamden and appeared by Milton’s side. It was rare to see Kamden glare at anyone; when he did, Cloudia was always surprised by its viciousness as it could rival Lisa’s. Now, Kamden levelled one at Milton who blinked at him in astonishment.

“It’s not good to leave any wound untreated, Milton,” Kamden said firmly and reached for Milton’s hand, but Milton pulled it away.

“This is nothing but a minor scratch,” Milton insisted.

“I asked Mr Newman; you grabbed a dagger’s blade rather tightly and it bled considerably. He even feared you might slice through a finger. I would not classify that as a ‘minor scratch.’” Again, Kamden attempted to take Milton’s hand; again, Milton dodged him.

“You did what?” Cloudia enquired.

“Miss Guilloux attacked Mr Newman,” Milton explained tersely. “And it really is nothing. Should you not see to Quentin? Lady Cloudia cut the side of her face and her cheek as well.”

“I stitched Mr Thibault up and bandaged him already, and I will treat Cloudie next. She would want me to take a look at you first.”

Cloudia nodded in agreement. Kamden held out a hand to Milton and narrowed his eyes. “The sooner I get to you, the sooner I get to her and everyone else. We don’t have much time anyway.”

“All the more reason to simply let me be,” Milton retorted. “Townsend is getting away as we speak.”

“And that’s why you should stop being stubborn and give me your hand.”

“Milton,” Cloudia said and raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s wrong? I know you don’t want to bother anyone if it can be helped, but this is getting ridiculous.”

Milton pressed his lips together and extended his bloody hand. Kamden grabbed it, and while he began cleaning it, Milton closed his eyes. In her periphery, Cloudia noticed Cedric hurrying towards them. She turned to look and returned his wave. As much relief his sight brought her, he did not have Townsend with him. Cloudia almost wanted to scream and kick against something.

“You told the truth; it really is only a minor scratch,” Kamden said, baffled.

Cloudia spun around, just as Milton reopened his eyes to look at his hand. There was a thin, shallow cut on his palm and nothing more. “I suppose, Mr Newman must have been mistaken,” Kamden added and began bandaging Milton’s hand. “Sometimes, wounds bleed terribly even if they are small.”

Milton became very quiet. Cloudia wanted to say something when she was suddenly swept into a hug by Cedric. He held her tightly, and after the initial shock, Cloudia wrapped her arms around him too and leaned her head against his shoulder.

How odd. I didn’t even know how much I needed this.

“Countess! I’m so glad you’re all right! I found the Clockmaker; he is fine but annoying as always,” blurted out Cedric. Cloudia smiled into his shoulder. “And then Miss Greene came along with Aurèle and Jacques, and I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Kamden harrumphed. “If you can excuse me, Your Grace,” he said and pried Cedric and Cloudia apart, “but, as you can see, Cloudie is injured, and I want to tend to the wound.”

Cedric stepped away, and Cloudia sighed. “Did you see where Townsend went?” she asked Cedric while Kamden dabbed at the side of her face.

Cedric shook his head. “Only that he went towards the station. I’m sorry that I couldn’t get him. One of his goons tackled me.”

“I couldn’t get Yvette either,” said Cloudia contritely. She lifted her hand to rub her face, but Kamden gently guided it down.

“That’s not good,” Cedric replied. Cloudia was about to remind him that he had accomplished as much as she had when he continued with, “I know that you were tasked to catch Townsend, but only because he stole the box, right? The Queen’s box is the true priority, and Yvette has it.”

Cloudia stared at him. “What do you mean Yvette has it?”

“I saw her with it. We had it temporarily but had to exchange it for Jacques… it is a long story; I will tell you it later,” Cedric explained.

“You’ve seen her with it?”

“Yes. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be saying she has it.”

“Are you certain? Because Townsend showed the box to me right before Yvette and you and Milton arrived in the final wagon.”

For a moment, Cloudia and Cedric looked at each other with mirroring wide-eyed expressions.

“They brought a duplicate into circulation,” she said, aghast.

“One of them is a fake,” he said, at the same time with the same horrified tone.

This time, Cloudia didn’t let herself be prevented from running her hands over her face. “This can’t be happening,” she said and buried her fingers in her messy, tangled hair. “Townsend likely got a replica made to either throw us off or to offer Yvette for ‘safekeeping’ to appease her – or both. If Yvette wasn’t such a scheming person herself, we could be sure that Townsend is in possession of the real box. Only Yvette orchestrated the entire incident in Nanteuil-la-Forêt – how could we rule out that Yvette did not switch out the boxes at some point?” Cloudia pinched her nose. “We have Aurèle and Jacques with us; the mayor must know the Marquis and, by extension, them. He might help us find them. Only, securing the train stations, surveilling the borders, and mobilising the police takes time that we don’t have.

“Our best and possibly only chance, from what I can gather, is that Townsend doesn’t know that Milton’s acquaintances found his base of operations here and got his accomplices. If Townsend returns to his base, we might be able to catch him there. He might meet up with Yvette again, and they could go there together, though it is just as likely that Townsend abandons Yvette. How could we find her if she’s on her own? At least, Yvette most definitely was never in Paris before and would have to orientate herself first. Let us begin with the base though.

“Milton, could you tell us where it is?” Cloudia asked and turned to Milton. Or, rather, to where Milton had been standing only moments earlier. During his treatment and afterwards, Milton had been right next to her; Cloudia knew that he had still been there when Cedric had arrived. She looked around and located Newman hurrying towards the station doors. Without a second thought, Cloudia set out after him. Cedric scrambled to follow her.

When they arrived at the doors, Newman had put a hand on Milton’s arm and was asking him why he rushed here and whether he was well. Slowly, Milton peeled his eyes away from the door’s window. Cloudia almost flinched when she saw the blank, wide-eyed horror on his face.

“The city,” Milton spoke with a hollow voice and tightened his grip on his right wrist. “There is something wrong with the city.”

And then the glass shattered.

***

~Cedric~

Instinctively, I reached for Cloudia. My heart fluttered when she reached for me too.

We quickly got away from the entrance doors, and Alfred pulled Milton away from them too. The horrified expression had not left his face yet, and it made my blood curl. Behind and around us, people were screaming and yelling questions. I didn’t need to speak a word of French to know what they were saying.

“What is going on?”

Cedric and Cloudia continued to back away from the entrance, turned to return to Kamden and Quentin. They met them at the halfway mark; Kamden and Quentin, the former steadying the latter, must have headed towards them when the windows shattered.

On the train, Milton had seemed so steadfast, so surprisingly fearless too when he had jumped through the window, tricked Yvette, and walked atop a moving wagon. Now, it was as if whatever had given him the strength for all that had vanished, leaving him frozen up and slightly jittery; Newman had to drag him all the way here. Cedric was half-inclined to go to him but decided against it. Newman was by his side which was enough. Further, Lisa, Aurèle, and Jacques had finally caught up to them. Cedric noticed Florentin standing a bit farther away, his eyes kept firmly on their group, though the tinted glasses made his exact expression undiscernible from this distance.

Quentin gestured for everyone to follow him. With Kamden’s assistance, he guided them to a door by the side of the tunnel and unlocked it. It was a staff room, but no one was inside it right now. Thus, when Quentin and Kamden closed the door, the sounds from outside were dampened, and Cedric sighed from the relief of finally being away from masses of people again.

“The absolute worst train ride in the history of train rides,” Lisa said and folded her arms in front of her chest. She winced a little when she did it. “And now, what is going on here? Everything got quieter and now turned to hysterics again.”

“Something is going on outside,” Cloudia told her and glanced at Milton. He had sat down on the ground and kept his head down.

“I overheard some people saying there’s a revolt,” Aurèle said. His arm was in a sling, and Jacques was clinging to his brother’s uninjured side. Cedric had found Jacques – rightfully – annoying on their way to the Clockmaker’s workshop; now, seeing him in Milton’s too-big jacket and standing eerily quiet by his sibling’s side, Cedric felt terrible for the boy. He almost wanted to ask him what that dying potted plant by the window was, just to get a glimpse of the normal him again.

“And I remember that Maman mentioned tensions in the city,” continued Aurèle.

Quentin nodded. He still looked awful, though the words came out of him slightly easier now as he was not losing blood by the second anymore. “It’s been that way for months, really. There’s been an influx of people here… far too many for the city and the National Workshops to handle. I heard… heard the Assembly came together to decide the Workshops’ fate two days ago. I suppose they must have announced their decision to close them today.” Weakly, Quentin ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Everyone saw this coming but…”

“… why did it have to boil over now?” Cedric finished his thought, and Quentin nodded.

Huffing, Cloudia disassembled her messy braid and untangled her hair with her fingers. “Of course, it would have to happen today,” Cloudia pressed out between clenched teeth. “Just when we’re here and having to hunt down two criminals. Couldn’t Townsend and Yvette have stayed in Nanteuil-la-Forêt?! How are we supposed to find them now? We went from a village-sized angry mob to a city-sized one!” She furiously re-braided her hair and tossed it over her shoulder.

“I might know a way,” Milton suddenly said with a thin voice. Newman held out a hand to help him up, but Milton waved it away. Slightly shakily, he got back on his feet on his own; whatever had afflicted him earlier did not seem to be the source of his jittery state now, however. Milton’s eyes darted around, and his hands fluttered over his utility belt before he closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

When he re-opened them, he resembled the Milton on the train more again.

Milton opened a pocket on his belt and produced a piece of metal, slightly larger than Cedric’s hand and nearly twice as thick. “This… this is a little something I’ve been working on. Earlier, when I collided with Miss Guilloux on the train, I slipped an object into her pocket.”

Cedric blinked at him. “How? When? Weren’t you handcuffed?”

Milton smiled sheepishly. “Sleight of hand. An old acquaintance taught me years ago. At any rate, I slipped a little transmitter in her pocket, and it should still be there. The last times I was in Paris, I set up and hid some… stations across the city. If a transmitter comes close to such a station, it gets registered.” He turned on the strange apparatus and pulled out an antenna. “My employees receive a badge they’re meant to carry to work to identify themselves. I installed transmitters in the badges for those working in London – for their own safety and as a trial. If Townsend is still carrying his, then…” The screen flared to life. Milton exhaled and held it out. Two white dots were blinking on the display; only then did Cedric recognise the machine.

I glanced over to Florentin. If he had noticed Milton’s radio receiver from that distance, he did not let it show, keeping a straight face instead.

And I hoped I did too, despite the uneasiness I felt at the sight.

“We’re lucky,” said Milton. “Townsend still has his badge. Unfortunately, I cannot discern which dot refers to which transmitter and, thus, to which person.”

From one moment to the other, Milton turned red, having possibly noticed that everyone, even Lisa and Aurèle, was staring at him. Only Quentin looked grim. He peeled himself away from Kamden and gave Milton a brief side hug. “Milton…”

Milton shook his head. “It is all right, Quentin,” he said quietly. “It cannot be helped now.”

Cloudia locked eyes with Cedric. He knew instantly that she was thinking about their conversation from days ago when he had visited her room, and she had been so anxious about the implications of Milton’s work with the birdcage clock and the chain-reaction machine. Just like that particular fear had been confirmed for Cedric back on the train when Milton had picked up the Queen’s box, it had now been confirmed for her too.

“Townsend himself was never adept with technology; nevertheless, he knew from the moment he saw those blueprints that they were unlike anything he had seen before,” Yvette had said.

And, of course, worst of all, Townsend and Yvette knew as well.

“Quentin, did you finish the preparations?” Milton asked after he had composed himself again.

Quentin nodded. “Yes, I managed to finish them just before I came here, Milton. I worked like lightning!” He put his hands proudly against his hips and then cringed from the pain.

Milton reached out to him, held his arm to steady him. “Thank you, Quentin. I’m sorry you had to do all that alone. And please don’t strain yourself too much.”

Quentin slightly shook his head. “It was nothing. Couldn’t… Well, I couldn’t call myself your best engineer without proving myself, right? And your friend patched me up; I’ll live, Milton, don’t worry so much!” He patted his injured side and winced again.

Milton shot him another concerned look, though bit back on the worried words. “I had Quentin set up more stations to expand our range; nonetheless, as there aren’t stations on every corner or any beyond the city borders, our range remains rather limited. If Townsend and Miss Guilloux get too far away, if they take their transmitters too far away for any station to register them, we will lose them. The stations are robust enough that they shouldn’t get destroyed by the uprising, at least.”

“If it is like that, we should head out now,” Cloudia said, determined. “Not all of us, however.” She let her gaze wander over their little battered group. “Cecelia is waiting for us at her townhouse. Do you know where this is?” she asked Aurèle and told him the address.

Aurèle nodded. “Yes. That’s in the tenth arrondissement, close to the Seine. It’s a bit far on foot, and it will be a pain to get there in this mess. Going to our place might be, uh, bothersome too as our Paris house is not quite in Paris, as Grand-père likes his peace, and the city tends to be…” He gestured around.

“It wasn’t like that earlier,” remarked Quentin. “There was tension in the air, yes, but when I came to the Gare du Nord at eleven o’clock, Paris wasn’t in such a state. It… it wasn’t like that either right before you arrived. Whatever is going on, it has only been going on for… for about an hour. Not everything should be in shambles yet, and I came with my own carriage; the one you gave me, Milton, to get around town to check and install stations. We could try… could try heading to that townhouse in the carriage and abandon it and resume on foot if we must.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Cloudia said and nodded. “It would be for the best if all of you went to Cecelia’s house. Lisa, Quentin, and Aurèle are injured; Jacques shouldn’t be involved in any of this; Emyr is needed to look after everyone; and Mr Chastain should not go anywhere near Townsend and Yvette again. Newman, you need to get everyone safely to the destination with Aurèle and Quentin’s guidance.”

Newman bowed to Cloudia. Cedric could see slight unease creeping up to her when she turned to Milton. “Milton…” she began, but he immediately cut her off.

“No,” Milton retorted. “I know what you’re going to say. That it should only be you and Kristopher going after Miss Guilloux and Townsend and that I should go with the others – and I refuse.”

“Milton, I can understand that you want to help. You fought your case why you have every right to be here and go after Townsend back at the château, but you were almost catatonic a few minutes ago.” Cloudia held out her hand. “I don’t want to take your invention and run to spite you. I want you to stay back to ensure your safety. Please give me the device.”

Milton glanced at her hand before he met her eyes. “I will be safe.”

“Milton, we don’t have much time. You said yourself that we might lose them if they get too far away.” She took a deep breath. “What I said about Mr Chastain applies to you too. I cannot risk you.”

“You won’t. I am very willing to risk myself.” Milton clutched his receiver. “You have never even been in Paris before, Lady Cloudia.”

“One of my associates, Barrington Weaselton, wanted to come here, to the train station,” said Cloudia, and Cedric grimaced. If Barrington was heading to the train station, he most definitely had Oscar with him too. “He was originally meant to board a train and come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt,” she continued. “Now, if we run into him, he will be a helpful guide.”

“If you run into him,” Milton pointed out. Cloudia ground her teeth at his words. “What certainty do you have that you will? And that you will run into him soon? You will only get lost out there.”

Cedric looked between the two of them, and when Cloudia narrowed her eyes, their colour darkening, he had the horrid feeling that she was contemplating something she would only regret later.

“We’re only wasting time, Countess,” Cedric chimed in. Their attention snapped to him, and Cedric hurried to continue before Cloudia could say anything. “That blockhead won’t relent because you would not either, Countess. You’re awfully alike sometimes, have you noticed?” Cloudia closed her mouth again, pressing her lips together. “I will keep an eye on him,” said Cedric, softening his voice. “I promise that I will drag him away if the situation becomes too dangerous for him. All will be well.” Shouts from outside rang through the walls. “And the city too, hopefully.”

Cloudia closed her eyes for a moment. “Very well,” she said at last and levelled her gaze at Milton. “Now, where do we go?”

***

~Cloudia~

We passed a beautiful, columned building with two bell towers, and I wondered whether it was a church. A slight desire to go and check overcame me, an unwelcome wish of the curious part of me, and I promptly pushed it aside as we hurried away from the building and ran across an unbuilt area overgrown with weeds.

I would have never imagined that I would come to Paris under these circumstances, with the city in this state. Quentin had been right; the revolt didn’t seem to have been going on for long. Even if the crux of the fighting hadn’t reached us yet, it was only a matter of time. Unrest was spreading throughout the city, trickling through the streets with nauseating speed. Milton’s machine was leading us southward, and the farther we got, the more restless our surroundings became. The brawls were evolving into full-blown fights. The shouts were turning into screams. The number of barricades blocking the ways was increasing.

The uprising must have started somewhere farther south, and I was glad that the others had decided to head more to the west first, taking a little detour before going down to Cecelia’s house. Navigating these streets was becoming more and more a nightmare by foot; they would never get far by carriage unless they managed to outrun the wave of destruction. There were even some carriages toppled over and littering the way.

Nevertheless, Milton guided Cloudia and Cedric calmly and expertly through the streets. Every time, they ran into a barricade or came too close to a brawl, Milton rapidly found another route. They slalomed most of the mess, though not all of it. People were running into them frequently, on their way to find shelter or others to attack. Men and women were putting up posters on walls that called people to revolt with them. Men in military uniforms marched through the streets, on foot or horse, meeting men and women bearing all sorts of weaponry, from knives and garden axes to guns and rifles they must have snatched somewhere. Strangely enough, the insurrectionists seemed to be in the majority; at least, so far.

The sight was both a déjà-vu and not. There had been no armoured guards in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, and, here in Paris, no one was chasing them. Still, Cloudia, Cedric, and Milton had to avoid others as best as they could, lest they would only be pulled into the fighting.

Spotting some soldiers with weapons raised, Cloudia grabbed Cedric and Milton and yanked them into a small side street. A moment later, a burst of bullets was fired. Milton quickly checked the display and hurried to lead them away, taking them for yet another detour.

It would take ages until they found Yvette or Townsend in this pandemonium.

But at least, they would need ages to escape too.

Her hair clung to her scalp, and Cloudia breathed evenly and controlled as they hastened through streets and dodged attacks. She pushed herself forward and forward, her attention on high alert for everything. Yet, even though Cedric had promised to take care of him, and she knew he would keep his word, her worry always made Cloudia’s attention snap back to Milton.

As the guide, Milton walked a bit ahead of Cloudia and Cedric. Having now experienced the state of the city, Cloudia was glad that she had relented. Even with Cedric’s Grim Reaper abilities, they might have struggled to find their way forward to their targets in this chaos. However, while Milton had proven himself capable as a guide, Cloudia had noticed that he was struggling with the situation. Without fail, Milton slightly faltered whenever they passed by a corpse, or a pile of bodies. He did a good job of keeping himself together and hiding it; if Cloudia hadn’t known him that well or wasn’t watching him as intently, she would have missed all the little signs.

Cloudia held her tongue as they encountered more corpses, and she saw it again: The shift in Milton’s posture, the flicker of pain in his eyes, how his steps slowed ever so slightly. She felt Cedric’s gaze on her then, and when their eyes met, she knew that he knew what she was thinking and grappling with. It was both irritating (for she did not want to be such an open book) as well as reassuring (for she didn’t feel alone with her concerns), and Cloudia presented him with a brief, thankful smile.

Not long afterwards, they emerged into a larger street again. This one was mostly untouched by the destruction, though farther down the street, people were erecting a blockade with broken stones. When Cloudia and the others hurried past them, one of them shouted for them to come and help. Some others repeated the shout.

“What are they saying?” asked Cedric.

“They want us to help with the barricade,” Cloudia said and reached for Milton, but one of the insurgents did too at the same time. Milton dodged his hand and promptly found himself on the other end of a gun barrel instead. Cedric sucked in his breath, and Cloudia itched for her own gun. If that man wasn’t almost pressing the gun against Milton’s forehead, she would have blown his brains out already, civilian or not.

“Boy, you look reasonable,” the man said. “If you’re in to defend our republic, you either fight or make barricades. There are no other choices, not when the Assembly is trying to take everything away that we fought so hard for. Now, will you and your friends fight or help carry stones?”

Milton smiled sadly. “I wish you the best for your cause. No small issue would have pushed you over the edge like that,” he said with such unfazed gentleness that the man and his companions were momentarily startled. “I only wonder, how will it help if you kill my friends and me?”

“We don’t need useless, spineless people,” yelled someone from behind.

“Yes! We don’t need people who would rather give up on our republic than fight for it,” interjected another.

“We are only visitors from another country,” Milton continued calmly. “You would only waste ammunition.” Fleetly, he detached the cartridge box from his belt and held it up. “I have some spare bullets I could offer you.”

The man’s eyes widened at the sight, and he lowered his pistol as he reached for the box. Milton took this opportunity to step back. Cloudia charged forward, taking out her gun and ramming its butt into the man’s temple. Before he had even crumpled to the floor, she knocked out one of the other men. And she and Cedric beat them all into unconsciousness before they could do anything of note.

Panting, Cloudia slipped her pistol back into its holster and turned to Milton. “Are you all right?” she asked. Milton nodded, raking his eyes over the unconscious men, and Cloudia knew what he was thinking.

“No,” she said firmly. “Milton, we have no time to move them.”

“You’ve seen what is going on,” Milton replied. “It’s only a question of time until guards get to this street.”

“Yes, this could happen any minute now which is part of the reason why we should hurry and leave.”

He extended the device to her, and her eyes widened. “You can go ahead, Lady Cloudia.”

“Milton, don’t be ridiculous…”

“They’re going to kill these men. I can’t just go on, knowing that it was partially because of me.”

“With how things are going, they might still die today anyway.”

“And they might as well survive. If I can give them a chance for either fate, I would rather want to help them live.”

“Milton, they wanted to shoot us over some stones,” Cedric pointed out, exasperated.

“They are only stressed and enraged.” Milton took Cloudia’s hand, pressing the device into it. “It will be…”

Cloudia shoved the apparatus back to Milton. “You have not changed at all,” she said dryly. “One of these days, you will get yourself killed, Milton.”

He smiled faintly at her words. Cloudia bent to grab one of the unconscious men. “Let’s make this quick. But if one of them wakes up and tries to attack us, I will be the one who kills him, do you understand?”

Hastily, they hid the bodies in alcoves. Milton thanked Cedric and Cloudia, and Cloudia told him to leave it be before they resumed their horrible track through Paris.

The sounds of hooves on stones, of war cries and screams of agony, of gunshots and blades swung through the air became louder and more pervasive. They hammered against Cloudia’s skull, echoed through her head. It was hard to discern how far they had come from the Gare du Nord with all the route changes they had to take. She had no idea how long they had been on the chase either. Or for how long they could keep going on like that.

They had been well-rested when the Nanteuillats had descended upon them. It had been a small area too, even with the portion of the forest and the tunnel between the village and the château. There had been a finish line, a place where they could retreat too, and allies. They had set out to hunt down Townsend and Yvette after only a brief pause. They had been on horseback for hours to get to Creil. The train ride had lasted for only about an hour but had gnawed on their energy reserves and nerves as if it had gone on for centuries.

And then, they had been spat into France’s largest city, right in the middle of an uprising. Hurt, fatigued, with fraying nerves and diminishing patience.

Her Majesty owed me the best and longest holiday of my life.

Cloudia gnashed her teeth and slightly quickened her pace nonetheless – all while Milton who was ahead of her stumbled sideways against a façade. Immediately, she sped up more, caught his arm to steady him. Cedric ground to a halt next to her a moment later.

“Milton,” Cloudia said and tightened her grip on his arm. “Can you continue?”

Milton lifted his head and nodded, though Cloudia was certain she had never seen him so exhausted before. It was understandable, of course; after everything they had gone through in the last fourteen hours or more, one was bound to be fatigued. And Cloudia didn’t even know if Milton had got any rest before he had rushed from Paris to Nanteuil-la-Forêt to find Josiah Heriot and Townsend. Still, she found herself frowning at the sight of Milton’s weary face, briefly rummaging in her memories to search for an instance when he had been genuinely tired.

“I only have… a bit of a headache,” Milton said by way of explanation and closed his eyes. “I am fine; you have to trust me. I… I simply don’t do well when it’s… too loud.”

“Milton,” Cedric said quietly, “how far are Townsend and Yvette?”

Milton snapped his eyes open and held out the machine to him and Cloudia. Although Cedric had requested its consultation, she noticed him shifting a bit from one leg to the other at the sight of it. Three dots were blinking on the screen, two white ones and one black one. Cloudia sighed in relief that neither Yvette nor Townsend had managed to outrun them yet, even in this pandemonium. If they had gone out of the detection zone, she might have set the city on fire.

Milton tipped on the black dot. “That’s where we are.” He pointed at the closer of the two white dots. “We have almost reached one. They haven’t moved much in the last few minutes, possibly because they cannot proceed.”

“Or do not want to proceed,” Cloudia added. He nodded, first at her words, then down a street. “We need to head down there and then go left. If there are no hindrances, of course.”

“That’s good enough for me,” she said, the excitement pumping new energy through her veins. She held out her hand. “May I borrow the device, Milton? I can go ahead, and you can follow with the Duke at your own pace.”

Milton blinked at her hand, the motion slow and lethargic. “I only have that one device with me. We could lose you.”

“It will be fine. I might be unable to rush that far ahead anyway. And the Duke is very adept at finding me,” Cloudia said. Cedric nodded, unable to hide his grin.

Milton looked between them, his gaze unreadable despite his miserable state, before he smiled. It was the ghost of one, faint and brief, like the ones he had worn when Cloudia had first met him. Yet, they never lacked any warmth. “I trust you,” he said softly and placed the machine in her hand.

***

~Cedric~

As soon as Cloudia had dashed away, Milton sagged back against the wall. Cedric scrambled to grab his arm.

“Milton, are you…” Cedric cut himself off when he heard shouts and steps behind him. Hastily, he dragged Milton into another side street and then through another, even if it brought them off-route. The skull pendant warmed against his chest as if it was chastising him for that; or, perhaps, Cedric was simply going mad, being sleepless and hungry, and imagining the shift in temperature.

He led Milton to another wall against which he could safely sag. The instant Cedric let go of him, Milton fell against it and slid down until he was sitting on the ground.

“I’m sorry that you always get stuck with me,” said Milton. He was normally rather pale; now, his hue had lightened even further, making him appear like a ghost.

“It’s okay, Milton,” Cedric said and knelt before him. Part of him cried out in relief at that, happy to be able to sit, even if only for a while. “You’ve been holding yourself together very well. This isn’t even normal for us; how could you fare perfectly in such a situation?”

Milton became very quiet and tucked up his legs, resting his head on his knees.

While he was curled up, trying to compose himself, I let him be. In the meantime, I looked around. There was nothing of note in this side street; it seemed as if neither any insurrectionists nor any guards had found their way here yet. As such, death had not come here either so far.

But it would be everywhere soon; they would be everywhere soon.

On our chase through the city, I had spotted some already. Glasses, black suits, gardening tools. Cinematic Records rising out of people here and there. There had been no indicator that any of them had noticed me – yet.

Florentin was right; I had to be careful.

For my sake, and the sake of everyone around me.

Cedric touched Milton’s shoulder, but what was meant to be reassuring only made Milton flinch. Cedric pulled his hand away, and Milton raised his head. “I’m sorry, Kristopher, I didn’t mean…” He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s just…”

“It’s okay. Hey, Milton,” said Cedric and searched his eyes. “Is this just a headache? There’s nothing else wrong with you?”

Milton met his gaze; at least, he attempted to as his eyes shifted in and out of focus. Alarmed, Cedric reached out, though he refrained from touching him. “Milton, don’t faint on me. Mil-”

Something exploded in the distance, sending a jolt through Cedric and Milton.

“We should get going again,” said Milton and struggled to get up to his feet, in vain. He stumbled and would have fallen on his knees if Cedric hadn’t caught him. This time, Milton, thankfully, didn’t flinch, only stiffened.

Some improvement at least.

While he got up himself, Cedric helped Milton to his feet. “Milton…” he began but trailed off. He had no idea what to say.

Milton clasped his right wrist and inhaled sharply. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’m only a bit overwhelmed right now, and it’s been years since I last felt like that. I simply need to get used to it.” He let his hands fall to his sides. Before he could think this over, Cedric grabbed Milton’s bandaged hand.

Milton tensed. “Kristopher, I…”

“I know; I’m sorry. I just can’t risk you falling over again, and I promise to make it quick,” said Cedric and pulled him through the streets, following the pendant’s tug.

***

~Cloudia~

Down and then left.

I hurried through the narrow alleyway. There was barely anyone here except for a man cowering in a corner, hiding himself from the chaos, and another hastening along the way ahead of me, attempting to get away. I grimaced when I smelled fire, the smoke-laced air punctuated by shouts and screams. The fire didn’t seem to be close by, and I hoped it was extinguished before it could spread far.

The clacker of my shoes on the uneven stone was barely audible. Gunshots were fired elsewhere, becoming louder as I went farther down the street.

I glanced down at the machine. I was almost there.

I yanked out the skull pendant and held it in my fist, concentrating on the slight pull between the necklaces. They were still behind and seemed to have halted. Worry fluttered through my chest. And then I shook my head and stuffed the necklace back into my clothes.

I finally arrived at the end of the street, turned left without stopping.

Townsend, Yvette. Whoever was awaiting me, I couldn’t wait to beat you up.

Milton’s wondrous device led me to a small shopping area. Normally, it must be a quaint, quiet place, this little street with the cosy, inviting shopfronts – a boutique, a bakery, an apothecary, and more – just off the larger roads. Now, there was a half-finished barrier partially blocking the other end of the street, the corpses of insurgents and guards alike by its side. Windows were smashed, flowerpots upturned, bullet holes marking the ground and façades.

I checked the apparatus again. The black dot was very close to a white one – Yvette or Townsend must be hiding in one of the shops –, and it delighted me that the other white dot was blinking not far from here.

I couldn’t wait for this to end and to head to Cecelia’s house to rest.

Cloudia pocketed Milton’s device; it was a handy thing, though its dimensions were a nuisance, and she hoped it would not fall out and break. Taking out her gun, Cloudia entered the bakery first. The scent of fresh bread hung in the air; though it mixed with the smell of smoke, blood, and gunpowder wafting in from outside, it was still lovely enough to make her mouth water and her stomach rumble. She hadn’t eaten anything since they had left the château who knew how many hours ago. If Cedric had been here, he likely would have snatched the sweet pastries and stuffed them in his mouth.

After some consideration, Cloudia grabbed a sweet bread, rolled it in paper, and shoved it in her pocket. Then, she proceeded to walk carefully through the shop, making sure not to step on any glass shards or bump into any toppled-over tables. Hopefully, she would not pass over any squeaking floorboards either. After she had checked the shop area and the kitchen, she headed upstairs. She heard whimpering from one of the rooms. Cloudia slowly opened the door and peeked inside. A man, a woman, and their child were huddling behind the bed. They looked up when she made a step inside, staring petrified at her and her gun.

“I won’t hurt you. I’m only looking for someone,” Cloudia whispered and quickly inspected the wardrobe and the area under the bed before she drifted out of the room again, closing the door behind her.

Neither Yvette nor Townsend were anywhere else in this building, so Cloudia left it and looked at Milton’s machine again. The dot hadn’t moved. She returned it to her pocket and entered the boutique. Unlike the bakery, the boutique was mostly undisturbed. The glass of only one window had shattered, and the interior had been left untouched. However, the door had been left ajar.

Cloudia sneaked through the building and only found the upstairs bedroom in a state of disarray. The drawers of a dresser had been yanked open and left like that. As the clothes were still inside, she figured that whoever was living here had hastily retrieved some keepsakes or money before making their escape.

There was no sign of either Townsend or Yvette though. The flower shop and the other café were dead ends too. Cloudia cursed her terrible luck right before she stepped into the apothecary and a bullet flew past her.

Cloudia dodged the attack, raised her pistol, fired once, twice in the direction from where the bullet had come. Her own didn’t seem to have hit anything of note either but elicited a yelp. Electricity surged through her when she recognised the voice. Townsend.

Cloudia stormed inside, heard footsteps hurrying away from her. She ran into the shop’s back where the pharmacist stored and created his wares. High shelves with many small drawers rose from the ground; they had been placed behind one another, and when Cloudia passed through one of the small walkways between them, she heard a screech and a rattle. The shelf on one end was pushed over, ramming into its neighbour, and setting a domino reaction in motion that might have been welcome in chain-reaction machines, but not here.

With her eyes widened, Cloudia hurried out of the walkway, reaching its end a mere second before the shelves would have fallen on her, burying her beneath. Her heart thumped in her chest. She brought her breathing under control and then hastened after Townsend.

His stunt hadn’t given him much of a headstart – the effort to upset the heavy shelves must have robbed him of too much energy to run – and Cloudia caught up with him in no time. She rammed into him before he could leave the shop. She pinned him against the wall, slapped the gun out of his hands, and pressed the dagger against his throat.

“Found you,” Cloudia said, managing to grin despite her heavy panting. “Not so cocky anymore now, huh?”

Townsend scowled at her. His clothes, having been so impeccable before, were dirty now. His hair was dishevelled. There was an angry cut across his cheek she wished she had inflicted. “How has your taste of revolution been, Mr Townsend?” Cloudia asked him and relished in the darkening of his scowl.

Townsend harrumphed. “A revolution? What these brutes are doing is nothing but destruction, not bring anything forward with intelligence.”

“Can I remind you again of the havoc you caused in Nanteuil-la-Forêt? Or is ‘dying for the cause’ only acceptable when you set other people’s lives on the line, not when you risk your own?” Without taking her eyes off him, Cloudia fished out her handcuffs with her free hand.

“You’re lucky I must deliver you to the Queen alive as I would have loved to throw you into the Seine. I’ve never seen it before; what a fantastic first sight it would be, to see you wiggle and drown in it,” Cloudia said and forcefully turned him around to clasp the handcuffs around his wrists. She leaned forward. “But maybe we will find time so that you can tell those brutes about your ‘intelligent methods,’” she spoke into his ear. Townsend stiffened.

Grinning, Cloudia shoved him out of the apothecary and a few steps towards the unfinished barricade before Cedric and Milton appeared on the street’s other end.

“Look who I’ve found!” Cloudia exclaimed and kicked Townsend to the ground.

Cedric and Milton rushed to them. “Yes, you’ve found him!” Cedric replied just as excitedly.

“I did! I also found this.” Cloudia took out the sweet bread and threw it to him. Cedric caught it, and his eyes turned as large as saucers when he unwrapped the paper. “I’m speechless,” he said, tears filling both his voice and his eyes. “But I can’t accept this; I already promised myself to Mary Margaret and her sweets cart…”

Cloudia rolled her eyes, smiling. “Just eat the damn bread.”

“Can’t a man remind the world of his prospective maybe-betrothal in peace?”

“I doubt you can make any proposals if I stuff that bread down your throat.”

“Oh, is…” Cedric trailed off and then cleared his throat. “Ah, right, Milton, do you want some?” he asked instead, but Milton only shook his head.

Townsend craned and lifted his head upon hearing Milton’s name. “Baron Milton Salisbury in the flesh,” he said with a faint bow. “What a rare sight. What an honour to make your acquaintance at last.”

Cloudia put a foot on his back, pressed down. Townsend winced. “Don’t try anything funny,” she warned him.

He glared up at her. It was remarkable how quickly he had dropped the false niceties from the train now that their positions had flipped. “I only wish to talk to the Baron.”

“It is all right,” Milton assured Cloudia and dropped to his knees in front of Townsend. He still looked awfully exhausted, but thankfully unhurt. “Nicodemus Townsend,” he said softly. “At last, indeed.”

Townsend laughed, slight hysteria clinging to the sound. “I’ve wondered how the Watchdog could find me. She could not have possibly run after me all the way from that locomotive wrack. You did something, did you not?”

Milton quieted, and Townsend laughed again. “Maybe I should have changed plans, picked another trading company, when I had seen those blueprints. I knew then that that place was trouble; I couldn’t have fathomed that it would be such trouble though. Who would have thought that the director would personally hunt me down like that?”

“Chase,” said Milton quietly.

“Pardon?”

“I chased you,” Milton repeated, louder. “I don’t like hunts.”

“And yet you’re frightfully adept at them. I suppose now that you have chased me down, you want to kill me?”

“No. I don’t like killing people.”

“Then, how can you allow the Watchdog to take me away? While she cannot kill me herself, the Queen will have me executed. You would have killed me by proxy, just as much as she would. How can you live like that?”

“Why did you kill Josiah Heriot?” asked Milton softly. “Why did you make the villagers kill one another?”

Townsend blinked at him. “Because…”

“How can you live knowing you caused their deaths?” Milton fumbled with his right sleeve. “There is nothing I can do for you. Your fate does not lie in my hands but in Her Majesty’s. And I for one am living with worse than the knowledge that I might cause you to be incarcerated and executed, Mr Townsend.”

Townsend mustered Milton curiously. “I have to admit that you have surprised me, Baron Salisbury. You are not like I believed you to be; not like anyone believed you to be, I would bet.” He strained to glance up to Cloudia and failed. “Two misconceptions on my side on one day.”

“Three,” Cloudia interjected. “You thought you were a genius revolutionist too.”

Cedric snickered. Cloudia didn’t have to look down to know that Townsend must be sporting the darkest scowl.

“To have been chased down by the Queen’s Watchdog and one enigmatic baron,” continued Townsend through gritted teeth, “only showed how dangerous me and my cause are.”

“It is only about the box,” Cloudia replied. “If you had been a common thief with no other motive than to sell it, I would have come for you too.”

“You misused my company and killed one of my employees,” Milton said with a cold edge to his words.

Cedric nodded. “No one cares about you specifically and your cause.”

Townsend raised an eyebrow. “And who are you?”

“Enough of this,” Cloudia said before Cedric could respond. She knelt beside Townsend and searched him for the Queen’s box.

“How unladylike of you to frisk me,” Townsend remarked. Cloudia hit his head and continued until she found the black box. She raised it towards the sun; its afternoon light got tangled in the furrows that ran unevenly over the entire box. A triumphant warmth sang through Cloudia as she held it; after everything she had to go through, she finally had the box.

One of them at least.

Damn replica.

Cloudia was about to pocket the Queen’s box when she noticed that Milton had set his eyes on it, following it intently with a glint in his eyes that she didn’t like. Unfortunately, Townsend noted it too. “Of course,” he said, epiphany lightening his voice, “you would appreciate the puzzle box, my baron.”

Ignoring Townsend, Milton extended his hand to Cloudia. “May… may I?”

Cloudia hesitated. She hadn’t wanted Townsend or anyone to know that Milton might be able to open the box and force him to try. Only Townsend was now captured; there was nothing he could do anymore. Nonetheless, Cloudia handed Milton the box with slight reluctance. She watched him turn it over in his hands, run his fingers along the furrows and edges; in her periphery, Cloudia saw that Cedric was observing Milton too, all while holding his breath as she did.

“This one is not like the other one,” stated Milton, making everyone’s ears perk up. “This one is well-made, albeit not as finely. Miss Guilloux’s was a bit heavier too and of a deeper black.”

Townsend cursed. “That goddamn girl. She switched the boxes.”

Cedric plucked the box from Milton’s hands, scrutinised it too. “It looks the same to me.”

“It is a well-done duplicate,” noted Milton.

“But not well done enough,” Cloudia added.

Milton nodded. “You cannot make a perfect copy of something you don’t fully know or comprehend. Any replica of Her Majesty’s box was bound to be imperfect.”

Cloudia took the box back and pocketed it. “Congratulations, Mr Genius Revolutionary, you were outsmarted by an unrefined French village girl.”

Cloudia pulled Townsend with her to his feet. Cedric helped Milton up, and Milton thanked him with a weary smile. Townsend raised an eyebrow, but before he could make any comment on Milton’s state, Cloudia twisted his arm and made him cry out instead.

She gestured for Cedric to take the device from her pocket. Cedric reached out, but then his eyes widened, and he grabbed her arm instead. He yanked her, and by extension Townsend, to the side before the bullet could hit any of them.

Cloudia pushed a protesting Townsend to the ground, whirled around, her hand drifting to her holster. There was a guard on the other end of the street. She ripped out her pistol, set out to fire.

Another bullet soared through the air.

Not from her gun.

Nor from the guard’s.

With a cry, the soldier stumbled back as his pistol was shot out of his hand.

Cloudia spun back to Milton, but his hands were empty. Cedric hastened past her to the guard. Cloudia frowned, and Milton’s expression changed. From wide-eyed puzzlement to something she could not place. He went rigid.

Someone rushed towards them, a blur she could barely make out.

She saw Milton’s hand move to his belt.

There was something, someone, behind him now.

And then his eyes rolled back, and he fell…

…right into Oscar Livingstone’s arms.

Cloudia blinked when the moment was over, and time ran normally again. Suddenly, Oscar had appeared from behind the partial barricade, shot at the guard, and sprinted across the street, right on time to catch a fainted Milton. Oscar sank to his knees, taking Milton with him. Milton’s head rolled against his chest. Oscar didn’t seem to mind and only levelled his steady gaze at Cloudia.

“Hello, Mylady,” Oscar said calmly and glanced at Townsend. “You have found him, as expected.”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Cloudia replied, still annoyingly disoriented by what had just transpired. She dropped to her knees, raked her eyes over Milton. He rested so peacefully in Oscar’s arms. The increasingly pained expression he had worn since they had left the train station was gone now, and the sight warmed Cloudia’s heart with relief, even if his pain had been smoothed away by unconsciousness.

“He will be fine,” Oscar assured her. “He only seems to have overdone himself.”

She nodded slowly and then frowned after scanning the area. “Isn’t it odd that that soldier was on his own?” asked Cloudia and stood up again. “Did you see many guards on your way, Oscar?”

“I’ve noticed their small number as well,” Oscar told her. His gaze darkened before a crooked smile appeared on his lips. “That’s an interesting strategy, isn’t it? They must be planning something positively dreadful.”

“Countess! I have knock…” called Cedric and quickly cut himself off. “Who was speaking of the devil?” he groaned. Then, he saw Milton in Oscar’s arms; his eyes widened, and he quickened his steps. “What have you done to him?” Cedric demanded to know.

“He fainted,” said Oscar dryly.

Cedric glared at him and opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he had wanted to snap back at Oscar, it was drowned by a familiar “Oscar Livingstone, you bastard, don’t run off like that!”

Now it was Cloudia’s turn to groan.

In retrospect, I should have left them both at home and sent Townsend back by post. Cedric had been right.

Barrington Weaselton walked around the stone blockade, and his green eyes lit up upon seeing Cloudia. “Dia!” he cried out. He hurried to hug her, though Cloudia had enough energy left to dodge his embrace. Barrington’s shoulders sagged. “Please, one hug, Dia! A singular hug! I’ve been stuck with Oscar for days. And then Cecelia joined us and did nothing but complain and complain that we allegedly scuffed her husband’s great-grandmother’s ornamental Moroccan side table, and she didn’t want to hear a word about how that thing is over a hundred years old, thousands of people could have scuffed it up besides us and…”

Cloudia held up a hand, her head already tingling. “Barrington, we are on a Watchdog mission, and the city is going through an uprising. Certainly, we can hug and talk about side tables later?”

“I’ve threatened Weaselton multiple times already that I will throw him into the Seine, and he still keeps on with that,” Oscar said, annoyed.

“It’s not a threat if you cannot kill anyone without permission anyway,” Barrington shot back.

“Aren’t there any other threats in the world?” mumbled Townsend.

Cloudia kicked Townsend and automatically felt a bit better when she heard him whimper.

Barrington scrutinised their little group and frowned at Milton’s still body in Oscar’s lap. “Now, who gave you permission to kill him?”

“He’s unconscious, you idiot,” Oscar retorted.

“Milton can and should be unconscious elsewhere though,” said Cedric. “Give him to me; I will carry him.”

“Milton?” asked Barrington, blinking. “As in Milton Salisbury?” He looked at Cloudia. “The boy who…”

“Yes,” Cloudia said, irritated.

Barrington sighed. “That’s him then. I wished he had an unfortunate face, but, at least, he has an unfortunate name. Having ‘Milton’ as your given name is essentially an invitation for everyone to bully you. His parents mustn’t have loved him much...”

“Can’t you ever stay on topic?” Oscar snarled.

“Your name is Barrington,” Cedric reminded him.

Cloudia rubbed her temples. “Enough of that.” She let her eyes wander between Oscar and Barrington. “We captured Townsend but have not secured the Queen’s puzzle box yet because he got himself a replica to give to some girl, and then she exchanged them. She should be somewhere around here, and we need to hurry before she fully escapes our grasp.

“The Duke and I will go after the girl. Barrington, I need you to take Townsend and return with Oscar to Cecelia’s house. Oscar will carry Milton there; can you do that, Oscar?”

Oscar nodded while Cedric interjected, “Countess, we can’t let Oscar carry Milton.”

“Why not?” asked Cloudia. “He may be the oldest out of us, but he’s still fit enough.”

“I don’t mean that.” Cedric glared at Oscar. “I don’t trust that man as far as I can throw him. What if he just discards Milton somewhere because he can’t be bothered to carry him anymore? It’s not like Milton is our priority for this mission. That clown here is,” he added and pointed at Townsend.

Cloudia sighed. “Oscar won’t discard Milton.”

“Into the Seine?” Townsend suggested, and she kicked him again.

“All I’m saying is that Barrington and Oscar should switch,” Cedric said. “Oscar takes Townsend, and Barrington carries Milton.”

Oscar slightly tilted his head. “Interesting. I would have wagered that both Weaselton and you would rejoice at the prospect of getting rid of him.”

Cedric stiffened momentarily. “No, of course, I wouldn’t rejoice at that,” he clarified. “He…” He let his eyes sink to Milton; Cloudia wondered what was going on in his head now. “Milton is a friend,” Cedric said ultimately.

Oscar briefly mustered him. “I see,” he replied. “I will be careful.” With that, he got up, scooping Milton up with surprising gentleness. Oscar adjusted him in his arms a bit and frowned.

“What is it?” enquired Cloudia.

“I didn’t expect him to be so… light,” Oscar said and shook his head. “I will bring him to Williams’ house and keep him safe, Mylady,” he added then.

“I know. You have no reason to harm him after all.” Cloudia looked down at Milton. There was a stench in the air from the bodies and the gunpowder, and one had to strain to hear their own words in this cacophony of shouts and fighting; yet, Milton hadn’t even stirred so far.

A rush of coldness overcame her then, though Cloudia swiftly shook herself free from it. Later, she thought.

“When he wakes up, Oscar,” Cloudia said instead, “please tell him he did well – and that I will return his property in one piece. But for now, we still need it.” Cloudia nodded to Cedric. “Let’s go.”

***

~Cedric~

Around us, the revolt was getting worse. The blinking dot was leading us farther south and, thus, closer to the epicentre of it all. Fires were started and extinguished. Insurgents knocked on doors, shouting for the residents to come out and help with the barricades. We gave them a wide berth, not wanting to catch their attention and risk another confrontation like before. Still, we couldn’t fully steer clear of the fights as they grew more frequent.

People were everywhere, with knives and axes, guns and rifles, swords and metal rods, and whatnot. We dodged stray bullets and pushed through the growing crowds.

All this running and hiding was gnawing at my energy; I was surprised that Cloudia and I could still go on. I supposed we must be running on pure adrenaline, determination, and frustration. According to Milton’s receiver, Yvette wasn’t even far. Her dot was moving slowly across the screen, and we were always so close until another barricade or destroyed carriage blocked the way, and we had to find another path. Without Milton and his internal map of the city, we moved slower ahead, and all that fuelled our irritation.

Abruptly, Cloudia pulled Cedric into an abandoned house. “Undertaker,” she pressed out between laboured breaths. “Can you get us to the roof of that block?” She nodded to them. “Yvette should be somewhere on the other side of it, and the crowd is so thick here. I have no idea how we could round it and get to her on time…”

“I can’t fly, Countess,” Cedric reminded her.

“I know. I know.” She grabbed his hand and locked eyes with him. “But you have fantastic agility. Sir Isaac Newton would fall from his apple tree if he could see you defying gravity like that.” Cloudia pointed at an upturned carriage and a row of balconies that ran up the building. “You can jump from place to place and get us up to the roof. There should be balconies, or, at least, debris or something on the other side as well so that we can get down.”

“Paris is currently swarming with Grim Reapers working overtime right now,” replied Cedric. “Maybe the Dispatch’s Paris Branch will revolt next.”

Cloudia gripped his hand tighter. “Undertaker, you’ve seriously decided to be reasonable today?” She touched his forehead. “Do you have a fever…”

Blood shot up to his face. Cedric hastily grabbed her hand and pulled it away from his head. “I’m not suddenly deciding to be reasonable for once. I can’t risk you being caught with me.”

“You can’t risk me?”

“And don’t quote Milton to me.”

“I won’t because I don’t have to.” Cloudia leaned forward. Their faces were only one or two centimetres apart, and Cedric’s heart was racing like a traitor. If she noticed it, he hoped she would attribute it to the million kilometres he had run today. “You won’t be at risk. I won’t be at risk. And you know why? Because Paris is swarming with Grim Reapers! They won’t pay any attention to another rushing around; you are only one of many. You will be a tree hiding in a forest. And they all have too much to do to question your presence or wonder why I’m with you.”

She pulled back, and Cedric breathed again. At least, he did until Cloudia dragged him through the house, up the stairs to the bedroom. She threw open the wardrobe and searched through it. Triumphantly, she held up a black coat at last. “Put this on, just in case. It’s odd seeing you in anything but black anyway.”

***

She likes me in black, Cedric thought as they jumped to the next balcony. It was a stupid thought, brought about, at least, partially by fatigue. Nonetheless, he welcomed its persistence and the sheer space it had rapidly claimed in his mind, for it distracted him from the fact that he was carrying Cloudia bridal-style up a roof.

And from how pretty she looked in his arms, her blue eyes so wide and shining with wonder and excitement as they manoeuvred up despite the chaos around.

Cedric strained to concentrate on the next balcony.

She thinks I look pretty in black. Flowerpot kicked down.

She called my agility fantastic. The resident shrieked at their sight.

She–

“Undertaker,” Cloudia hissed. “We’re already on the roof, why are you still jumping up?��

Sobered at once, Cedric said, “I might actually have a fever.”

She touched his forehead. “You’re only hot from the jumping,” she replied and drew away her hand.

“Hm,” Cedric made and carried her to the roof’s edge, fighting the urge to follow the kicked-off flowerpot into the doom below. “Are you holding on tightly?”

Cloudia nodded, and Cedric jumped to the balcony below. And down, down, down, they went until they arrived on the ground.

Cedric set her back down on her feet. Cloudia produced the receiver, checked the screen, and pointed ahead. “Come, we almost have her.”

This side of the block wasn’t any better than the other. Stones were carried to form more barriers, and people were slipping through the holes of finished ones. Guards were switching sides, fighting side by side with insurgents against their former comrades.

Cedric noticed Cloudia straighten up next to him. She spotted Yvette, he thought and matched her pace when she sped up.

Cloudia raised her gun when they were close. Yvette was just ahead of them, hurrying along a façade. Cloudia pulled the trigger. Someone fell against her. The bullet’s trajectory was thrown off; instead of hitting Yvette, it only burrowed itself in the wall next to her. Yvette snapped her head to the side. Her eyes widened, and she whirled around and sprinted away. Cloudia immediately ran after her, cursing under her breath.

“Countess!” Cedric called and hurried after her, elbowing through the crowd, cringing when shots were fired, and his already-strained ears further abused. He saw Cloudia vanishing around a corner, and he goaded himself into being quicker, being faster, all while shoving people out of the way.

He couldn’t lose her here. Not in this city. Not in this situation. Not even if they had the pendants.

Cedric worked himself forward.

Someone rammed into him from behind, and the world went blurry.

***

~Cloudia~

Her heart beat quicker, pumping and pumping blood through her body, and pulsed in her ears.

Yvette was right ahead, and Cloudia had always been a runner.

With newfound, adrenaline-induced strength, Cloudia thrust guards away, yanked knives out of insurrectionists’ hands, zig-zagged around their bodies, dead or alive, until Yvette was only a hair’s breadth away. Cloudia shot out her hand, grabbed her collar, slammed her against a wall.

“Do you know how much I’ve been running today because of you?!” Cloudia pulled out the dagger, but Yvette kicked her away, sending her careening backwards.

“No one asked you to hunt me down, Miss Watchdog,” replied Yvette and lunged with her knife at Cloudia.

Cloudia raised the dagger, blade hitting blade, the impact vibrating through their bones. “You did when you allied yourself with Nicodemus Townsend.” She drove Yvette back by pushing the dagger against the knife. Even with the fighting sounds around them, Cloudia could hear the knife crack. So cheap and brittle and nothing compared to her father’s dagger.

“Townsend is an idiot,” said Yvette. Her knife broke, and she staggered back.

“Finally something we can agree on.” Cloudia shoved her back against the wall and pinned her to it by driving the dagger into her left hand. Yvette cried out, her scream of agony mixing with all the others around them. “You are an idiot too,” Cloudia noted and patted down Yvette. “If you had attached yourself to any other megalomaniac man, you might have got all you wished for.”

With a grin, Cloudia pulled out the box and something odd and metallic – Milton’s transmitter. “Or, if you had simply done the work yourself.” She pocketed the transmitter right away, though showed the box to Yvette once more before she put it in her trousers; feeling its weight against her body was the greatest delight. “I would have had more sympathy and respect for you if you had just run away and gone to seduce a rich man. But getting away wasn’t your only incentive, of course.”

“You would have wished destruction upon that place too if you had grown up there.” Yvette ground her teeth. “I was even the village’s princess! And still, or rather because of that, I was treated like I was. My position never made anything better for me, only trapped me more. With nowhere to go, no one to be, living only by the path others have set out for you…”

Cloudia grabbed Yvette by her hair. Yvette winced and looked at her with hate-filled eyes. “Good, look at me like that,” said Cloudia and pulled her closer. “Do you think you are the only one who lives like that? The only one with that rage? You are nothing special, Yvette Guilloux. If you had accepted that, you would not have found yourself in this situation.”

“Cloudia!” Cedric cried behind her, right before a gunshot rang through the air, and pain through her.

***

~Cedric~

Everything went out of focus. Cedric could only make out the next person bumping into him when they were right beside him.

Shit. Cedric went on all fours, feeling for his glasses.

Shit, shit, shit.

Cloudia was after Yvette, and I could only just discern the cobblestones.

People stumbled against him, fell over him, trampled on him. Cedric clenched his jaw, crawling forward and forward, nonetheless. As long as they only stepped on him, not on his glasses, he could endure anything.

Every scream set him on edge. Cloudia could stand her own against Yvette, he knew that. However, he also knew that Yvette was an annoyingly crafty girl, and everyone around them was full of anger. If Yvette couldn’t hurt Cloudia, a soldier or insurrectionist might.

Cedric patted down every millimetre of the ground until something broke in him and he began hammering on it. His skin ripped open. And he kept on hammering and hammering his fist against the stone.

What am I doing, what am I doing? I thought as I punched and punched the stone ground.

Cloudia needs me.

Cedric drew his injured hand to his face, inhaled sharply, and kept on searching.

Tears glistened in his eyes when his fingers finally brushed against his glasses. Cedric curled his hand around them and stood up. He held them close to his face and made a mental note to bake a ton of biscuits for the Glasses Department for their sturdy handicraft: His glasses had been kicked around the street and into a corner and were still intact.

Cedric put them back on and sighed in relief when everything sharpened again. Then, he looked around for the street in which Cloudia had disappeared and hurried to it. Inside it, she was pinning Yvette to a wall and speaking to her.

“If you had accepted that…” Cedric heard her say. His blood both rushed hot through his body and ran cold when he noticed Yvette’s hand inching towards Cloudia’s gun holster.

Cedric charged forward.

“… you would not have found…,” Cloudia continued.

Yvette pulled out the gun.

“… yourself in this situation.”

“Cloudia!”

Her name and the shot echoed in tandem through the street.

Earlier, his surroundings had blurred.

Now, they fell away.

All screams and shouts and cries; all hisses and grunts; the clattering of weapons; the dull clash of bodies hitting the ground – it all went away.

As did the people. The coppery, smoky air. The buildings around.

Everything was black, and his body moved as if it was not his. Forward, forward to…

“Do not dare!”

Cloudia’s shout rattled him awake, brought everything back to their places. Cedric was momentarily stunned by all the sensations crashing upon him at once. It took him a second to see that Cloudia had thrown herself between him and Yvette, spreading her arms to shield her from Cedric. Yvette watched the scene unfold, equal parts dumbfounded and curious.

“I promised you,” Cloudia struggled to say. “I promised that you would never… never have to interfere with life and death.”

Something inside Cedric shattered. The rest of his bloodthirst vanished and was immediately replaced by cold horror.

What if I had not been able to stop at the right moment, blinded with rage as I had been, and had attacked Cloudia in my frenzy?

“You...,” Cloudia began and reeled to the side. Instinctively, Cedric moved forward and caught her in his arms, her body so fragile in his embrace. The bloodstain on her stomach was growing. He placed a hand on it first, then grabbed the edge of his coat to press it against the wound in an attempt to stop the flow, in vain.

What had I done?

“I’m so sorry,” sputtered it out of Cedric. “I’m so sorry, Countess, that I wasn’t here.”

He craned his head, looked around for Yvette, but she had already escaped. “You got hurt, and Yvette got away, I…” His grip around her tightened.

Ghostly fingers brushed his face. “I got the box. It’s okay,” Cloudia murmured, her voice so faint it made his heart ache.

Cedric scooped her up and then bent down with her in his arms when he saw the dagger on the ground, shimmering in the light even as it was speckled with blood. He picked it up and pocketed it before he searched for a quiet place.

How quickly things had changed. Not even half an hour ago, he had carried her the same way and recklessly jumped step-by-step over a building. He had been filled with idiotic giddiness then. Now, Cedric was holding her as carefully as he could in this chaos, and all he felt was numb.

He kicked open the door to an empty café, carried Cloudia into the back. Gently, Cedric placed her on a table and ripped her shirt a bit to take a look at the injury. Her protective corset must have swallowed some of the impact at least; it had to. But that didn’t change the facts that it was not bulletproof, and that Yvette had shot her from close range. Cedric cut open the corset with shaky hands. Ice spread through his stomach at the sight of the gaping wound.

There was so much blood, so much blood, so much…

Cedric looked down on himself, saw the stain on his clothes. The bullet must have passed through her. Breathing unevenly, he searched her pockets for the roll of gauze he knew she had taken.

“I don’t have it anymore,” Cloudia whispered. Her eyes fluttered open and closed. “Gave… gave it to Kam…”

Cedric took her hand, pressed it. It felt so cold. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Countess. I will find something. They will have something. They must have something. Please stay awake. Please, Countess.”

Mustering up great strength, Cedric let go of her and rummaged through the drawers, the cupboards, the shelves.

If Kamden or Miss Greene had been here, they could have patched her up; Alfred maybe too. Milton would have been hurt still, but it wouldn’t have prevented him from being calm and able to find a solution in any adversity. Barrington and even Oscar would have been able to help her, having experience with high-risk, high-injury situations. Aurèle would have gone out and yelled for help and then dragged someone back by the ear. Even little Jacques and his encyclopaedic knowledge about whatnot would have been more helpful than me.

Teleporting her in this fragile state might only worsen everything.

I… I didn’t even have a Death Book to check if… if…

I inhaled sharply.

What could I even do?

Not even in my living life, I had cared to learn how to keep anyone alive. What had it mattered to me then and after I had become a Grim Reaper? All I knew, all I learned, was death.

Cedric slammed a drawer shut and buried his face in his hands. Only then did he notice that Cloudia had been mumbling something to herself.

“He led the physician to his, and when the physician saw how tiny his candle was…” Her voice was weak, half the words fading away not fully formed, but Cloudia kept on. With a pang, Cedric realised that she hadn’t been murmuring to herself; she had been murmuring to him.

“Death pretended to fulfil his godson’s dying wish…”

A frantic chuckle tore itself out of him as Cedric stepped forward with a dish towel. He pressed it against her stomach and grabbed her hand. “You went macabre even quicker, Countess.”

“… to a new one, he deliberately dropped it…”

Her eyes fluttered closed. Cedric waited for the rest that didn’t come.

“Countess?”

“Cloudia?”

***

London, England, United Kingdom – June 1843

~Cloudia~

Cloudia inspected herself in the mirror one last time and smoothed her already straight dress with her hands before she made her way downstairs.

Barrington and Oscar had moved out of her townhouse a few days ago when Oscar’s probation had ended without a problem. They had mostly avoided each other and spared Cloudia any headache or trouble. Still, near-palpable tension had electrified the air during that time; one wrong move, one wrong word and everything could have blown up. Now, Cloudia did not have to move as if on eggshells anymore, and the soles of her shoes demonstratively made clack sounds as she descended the stairs. Normalcy had not yet returned to the townhouse though.

There was one more visitor Cloudia had to take care of before she could allow herself to let her shoulders sink, sigh in relief, and be engulfed in brilliant silence and peace.

Cloudia plastered a smile on her face when she reached the entrance hall. “Good afternoon, Police Commissioner Rowan,” she greeted the Met’s head. “May you follow me to the parlour?”

***

There had been no more meetings at Scotland Yard since Cloudia’s first and only one a year ago. It had been satisfying to see Rowan’s clouded gaze when he had stepped into her parlour for their second meeting, his sheer unmasked displeasure at having to enter the Phantomhive townhouse again. Richard Mayne had not been as hostile as his colleague, though he seldom joined Rowan on these visits. Today, Mayne was absent again. Cloudia knew the reason why this time: Rowan hadn’t come to conclude any Watchdog case. There had been none lately, even if she had morbidly hoped Queen Victoria would transfer the month-old case about the mangled corpse from the Thames to her. Scotland Yard had identified the body as a nobleman’s after all, but her hope had gone nowhere. No, Oscar was the topic for today, and Rowan solely handled everything that had to do with his former protégé.

Cloudia and Rowan were quiet until Clifford set out everything, poured them cups of tea, and left the drawing room with a bow for them both and a look for Cloudia to indicate that he would be outside if she needed him. As soon as he was gone, Rowan put down his cup without having drunk a sip.

“Do not be afraid, Police Commissioner,” Cloudia said and lifted her own cup. “I have not poisoned anything on this table – and neither did Oscar if you fear he left a little gift behind for you.”

“I know that Oscar Livingstone would never attempt to kill me,” Rowan replied. “He is well-aware of the repercussions and would never take that risk. I simply have no appetite; I lose it every time I think about that wretched man.” His gaze darkened. “How low this country has fallen; pardoning a serial killer to satisfy a thirteen-year-old child’s whims and giving him a house where he can live mostly unsupervised.”

“There is no one around where Oscar lives now,” Cloudia remarked. “No soul lives anywhere close to his house. Her Majesty has made some arrangements to ensure he does not run away, and so did I. I might have requested Oscar’s pardon, but Her Majesty decided to accept and fulfil it. Are you doubting her sense of judgement?”

Rowan glared at Cloudia. “I would never doubt my sovereign. However, Her Majesty has been on the throne for only six years; since she had been merely eighteen, no less. She does not have enough experience yet, and one simply cannot be cautious enough with a Livingstone. You housed him for a month; even you must have noticed that there is something deeply wrong with him.”

“He was pleasant enough to be around,” Cloudia said truthfully. It might have been even more pleasant if it had not been for Barrington’s hostility, she added in her mind. “Quiet; mostly kept to himself; often stayed in one place without moving much for a long time if he had a book at hand or so. Oscar could win a prize at a ‘Pretend to be a Piece of Furniture’ tournament.”

Rowan chuckled. “I assure you, Countess Phantomhive, that whenever Livingstone might appear calm on the outside, he is pure restlessness within. Did you know that Livingstone’s time at the asylum was not the first time he had been locked away? His grandparents used to lock him in a shed, and he slept in a lockable box bed. Both his parents had been ailed with restiveness. The rumours are true; his real father was that wandering trickster, and his mother had been drawn to him because they were birds of a feather. A foolish choice that ruined her life because he abandoned her and ran away. It has always troubled me – the possibility that Livingstone’s father might be alive and somewhere out there.”

Cloudia stifled a laugh, though a grin managed to break through. “You are afraid of a wandering magician who must be in his sixties or seventies by now? Do you fear you might end up in the same retirement centre as him, and he will be your eternal bridge partner?”

“You would not be so flippant, Countess Phantomhive, if you knew what I do,” Rowan hissed. “No one knows Oscar Livingstone as I do. As I said, his grandparents kept him under lock and key in the hope it would quench his restlessness. It did not. Instead, Livingstone only learned to hide his disquiet, his anger, his thoughts. You can never quite know what he is up to, what is going on in that head of his.” Rowan’s eyes met Cloudia’s. “Do you know when Livingstone started his serial murders?”

“In 1833,” Cloudia said.

“When his eldest daughter died,” Rowan said, and Cloudia’s stomach churned. “I know he must have told you about his family. About his wife and children. His daughter had only been one or two years old when she died; I cannot recall.” He laughed dryly. “Oscar Livingstone, the monster on the battlefield, the Met’s most feared inspector, a man with nerves of steel, had completely unravelled upon the death of his daughter.

“He had been different after her death, after the funeral, of course. The cracks were subtle but there; with time, he returned to his default – or so everyone had thought. Livingstone started killing people not long after his daughter’s death. His murderous spree would have lasted for many more years if someone had not found his basement – by chance.” Rowan leaned forward. “He had been killing people for nearly five years, Countess Phantomhive, all while displaying zero outward signs that he had gone mad. No one had known that he had spiralled so far, that the cracks his daughter’s death had left never healed at all, only deepened. Neither I nor his beloved wife had noticed that anything was amiss.

“Trudy Livingstone.” Rowan spoke her name with an odd tone, a strange mix of fascination and disdain. “She was such a curiosity. A perfect English Rose in appearance and demeanour, but there was something off about her that I could never put my finger on. For years, I had tried to figure out what exactly was wrong with her, and something had to be wrong with her; after all, she had married a monster like Oscar Livingstone. And then I told her about her husband’s crimes.

“I had been unable to catch any signs of Livingstone’s misdeeds and inner turmoil. The contents of his basement did not surprise me at all though, for I had always known that he was capable of such gruesome acts. Trudy, however, had been genuinely shocked when I informed her about what Livingstone had done. All these years, I had thought her to be sharper than she seemed, only for her to prove me wrong too. I guess there was nothing wrong with her at all; she was just a stupid little girl who thought a monster would change if you loved it enough.”

Rowan stood up. “Livingstone bottled up years of restlessness and anger when he was a child. You should have seen him on the field when he could finally let it out. I doubt he has made any progress in the asylum; his madness must have only grown. I’ve seen what he did when he lost his daughter – and now, he has lost them all. We have restricted him as best as we could, but how long will the dam last before it breaks?

“When the inevitable comes, how will you know if we could not?”

***

Countryside, England, United Kingdom – June 1843

“Now, Cloudia, dear, where is that murderer?” Cecelia asked before Clifford had the chance to collect her top hat and luggage. “Did he arrive already, or is he still in the process of wiping out an idyllic village on the way?”

“Hello to you too, Cecelia,” Cloudia sighed.

After the meeting with Rowan, Cloudia had returned to her manor which she had missed so much. Two weeks had passed since; two weeks of lovely respite and minimal social contact. A streak that could have gone on forever; a streak that was now broken by this gathering.

The first meeting of Cloudia’s new set of Aristocrats of Evil. An event both important and nerve-wracking. Cloudia wished she had not freed Oscar from his cell at all, simply so that she would not have to endure this meeting. It had to be done, of course; she knew that. For Barrington, Cecelia, and Oscar to work together in the best way possible they had to get to know one another, even if they were most definitely never going to become friends. The sky would shatter into pieces and rain upon the earth before Barrington befriended Oscar, and Cecelia had not yet wasted any opportunity to tell Cloudia how foolish she had been when she had gone to that asylum and picked out its worst inmate. With Barrington and Oscar living with her, it had become impossible to hide Oscar from Cecelia. Cloudia had been surprised that she had managed to conceal her secret from her for so long at all. Cecelia had nearly choked on her tea when Cloudia had told her one afternoon at the Williams guest house.

“You haven’t answered my question, my dear,” said Cecelia now and headed to the Aristocrats’ Bureau. Though the fact that Cecelia moved through Phantomhive Manor as if she owned it was nothing new, the speed with which she did it today, however, was so unlike her that Cloudia was momentarily stunned.

Cloudia shot Clifford an apologetic look before she hurried after Cecelia. “He was the first to arrive,” Cloudia told her. “Barrington is here too; I only just led him upstairs.”

“Those two are currently all alone in one room? Let us hope that Barrington makes himself useful for once and kills that man before we even reach the correct corridor.”

Cloudia sighed again. “Cecelia, I told you that…”

Cecelia suddenly whirled around. She was over a decade older than Cloudia, though not much taller and built like a frail little bird. It was easy to forget that Cecelia could be broken like a twig with little effort because she emanated such confidence at every given moment. Cloudia nearly forgot it now when Cecelia planted herself in front of her, her full imposing self seemingly towering over her despite her lack of height or width.

“Cloudia, I heard you the first time and all the times after that. I can understand you too. If I learned that Michael was secretly best friends with a convicted serial murderer on death row, I would free them too to get any answers I can,” Cecelia hissed. “However, I would not like it, not when it is about you or me. And I know you and your family have blood on your hands as well, but someone like the Scotland Yard Ripper is something else altogether. There is shockingly little known about that case, you know? I tried looking into it after you told me you saved Oscar Livingstone from execution. All I could uncover was an endless pit of rumours and speculations about what could have been in that basement room. Whether he was killing these people for ritualistic purposes or experimentation, whether he turned his victims into clothes or furniture or both, whether he ate them, and so on and so forth. There was nothing else!

“Michael’s murder sent ripples of shock through mostly noble circles. Oscar’s crimes were a tsunami that swept through the entire country! And there’s nothing! I could find out more about you!” Cecelia took a deep, deep breath. “Cloudia, dear,” she continued much calmer. “I will muster as much civility as I can in his presence. This is all I can promise you. Nevertheless, I wholeheartedly think that you are making a terrible mistake. But what is done is done, and I know nothing can change your mind now. We can only hope that when you finally understand and learn your lesson, Oscar will not kill us all…” As if on cue, shouts drifted from the Bureau. “… and that Barrington is currently rolling his corpse into a carpet,” Cecelia added.

Leaving Cecelia behind, Cloudia hastened to the Aristocrats’ Bureau. Barrington and Oscar were both still alive – the argument kept going on and was spooking a nearby maid passing through – but things could escalate and change very, very quickly.

Cloudia ripped the door open. “What on earth is going on here?” she demanded to know.

Barrington and Oscar had stood in front of each other, almost as close as they could get without touching, and staring the other one down. Now, they took a step back. Cloudia went to them and waved them further apart.

“Right after you left, Dia, he took out a knife,” Barrington told her and glared at Oscar who, to Cloudia’s surprise, glared back.

“I wouldn’t even need a knife if I wanted to kill you, Weaselton,” Oscar returned.

“I am not one of Rowan and Mayne’s little lackeys; do you honestly think you could take me on with your bare hands?”

“Yes,” Oscar said automatically.

Barrington laughed hollowly. “Then you’re severely underestimating me, Livingstone.”

“Underestimate? You? You have never glimpsed at a proper battle before, you pampered fool.”

“You’re saying I don’t know what a proper fight is?”

“Yes, of course, that’s why I’m saying! Do you need everything to be spelt out for you tenfold?”

“When I’m done with you, we’ll need to change your name to ‘Deadstone’ because I used to…”

“Enough!” exclaimed Cloudia and rubbed her face. “What is wrong with you two? You managed to live together for nearly a month without going at each other’s throats! And you’re choosing today of all days to pick a fight?” She spun to Oscar. “Why did you suddenly take out a knife? And…” Cloudia turned to Barrington. “… did Oscar even do anything threatening with it?”

“He took it out and shot me the nastiest look,” Barrington explained without taking his eyes off Oscar. “I yelled at him before he could do anything. And didn’t Old Ted pat him down for weapons?”

“As I’ve repeatedly told you, Weaselton, I could have killed you without it if I wanted to,” Oscar snapped at him. “Not everything is about you.”

“I said ‘enough’!” Cloudia shouted. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Cecelia was standing in the doorsill, watching the happenings with a raised eyebrow. Cloudia sighed and rubbed her face again. “You are two grown men who behave like my cousins when they used to fight over toys. Barrington, you will sit down and cool off. Cecelia, please come in and take a seat. And you…” Cloudia looked up and narrowed her eyes at Oscar. “You are coming with me. We need to talk.”

Cloudia guided Oscar to her office on the other side of the manor, making him walk in shame behind her. At least, she hoped he felt shame; he better did. When they arrived, she gestured for him to sit down in front of her desk while she took her seat behind it. Cloudia had never attended school, but she wanted to believe it was like this when an unruly child was summoned to the headmaster.

“Now, Oscar,” Cloudia began, trying her best to keep her voice calm. “What is going on? I’m used to that level of hostility from Barrington but from you? Previously, you were only ever annoyed whenever he expressed his dislike of you. Why are you suddenly provoking him too? I hope you haven’t decided to stop pretending to be civil because your probation period is over – that one was just for the housing; you are on endless probation, Oscar. Any misdemeanour can and will get you sent to the execution chamber – and me in serious trouble. And what’s with the knife Barrington mentioned? Give it to me.”

Cloudia held out her hand. Oscar produced a small knife from his pocket and gave it to her. “It’s a carving knife,” he said. “Clifford let me keep it when I explained why I had it with me.”

“And what is the reason?”

Oscar took out a piece of wood and placed it on the desk. “Habit from when I was a child,” Oscar told her. “I make little wood figures.”

“Little figures of what?” Cloudia asked and picked up the piece, mustering its uneven, rough furrows with great curiosity.

“Of all sorts of things. I have made thousands of them in my lifetime,” he replied.

Cloudia looked up from the log and blinked at him. “Thousands?”

“My grandparents used to lock me in a shed. At first, I simply sat inside and waited even if it bored and bothered me greatly. Then, I began to count and re-count every item in that shed, every log that comprised it until I found a little knife in there one day. The shack was full of wood, so I started making figurines out of them. Picking up wood carving was better than nothing to keep me busy,” Oscar explained and shrugged as if it was a perfectly normal childhood story. “I never broke the habit as it’s a good way to pass the time. My grandparents destroyed some figures. I binned some and left others here and there because I could not be bothered to take them with me. I did keep many though, and unless someone threw them all out while I was jailed, they must be in my manor.

“Earlier, I started one while I was waiting alone. I put it away when you arrived with Weaselton and wanted to resume after you left, only I could not because Weaselton went on a tirade after I took out the knife.”

“That’s… that’s a surprising hobby for you to have,” Cloudia noted. “But when you’re always doing that when you’re bored, how come I haven’t seen you carve anything back at the townhouse?”

“I didn’t want to request a knife with Weaselton around. He would have reacted like he did just now if I had.”

Cloudia sighed. “You’re right. Now, tell me, Oscar,” she continued, her voice softening, “what is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Mylady.”

“Do not lie to me, Oscar. You concealed it well but not well enough.” She picked up the unfinished figurine. “I am not knowledgeable about wood carving, and I doubt you lied when you said that you have been doing this since childhood. This does not look like the work of someone who has been doing it for so long though: It is a choppy mess. And if you began your carving before Barrington entered the Bureau, his presence is not the reason for your sloppiness. Something else must be upsetting you. Something from which you have to distract yourself – to the point that you would take out a knife before Barrington and risk a quarrel.”

Oscar went very quiet for a moment. “Simon’s daughter, indeed,” he said at last, sounding suddenly very tired.

“What has happened? Did Trudy’s friend die, or was it the anniversary of something recently?”

Oscar went still again, and Cloudia knew that he would not tell her what exactly was discomposing him, no matter how much she probed him. “Very well,” she said. “Whatever is going on, whatever happened, there is no reason to be so hostile towards Barrington. Didn’t you say you are used to people like him?”

A shadow hushed over Oscar’s face. “I am used to people like Trudy’s friend who is certainly not like Weaselton.” He looked at her. “I took the liberty to investigate my new colleagues in the last few weeks. Unlike ‘Cecelia’ I do not have to leave the house for that at all. Daisy, Scott, and Ishmael are excellent information gatherers as people tend to underestimate and ignore them because they are blind, mute, and deaf.

“Although I’ve known Weaselton for too long, I have never kept any tabs on him. And after your father distanced himself from me, I never interacted with any of his friends anymore either. That was a decade ago; I wanted to update my knowledge of Weaselton.” Oscar’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t think he would abandon his family like that.”

“So, you decided to be hostile towards Barrington because he divorced his wife?” Cloudia asked, baffled. “Oscar, just because your wife is dead does not mean you can and should hate everyone who divorced theirs.”

Oscar opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again and only mustered her for a moment. “I see,” he said and laughed hollowly. “I apologise, Mylady, I will not try to throttle him again, though he has to apologise to you too, it seems.”

[spnhunter4life]

End Up Here Chapter 6

Chapter Summary: A few weeks into dating, Emily's friends finally get to meet Dean.

Word Count: 4k

A/N: Last chapter is here! This does feel like a quick ending to me because as you might be able to tell by how much effort I put into including details about Emily's friends and place of work, I had initially planned on making this longer. I even have a separate Google Doc made for a character list (people and horses) and details about them. But I kind of lost interest in writing anymore and was happy with this as an ending point. I hope everyone else agrees!

Masterlist Series Masterlist

Six weeks went by during which Dean and I saw each other every weekend. We’d gone out to eat, seen a movie and attended a concert which we agreed was one of the worst concerts we’d been to, but it was still fun just being with him. Last week the fair had been in town so we spent our time together enjoying the food and rides and watching the rodeo. It was a lot of fun, but we both wanted to do something a little more lowkey the next weekend. 

We planned to spend the day together. He came over to my house at 10 am. He spent a little bit of time trying to get to know Ziggy – she was a bit nervous around him the way she was with every new person she met, but she didn’t outright hate him the way she sometimes did, so I was counting it as a win – and I appreciated his effort. He seemed to genuinely want to gain her trust. Whether for my benefit or his own, I wasn’t sure, but I was happy about it nonetheless. We took her for a walk right away, trying to get out before it was too hot outside. It gave us a chance to catch each other up on the events of the week and gave Dean a chance to see a little bit more of the town he was currently calling home.

We spent the rest of the morning playing card games and ordered Chinese food for lunch. After we ate, we sat together on the couch for a mini movie marathon. We’d both come up with a list of five favorites. We would choose from the list at random and get through however many movies we felt like watching. Leaning into Dean’s side, his arm around me and Ziggy curled up in my lap, I was happier than I could remember being in a long time. When supper time rolled around I threw a couple of frozen pizzas in the oven. 

Our last movie of the night finished just after midnight. We said goodbye and Dean kissed me in a way that left me a little weak in the knees. He kissed me for the first time after our second date and at least once every time we were together since then, but I was still nowhere near being used to the way it made me feel. It wasn’t because he was such a great kisser – which he was – it was just him. Being with him just felt right. I couldn’t be anything but happy when he was around. Sometimes just looking at him made me a little breathless so I really didn’t stand a chance when we were touching. I wondered if and when that would stop being the case.

Now it was Monday morning and I was in the office. It was Labor Day so we weren’t having any classes. We all came in for a meeting which ended ten minutes ago and were now just hanging out. Those of us who had plans for the day didn’t have anything going on until the afternoon, so we were just enjoying the company. Currently Lauren was trying to find a horse she’d seen for sale the other night and insisted was “absolutely perfect. We have to get him.”

“We already have all the horses we need. We’re not looking for new ones,” I reminded her.

“I know,” she said, waving me off distractedly. “But you’ll change your mind when you see him. Everybody has room for one more horse when it’s a horse like this.”

I knew that wasn’t the case. No matter how good of a horse it was, we simply didn’t have a need for it and as a nonprofit organization, we couldn’t afford to just throw money down on every good horse we came across. But I would humor her. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence and she knew as well as I did that we wouldn’t be buying him. She just got excited about showing off nice horses when she found them, something none of us could fault her for.

“Ah hah!” She said triumphantly. “Here it is.”

We all crowded around her to see this amazing horse. I quickly scanned the pictures and information and rolled my eyes a little. I could see why she liked him. He was a very nice looking horse. Good conformation, good size, and the short video posted showed him to also be a good mover who listened to light cues. But the biggest reason she liked him, I knew, was because of his color. Lauren was a sucker for a dapple gray. 

“Isn’t he perfect?” Lauren swooned. There were a few murmurs of agreement and admiration.

“Depends on what you mean by perfect,” I answered. “He’s certainly not a good fit for here.”

“What? What could possibly be wrong with him?” Lauren countered.

“What is wrong with him?” Morgan asked. Though we all knew this was just for fun and not a serious interest in the horse, Morgan was quite serious. She was very proud to be part of this program and very good at her job, but her job was an office job. She didn’t get involved in the horse side of things, but she was always interested in learning more.

“Not counting the price?” I asked pointedly. Everyone looked back to the screen and saw the $17,000 asking price. It wasn’t unreasonable for that kind of horse – he was bred to be a show horse and had pretty decent bloodlines after all – but it was out of our price range.

“But just look at him move.” Rose insisted, always enjoying being difficult. In a teasing way of course. “Plus, he’s gorgeous.”

“He’s way too young,” I countered. He was only three years old, and we didn’t take horses younger than six. It was safer to have horses with at least a few years of experience on them.

“But he’s gorgeous,” Rose and Lauren said at the same time. 

“He’s a stud,” I argued. This very important fact didn’t shut the conversation down the way it would have if this were a horse we were really considering. 

“What’s wrong with trying something new?” Lauren asked.

“Alright then Lauren, if you want him so bad then how about you buy him and donate him. And then figure out a way to rearrange all the horses so he’s not with any mares while you’re at it.”

“Done,” she said immediately. I just laughed. 

“Speaking of studs,” Natalie said with a teasing smile. “How’s yours Emily?” 

“Yes, how is Dean?” Jackie quickly jumped in, always eager to know about people’s personal lives. 

“How’s Jake?” I countered, naming Natalie’s boyfriend of almost a year.

“He’s great,” she grinned, humoring my attempt at deflection. “He treats me like a queen. Very polite and gentlemanly during the day and practically falls at my feet to worship me at night.” Or teasing me for not immediately sharing, apparently.

“Great. Thanks for that mental picture,” I scowled. I didn’t mean it though, and she knew that. We shared pretty much everything with each other and Natalie especially was not shy with the details. This was not new information.

“Anytime,” she winked. “See how easy it is to share? Your turn.”

“I feel like all we talk about anymore is me and Dean. What about Hannah? How’s it going with Riley?” I asked.

“We talk about everybody pretty equally actually,” Jackie countered. I guess she would know. “You just don’t like to be the center of attention so it feels that way to you.”

She wasn’t wrong. And in the spirit of not wanting to be the center of attention, I brought it back to Hannah again.

“So? Riley?” Despite our predictions that night in the bar, the two of them were still going strong. Apparently Hannah really liked the guy and we had very badly misread things.

“Please. We’re old news,” Hannah said dismissively. 

“Old news? You’ve only been going out for like a month longer than me and Dean,” I said.

“Oh, that’s right!” Hannah said excitedly. “You’re coming up on two months aren’t you?”

“And you’ve managed not to scare him away!” Rose enthused, calling back to the joke she made the day after we met. “Congratulations! You must really have him hooked.”

“That joke just doesn’t get old,” I told her, trying to sound annoyed. The small curl I could feel in the corner of my mouth probably gave me away though. “You know, I think it might actually be even funnier the second time.”

“Well it’s certainly funnier than the ridiculous memes Jackie thinks are hilarious,” Rose replied. 

“Hey!” Jackie squeaked out in mock outrage. “They are hilarious. It’s just that none of you have a sense of humor.”

“Well I can see you ladies are hard at work,” said a deep male voice behind us. I recognized it immediately. 

“Dean!” I gasped out in delight as I spun around to see him. He was standing in the doorway looking happy to have surprised me, if not a little awkward.

“Hi,” he smiled my favorite smile, the one that made his eyes light up, as he opened his arms for a hug as I made my way to him. As his arms closed around me a strange mix of a steady, mellow contentment and a wild, overwhelming excitement filled my chest.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. 

“I just wanted to surprise you,” he shrugged. “And I hear so much about this place, I wanted to see it too. Sorry to interrupt,” he apologized to everyone else in the room. I pulled away from the hug but leaned into his side when he left one arm curled around my waist. “I was trying to wait for a break in conversation, but there wasn’t one and it was starting to feel like eavesdropping more than anything, so I figured I should just say something.”

I knew without looking that everybody would be ecstatic at this turn of events. They had all been dying to meet Dean and while I’d promised to figure out the best way to introduce them all, I admittedly hadn’t been trying very hard. I was happy just to keep him to myself for a little while longer.

“Wait,” I said, feeling a small frown form on my face. “How long were you standing there?”

“I came in just in time to hear you talking about the gorgeous boy who was too young. I’ll admit, it was a relief to realize you were talking about a horse.”

I saw the teasing gleam in his eye and whacked him on the shoulder. The laugh he’d been holding back broke free and I huffed and rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop a smile from tugging up the corners of my mouth.

A throat cleared, letting me know that someone was done with waiting for introductions. I looked back at my friends and saw Jackie with a raised eyebrow. She must have been the impatient one then. 

“Oh. Um, guys, this is Dean,” I said unnecessarily. They all knew very well who he was. “Dean, this is Lauren, Jackie, Natalie, Rose, Hannah, and Morgan,” I told him, gesturing to each girl as I named her. 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Jackie said, perfectly fitting the part of an overexcited mother meeting her daughter’s boyfriend for the first time. “We’ve heard so much about you!” She continued, oblivious to the betrayed look I shot her way at this comment.

“Only the good stuff I hope,” Dean answered good naturedly. 

“Why?” Rose asked. “Is there bad stuff?” She said it in a joking tone, but I knew she was partially serious. 

“Rose.” I said in warning. It had only been 20 seconds and I was already itching to get Dean out of here, away from the group of women I loved like family but who, much like a real family, had the power to be truly embarrassing and frustrating. Dean brushed it off easily, though.

“Nothing bad enough to complain about I hope.”

“But we can’t forget the two most important questions,” Morgan chimed in. “How does Ziggy like you and how do you feel about horses?”

I smiled, grateful to her for lightening the mood before the others could start throwing out tactless, prying questions. They didn’t mean to be so intense and were actually usually better in smaller groups, but when we were all together like this, they just got too excited and carried away.

“Mm, yes. Very important questions. Answer carefully,” Nat agreed playfully.

“Well I only just met Ziggy so she’s not too sure of me yet. I’ll win her over though,” he said confidently. “And I’ve spent very little time around horses, but I’m willing to learn.”

“Great answer,” Jackie said approvingly. 

“Ok,” I said before Rose could voice whatever question she was clearly about to ask. On the one hand, I didn’t want to leave immediately when they just wanted to get to know Dean better, but on the other, I didn’t want to subject him to an unending line of questioning. Although he really should have known better than to drop in unannounced if he didn’t want to be interrogated. “I’m going to go show Dean around. We’ll see you guys later.”

I could see that they wanted to protest, but they all said goodbye. I didn’t miss Rose’s mouthed wow! when Dean’s back was turned or Jackie’s encouraging thumbs up. I ignored them both.

“It was nice to meet you,” Dean said with a wave as I ushered him out the office door, through the kitchen, and then outside.

“Hold on a second,” Dean said, sounding amused at the way I was dragging him along with me. He planted his feet and gently pulled on the hand I had tangled with his. “What’s the hurry?”

Just trying to escape before they decide to ambush us out here, I thought. 

I let him pull me closer as I tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make my friends sound bad. Before I could come up with anything though, he put one hand on my waist and one in my hair as he leaned down for another one of his butterfly-inducing, knee-buckling kisses. It wasn’t a long kiss, but I was still a little breathless when he pulled away.

“What was that for?” I breathed out. He smiled, looking a little proud of himself. Probably because of my inability to control my reactions around him.

“Just saying hi,” he told me. “I didn’t get a chance before. I didn’t figure you would appreciate it if I kissed you inside in front of all your friends.”

I laughed.

“That was very sweet of you,” I told him. “But I’m afraid waiting until we were outside was pointless. I can almost guarantee they’re all watching out the window right now.”

We both turned to look at the big picture window facing the deck we were currently standing on. Sure enough, there was a flurry of motion as they all scurried away.

“It’s the thought that counts?” Dean said a little apologetically.

“It’s fine, Dean,” I assured him. “It’s not like they weren’t already well aware that we’re dating.”

I took him on a tour of the facility. I explained to him how we did things and he had lots of questions. He asked about the different kinds of tack, some of the things we had set up in the arena, and, as I took him around to show him the horses, he wanted to know everything I could tell him about each one. I was really happy to see his genuine interest.

I didn’t expect his response when I expressed my surprise at the detailed questions he was asking.

“You’re just so in your element here,” he explained. “Normally you’re pretty quiet and sometimes unsure. You seem happy to let anyone else take the lead. But here? You’re like a whole different person. It’s really cool to see.”

I flushed a little at the assessment and the bit of pride I could swear I saw in his eyes, but I also couldn’t disagree. I’d noticed that myself. I’d actually come out of my shell quite a bit thanks to this job, but outside of work I was still pretty reserved a lot of the time.

Once I’d shown him everything and finally exhausted his seemingly endless questions, we decided to head back to my place. Dean wanted some more time to work on winning Ziggy’s affections so we planned to scratch a few more movies off of our list. 

I told Dean to wait outside while I ran inside quickly to grab my things. Rose’s car was the only one still in the parking lot. I braced myself for the probability of her questioning but was ready to brush her off at least for the day. Dean waiting outside was a reasonable excuse for not hanging around.

She was sitting at one of the desks, absently scrolling through her phone, clearly waiting for me. 

“Look, Rose, I know you want to talk, and I promise we will, but I don’t have time right now. Dean’s waiting for me,” I told her, making a preemptive strike.

“That’s ok. I assumed you would be spending the day together.”

“Oh. Then… Why were you waiting for me?” I wondered.

“I just wanted to be the one to let you know that we all love him.”

“Really?” I asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, that’s great! But I got him out of here pretty quickly. You barely talked to him.”

“Yeah, about that. You’re going to have to let us actually talk to him one day, you know.”

“I know. And I really do want you guys to get to know him. It’s just-”

“It’s just that all of us all at once can be a little intense and you didn’t want to freak him out. I get it,” she said. “And we’d love the chance to talk to him, but we don’t need to get to know him to like him.”

“Because he’s so good looking?” I asked a little wryly. She smiled, but didn’t take the bait like I thought she would. 

“Because we were watching you two together out there – don’t give me that look. It’s spying, it’s rude, it’s wrong, I know. But we were curious, so sue us.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t contain my smile and gestured for her to continue.

“Anyway, we were watching you together and honestly, I’ve never seen you so happy. It’s obvious that you’re completely gone for the guy. You look at him like he’s the only one in the world who matters. And he was looking at you the same way. What more could we ask for, for you?”

“Thanks, Rose,” I said, feeling overwhelmingly happy. I gave her a hug.

“So on a scale from 1-10, how good of a kisser is he?” She asked. Of course she had to go and ruin the moment. I grabbed my purse and water bottle. 

She wasn’t a gossip like Jackie, but she still loved gathering up all of the nitty gritty details. Now that I thought about it, I was actually kind of surprised she’d waited this long to ask me this question.

“You’ll never know,” I told her, not wanting to get into it. Partly because Dean was right outside and it felt weird to touch that subject with him right there, and partly because Dean was right outside and I didn’t want him to have to wait too long.

“Obviously not. That’s why I’m asking you,” she insisted.

“Bye, Rose! Don’t forget to lock up!” I said over my shoulder. I heard her grumbling as the door closed, but knew she wasn’t mad. Just as she knew I would give in and give her the details eventually. 

“Ready?” Dean asked from where he was leaning against his car.

“Let’s go,” I agreed.

~~~~~

A little over an hour later, after stopping for lunch, we were just getting settled on the couch. I grabbed our list of movies, ready to choose a new one. 

“I have a question,” Dean said.

“Another one?” I asked, feigning exasperation. Dean’s answering smirk was knowing.

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t love answering all those questions.”

He was right. I couldn’t deny it. I loved telling people about my work and I loved Dean’s interest.

“What’s your question?” I asked.

“It’s just something that’s been bothering me. A comment one of your friends made before you knew I was there.”

Uh oh. I wracked my brain, trying to remember exactly what we’d said. Did something offend him?

“She made a comment about how you haven’t scared me away yet.” He continued. “And then you said it wasn’t the first time she’s said that.”

“Oh,” I said, not really sure where he was going with this. “What about it?”

“Don’t you see a problem with that? I mean, why are your friends assuming you’d scare me? I know you said that before me it had been a while since you dated, but that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

“It was just a joke,” I assured him. I loved that he was trying to look out for me, but I wondered why this upset him so much.

“But why?” He asked again.

“It was just… a way to lighten the mood I guess.”

He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow and waited for me to explain. I sighed.

“Dean. Do you realize how attractive you are?” I asked him. “I mean, like… being realistic here, you’re kind of out of my league.”

His eyebrows wrinkled and his mouth pulled into a small frown.

“You think-”

“No, I don’t think. I know,” I cut him off. “And this isn’t me fishing for compliments or anything like that. It’s true. I know you’ve said before that you think I’m attractive, and I believe you and I’m glad, but the reality is, no matter what you think, you are out of my league. I mean, you could be a model.”

“What does this have to do with anything?” He asked, clearly not agreeing, but willing to let it go for now to hear my point.

“Well… remember how I told you I got ambushed at work the day after we met?”

“And they thought we went home together,” he said, confirming that he did remember.

“Exactly. When I told them that’s not what happened… Well they just didn’t want me to get my feelings hurt. They told me that you were probably the kind of guy that was just trying to use me. And when I let them know that definitely wasn’t the case, Rose just made a joke about how if you were so great, I needed to make sure I didn’t scare you away. She was just trying to lighten the mood. It really wasn’t an insult.”

He thought about it for a moment. 

“Ok, you’re right. I guess that’s not so bad. But just for the record…”

He kissed me again. It was much more intense than any other kiss he’d given me before. This was not a spontaneous, ‘just because I feel like it’ kiss. It wasn’t a hello or goodbye kiss. It wasn’t even an end of the night, leave ‘em wanting more kiss. This was a possessive kiss. A point proving kiss. I tried my best to keep up with the level of passion and enthusiasm he was throwing into it. When he finally broke away, I was very glad to be sitting down. I was sure I would have fallen over if I’d been on my feet.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he concluded. 

“Um. That’s… yeah. I’ll be sure to give Rose the good news,” I said a little stupidly. My brain was working in overdrive and apparently none of it was helping with speech.

He laughed. It was a sound of pure happiness. Giddy, almost. I realized that I was ridiculously, hopelessly in love with this man. And I remembered what Rose said. About how Dean looked at me the same way I looked at him. Could he possibly feel the same?

“I mean it. I’m here to stay. I hope that’s ok with you.”

My cheeks hurt from the grin that split my face.

“I think I might be ok with that.”

Tags:

@123passwort @buckybarnes-1917 @chicken-nuggs-and-cozy-hugs @globetrotter28 @suckitands33

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[doctors-journal]

4 July

The stock-broker greeted the detective and I warily at the door. “Is everything alright?”

The detective insisted we all sit down around the stock-broker’s desk. “We took the liberty of talking to several of your clients, and it appears that some of their money has somehow disappeared.”

The detective motioned for me to explain. “Your books only include a small percentage of all of their investments, and the returns you report have nothing to do with what they actually receive. Where is the rest of the money going?”

“I’m sorry, I must have accidentally given you the wrong spreadsheets,” the stock-broker insisted, “an honest mistake.”

The detective stopped him with a gesture. “We are not here to punish a mistake. You aren’t the only person who has fallen victim to malicious advice. If you will just tell us who has scammed you out of the rest of the money, we can ensure that you are dealt with as lightly as possible.”

“What’s the meaning of this? I said I must’ve just mixed up the tables, hardly a crime, is it?”

The detective glared at the man for a moment in irritation, and then suddenly a change came over him. That’s the only way I can describe it; the detective almost seemed like a different person. His shoulders seemed broader, but he didn’t loom, instead there was a casual slump to his posture.

When he spoke, I could’ve sworn his voice came out deeper. “As a stock-broker you must understand how serious it is if your books really are so disorganised.” The man tried to interrupt, but the detective forged on, “I was hoping you’d help us catch the people who are really behind this rather than digging yourself deeper just to protect them.”

The stock-broker deflated with a sigh. “I suppose there’s no harm in giving you their information… As far as I understand, they’re just a small fund in luxury goods that had very high returns until recently—what investor wouldn’t jump at the chance?—but maybe you’ll be able to learn more from them.”

As we returned to the flat, the detective said, “If you are amenable, Doctor, I believe an excursion is in order this evening to call upon the services of an acquaintance of mine—I suspect we have been given a window into a deep business indeed, and we cannot afford to waste the chance that we have been given.”

I assented, curious, of course, about who the detective’s acquaintance could be and even more so when he insisted I wear a spare jacket of his—apparently my own suit wasn’t good enough again.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked. “Not another concert?”

He shook his head and simply ushered me out the door into the warm evening.

A concert wasn’t so far off the mark; we went to the theatre. There was a show on, and apparently, he had already gotten a pair of tickets, not that they seemed to be in short supply. What people were seated in the audience eagerly talked among themselves, glancing around the room like they were all waiting for someone to arrive.

Finally, a few tired-looking stagehands came out from backstage, in front of the curtain, which was still down. Immediately, the audience fell silent.

One woman stepped forward. “I’m afraid there’s been some difficulty with tonight’s show. Since not too many tickets were sold anyway, the directors have decided to invite you all to a backstage tour in compensation.”

I glanced at the detective, but he only shrugged, though I saw a quick, wry smile.

No one left or even protested. The stagehands divided up the audience among them, and they led us through a side door at the front of the theatre, into the backstage area. It opened into a wide, unfinished hallway, cluttered with set pieces and equipment. We passed a couple of women on break gossiping about the cancelled show, but there was no one else around.

Our first real stop was a dressing room occupied by an ageing actress, in a bathrobe with curlers in her hair, in the middle of a cigarette. She disinterestedly waved us all inside.

“Yes, you’ll come and gawk at me in my dressing room,” she said with a sigh, “but you won’t come to see an old bird like me on stage. No, I know only a pretty young thing will do, won’t it?”

The detective had manoeuvred us toward the front of the crowd, and the actress singled me out with a long, plastic fingernail. Put on the spot, I’m afraid I froze.

The detective came to my rescue, stepping between me and the actress, taking her hand with exaggerated gallantry. “Not at all, madame. You have the experience and wisdom that all those pretty young things lack.”

She scoffed but seemed privately pleased by the flattery.

The detective winked at me.

As the actress went on, I wasn’t the only one she singled out, and the detective was hardly the only one who replied.

When we finally left her to her woes and returned to the hall, the detective whispered in my ear, “Did you observe, Doctor? Her makeup was remarkably done; she could be no older than thirty but done up to appear like an older woman desperately trying to look younger.”

“She must have been older,” I protested, but I guess the detective must know his stuff.

It really was some show. I’ve never seen anything like it before. We went from dressing room to dressing room to watch little skits, like moments from the actors’ and actresses’ lives; their ambitions, their troubles, their relationships. It felt like we were intruding, but it was apparently all part of the show.

There was a couple arguing, a frustrated playwright lamenting his misunderstood play, a director talking with someone on the phone about the theatre company’s struggling finances. As we walked between scenes, we even overheard some janitors talking about their weekend, which I think was also part of the show, though it was hard to tell—I think it used some of the same actors from other scenes. I’m sure there must be some I’m forgetting. It’s hard to keep track of all the little scenes.

One of the last tableaus we saw was a bunch of set designers finishing up their work on some scenery for the day. One of them was trying to move a particularly heavy looking piece past us, and to my surprise, the detective stepped forward.

“Would you like a hand?” he asked with a bit of an affected accent.

The set designer seemed surprised, though that could have just as well been part of the act. “Oh, thank you,” he said gruffly. “We’re understaffed as is, and of course the actors are always too busy in their dressing rooms.”

“You know those actors,” the detective answered with a knowing smile.

The set designer directed him where to put aside the piece, and he even struck up a conversation with the detective about his fictional troubles, and the detective talked genially with him through it as though he also worked in a theatre company.

After the unusual show, the detective was in no hurry to leave. We lingered out in the seats until nearly everyone else was gone.

“A clever show,” the detective said with surprising enthusiasm, “obvious perhaps, but you work with what you have, and used effectively to speak to the many facets of human experience-”

He was interrupted by a shout of, “Sherly! What are you doing here?”

It was the actor who had been playing the set designer who the detective had the long exchange with during the show, though his voice was almost unrecognisable. There was little doubt who he was talking to now, though I couldn’t tell if he was pleased to see the detective or not.

“I would not miss such a show for the world,” the detective replied, though all of his real enthusiasm was gone.

“Yeah, right. What’s going on? What’ve you been up to? Is this… a date?” The actor glanced between me and the detective.

“An excellent deduction, your capacity for observation has improved immensely.”

The actor laughed. “You really haven’t changed at all, Sherly. But, seriously.”

“You are correct. I have come on a more serious errand. In fact, I hoped you might lend us your talents in our investigation. I suspect we have uncovered a deep matter indeed which requires a deft hand, and for all of my dear doctor’s gifts, an actor he is not.”

“You don’t mean you’ve really become a detective? What happened back there?” The actor lowered his voice. “She said she saw you being hauled away from your flat.”

“Suffice to say that I have returned.”

“You haven’t even talked to her since, have you?”

“It is not a thing to be done lightly.”

“No kidding. You’re just scared of what she’ll say.”

The detective made some attempt at an explanation for my benefit, “She is ‘the woman.’ She eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex.”

The actor just shook his head. “She’ll be right too, you know. You weren’t even that close to him. I don’t know what the hell happened to you.” He suddenly seemed to remember I was there. “Sorry, Doctor, this is all old news, really. Sherly here just gave me a hell of a shock showing up like that without any warning after all these years. What do you say we all get dinner sometime and catch up properly? I don’t mean to crash your date.”

“We will have all the time you like for reminiscing when we have laid our trap.”

“As fun as it sounds to run around playing Sherlock Holmes,” the actor said drily, “I have enough to deal with without risking my neck to chase after some criminal mastermind.”

“Would it not be the performance of a lifetime?”

“Sorry, Sherly. Maybe she’d help you if you grovelled. It was good to see you again and nice to meet you, Doctor, you have my condolences.” With that, the actor gave a parting wave and returned backstage.

“Come, Doctor,” the detective said, already heading to the door, “he has his work, and we have ours.”

And I followed him out because what else could I do?

He was quiet and moody the whole way home. I have plenty of questions, but I don’t know what I could say that could help. So, when we got back, I just came up to my room.

It’s late. I should sleep. I can hear the detective pacing around downstairs. He probably just needs some space. But I know it can be lonely too, doing what needs to be done. Maybe I should check on him.

[wednesday5econlive]

How I couldn't get tickets to see Taylor Swift this year

Gayathri Yedavilli

ID# 82966436

gyedavil@uci.edu

Wednesday 5PM

Despite staying up late catching up on studying the night before, I was wide awake by 9AM on November 15, 2022. I quickly grabbed a plate of eggs and pancakes, and sat down with my laptop open to the Ticketmaster website – the Taylor Swift presale tickets went on sale in a few minutes. I had my presale code ready to go since I knew that it would be difficult to get these tickets due to the high demand (as Taylor Swift had not gone on tour since 2018), however nothing could have prepared me for this ticketing experience. As Ticketmaster was the primary seller for “face-value” tickets for this tour (& many others), Ticketmaster was flooded with users waiting in queue for the limited tickets. One of the most popular tweets I saw that day was:

Even though this was clearly an exaggeration, that’s what it felt like. Despite Ticketmaster postponing the west coast ticket sales, I never got past the queue. Even if I did make it to the page where I could purchase tickets, I would not have been able to afford the ticket prices. 

Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the world entered a phase of lockdown in which strict CDC regulations canceled almost all in-person events, including concerts. So revenue for ticketing companies reached an all time low and barely any profits were being made during 2020 and 2021. Everyone, myself included, was completely deprived of live events, gatherings, and social interaction with others and so when health regulations loosened and live shows began, people jumped on this opportunity. As a result, there was a large increase in demand for concerts, and therefore the e-ticketing market saw an increase in demand.

As a result of this increase in demand, scalpers began to resell their face-value tickets (ranging from $49-$499) for thousands of dollars. For example, let’s say that two friends, Jill and Joe, were trying to purchase tickets for Taylor Swift’s concert. Jill and Joe had a monthly disposable income of $3,000 and $3,500, respectively, and the price of a resale floor ticket was $2,432. Jill preferred a floor ticket over a ticket for Section 100, and she preferred a Section 100 ticket over Section 300. On the other hand, Joe preferred Section 300 to Section 100, and a floor ticket over a Section 300 ticket. Therefore, for Jill: Floor ticket ≻ Section 100 ticket ≻ Section 300 ticket, and for Joe: Floor ticket ≻ Section 300 ticket ≻ Section 100 ticket. Therefore, both friends have rational preferences (as their preferences are both complete and transitive). Since both Jill and Joe are able to afford the floor ticket price with their income and they unanimously prefer floor tickets over the terrace and section 100 tickets, the two friends should purchase floor tickets to the concert. If the floor tickets cost over $4,000 each, neither Jill nor Joe would have been able to afford the floor tickets.

sample concert seating chart for reference

But, Ticketmaster wasn’t the only firm seeing an increase in demand. The ticketing industry has the market structure of an oligopoly, in which there are a few firms and identical products. When Ticketmaster merged with Live Nation in 2010, the company’s sales boomed. Ticketmaster controlled almost 80% of the market for tickets to major concerts. Ever since then, Ticketmaster has continued to have the largest market share compared to any other company in the ticketing industry, such as AXS, SeatGeek, or StubHub.

Despite the pandemic halting almost all of the traffic on ticketing platforms in 2020, Ticketmaster has managed to maintain the largest share of the e-ticketing market in today’s world, with control over about 70% of the e-ticketing market. In the future, the closer Ticketmaster gets to approaching control over a 100% of the market and dominating the market as the industry leader, Ticketmaster will start displaying more characteristics of a monopoly.

Knowing this, we can conclude that Ticketmaster will have the power to set prices for tickets based on demand for each concert. In fact, they have already introduced and implemented a platinum pricing feature where the prices of concert tickets increase based on the demand for the tickets. This just made it more difficult for me to get tickets to any other artists (like SZA), let alone just Taylor Swift.

[xceanlynx]

Thanks for tagging me!

Unironically the coolest thing that happened to me in 2023 was starting my adhd diagnosis journey lol I started last year not even thinking I could have it, and now I can't even understand how I went through almost 25 years without being diagnosed before. The diagnosis is definitely not always a happy path to follow, I've cried too many times to remember, but I'd do it all again to be in the position I am today. Also, I know I'm very privileged to be able to afford meds and professionals, so I'll forever be grateful.

I traveled a lot! Mostly to beautiful beaches and cool cities in the mountain region near my hometown, but I also went to São Paulo twice — tbh São Paulo is never really a place that I want to go on a trip, but even so I always enjoyed my time in this city.

Speaking of São Paulo, I attended two awesome events and met cool artists. On July I went to a festival (many artists were there but I must admit I went more because of Jeff Satur and 2Z), and last month I went to First and Khaotung fanmeeting. I always love going to these concerts and fan events because I always get to meet other fans like me (it's also nice to see I'm more on the chill side of any fandom. Sometimes my hyperfocus tends to make me believe I'm too much of a stan. I'm really not lol)

A really recent thing is that I am finally starting my graduate studies in Family and Succession Law (commonly understood as the divorce, alimony, and inheritance law lol). I do not plan on becoming a full-time lawyer because I am already mentally ill enough lmao but this area of study has always been my favorite and I am really excited to expand my knowledge even more (especially since I'm being medicated lol)

The most random thing: I started a plushie collection! Not any plushie: only claw machine plushies that I got myself! Right now I have 5 (2 bears, a turtle, a bunny, and a penguin). My mother seems to be more invested than me in my own collection — she even gave me money solely to catch a brown bear she saw. I didn't catch it. I don't think she'll give me more money lmao

idk who to tag so, if you see this, consider yourself tagged!

5 cool things that happend to you in 2023 go 🎤+ tag 5 ppl

Aaaahhhh I COMPLETELY forgot about this!

BUT

1, I got to go to a couple of conventions near me for the first time ever! One was one that my sister has been going to forever and I finally got to go and the other is one that my friend has been going to for quite a few years and they invited me to go with them! (I'm hoping to go to both again this year and trying to go to more in the future!)

2, I moved! Some stupid stuff happened with my place back in June but I finally got a new place last month and I'm all settled in!!

3, I got back into the things I really enjoy and have gotten to meet so many people on here!! It's so wonderful seeing so many people create things and talk about stuff that so many people I know irl have 0 interest in. It's just lovely to not feel weird about all the investment and emotions I have around it all!

4, I started buying albums!!! 14 year old me is ECSTATIC! I have so many already with just starting to get them back in June. I won't be able to collect anymore for awhile but when I was unpacking the box with all of them and finally got to at least have them on a shelf last month...i was giggling like an idiot I was so happy. (My friend and I were unpack together and neither of us were ready for me to have that reaction XD)

5, I got to go on road trips completely by myself!!! I did two of them to visit different family members!! I grew up doing road trips with my parents and sister so it was super super fun to plan ones myself and get to do them! One trip was an 8ish hour drive and the other was a 14ish hour drive!

I'm not sure who else would be into this, I'll tag a few people but if anyone see this and wants to do it too, tag me so I can read it!!!!

@mbjw @xceanlynx @suburbanlegnd

[epiphenomenal]

hi guys. sorry for the long absence. i've had various r/l things going on, including a new job -- but tbh i’ve also found it hard to have fannish feelings about anything except the end of the band of my life, kent. the following is an incredibly tl;dr explanation. please don't feel obliged to read it; i think i wrote this mainly for myself.

i. origins

there are two stories, i guess. one begins in 2003 with teenage!jan discovering a curiously-labelled song on file-sharing software. someone had frontloaded the filename with familiar bands: REM, radiohead, the smashing pumpkins, etc. so i downloaded what turned out to be the english version of kent's 747, and realised i had to listen to more of their work.

i soon discovered they were a swedish band, and that their english experiment had been short-lived. but their swedish songs were fantastic (both before and after i looked up the lyrics), so i kept listening.

and they say the town's become silent and ugly and deserted, darling that it's going to be a long cold winter i've learnt that longing is worst when one's slept like a child through an ice-cold winter

you're my hero for you dare to be honest you're my hero for you're just as weak as me come and help me, i need you -- again, again, again (x)

i ordered all their albums online -- you know it's love when you stop pirating. for most music loves, it might have stopped there. except for the other story, which starts in the late 1980s (or officially in 1990).

i read about the band's origins, and there was something compelling about that, too. how they grew up in a small grey industrial ghost town, where music was an escape. how they had lofty dreams and moved to stockholm and tried and failed and kept trying for years, until they got their big break. how they went from strength to strength after that, winning awards and a devoted fanbase, and eventually being called "sweden's biggest rock band". (but also how, after two english-language albums and gruelling international tours, they had to give up on that front.)

i loved them with the intensity teenagers are capable of. i read all i could find in english, and then (back when machine translation was poor and google translate didn't even exist yet) read more with the help of a swedish-english dictionary and what grammar i managed to learn.

kent also had a close relationship with their fans. their frontman, joakim berg, frequently hung out on their official forum. ahead of each album release, the band took questions directly from fans and answered them (often hilariously) on their website -- which, incidentally, was a fansite that the band noticed and asked to become their official website.

in 2005, they released their first new album since i'd started listening to them: du & jag döden or 'you & i, death', a masterpiece from the irresistible opening track all the way till the magnificent album closer, which remains my favourite song ever. i pre-ordered the album online and played it on loop for days and have never recovered.

do you remember our blood-oath, our law? our stupid crusade against an equally foolish town i remember everything like nails against glass but you just laugh at me, reduce everything to a joke yet i see in your anxious posture, your hunted gaze that it feels that it's a long way home (x)

ii. journeys

in the autumn of 2007, kent released their next album, tillbaka till samtiden; i went to the UK for university, on a scholarship. that december, i went to sweden and saw kent live for the first time -- something i'd never imagined would be possible, back when i first discovered their music. it was magical. they were magical. that energy, those songs i'd loved for years, the crowd roaring along on all the classic lines -- singing but darling we’ll all die someday with thousands of other fans, not in sadness but in triumph. but also: jocke's incredibly dorky dancing, the band's camaraderie on stage, how they connected with the crowd. i fell a little in love with their guitarist, sami sirviö, and his dramatic guitar-playing -- something from which i have never recovered either.

the next spring, i travelled alone to sweden to see them again, three times.

kent wasn’t just the soundtrack to my ~formative years; they’re linked inextricably to the start of my uni-era travels, and to trips i’ve taken since. they were also a constant, of sorts: one could always expect another album within a couple of years. there was always something to look forward to.

and the thing about kent -- and being a kent fan over the years -- is that they have always moved forward. unlike some bands which retread the same sonic territory, kent saw each new album as a musical departure from the next (often to their fans’ dismay; but kent always said that they made music for themselves, and i admired that kind of integrity, too). their lyrics also evolved: from adolescent anxiety and desperation, to urban isolation and middle-aged middle-class angst (not least given their working-class origins), protesting against a society that seemed to be losing its old ideals of solidarity and kindness.

in late 2009, during my final undergraduate year, they released the album röd. in the easter vacation before my final exams, i went to sweden and norway for four concerts. i didn't know when i would get to see them again.

(just half a year after röd, they casually released another album, en plats i solen. other things they’ve done: released songs for charity, from a quietly devastating song about domestic violence for Save the Children, to one for the National Organisation for Women's and Girls' Shelters in Sweden; released a song for free online as a christmas present for fans, without the knowledge of their record label, and laughed with fans on the forum about that; taken shoe-selfies on a couch together.)

darling, that we want most of all is something that can never be ours november is a wall of wet concrete where a naive dream of escape is born to crash and then die but heroes and heroines stay standing they spit hard into the wind and they warm our hands so we don't lose our grip on the love we have a right to (x)

i returned from the UK and started work in 2011. in 2012, kent released jag är inte rädd för mörkret, which opens with one of their most beautiful songs. (instead of doing promotional interviews, they held a press conference and invited fans and forum regulars and bloggers, not just the media.) i flew alone to stockholm that summer, for a concert on a sprawling green lawn. the setlist was incredible and included one of my favourite songs, which i'd hoped for years to hear live. there were fireworks at the end. the forty-minute walk back towards town, amongst other fans, felt like it took no time at all.

2014 started out tough for me for various reasons, and kent's new album tigerdrottningen was very welcome, though i didn't manage to see them live that tour. they were more political than ever before. their first single was a blistering critique of sweden today; at a summer festival they held (yes, they held their own festival, and invited artistes they loved -- mostly women, incidentally, something the media noticed but the band themselves never pointed out), they exhorted the crowd to vote the right-wing SD party out of parliament. my favourite track off the album describes stockholm as a "guaranteed solidarity-free New Moderate desert" -- but also contains a verse that gains a lot of poignancy in retrospect:

i hear the bass from the car at the red lights, i know that song like a knife to the heart -- i wrote it 200 summers ago i stand as if frozen at the crossing, and regret (x)

iii. endings

on 13 march 2016, kent posted a video full of references to previous albums and songs.

after 26 years together, they were calling it a day.

their final album, då som nu för alltid, was a summary and a farewell. they said goodbye with a final tour: 28 gigs in four months across four countries.

i used half my annual leave to catch five concerts in october. each one was amazing. from the breathtaking introduction and epic visuals, to the setlist, to -- of course -- the band themselves. how much energy they poured into their music. the smiles they traded on stage, how they’d play while facing each other. how jocke presented his fellow band members to the audience, night after night, and told stories from their earliest days together; how, night after night, he told them he loved them.

the band members' love for each other, how they call themselves a family and have always felt it was them against the world -- that's one of my favourite things about them. and i have a lot of feelings about the stories jocke told: how he and sami went from disliking each other at first sight to sharing a rockstar dream; how he and bassist martin sköld spent hours talking about everything in life; how important their drummer, markus mustonen, was in making them feel like they were finally a real band.

the farewell tour was also filled with love between the band and the fans. how jocke bantered with fans near the front. how, in setlist staple jag ser dig ('i see you'), the fans got their moment on the big screen. how the fans have always taken jocke's cue during set-ender 747, turning stadiums into seas of waving arms, right after jocke sings to us, repeatedly, you keep us alive -- additional lyrics only present in live renditions of the song. how, after each concert, the band came down and gave out roses to fans in the front row.

in december, i flew out again for their last three concerts in stockholm. during the first two, for which i had standing tickets, there was just such a pure joy and euphoria at being there, in the moment, with fellow fans, amid their music. they performed a completely new song, because kent is the sort of band which does that sort of thing during their last three concerts ever.

at their final concert, on dec 17, i had a seated ticket for the only time this tour. i watched their farewell from a distance, but that also allowed me to grasp the scale of this: being there amongst 38,300 fans, saying goodbye together. during the ironic political ballad sverige we held up our phones, as we'd done throughout the tour, and the arena was full of stars.

the day after, the band released a final video, a beautiful summary of the farewell tour which included the voices of fans. it was a music video for the song which ends their last album, and which also closed every concert that tour: den sista sången or 'the last song'. just to make the message perfectly clear, the song (and by extension, every farewell concert) ends on these lines:

this is the last time, the last time we're meeting the last song, the last song i'm giving you (x)

iv. epilogue

on dec 26 and 27, a two-part documentary on the band's final years was released. it's a very well-made documentary, from cinematography to its on-point song choices, filled with interviews and amusing moments, giving a summary of the band's history and a look at the long farewell stretch. the documentary also contained some sad revelations about why the band had chosen to call it a day, and i spent january and february processing this, basically.

on feb 28, kent won their final two swedish grammy awards. they gave cute thank-you speeches and joked around in the backstage interviews. it provided a kinder sort of closure, compared to the documentary's bittersweet ending.

i still have far too many feelings about these guys and their journey. but it's now been a year since the farewell announcement, and though i'll never get over this band, i should really move forward too.

[thequeercomedian]

*Modern Day Steddie

Eddie knocked on Steve’s door, ready to pick him up. He rang his Ring doorbell, the chime ringing the tone of a classical piece of music Eddie did not recognize.

Eddie: “Hello?” He yelled at the Ring a bit loudly.

Eddie was still unsure how Steve’s parent’s newest technological toy worked. When it came to technology, Eddie knew how to work his phone, mostly his Spotify app, a laptop, and a TV…and sometimes his Xbox when the disk reader worked.

Steve, however, was a tech wiz. Maybe it was because he could afford the latest iPhone, the best brand laptop and tablet, the top of the liner hair dryer. Yes, Eddie discovered through Steve even hair dryers could be boujee. Who the hell needed a hair dryer more than $20 bucks? Steve Harrington, that’s who.

Eddie wasn’t jealous…okay, mostly not jealous. Steve had even offered to upgrade his out of date tech, but Eddie wouldn’t allow it. It wasn’t pride or anything. One, Eddie didn’t care about being flashy or owning the newest thing. Two, Steve didn’t need to buy him anything to prove he cared about him. Okay, the date night dinners are nice, and the one time he bought him Iron Maiden tickets so close to the stage, Eddie felt Bruce Dickinson sweat on him were the exception of the rule. But other than that, all he wanted from his ‘big boy’ was a kiss and a cuddle. And head scratches! Eddie loved the head scratches.

Sighing, Eddie entered in the code Steve had given him and waited for the electronic lock to chime it was open. He entered into Steve’s home.

Eddie: Steve?

Silence.

Eddie, singsonging: “Stevie?”

More silence.

Eddie, sighing to himself: “Come on baby boy, I know you’re here. I didn’t track down my nicest jeans for you to ignore me.”

It should be noted, his nicest jeans were the black, skinny jeans he owned that only had holes in the knees. Eddie wore them almost every date they had. They made his lower body look good, according to Steve. That’s the nice way to put it. His exact reaction, upon seeing Eddie wearing them for the first time, was to stare at his ass like a weight watcher stares at a buffet.

As Eddie got closer to the stairs, he heard a muffled sound. Walking up them, he began to register that the muffled sound was music. He heard guitars, drums, and singing. He also heard someone singing over the music playing. It wasn’t quick to deduce that the noise was coming from Steve’s room.

Eddie quietly opened the bedroom door. He saw Steve, standing in front of his vanity mirror, which Eddie had teased him for many, many times, working on his hair, singing along to the song playing out of his speakers.

Steve, singing: “You go down just like Holy Mary, Mary on a, Mary on a cross. Not just another Bloody Mary, Mary on a…”

Eddie, swinging the door open to make his presence known: “You like Ghost?!”

Steve, jumping: “Jesus! Fuck! Don’t do that!”

He turned off his speakers.

Steve: “How long have you been here?”

Eddie: “Long enough to be ignored at the front door, but able to catch some of the concert.”

Steve rolled his eye, “I heard the song on Tiktok and liked it. It’s catchy.”

Eddie, putting his hands up: “Hey, I’m not complaining. I’ll take any win I can get if it comes to you liking metal. I’m just, surprised it was a Ghost song.”

Steve, curious: “Why is that?”

Eddie: “Steve, you do know what that songs about right?”

Steve just shrugs.

Eddie, snorts: “Oh boy.”

Steve, confused: “What?”

Eddie walks up to Steve and explains, real close in his ear, what the song is all about. Steve’s eye are widen when Eddie pulls back, which caused Eddie to bite his cheek from laughing at how cute Steve looks when he is shocked by something.

Steve: “Oh God! I’m going to Hell now!”

Eddie, putting his hands around Steve’s shoulders: “Oh baby boy. You aren’t going to Hell for liking Ghost.”

The kiss on the cheek Eddie gave Steve seemed to relax him. Steve had a look of a kid who just took a bite of really good ice cream.

Eddie: “You’re going to Hell for the sodomy.”

If asked, Eddie would say that yes, getting smacked in the stomach by Steve was worth it to cause his ears to go bright red.

*As a Ghost fan since the Meliora album, I have been fascinated by one of their songs becoming a TikTok sound. So, naturally, the idea of Steve liking the song because of Tiktok, and having no idea what it’s about, struck me as funny…especially if Eddie had to tell him.

[subiysu-chan]

Modern AU Subyss Headcanons

Warning: quite harsh content here. 

-Now, I think that Subyss is a poor candidate for any ideology because of his deranged personality. Usually, ideologues don’t actively look for nutcases. He’s far too self-indulgent for modern-day far-right ideologies, and even the most destructive far-lefties would deem him to be bad publicity. 

-Typically, executioners and torturers who come from long lines tend to be apolitical. They would often times be devoutly spiritual, but keep out of political ideas and just pay lip service to the dominant one so that they are left alone. They also tend to believe in the State’s monopoly on violence. 

-Now, modern AU Subyss is unlikely to come from a torturer bloodline, but in terms of personality disorders, which combines an alcohol problem with a sadistic personality and histrionic personality disorder would most likely be seduced by centrism. Since, for his canon self, it’s strongly implied he’s gay, and the tattoo seem to denote some Romanian gypsy or Yenish origins, I don’t think he would come even close to anything regarding Nazism or Isis style Islam. Also, his extreme sadism would make it difficult for him to maintain any job. 

-With that said, he would probably be involved in the slaughterhouse industry, but be unable to maintain a job there because of how sadistically violent he would be. 

-He would have short term contracts with disc houses. I would imagine him to be a signer as his “cover up” job, with his music style being folk, chanson or rock, mostly sang in Yenish and in French. 

-If he would have access to Internet, I am pretty sure he would have a musical Youtube channel.

-However, it is likely he would be involved in porn of questionable legality as an actor. He would do BDSM style whippings on actresses, and would often get subject himself to that style of treatment. 

-Modern Day France is a land of illegal immigration, and this illegal immigration sadly opens up doors to human trafficking, often as sex-slaves. However, even some legal porn studios have highly unethical practices. 

-Since often times, newly arrived economic migrants become the merchandise for these illegal porn sites...You guessed it. He thus would be probably a polyglot, with his mother-tongue being Yenish, second language French and he would have probably learned some Arabic, English, Swahili and\or Russian or Ukrainian. He would not speak them, but would be able to vaguely make out the subject of a conversation. 

-Because of his entourage, he would know about the absolutely human-rights violating sex-lives of many politicians and buisnessmen. He would use that knowledge to afford himself luxury goods and travels his normal income would not allow for. 

-He would probably be on the Dark Web. 

-His lifestyle would probably be crazy...Like, on one day he would get f-cked and whipped live on camera, second day he would beat a woman’s breasts and then do quite nasty stuff, then the rest of the week he would go between repetitions for concerts and whenever he’s not in a studio, he would drink himself to a stupor. Rinse, wash, repeat. His already congenital mental health issues combined with this life-style would make him unable and unwilling to get a normal life. 

-His only way out would be catching a severe illness. 

-That said, he might have a slightly larger chance of rehabilitation, because this getting involved in torture lifestyle would have started at 18 at opposed to something closer to age 12, and we now have access to mental health services. That said, rehabilitation would be near impossible. 

[zintranslations]

Kaleidoscope of Death, Ch. 78

Kaleidoscope of Death by Xi Zixu Link to Chinese / Link to ongoing Taida Translations

Chapter 78: Accident

Tan Zaozao came to visit and asked after Ruan Nanzhu with heartfelt care. The entire time however, Ruan Nanzhu pretty much blew her off.

"How was your fourth door?" Lin Qiushi asked casually as he sat on the side with nothing to do.

"My fourth door?" Tan Zaozao scratched at her head. "Alright, I guess…" She didn't seem keen on talking about the world of the doors, quickly circumventing the topic.

Seeing this, Lin Qiushi didn't ask any further either.

The television hanging on the hospital wall would occasionally play one of Tan Zaozao's perfume commercials. Onscreen, her noble glamor looked completely beyond this world. Lin Qiushi eyed the commercials, then eyed the woman scrunched up next to Ruan Nanzhu, who had her face buried in a mango and yellow fruit flesh smeared all over her mouth. He fell into a peculiar silence.

Tan Zaozao clearly guessed Lin Qiushi's thoughts from his expression, and bellowed, "stop staring, it's all fake anyways!"

Lin Qiushi, "oh…"

Tan Zaozao peered at Lin Qiushi, and asked with malice: "Are there any stars you're a particularly big fan of?"

Lin Qiushi answered frankly: "No." He didn't do the fan thing.

Tan Zaozao, disappointed, "that's a shame. I could've gotten you an autograph or something." I might've even had gossip to completely ruin your image of that person…

As they chatted, a breaking news report appeared on the TV, saying some star had a car accident on his way to a concert and died on the scene. It even showed footage of an awful car crash.

Tan Zaozao, who'd been working on her mango, suddenly looked up, seeming lost.

"He…"

Ruan Nanzhu, lying on the bed, asked quietly, "you knew him?"

Tan Zaozao nodded.

She put down the mango in her hand and spoke lowly, "he seems to be someone from the doors too. We filmed a commercial together, but we weren't close or anything…"

Lin Qiushi watched Tan Zaozao, whose mood had clearly fallen.

"Then he began to have all these accidents." Tan Zaozao talked, speaking quite slowly. "During a concert, a light fell from directly above his head, but he only had minor injuries. And other things as well. I had my suspicions then…"

"Maybe it really is just an accident?" Lin Qiushi frowned. "It might not be the doors…"

"It's probably the doors," Tan Zaozao sighed, clearly down. "I'm heading out. Take care of yourselves."

Despite seeing her like this, Lin Qiushi didn't know how to make her feel better. In the end he could only watch her hurry off.

Ruan Nanzhu's expression remained calm the entire time Tan Zaozao was leaving. Lin Qiushi said, "she's okay, right?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "she's fine. She'll be over it in a couple of days."

Lin Qiushi had always thought of Tan Zaozao as quite an optimistic person. To see her break down so unexpectedly like this…

Even though before the actual breakdown, she'd taken off.

Faced with Lin Qiushi's lack of comprehension, Ruan Nanzhu asked, with some surfacing exasperation: "You've really never liked anybody in particular?"

Lin Qiushi thought carefully, then slowly but surely shook his head.

"No. My family's never been close. As far as I recall… Yeah, I've never really liked anyone."

Since youth, the number of friends he had could be counted on two hands. It was precisely because of this that he had been able to leave behind his hometown to come work here with little hesitation.

"But girls must have liked you." Ruan Nanzhu spoke with absolute certainty. "Unless you've never received a confession before?"

Ruan Nanzhu didn't believe at all that with his personality and appearance, Lin Qiushi hadn't been well-received by women.

"Well sure, I've received confessions, but I turned them all down," Lin Qiushi answered.

Ruan Nanzhu, "how come?"

Lin Qiushi, "because I couldn't give them what they wanted."

Ruan Nanzhu frowned. "How did you know you couldn't?"

Lin Qiushi quieted for a while, before answering softly, "because I didn't like them."

Ruan Nanzhu couldn't help a laugh: "You're self-aware."

Lin Qiushi smiled. "I couldn't delay their lives, they're all good women."

Lin Qiushi was indeed a warm person. If he met someone who needed help, he would do all he could to provide aid. But his kindness wasn't limitless either. To put it bluntly, he would never help others by sacrificing himself; he had a thorough comprehension of his own capabilities, and would never request others to do things outside of the scopes of their abilities either.

A kind, clever person who knew how to accurately assess the situation was bound to be attractive.

Ruan Nanzhu slowly closed his eyes. The things that attracted him to Lin Qiushi however, didn't stop there.

Seeing Ruan Nanzhu shut his eyes, Lin Qiushi thought he must be tired. He stood up from the bedside and quietly left the hospital room. As he did so he spotted Cheng Qianli, who was just coming back with the washed lychees.

"Why are you out here?" Cheng Qianli asked.

"Don't go in," Lin Qiushi said. "He's resting now. Zaozao's left too."

Cheng Qianli, "oh, then what about the lychee?"

Lin Qiushi glanced at it.

"Just leave it. Bring it in when he wakes up, or just eat it yourself."

Cheng Qianli, "nah, I won't. Ruan-ge seems to really like lychee."

At this, Lin Qiushi was suddenly curious.

"What else does he like, besides lychee?"

He had been living together with Ruan Nanzhu for a while now, but still knew little to nothing about Ruan Nanzhu's likes and dislikes.

Cheng Qianli, "what he likes? He likes plenty of things." He looked at the lychee, then looked at Lin Qiushi. "He seems to like you a lot too."

Lin Qiushi, "what, and he doesn't like you?"

Cheng Qianli giggled, "hehehe true that, 'cause I'm adorable."

Lin Qiushi thought oh, you're really just shameless.

During the time of Ruan Nanzhu's convalescence, many people from other organizations came to visit. Well, they said visit. "To gather information" was more accurate. After all, a ten-door top honcho like Ruan Nanzhu was a rare sight to see.

White Deer's Li Dongyuan came by without any sense of shame as well. Though Ruan Nanzhu agreed to let him in, Ruan Nanzhu didn't spare him any kind looks the entire time.

Lin Qiushi was seated by Ruan Nanzhu's bedside, peeling lychees for him to eat. He'd part his mouth ever-so-slightly for the milky fruit to pass between his pale lips. Then, after some neat chewing, he'd open his mouth again and Lin Qiushi would bring the plate over to catch the black seed his tongue pushed out out.

This entire eating process was exceedingly elegant. Watching Ruan Nanzhu, Lin Qiushi suddenly understood what Tan Zaozao had meant when she said beautiful people ought to eat lychee.

Li Dongyuan sat just beside him, all friendly grins on that baby face of his. He really was very different outside the door. He said, "Nanzhu ah…"

Ruan Nanzhu shot him a glare from out the corner of his eyes.

So Li Dongyuan could only change his tune: "Ruan-ge, Ruan-ge, are you doing well?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "you can't see for yourself? Say what you came to say."

Li Dongyuan turned and glanced at Lin Qiushi.

Ruan Nanzhu understood his meaning, gaze shuttering.

"No need to keep it from him."

Li Dongyuan, "I'm going into my ninth door soon, so you know, is there…"

Ruan Nanzhu, "no. Get out."

Li Dongyuan, "…"

Lin Qiushi wanted to laugh, but thought it'd be inappropriate. So he kept his head down and pretended to be very seriously peeling lychee.

"Don't be so mean." Li Dongyuan had begun to pout. "I'm not even holding it against you, you know, the time when you pretended to be my lover Zhu Meng."

With those big watery eyes of his, Lin Qiushi was reminded of Cheng Qianli's husky…

But Ruan Nanzhu had a heart of steel and was utterly unmoved. He didn't even appear shocked when Li Dongyuan called out his identity like that.

"Don't waste my time. Talk business."

Li Dongyuan, "I heard you had a hint for the ninth door though…"

Ruan Nanzhu's lips moved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Heard?"

Li Dongyuan, "fuck man, I really did! They're all saying it."

It was at this point that Lin Qiushi suddenly recalled that Ruan Nanzhu had already passed his tenth door. Didn't that mean he likely already had a hint to the eleventh door? What could it be like? Was there something different about it than all the other doors?

"So?" Ruan Nanzhu stared at him.

"So, will you sell me the hint?" Li Dongyuan finally said what brought him here today.

Ruan Nanzhu turned him down without any hesitation: "No way."

Li Dongyuan, "name any price, as long as I can afford it—"

Hints to the ninth door were too scarce; even he hadn't been able to obtain one.

Only Ruan Nanzhu, the crazy bastard, could get his hands on two.

Ruan Nanzhu ate the lychee fed to him. Didn't answer.

Seeing Ruan Nanzhu's attitude, Li Dongyuan became a bit agitated. He said, "thirteen days from now is my limit before going in, I don't have that much time."

Ruan Nanzhu, "weren't you having a great time jacking my customers? Telling them I got here on looks alone?" His lips were smiling but his eyes were cold. "And now you’ve learned to beg me?"

Li Dongyuan began to awkwardly laugh.

"My bad, my bad. Here, how about I service you for a night and you be the bigger person and forget all about it?"

Ruan Nanzhu pointed at the door.

"Get out."

Li Dongyuan looked aggrieved.

Lin Qiushi thought, you're really going overboard. You want the hint, fine, but you also want to take advantage of our boss? You totally deserve to get kicked out.

"I can give you a hint to the ninth door," Ruan Nanzhu said, "but I have a condition."

Li Dongyuan, "what condition?"

Ruan Nanzhu, "you go into the tenth door with him."

At this, Li Dongyuan startled. He glanced at Lin Qiushi.

"You're not…"

Ruan Nanzhu, "I am."

Li Dongyuan's expression changed immediately.

"Are you insane?!"

Ruan Nanzhu was already testy.

"Agree or get out, don't sit here wasting my time."

Li Dongyuan continued to look stormy, but in the end bit the bullet and agreed to go into the tenth door with Lin Qiushi. Judging from his face though, there was more that he wanted to say, but refrained since Lin Qiushi was still present.

Lin Qiushi stood up and said he was going to go wash his hands.

Ruan Nanzhu didn't stop him this time.

But when Lin Qiushi came back from the bathroom, he heard Ruan Nanzhu and Li Dongyuan arguing. Li Dongyuan stood no chance against Ruan Nanzhu though, and ended up slamming his way out the door in a fit of anger. When he spotted Lin Qiushi, he even shot Lin Qiushi a glare.

As Lin Qiushi stood baffled by this glare, Li Dongyuan spoke: "Watch out for yourself then! If Zhu Meng whips it out it'll definitely be bigger than yours!"

Lin Qiushi, "…" I already know he's bigger than me, don't need the reminder thanks.

He returned to the room and saw Ruan Nanzhu sitting expressionless on the bed. So he said, "what got you two arguing all of a sudden?"

Ruan Nanzhu scoffed, "someone wanted to make all these accusations about me. He thinks he's worthy?"

Lin Qiushi, "you're still not feeling well, don't be angry." Then, warmly, "what do you want to eat tonight?"

Ruan Nanzhu leaned against the bed.

"Porridge. Made by you."

Lin Qiushi didn't take Li Dongyuan storming off that day to heart because he thought, between Li Dongyuan and them, there would still be time for all sorts of stories, whether good or bad. But Lin Qiushi didn't imagine that that day would be the last time he'd ever see Li Dongyuan.

The morning thirteen days later, Ruan Nanzhu, who was out of the hospital, received a phone call. Everybody in the mansion was gathered for breakfast. After he hung up, his expression went blank for just a moment. And then he opened his mouth and said, "Li Dongyuan is dead."

The chattering crowd suddenly went quiet. Everybody heard what Ruan Nanzhu said.

First chewing on a bun, Cheng Qianli also stopped.

"Ah," he said, then asked what everybody was wanting to ask, "Ruan-ge, what are you saying… Li Dongyuan, as in White Deer's Li Dongyuan?"

Ruan Nanzhu made a noise of confirmation and stood.

"I have to head over."

Lin Qiushi said, "I'll go with you."

Though Ruan Nanzhu was out of the hospital, he had yet to fully heal; even now, there was a pallor to his face. Lin Qiushi worried that if anything happened to Ruan Nanzhu out there, his body wouldn't be able to take it.

"Okay," Ruan Nanzhu agreed to Lin Qiushi's accompaniment.

Lin Qiushi quickly changed and got into the car with Ruan Nanzhu.

After announcing a destination, Ruan Nanzhu sat in the passenger's seat with his eyes shut to rest. His face was pale, and with his long, raven-dark lashes lightly fluttering, he had, in the air about him, a touch of fragility. But this fragility seemed just as likely to be Lin Qiushi's imagination.

Was Ruan Nanzhu grieving? No. Lin Qiushi thought the upset he emanated was more like commiseration. The fox mourning for the dead rabbit.[1] Ruan Nanzhu hated Li Dongyuan, but hardly wanted Li Dongyuan to just die like this—because seeing this happen to Li Dongyuan, it was difficult not to think of it happening to themselves.

Lin Qiushi remembered that last time he saw Li Dongyuan, a bit over ten days ago, and he exhaled for a long while, as if he wanted to breathe out that entire mass of smothering air in his chest.

After a forty-minute drive, they came to an apartment building in the city.

Lin Qiushi first thought that White Deer was headquartered in one of the apartments. Only after they arrived did he learn that White Deer had bought out the entire building.

There were many people gathered out front. Lin Qiushi had a bad feeling when he saw this. After he parked, they went over to the gathered crowd and saw, unsurprisingly, what everyone was surrounding.

A body, smashed to smithereens. Its face could no longer be made out, but from its clothing and general appearance, this fallen corpse was recognizably Li Dongyuan.

This wasn't Lin Qiushi's first time seeing a dead body in real life, but this was the first time someone familiar to them was just dead like this. He glanced to his side at Ruan Nanzhu. Ruan Nanzhu still maintained his placid expression—only, there was a teeming light in those dark eyes of his, like the tossing of fathomless lakes.

A woman's cries started. A teenage girl burst out from the crowd, fell to her knees beside Li Dongyuan's corpse, and began to wail. She even tried to gather Li Dongyuan's tattered body into her arms.

Those around the girl stopped her, and pulled her away from Li Dongyuan's body by force.

Lin Qiushi looked around them, and found some people quietly whispering, some people looking on with numb eyes and pained expressions. These ought to be the members of White Deer.

A beautiful woman approached Ruan Nanzhu, and spoke lowly to him, "Mr. Ruan, hello."

"Hello Ms. Jin," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"Call me by name, Jin Yurui." The woman seemed to want to smile at Ruan Nanzhu, but it came out stiff. The corners of her mouth made their way up by force, and looked very laborious. "From now on, I'll be taking over White Deer's internal affairs."

Reading between the lines, she was to be White Deer's next leader.

"Mh." Ruan Nanzhu nodded his understanding. Then, after some silence, he suddenly added, "you don't have to smile if you don't want to."

Jin Yurui's smile immediately faded. She took a deep breath, as if to get a grip on her emotions. Then, hoarsely, she spoke: "Come inside, Mr. Ruan."

Ruan Nanzhu nodded and headed for the apartment, Lin Qiushi behind him.

In the lobby of the apartment building stood six people. Plus those outside, White Deer likely had about twenty or so members.

Jin Yurui began to announce the things Li Dongyuan had already prepared before death. The whole process went by quietly.

But in this quiet, Lin Qiushi sensed a surging undercurrent. In the group, some didn't seem pleased with Jin Yurui as the successor. However, when their gazes fell on Ruan Nanzhu, they seemed surprisingly wary of this outsider.

Lin Qiushi suddenly understood why Ruan Nanzhu came. He was here to quell one last upset for Li Dongyuan.

Jin Yurui was now White Deer's next leader. She had just passed her eighth door, and there was still some time before her ninth.

But clearly, White Deer's members weren't as satisfied with her as they had been with Li Dongyuan.

Ruan Nanzhu had certainly noticed as well. But he wasn't planning on interfering with White Deer's matters, and so only sat silently to the side.

Lin Qiushi watched his awful pallor and thought he must be uncomfortable by now. Concerned, Lin Qiushi thought for a bit. Then he pulled out a piece of candy and snuck it into Ruan Nanzhu's hand.

Ruan Nanzhu glanced back at him momentarily, before nodding lightly. He unwrapped the candy, and slowly placed it in his mouth.

The flavor of the candy was sweet, and washed away a certain sense of discomfort. Ruan Nanzhu sat in that lobby for a long time, until Jin Yurui was finished delegating matters.

The group in the lobby began to disperse. In the end, the three of them were left.

Jin Yurui looked up with a pained smile. "Thank you Mr. Ruan. If you hadn't been here, I don't know what I would've done."

Ruan Nanzhu stood, and said, "I can only do this much. The rest of the road you have to walk on your own."

Jin Yurui nodded. She was no fragile flower on tendrils; though faced with the winds she swayed a bit, in the end, she would withstand the storm herself.

"We'll be off then," Ruan Nanzhu said.

"Mr. Ruan won't stay for dinner?" Jin Yurui asked politely.

"No thank you." Ruan Nanzhu declined the sentiment, and said, "I'll come again after he's been buried."

Jin Yurui didn't force the matter either, nodding and showing Ruan Nanzhu and Lin Qiushi to the door.

Li Dongyuan's corpse had already been cleaned up. Only a bloodstain on the ground was left to tell the world what had transpired here.

In a few days, this stain would be gone as well. At White Deer, people came and went. Perhaps they would all very soon forget that there had ever been a leader named Li Dongyuan.

The entire way here, Ruan Nanzhu didn't look well.

It was only on their way back, sitting in the driver's seat, that Lin Qiushi noticed something was wrong. He asked, "Nanzhu, are your wounds okay?"

He could faintly smell blood in the air. At first, Lin Qiushi had thought it was because of Lin Qiushi. But even now Lin Qiushi could smell it.

"I'm fine." Ruan Nanzhu was leaning tilted against the door.

Lin Qiushi didn't believe he was fine at all, and frowned.

"Let me take a look."

Ruan Nanzhu, "no."

Lin Qiushi startled. He didn't think Ruan Nanzhu would refuse him so plainly.

"Let's go home first," Ruan Nanzhu said. Immediately after, his eyes drifted shut in apparent exhaustion.

Worried, Lin Qiushi couldn't help but drive a bit faster.

Some tens of minutes later, they got back to the mansion, and Ruan Nanzhu finally dragged his eyes open. Lin Qiushi quickly took hold of him and helped him inside. Once he was in bed, Lin Qiushi very naturally sat down beside him, taking a corner of Ruan Nanzhu's shirt in hand.

Ruan Nanzhu glanced up at him.

"What are you doing?"

Lin Qiushi, "I'm taking a look at your back…"

The wounds were the worst on Ruan Nanzhu's back.

Tilting his head to the side, Ruan Nanzhu kept eyeing Lin Qiushi.

"Can you not look?"

Lin Qiushi frowned.

"No."

He thought that Ruan Nanzhu's wounds had for sure reopened.

Ruan Nanzhu gave this some thought.

"Then give me a piece of candy."

Lin Qiushi fished out a piece of candy, unwrapped it, and popped it in Ruan Nanzhu's mouth.

"Go ahead," Ruan Nanzhu mumbled around the candy. "There’s not much to see really…"

Lin Qiushi lifted Ruan Nanzhu's shirt and unsurprisingly, he found the wounds reopened. Blood trickled down his back and seeped into his clothing.

Brows furrowed, Lin Qiushi, "this isn't good. We have to go to the hospital."

Ruan Nanzhu stopped moving, his breaths evening out.

Glancing up, Lin Qiushi sighed.

"And now you're faking sleep?"

Ruan Nanzhu still wasn't talking.

Exasperated, Lin Qiushi could only get up to go grab some gauze. As he cleaned simply around Ruan Nanzhu's wounds, he was still nagging, "we have to go to the hospital tomorrow morning."

With a vague sound of acknowledgement, Ruan Nanzhu once again closed his eyes. He really was a bit tired, and wanted to get some actual rest.

Author's Note:

The feelings are here, is it exciting enough /author proudly puffs up her chest

Translator’s Note:

“The fox mourning for the dead rabbit” / 兔死狐悲 (tù sǐ hú bēi). This is a direct translation of the chengyu. Both the rabbit and the fox are prey of the hunter, so the fox mourns the dead rabbit as it fears for its own fate. Translating chengyu is fun, because sometimes it requires sacrificing the imagery to convey the meaning concisely, or sometimes you can choose to put both.

[Ch. 77] | [Ch. 79]

[chai-tealattae]

Pen Pals

soul mate /ˈsōl ˌmāt/

noun; a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.

✒️ Pairing: Taehyung x reader

✒️ Genre: Fluff

✒️ Word Count: 2.4k

✒️ Warnings: Swearing

A/N: This is my first fic pls be nice AKSDK

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. Tomorrow was your 21st birthday, the day your soulmate connection would be revealed to you. You’d heard stories from your parents, family friends, and even some of your friends that were a year or two older than you about the different connections. What if you got one that would make it damn near impossible to find them? What if your soulmate was older than you, and already knew, but gave up since you were too young? You sighed and laid flat on your back, staring at the ceiling, giving up on your futile attempts at a decent night's sleep, your mind hot with the different scenarios baking within it.

The next morning, you groaned and begrudgingly swung your legs over the side of your bed, stretching as you opened the curtains, the mid morning sunlight flooding into your room. You cringed slightly at the brightness, your eyes struggling to adjust. Yawning as you walked into your kitchen, deciding on a bowl of cereal for breakfast. Scrolling through your phone as you ate, you smiled as you read the birthday wishes from your friends and family. After replying to as many as you felt like doing, you opened Twitter to see what fresh hell awaited you on your timeline. Surprisingly there wasn't really anything bad being mercilessly tweeted about.

The one thing that caught your eye was the lovely photo on your screen, tweeted a couple hours ago, staring back at you. It was embarrassing how infatuated you were with a certain man by the name of Kim Taehyung. He was the perfect man, in all honesty, by your standards at least. He was devilishly handsome yet charmingly adorable from the tip of his nose down to his toes, the smallest details all adding to the things that caused him to worm his way into your heart.

You smiled as you saved the picture to your camera roll before setting your phone down on the table. Your smile quickly turned into a surprised squeak as you felt an oddly ticklish sensation on your wrist, and you stared down at it in shock. Appearing on your skin before your eyes was writing, but it wasn't just any writing. It was a greeting.

“Hello?”

This must be it, your soulmate bond. You didn’t know anyone personally with this particular bond, but you’d read about it through your countless nights of curiosity and excitement driven research.

You nearly tripped on your own feet as you scrambled to find some kind of writing utensil, eager to respond to the stranger. Not just a stranger. Your soulmate. You felt your heart rate quicken just at that thought. You found a pen on your counter, quickly scribbling a response below their message.

“Hello!” You wrote back. Not 30 seconds later, you felt the tickling sensation again, impatiently tapping your pen on the counter as you awaited their response.

“It’s you! You’re finally getting my notes!” You smiled to yourself, your late night suspicion confirming itself. They were definitely older than you, but hopefully not by much. You’d hate if you left your soulmate waiting for too long for you.

“How long have you been trying?” You wrote, a little smaller this time near the ditch of your elbow, so you wouldn’t take up too much valuable space on your skin. You bit your lip as you felt your skin tingle again, hoping it wasn’t too bad-

“Four years” Four years. Four whole years they’d been writing on themselves with no response. You sighed, feeling awful. Well, at least you knew how old they were. Twenty-five, twenty-six tops, if their birthday was coming up sometime soon.

“I'm sorry you waited so long… today is my 21st birthday” you wrote back, twisting your arm at a slightly awkward angle as you did this. You smiled softly, growing familiar with, and anticipating the feeling as they wrote.

“Happy birthday :)” Was written there. You smiled and wrote your thanks, not really sure how to proceed with finding them. You’d read that there were specific guidelines when it came to the different connections, things you weren’t able to do, since that would make finding your soulmate too easy. Things like their exact location, names, things of that nature. The catch is, you were able to reveal that when you were in the same vicinity. As if trying to find them wouldn’t be hard enough.

Over the next month or so, you’d learned that your soulmate was a man that was born in South Korea (you didn’t know how you’d ever be able to swing a trip there, or vice versa). You learned that he enjoyed drawing, painting, photography, singing and dancing. He was fun to talk to (at least until there wasn't any more space on either of your bodies for more ink). He had a pretty time consuming career from what he told you, but he still liked to draw you pictures to wake up to, or write you little good morning messages. You found yourself becoming incredibly fond of him, even without ever seeing his face.

One day, you found yourself staring at your laptop and phone screens, focusing excruciatingly hard on trying to score tickets to see BTS in your city. After nearly missing the opportunity, and a decent amount of money you’d surely have to pull quite a bit of overtime to make up for, you scored a decent seat for their show in a couple months. Eager to share the news with someone, you wrote on your arm.

“I just got tickets to see BTS!!” You wrote with a shaky hand, your already poor penmanship suffering even more. This would be your first time seeing them, seeing the man you’d had your eyes on for so long.

~~~~~

Taehyung smiled when he felt you were writing or perhaps drawing something for him. He loved reading your short messages about your day, getting to know you. Over the past months he was growing more and more impatient, half tempted to fly to the States and wing it. His heart nearly thudded out of his chest when he read what you wrote.

“I just got tickets to see BTS!!”

Holy shit. This was good. This was great, actually. Now he knew you were a fan. Jimin looked over when he saw the stupid grin plastered on his bandmate’s face.

“What is it, Taehyung-ah?” He asked. Taehyung didn’t answer verbally, just angled his arm so Jimin could see what you wrote. He broke into his own smile. “Oh this is good! Maybe you're closer to meeting her than you thought.” He said, patting the younger man’s back. Taehyung smiled with a nod, you being the only thing occupying his mind at the moment.

~~~~~

It was the day of your concert and you could barely contain your excitement. You barely slept the night before, knowing you would be exhausted, but couldn't find it in yourself to care all too much. You’d been waiting for what seemed like forever for this day, and weren't going to let anything, not even your lack of sleep, ruin it for you.

The day seemed to drag even longer than usual, before you figured it was a good time to start getting ready. You got dressed in an outfit that you purchased specifically for this event, a more affordable version of the Dior outfits Rap Line sported during their performances of Tear, and you put on your TaTa headband as the final touch. You know, so everyone knew specifically who you were there for. You looked at yourself in the mirror one last time, smiling and letting out an excited squeak as you grabbed everything you would need, before you made your way to the venue.

The venue was absolutely packed. There was no way you’d be able to even get any merch without missing half the concert standing in that line. You sighed quietly to yourself and went to your seat, busying yourself with syncing your lightstick so it would light up with everyone else's. You looked around from your seat, in awe about how many people were here. Crazy how many people could fit into one space.

While you waited for the concert to start, you decided to write him a message about how excited you were, and that you would keep him updated throughout the show. You decided to draw a small heart on your hand, in the space between your pointer finger and thumb, just because. You smiled when you saw his words appear on your arm.

“Have fun <3”

Oh, you would. You would have the time of your life. Little did you know, in more ways than one.

~~~~

Taehyung knew you had to be here somewhere. You just had to be. He ran a hand through his perfectly groomed hair, effectively rendering his stylist’s hard work useless. He couldn’t help it. Not when he knew his soulmate was in this building. His mind started to race. What if you didn’t want to be with him? What if you liked one of the other members better than him? What if you couldn’t deal with his lifestyle? He was pacing now, and everyone but him seemed to notice.

“Taehyung-ah, relax. I’m sure everything will work out fine.” Namjoon smiled reassuringly. Taehyung nodded and let out a breath, sitting down. They were called to start getting into position, and Taehyung knew he had to do it, now or he wouldn’t have time, and you would slip through his fingers. He pulled out his pen, writing one word on his forearm in larger than usual letters. He put his pen in his pocket, heading to where his microphone and earpieces were waiting for him, hoping you would see his message.

~~~~~

When the concert started, you could barely focus on anything else other than the men on stage in front of you. You felt the familiar tickle on your arm that your soulmate had written you, though you ignored it for the time being. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of Taehyung, witnessing his incredible stage presence and the massive amount of fan service he was giving was mesmerising, to say the least.

When time for the intermission came around, and the VCRs played on the big screens, you took a moment to see what your soulmate wrote to you. You gasped when you saw the big, capital letters spread along the length of your forearm.

“TAEHYUNG”

There was no way. Absolutely no fucking way. Kim Taehyung was not your soulmate. You had to have been some sort of saint in your previous life to deserve such treatment from the universe. You stared at your arm for a few more seconds in complete disbelief, before taking your pen out of your pocket, writing your name under his on your arm. A minute later, you felt him writing, and you anxiously chewed at your lip as you awaited his response.

“Where are you?”

You hurriedly scribbled your section and seat number, your brain barely able to process what was happening.

Within 5 minutes, there was a man approaching you, asking you to confirm your name. When you did, he told you to come with him, you did without asking any questions. The man led you backstage, and you looked around, frantically trying to find the familiar face in the crowd of stage hands.

When your eyes finally met his, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Was it anxiety? Excitement? A spicy mixture of both? You couldn’t really tell, but there were some things you needed to see. His long legs effortlessly closed the distance between you, until you were standing toe to toe. You looked up at him and he looked down at you, neither of you truly believing you were here at this moment. You studied his face for a moment, then without a word, you took his hands, inspecting them. There it was. You brought your hand up and compared, the tiny heart you drew on your hand matching the one on his. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the messages you’d written to each other throughout the day.

“Y/N…” He said quietly, only loud enough that you could hear. “I finally found you. You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”

“I can’t believe it’s you.” You said as you looked up at him, tears beginning to form in the corners of your eyes. ��He smiled and brought his hand to gently cup your cheek, his thumb lightly brushing against your cheekbone.  

“Are you disappointed?” He asked with a chuckle, his tone teasing. You shook your head, letting out a quiet laugh.

“Not even a little bit.” You reassured him, smiling softly. He gave you a toothy grin before leaning down and closing the small space between you, and you couldn’t help but melt when his lips finally met yours. The kiss was soft and careful, as if he was testing the waters. When you pushed slightly against his lips, he deepened the kiss just a little more.

He was the first to pull away, seemingly remembering his surroundings, and you caught the faintest tint of pink creep onto his face. It was almost time for him to go back on stage, and he rested his forehead against yours for a moment, his eyes locked with yours as he intertwined your fingers with his.

“Wait for me? I plan to talk to you for hours, now that I can finally hear your voice.” He said, and you nodded without hesitation. He smiled widely before pressing a kiss to your forehead, jogging off to wherever it was he was needed. You sat on the couch that was there for the members beside the stage, running a hand through your hair. Never in your wildest dreams did you think something like this could happen. Not to you, at least. You felt him writing again, and this time, you paid full attention to the words appearing along your arm.

“I love you.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you read those 3 words, pulling out your pen and writing your response.

“I love you too.” You wrote, carefully, easily readable. Never had you meant something more in your life. You couldn’t wait for him to come back to you, for him to execute his plan. After what felt like a very long time, you couldn’t wait to finally begin your life with the man you happily called your soulmate.

[vixenpen]

Caged Hearts

((Hawks x Miku (OC))

Chap. 21 Sex With Me

Pt.22

It had been a fun day. The most fun Keigo had ever had honestly. Yet he’d still managed to break away from his friends, who were still drinking and partying, to seclude himself on the roof of the yacht. It wasn’t a solemn or empty loneliness that he felt, but the contemplative sort.

The briny smell of the cool air brought on hazy memories. Walks along the beach. His mother’s tired face, his father’s rough hands. His little feet kicking up sand.

Wondering how long this moment would last until something inevitably disturbed their peace—Usually his father’s temper or his mother’s slurred complaints of fatigue. Then they would be back in their hovel that smelled of pungent alcohol and old food. Far away from the sea and sunshine.

Keigo didn’t know why he was thinking about this right now. If he had to guess, he’d say it was the combination of alcohol and solitude.

“I knew I’d find you up here.”

Miku floated into view, her curls and dress whipping in the night breeze. She aimed a soft smile at him as she sat beside him, her shoulders and wings brushed his own.

“So did I.” He smiled back.

“Wanna talk about it?” She asked

“Huh? Talk about what?”

“Babe, people only star gaze for two reasons: to let go or to think. I don’t think you’re admiring the stars.”

Keigo chuckled. “You know, Angel, between your observational skills and your quirk, you’d make a pretty good hero.”

“If it makes me as stressed out as you are? No thanks.”

They laughed.

“Yeah, I’m pretty bad at this vacation thing, huh?” He toyed with the scruff on his chin.

“Kinda,” Miku smiled back, “but you’re trying and that’s what matters.”

“Well, hey, this is my first one,” he threw up his hands, feigning surrender. “Cut a guy some slack.”

“Wait! This is your first vacation?!” Miku’s snapped towards him, disbelief written plainly on her face. “What about when you were a kid?”

He tapped her nose, grinning.

“Couldn’t afford it, Angel. I grew up piss poor, I was lucky if my folks could pay for me to go on one ride at the local fair, he paused in thought before adding; “Hell, I was lucky if they got up to take me to the local fair.”

He winced. Why did he keep oversharing like that?

“Heh, sorry, guess I’m just in my feelings a bit tonight.” He shrugged, eyes closing as he grinned.

“No I get it. This has been a series of firsts for you, huh? It’s a lot to adjust to.” She covered his hand in hers, playing with his fingers. Keigo mimicked the gesture, lacing his fingers through hers.

He liked the contrast between their skin. Cool and warm. Dark and light. They were alike in so many ways and not at all in so many others. Miku didn’t feign at being carefree she just was. She didn’t hide her feelings behind happy masks, she wore them on her sleeve. His lips quirked into a small smile.

“This all started the night I met you, Angel. That night was the first time I had ever been to a club or a concert.”

“Seriously?! Jesus Keigo, do you have an aversion to fun?”

He chuckled.

“Fun was never on my agenda babe. Hell, even after the biggest threat to Japan was defeated, my goal was to be able to sleep. Not to frolick in the ocean. Rest is productive, ya know. Can’t be good at my job if I don’t get a full night’s rest, but this? Just having fun for fun’s sake? I’m just not used to it yet.”

Miku said nothing in response. Instead, she hoisted herself to her feet. She swayed and danced in the air before him, her wings catching the scant moonlight.

She looked like an enchanted fairy. Keigo was pretty sure his brain shut down for a solid ten seconds.

“Is it hard being that perfect, Angel?”

She laughed. “I’ll let you know when I become perfect.” Then she began to sing. “Two doors down they’re laughing and drinking and having a party. Two doors down, they’re not aware we’re not around.”

Keigo’s brow furrowed in confusion. He smiled all the same. He’d never pass up an opportunity to hear her sing.

“It’s a song by Dolly Parton. About missing out on the fun ‘cuz you’re in your feels.”

“And this your way of telling me to get out of my feels?” He cocked a brow, smiling up at her.

Miku shrugged, biting her lip. Cutie.

“Are they really having a party down there?”

“You won’t know if you’re up here being sad boi summer.” She held out a hand to him and grinned.

Keigo grabbed it, brushing her knuckles against his lips.

“Fine,” he rolled his eyes playfully. “I’ll stop being sad boi summer.” He wrapped Miku’s body up into his, using his wings to draw her closer.

“Good,” she replied.

Keigo pressed a kiss to her lips. For the first time all night, his mind felt truly empty. Except for one thought.

“Will you sing for me, Angel?” He asked.

Miku tilted her head curiously. “Sure, babe.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The couple stumbled into the room they’d laid claim to on the yacht. Being that it had one of the largest beds, no one had argued. Moonlight spilled through the round window and cast a silver glow over the entire room.

“What do you want me to sing, Kei-Ah!”

Miku’s back collided with the wall, leaving her dazed and breathless. Keigo gave her no time to collect her thoughts before his lips were on hers and his tongue was wrestling her own into submission. When he drew back, his teeth dragged her bottom lip with him. Miku whined.

“K-Keigo, what-“ again she didn’t get a chance to complete her thought. Instead she went soaring, landing on the bed with a bounce.

Dozens of bright vermillion feathers aimed at her as if in a silent warning. Miku scrambled to hoist up on her elbows, staring wide eyed at her boyfriend. There was none of the usual joviality or gentleness she had come to associate with him. Instead, with his bright red wings stretched to their full length and angled towards her and his pupils pinpricks in his golden eyes, he looked like the predator he was named for.

Miku’s heart thudded in her chest.

Keigo chuckled at the way her own wings hugged around her almost instinctively for protection.

“Aww. What’s wrong, Angel? You scared? Don’t be. Daddy won’t hurt you...much.”

His feathers shot out, easily bypassing the protective wall her wings had made. They sliced through the thin tunic dress and skimpy bikini she wore underneath until she was naked and shivering against the cool air.

The sight made his dick throb. He felt the nervous tremor in her stomach and it made his wings shudder with the anticipation of a predator about to devour his prey. He stood at the foot of the bed, aiming his hungry gaze down at her.

“Keigo-“

“Daddy,” he corrected, grabbing her ankles to drag her body along the edge of the bed. “Since you thought it was so cute earlier.” He kissed her feet, sucking her big toe. His tongue ran along the metal of her toe ring.

Goosebumps stood along Miku’s cold skin as she watched Keigo watching her.

“Please, thank you, yes sir, no sir. Got it?”

She nodded. He fell to his knees and tasted the soft skin of her thick dark thighs. “I asked you a question, Miku.”

“Yes sir.”

His feathers caressed her cheeks, her neck, her nipples, her legs. He gave her sex slow, lazy, methodical licks.

She tasted so good. Her desire leaking onto his tongue with every lap. He gripped her thighs, holding them open as he devoured her clit.

Miku’s groans grew into desperate whines as her frustration mounted. It wasn’t enough.

“Daddy?”

“Hmm?”

“Will-Ahh-more...”

“More what, Angel?” He smirked up at her.

She didn’t know how to ask. She just knew she needed him to eat her the way he had a few nights back.

“Ask and you shall receive Angel,” Keigo continued, “I want you to tell daddy exactly what you want, exactly how you want it.” He bit the flesh between her legs. His hands slipped beneath her to grab the fleshy mounds of her thick ass.

She bit her lip. “I want you to finger me. All of them and eat me for real...please.”

He laughed against her sex. “If that’s what baby wants,” his tongue drove into her heat once more, Miku’s back arched. “That’s what baby gets.”

Keigo took his time granting Miku pleasure. Her pussy pulsated around the one measly finger he had a plunged inside her, trying to find relief. One by one he stretched her out, flexing his hand until he was playing with her gspot. Her gasps turned into breathless cries of desire.

“Ahaaa, Keigo—I-I-“

“I-I-I.” He mocked her, slurping at her engorged clit once more.

Another shock wave of ecstasy zipped through Miku’s sex, making her thighs quiver and tighten around his head. Her fingers laced through his tousled blonde hair. Keigo couldn’t tell if she was trying to pull him in or push him off. All he knew was that he wasn’t stopping no matter how wet the bed was getting and no matter how much she groaned:

“Daddy, ple-pleaseee. It’s t-too mmmuch. Stop, Kei, stop pleaseee.”

Not a chance.

So when she fell back against the bed in defeat, he lifted himself over her body and drank every bit of the essence she squirted in his mouth. He felt her body growing weak. The fight fizzling out of her. Her heart rate slowing down. Her consciousness slipping. It wasn’t until she was out that he stopped, licking the last of her cum off his lips. But unlike last time, he didn’t give her the leeway to regain her consciousness.

“Don’t tap out yet, Angel.” He lowered his body on top of hers, a smug grin on his face. “I’m not done with you.”

Miku responsed with a weak moan. Keigo pinned her thighs to his side. Freeing his length from his board shorts, he groaned the minute the tip of it slid along her juicy folds. He rocked his hips and plunged all the way into Miku’s lush sex.

“AHHH!

“Fucckkk.”

Both parties saw stars as Keigo settled into her.

“Fuck, Angel.” He collapsed into her, his face buried into her neck. “You feel so. Fucking. Good.” He punctuated every word with long, slow strokes.

“Oh m-my god.” Miku groaned back.

He wrapped a hand around her throat, hips rolling slow and steady. Her pussy gripped and pulsed and quivered with every motion. Her high, sweet moans became throaty and deep. Low velvety tones rolling down his spine and reverberating through his hypersensitive feathers.

“My Angel, my Angel, my Angel.” He hissed into her ear.

“Daddy,” Miku managed to choke out through her groans. “More, harder, please? Pleassse.”

Keigo complied. He fucked her harder, deeper, and slower. So agonizingly slow that her sex practically ached with desire. He laced his fingers through hers, holding her arms above her head. His amber eyes fixated on Miku’s lanveder ones. All that pain, pleasure, and desire aimed right at him.

“Like that, Angel?” He teased, his own voice was heavy and raspy with lust. “Huh?”

“K-Keigo-just f-aahhh.” His dick flexed against her gspot once more. “I w-want it..faster...faster please daddyyy.” She begged.

To her dismay and delight he didn’t give in. He kept up the painfully slow pace until she was practically sobbing. Her orgasms rolled through her body one by one just as tortuously slow as the strokes Keigo was giving her.

He quieted her moans and cries with a kiss. “You want more baby?” He asked.

“Yes sir,” she replied weakly, “please fuck me harder Daddy. Please.”

He groaned, finally breaking down. In one motion, Miku was face down, ass up.

“God damn, Angel...” he sighed at the sight of her swollen cunt. The dark lips were glistening and her ass looked delicious. His wings shook, expanding completely. Just as excited as the rest of him was

He squeezed her hips, digging his fingers into her soft cheeks and slammed into her velvety walls.

“AHHH FUCK!”

Keigo let out a curse of his own as her ass jiggled against his crotch, her pussy constricting around his dick.

He gave her no chance to adjust, pounding into her relentlessly.

“Oh fuck, oh god, oh my god, oh my goddd-aha.”

“That’s right, SongBird,” Keigo reached down, snatching her up and holding her body against his. The soft feathers of her ivory wings brushed his nipples as they fluttered. “Fucking sing for me,” he all but growled into her ear. “Fucking sing for me.”

Her groans and screams and whines mounted until they were so loud, it was practically deafening. He pushed her down, gripping her abundance of curls in his fist and snatching her head back for leverage. His orgasm was building right alongside Miku’s.

“Come on, Angel” he smacked her ass, watching it jiggle hungrily. “Cum for me. Cum on daddy’s dick. Come on Song Bird.”

Their shared orgasm hit them both like a freight train. Their cries mingled and rose into the humid air. Their wings stretched and flexed and fluttered.

Keigo’s entire body seemed to seize with the force of his climax. Miku shivered violently beneath him, her pussy squeezed his dick greedily until finally, she collapsed in a tired, sweaty heap into the pillows.

Keigo chuckled and pressed a kiss against her ear. “What do you say, Angel?” He rasped.

“Th-thank you...daddy.” Miku managed, hoarsely.

“Good job,” he chuckled, kissing her temple. “Don’t get comfortable, now, Song Bird,” he whispered, “I’m not done with you yet.”

[angelkurenai]

Imagine Sebastian organising an event to raise money for a good cause and wanting to ask you, a famous singer and his not-so-secret crush, to sing but being too afraid too. So his manager does so as a surprise for him.

“And are the guests' seats ready? Did you check the numbers once more? Maria told me some of them have brought more than two plus members with them while others barely one, is that going to cause some kind of confusion with the seats?”

Sebastian had to keep himself from running his fingers through his hair for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. Not that could get that carried away with the warning looks his manager gave him, seriously how did the man even do that? Every single time, he seemed to appear out of thin air as if he was lurking around every single corner of the huge place just to make sure Sebastian was presentable and had everything under control. Not that part of him wasn't thankful for that too, he more than was. He couldn't look a mess, he was practically the host, organizing everything along with his team, and he had to look his absolute best despite how hard his nerves were making it for him to. It was as expected both exciting, exhilarating even, and nerve wracking to the fullest.

He was happy with how many people had showed up, the vast majority of them celebrities and people with wealth that could really help and a serious amount of money could be raised and a lot people would benefit from that, and of course terrified because of how much organizing the whole event still needed and he wanted everything to be perfect. Had it not been for his manager and friends he didn't know if he'd be able to pull it all off. Especially if they kept running into problems like the one at the moment.

“Everything has been sorted out, sir. It is nothing we had not anticipated, nothing to worry about.” the young woman didn't know the kind of relief her words brought to him but he'd forever be thankful “Tables and numbers set out and are right now being handed to the guests. Once they enter the main dining hall the waiters will escort them slowly but surely.”

“And the food? I have the feeling some arrived earlier, will that be an issue?”

“No, not at all. The first course is being prepared as we speak and by the point everyone's finished with their drinks and gets escorted to their table, it will be ready and in place.” she smiled, her words sounding more melodic than the actual music playing in the background “And we have plenty of time until that happens so if you'd like to, we could go one more time over the details of the auction later? Come in to check if you'd like?”

Sebastian's lips parted, ready to speak, but it wasn't even a few seconds before someone else beat him at it. Whether he was thankful for that or not he still had no idea.

“Only if he wants to be smacked right in the head with a- What's Scarlett's bag? Loui Vuitton? That.” it was no surprise when he turned to see Anthony alongside Chris, giving him a look which he tried to roll his eyes at but failed brushing off.

“Maybe Elizabeth's will do better? Looks heavier and with those stones, it'll hurt worse.” Chris suggested with a smirk, making Anthony nod his head.

“Why don't you try surviving trying to take their purses from them before planning on how to use them as a weapon against me hm?” it didn't mean that a funny banter wouldn't make things better.

“Hey, I ain't gonna need a purse to begin with. If I wanna kick you to get some sense into that brain of yours, I can get creative.” Anthony said casually but truth was that Sebastian could picture all the ways that could go wrong at the moment – because he didn't doubt for a second that he would do as threatened – and he really couldn't afford to.

“Rose, I'll come meet with you later. If you could go find Josh, I'll come find you guys later.” he said to the young woman, who was thankfully fast to nod and get back to work, allowing him to dedicate his full attention to his friends that he realized were not only the two men but were also joined by the two fore-mentioned ladies “I hope you understand I'm doing this only for the sake of my team's efforts and keeping you guys from starting another war in here.”

“Uh technically that would only be him.” Scarlett shrugged, pointing at Chris who rolled his eyes “And I don't think that it was the plan here. You haven't stopped even for five minutes, you know that?”

“I don't understand what you're trying to say, Scarlett.” he mumbled, quickly snatching a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and all in what seemed like a blink of an eye downed more than half of it.

“That.” Elizabeth spoke up “That is what she's trying to say. You've been practically running around non-stop. You need to catch a break, this, after all, is for a good cause and a chance to be around friends. Just relax and enjoy this! You're supposed to feel happy too, not just your guests.”

“She's got a point there. You look like you're on the verge of a beak-down. You haven't stopped to calm down even for five minutes man!” Anthony nearly exclaimed.

“That's nonsense. I have stopped for-” he paused, frowning in thought “I must have-”

“No, no you haven't.” Chris said matter-of-factly “Stop trying to remember a moment, cause there was none. Now however you have it. Cause it's either that or a food war right after the auction is done.”

“Oh speaking of the auction, you organized that too?” Chris asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“All of it, yes. Thankfully that was the easiest part, many of the guests tonight were glad to donate precious pieces they had.”

“You mean you're not one of the pieces too?” Anthony looked at him with all the shock he could muster “Damn, then you're not gonna earn lots of money pal, I'm sorry. Might do something but not much. No, no I'm serious- Imagine what would happen if you actually put yourself up for auction. A night with Sebastian Stan! No, even better, a night in Sebastian Stan's bed. Who wouldn't wanna put money on that?”

Everyone laughed “Sorry to disappoint. I hope they'll earn enough money from the rest. It goes without saying that I'm waiting for you guys to do the same too.” Sebastian gave his friends a look.

“See? Always using me! Whether it be for my money or my body, this man gives no care about what I feel.” Chris said almost a little too seriously, taking a big of his drink and easily making the rest of his friends burst into laughter.

“And that is the first easy smile we see tonight. See what we mean?” Scarlett said with a more soft and even sad smile that Sebastian couldn't help but nod his head at.

“I know an I really appreciate you guys being here for that. It's just until this get a bit more settled that I will be able to fully relax.” he sighed “Besides that, though, how are you guys enjoying the night?”

“I'm not one to easily admit this, but damn you Stan, you've done an incredible job! I'm definitely taking some of this later home, I'm warning you.” Anthony tapped his glass with his drink, making his friend chuckle and nod his head.

“Don't worry, I've got you. I've already made sure to keep a bottle or two for you.”

“No, really, everything's amazing. And we're barely halfway through. I mean-” the smile grew on Chris' lips in a way that Sebastian didn't want to know the meaning behind “Besides the drinks or the décor or everything else, the music is incredible too! You've got some big names singing tonight I see?”

“Yeah uh-” he cleared his throat, playing with his glass for a couple seconds too long “I had a hand in that. Though I mostly just contacted the first singers that came to my mind.”

“Really?” Chris raised an eyebrow, sharing a look with Anthony who was trying to hide his smile behind his drink “Because we haven't see (Y/n) tonight. I mean, I expected it would expect her to be singing the opening songs, and the ones in the middle and the ones in the end. And really this would most likely turn into a small concert.”

“Why would you say-” Sebastian started in a small, low voice, with a frown.

It make Chris scoff and smirk though “Why? Because your playlist consists of only her songs, that's why. I'm surprised you even remembered the names of the singers here tonight enough to call them. To you there is no greatest singer than her!”

“I swear, I came prepared for him to be a mess of nerves because of her but she's not even around!”

“Honestly it would only be hours upon hours upon hours of her on that stage and us listening to her because he'd be too carried away to remember to get her to stop or move on with the event.” Scarlett said with a smirk of her own.

“That is, you mean, if he ever remembered that there are guests in the room. I bet you, he'd just listen to her music and look at her like a lovesick puppy!” Anthony added, making everyone but Sebastian laugh.

“Oh please, he'd forget his own name! There is no way he'd remember why we're here, that's totally irrelevant. No surprise she's not here, would he even know how to speak if he had to ask her?” Elizabeth grinned and the rest laughed once more except Sebastian who pursed his lips.

He could utter a full sentence if he wanted to, thank you very much. After a lot of practice, sure, and he'd definitely need like an hour or so to prepare himself before he called you but he knew he'd be able to do it. Even if he had tried doing so and always backed from the phone every single time. It was better if they didn't know that.

“Forget his name? Maybe forget how to breathe better yet! We'd have to call a freaking ambulance here. He'd never have been this close to her, isn't it?”

“Oh but there was that red carpet, she was standing at the other end and I swear to you when they made eye-contact he almost faint-”

“Hey!” Sebastian exclaimed, maybe a little too loudly but the music was still pleasantly loud enough to cover up for him “Enough, alright? Enough. You've had your fun, even if I don't understand where all this is coming from. I- I don't- That is not how things happened. For one.” he cleared his throat even though a bit awkwardly “And for another, it just... didn't come up. There were other great artists who wanted to be part of this that I thought it would be good to give them a chance. Some of them are new in the business too, it would do good. And besides, you complain that I- I talk too much about her and listen only to her music, that I make you listen to it- Even though you have to admit you like it too. So I thought that maybe I'd do you guys a favor. That's all.” he shrugged and it was so believable that he'd easily say this was the best acting he'd done in his entire life. He looked so unbothered about it that he could definitely congratulate himself for it if it came to that. But his friends didn't have to know that.

Just like they didn't need to know that he'd been trying to gather up the courage to speak to you but he always got too nervous to go further with his plans. They knew very well about his crush on your, much as he denied it more often than he could count, there was no need to make things worse.

A moment of silence followed after his small rant and he didn't know if he was thankful or not, not when his friends kept sharing looks with one another until Anthony spoke up “I call b-fucking-s. Man, are you trying to convince yourself or what? Cause there is no changing our opinions, that's for sure.”

And yet, just as he was about to reply he didn't get the opportunity to, it seemed like the universe did not want him to win this argument. Probably never in his life.

“Sshh” Scarlett looked at something behind his back “I get the feeling he'll want to hear this next song out.”

Even the smallest “What?” he managed to mutter seemed to have been swallowed by the loud applauding and the fact that his entire world swirled when Scarlett made him turn before it all came to an absolute horrifying yet the most beautiful halt.

“This is a man's world.

This is a man's world.

But it would be nothing, nothing.

Without w woman or a girl.”

“Oh hey, look, it's not-the-love-of-your-life.” Anthony teased, chuckling. But it felt merely like an echo in his ears, very far away from him, as he felt more and more pulled into your mere presence. Your singing easily able to help create a world only for him at the moment.

“He's not replying, is he ok?” Chris asked after a good few second because they had indeed already passed and he had not even realized it.

You were there. You were trully there, looking like something straight out of his dreams. But he wasn't dreaming, it was all real. You were standing on the small stage and singing and goodness you looked stunning but it took his breath away even more when he realized you looked at him and your smile got even bigger. Was he smiling too? He didn't know, he couldn't think and he most certainly didn't care. You were there and while he was struggling to breathe, though that could be the bow-tie's fault too, it felt like the most beautiful feeling in the world to feel his heart beating in that way.

The rest of the world vanished and for all his nerves, for all his fears, it felt so much worth it. Even more than that. Holding your gaze, for real, for long enough, felt good and it felt right.

.

..

...

“Uh is he alright? Is he- Is he gonna pass out or something? Seems like his legs are not holding him well, I think.” Chris asked with a frown.

“Oh he better not. That suit is worth over a good thousand dollars, he is the host and he has things to see to.” Sebastian's manager said sternly “I invited her over because I was sick and tired of him staring at his phone with her number like a kicked puppy wanting its owner back. But that doesn't mean he's gonna mess things up now. Later, once it's all over, he can fanboy all he wants. Or ask her to marry him. Whichever.”

“Somehow-” Anthony snickered “I think we should all better start looking for wedding gifts people.”

[calpops]

falling facade | c.h.

part four: falling failures

part one: falling flowers || part two: falling freedom || part three: falling fears

5k words

Copyright 2020 calpops. All rights reserved. This work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included).

<< >>

Explanations were needed and time was not a luxury that Calum and Arden were afforded. Pressure from parents and media began to intensify at the release of the paparazzi photos. The ring was splashed across headlines again, the first public appearance of the new couple sparking more than Calum could have anticipated. His friends were asking questions as well and they were getting harder and harder to avoid. Missed calls piled up and the pressure of secrets sat heavy. Only a day had passed since the obligatory paparazzi walk and things were getting wildly out of hand. They couldn’t avoid it forever; that’s exactly what he told Michael when he paid the Clifford house a visit and asked to see Arden. He realized he didn’t even have his fake fiancée’s phone number and she was completely off the social media grid. They were due for answers and they were due for posts.

Management wanted to start the presence of the relationship in the public eye hard and fast and frequently and then start to taper off to convince of the eventual split. Michael nodded his understanding when Calum showed up in search of Arden; he disappeared to yell through the house for her and in just a moment Arden took his spot in the doorway. Calum could tell she was tired. Her soft hair was in a messy bun and strands fell down to frame her face. She wore an old and oversized T-shirt tucked into shorts where her hands found a home in the pockets and a mild expression captured her face with dark circles under her eyes. She leaned against the door frame and licked her lips, teeth catching in their venture and reminding Calum of momentary bliss on a dance floor.

“We need to figure some things out,” he started with and when she frowned and her knees knocked into each other he knew that was too open ended and nerve wracking of a statement to start with. “We need to get our story straight is all. We need to figure out who we’re telling what.”

“Oh. Right,” she mumbled and craned her neck to look behind her and into the house before looking back at Calum. “Not here. Please. Can we go somewhere else?”

“Of course.”

They went to Calum’s place where it was quiet and private and they could think out loud with each other, with only Duke to listen in on them. Calum could see Arden visibly relaxing from the nervous state she was in at the doorway. She sank into the plush couch and Duke surprisingly made his way over to her; let her scratch under his chin and settled at her side. Calum sat on her other side and let them both have a moment to think through the questions they knew needed to be answered.

“It’s so quiet here. I don’t think it’s been this quiet at Michael’s since, well—since I got there,” she said and let out a tired sigh. Calum wondered if the noise of so many inhabitants living in the house had interrupted her sleep. “This is nice. I can actually hear myself think.”

Calum wanted to tell her she could come over and stay whenever she liked, for the quiet. But with only four days of a fake relationship under their belts and years of not knowing each other after years of orbiting each other, he thought it might be too soon. He let her have a few more minutes of quiet, her tired eyes casted her gaze out the window and towards the mid morning sun. Her hand lazily pet Duke who careened into her side and was satiated by the touch. Calum could see her eyes were heavy with every blink lasting longer than the previous. Her feet slightly wiggled as they couldn’t quite reach the hardwood floor and short stuff affectionately made way into Calum’s thoughts. He tried to bite back a grin at the memory of her feisty dislike of what Calum might now consider a term of endearment. From there his mind sank into other memories; trying so hard to place Arden in more moments. But she had disappeared for years. He couldn’t conjure up an image of her in a concert crowd. Never saw her backstage. For some reason, she avoided the band. Calum then realized the band would be the best tool to utilize for their situation.  

“I think Ashton and Luke need to know,” Calum suddenly blurted out and he wasn’t sure why or where the words came from but they killed the silence and the relaxed look on Arden’s face. “At least them. They can help with the PR stuff. It’d make it easier. They can have my back in interviews when it’s brought up. If they know the game we’re playing they can help me fill in the gaps when you’re not there. And it would get them off my back.”

Arden bit her lip and absentmindedly or perhaps with a mind full to the brim; nodded. She didn’t say anything in response immediately but turned her gaze over to Calum. He knew she was scrutinizing the situation. She looked him up and down once before speaking.

“We can tell them. You’re right. They could help,” she affirmed—Michael’s help could only go so far, it would be unrealistic for the rest of the band to be out of the loop. “But can we hold off on telling our parents? At least for a while? I don’t think I’m ready to face all of that yet.”

Calum recalled her words at the diner from the previous day. Disappoint my parents. Arden believed they wouldn’t be okay with the situation, that they would think less of her for their drunken night and reckless decisions without coherent thought processes and all that rained down on them because of it. He still didn’t have the full story to that reasoning and it didn’t seem she was wanting or willing to offer it now. He wanted to know why; to have a reason and justification for white lies and half truths to his family. But her comfortability and wants needed to be factored in as well. They had created all of this together. He found with another look at her that he couldn’t deny her of the request, not when her eyes were pleading and her lower lip was trembling. Maybe not ever.

“We can tell them we’re still trying to figure us out,” Calum supplied a half truth. In all honesty he wasn’t sure what they were to each other. “We can be vague. We reconnected while you were visiting Michael. We went to Vegas for a wedding and maybe we got swept up in the romance and got engaged. But we’re still trying to figure things out. They don’t need to know about the details.”

Or about the contracts.

“Are you sure you’re okay with that? I don’t want you to feel like you have to lie for me.”

Calum didn’t tell her that it might not feel like lying. He just shrugged and cleared his throat. She took it as a confirmation and a tired smile slowly tugged at the corners of her mouth. He couldn’t help but notice her lips were glossy and faintly remember the taste of sugar on them. It had been days since the kiss. He missed the sweetness and the soft touch. He didn’t miss the feeling of falling or wind at his back; that was ever present and all consuming. It was shifting. Some moments it was an easy and exhilarating descent through soft clouds. Other times it was a free fall filled with inhibitions and anxieties. But here, in the quiet with just the two of them and walls crumbled down and secrets able to be shared, Calum was content to enjoy the feeling.

“We can call them tomorrow,” Calum decided; knowing their parents wouldn’t be able to wait much longer. He wasn’t sure what tactics Arden was employing to hold her parents off or how much they might be hounding Michael for explanations as well. “But we are due for a post today.”

Calum knew once whatever photo they took went up there would be an influx of questions. Luke and Ashton would be on him in a second, and recognizing the house they might even drive over to get their answers. He could probably stall his parents' curiosity with some texts. Calum hadn’t even spared the comments on the initial photo any thought. He almost didn’t dare to look. He could picture them in his mind and he figured they were better left online. He was grateful Arden wasn’t online anymore. Her socials had gone dark months ago and Calum found some peace of mind from that.

“How do we do it our way?” She asked, referring to the fact they wanted to keep as much of themselves to themselves. She reveled in privacy and feared losing control of her life. Calum wanted to play the publicity game in a way they could win.

He had put a lot of thought into how to go about posting. The paparazzi photos had worked in their favor. Her hidden face and back to the camera provided a sense of security and left most of the comments circulating about the ring and the way Calum looked at her. Management had no complaints about the way they conducted the pap walk. Calum came off as protective and she was portrayed as shy. They needed to keep that narrative in their hands and on the board. They couldn’t let false claims and the wrath of the PR team take over.

“The most important thing right now still seems to be the ring,” Calum mused and took a glance down at her hand still coddling Duke with pets to see it fit to her finger. He was surprised she was wearing it; his visit was unprompted and though a post was scheduled for the day he didn't mention it before leaving. “Good thing you’re wearing it.”

“I haven’t taken it off,” she admitted with a faint blush and stalling hand. Duke let out a small whimper at the loss of contact as she brought her hand up but nuzzled into her further to make up for it. “All those people at Michael’s don’t know it’s fake. I also don’t want to lose it and get us in trouble.”

Her reasoning made sense and Calum was hit with the thought that pretending for her was a lot more permanent with the lack of privacy at the Clifford compound. It followed her everywhere. The weight of the ring was a constant reminder. At least when Calum got home he could stop pretending. Though, he was then faced with the question of how much was real and how much was fake. The ring was fake. The feelings that followed him were a whole other battle that he was entirely unprepared for.

“Next time we decide to get fake engaged, let’s pick a less hideous ring,” she said as the glare of the diamond picked up the sunlight and glinted on the couch. “I don’t know why people would want to see this thing.”

Calum smirked at the lighthearted words and the gaudy ring that was too big for her small finger. “It’s not that bad.”

Arden gave him a serious look with an arched eyebrow and a tilt of her head.

“It is pretty bad,” he admitted in a grumble of defeat. “But I’d rather the attention and scrutiny be on it.” Rather than you.

Arden seemed to understand the implications of those three unsaid words. She went to fidget with the ring but stopped herself and instead pet Duke who appreciated the attention with relaxed eyes slipping closed and a small groan. Calum couldn’t believe how well the old dog took to her. He was usually standoffish around new people. Hardly liked attention from anyone other than Calum. But he was soaking up her pets and his tail was wagging at every word she said directed to him. Calum was awestruck and an idea hit him; another way to keep Arden from taking the brunt of the attention and invasion of privacy. A way to stay themselves in the face of pretending.

“What are you thinking?” Arden asked and Calum knew she could see the wheels turning in his mind and how loudly his silence spoke in that moment.

“I know what we can do,” Calum began, then shifted to grab his phone out of his pants pocket and brought himself even closer into Arden’s side. He beckoned for Duke who hesitated a moment, wanting nothing more than to stay under the affection of Arden. But he slowly sat himself up and gave Calum a cursory glance with uninterested eyes.

Calum reached over to pick him up and when he gave a little wiggle and huff Calum laughed and placed him in Arden’s arms. She didn’t hesitate to receive the disgruntled dog or coo to him to get him happy again. Calum’s heart was warm at the exchange; a smile growing with every baby voiced word she said. The sun spilled in through floor length windows and lit her in a soft glow as Calum pulled his camera up. The ring was visible in her position of holding Duke. Sensing what was happening Arden did her best to hide her face in the embrace of Duke. Calum leaned in with his arm outstretched and the camera facing them. He gave her a small kiss on the cheek, helping to obscure what could be seen of her face. He snapped a photo and then a few more when she was grinning and Duke was set down. Calum’s arm fell and his lips hovered as Arden turned to him.

Honey and peaches and sugar were just before him. Her eyes were hooded and soft, hazel gleaming in the light and Calum couldn’t help but inch closer. He vaguely heard Duke jump off the couch and pad off to his own bed but he was too caught up in the moment to give it much more than half a thought. She blinked slowly and Calum did too and without seeing or knowing he was kissing her again. Tiny alarm bells rang in his mind but they were drowned out by the sweetness invading his senses. He didn’t care that Arden was Michael’s sister. He didn’t care that the pretenses of their relationship were fake and constructed by contracts—but real with a date and a kiss preceding all of that. All he cared about was the moment and the feeling of her lips against his. And the way his hand found its way to her jaw, fingertips light and tingling as they trailed along and his fingers tangled in her hair.

The moment was bliss and longer lived than on the dance floor. But still, all too soon she was pulling away but staying still in his hold. His eyes shot open to find hers still closed, lips pouted and pink dancing across her cheeks. Her eyes opened slowly; he saw the even rise and fall of her chest. She was calm and that reinforced the feelings of bliss Calum experienced in their brief moment. Words were evasive and meaningless when their gazes held and his fingers drifted from her hair back to her jaw. They were silent and let that speak for them. He could hear the tiny breaths escaping her. Could see her eyes dart up and down as if in contemplation of what might happen next. As Calum began to think that through—debating if he should lean in again or not—she made the decision and pulled away, leaving his hand to fall as a sigh escaped her.

“Guess we got caught up in the charade,” she said as her gaze went distant and the pink on her cheeks began to fade. She bit her lip and leaned back into the plush cushions of the couch.

“Yeah,” Calum agreed though he wasn’t too sure of that on his end.

His camera still captured the screen of his phone and a tiny photo sat in the bottom corner. It reminded him of what the moment was and what needed to be done. He pulled up his social media and found the photo where Arden was mostly hidden by Duke and Calum’s kiss. He was apprehensive and indecisive when captioning it. Arden was silent behind him, relaxed, while he was hunched over with phone in one hand and chin in the other. Settling for the less is more tactic he simply put a heart and leaned back and angled the phone for Arden’s eyes.

“Is this okay to post?”

He wanted to make sure they were always on the same page when it came to the stunt. He wanted her permission. Even though it was his profile, her comfortability of being on it was more important. She nodded and Calum hit post with his heart in his throat and sweaty palms still gripping the phone. He could still feel their kiss, could still taste sugar when he licked his lips and turned to face her. She was seemingly at ease while Calum was at war with himself.

It only took a few minutes of the post being up for the calls and texts to start piling up. Calum had called his family the previous night after he and Arden decided to hold off. He evaded their questions as best he could and said he’d explain when the time was right and they were ready. It was a sinking feeling to be engulfed in; he had never been so evasive with his family before. But it was justified to keep Arden okay. He knew they were picking up on the fact he couldn’t say things, not that he didn’t want to or didn’t trust them. But Luke and Ashton were still in the dark and seeking the light. Others had questions; a few exes popped up in search of answers, but they weren’t important.

“Should we bite the bullet and tell Ash and Luke the truth in one go?” Calum asked as his phone lit up with a FaceTime call from Ashton, again.

Arden took a moment to think it over and when a grin spread across her face and mischief twinkled in her hazel eyes Calum couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking.

“We could have fun with it first,” she said and Calum knew exactly what she meant as she sat up.

He slid back and wrapped an arm around her, let her head rest against him and started a group call with her hand and ring in the shot; it delicately rested against his chest and he was sure she could feel the beat of his heart just like she did with her face to his chest at the wedding. It was bound to skip and thump a little harder than usual. The connection came alive at a moment’s notice and Ashton lit up the screen with his mouth already running; throwing questions around rapidly—with some choice words to highlight his confusion—until the realization Arden was right there and snuggled into Calum’s side donned on him.

“What the fuck?” Ashton’s new tirade of questioning began with an expletive. “Don’t tell me you two idiots actually got married in Vegas?”

“Married?” Luke asked as he joined the call and caught Ashton’s last sentence. “You married Michael’s sister?”

“Management must be covering it up with just an engagement. Oh god, it makes so much sense,” Ashton reasoned though he was wildly wrong. Calum and Arden stayed quiet; mildly amused by the guessing game ensuing, even egging it on by nuzzling closer together. “Nothing good ever comes from Vegas. No offense, but what the hell were you guys thinking?”

“They were probably drunk,” Luke supplied and then tacked on in a mumble. “Sure glad I don’t have a sister.”

They let Ashton and Luke simmer with comments and questions for another couple of minutes. They came in and out with Calum’s subpar internet connection. Only when the speculation started getting out of hand; wild theories of a secret relationship for months or years tumbling from their lips. Calum decided to cut them off and Arden backed away; the fun quickly dwindling and crashing back into reality.

“Guys stop. We’re not married,” Calum said in a raised voice, he thought he felt Arden flinch next to him. Once Ashton and Luke’s theories died on their lips and the connection went quiet Calum cleared his throat. “We didn’t get married in Vegas. We haven’t been in a secret relationship.”

“Then what the hell is happening?” Luke asked.

“Not married but engaged then?” Ashton questioned and blew out a huff. “Who goes to Vegas and just gets engaged?”

“We’re not really engaged,” Calum stated and eyebrows shot up in surprise as a response. They both stayed quiet on the other ends and gave time for Calum to explain. “It was supposed to be a joke, we think… We were pretty drunk. Management didn’t think it was funny. Now it’s a stunt.”

The few sentences it took to wrap up the explanation was enough. They had all had their own individual and band struggles with management and PR disasters. Calum didn’t need to offer up why management didn’t find it funny or why they had taken it so seriously they made it into a stunt. Luke and Ashton were aware of how extreme things could get in the matters of the press. In the face of maintaining or creating images. A lot of things came down to the will of management. Arden’s fear of losing control wasn’t so far fetched or fantastical. But Calum had already swore to himself he’d do anything and everything in his power to keep her from spiraling at the hands of the media and management.

Arden stayed quiet as Luke and Ashton absorbed the news and asked a few follow up questions—how long, what commitments did they sign up for, was there anything they could do to help. Calum responded in the best ways he could and kept an eye on Arden all the while. She sank back into the couch, knees resting on the cushions and fingers playing with the hem of her shorts. She was barely within the shot of the camera now. Calum dominated most of the picture and explanation. He wanted to wrap it up and get back to Arden. Craved more moments made just between them. Thoughts of the diner and a simple line drawing in red crayon and secrets slipping out like they didn’t matter captured his thoughts as the call was winding down and questions were finally answered. Ashton and Luke were on board to do whatever they could to aid them in their cause to keep playing it their way.

When Calum finally hung up he looked back at Arden. She was still and the picture of tired. Although Calum wanted to take her away again; off in search of somewhere real where more stories could be shared he could tell she wasn’t up for it. He laid back against the couch and didn’t move when she rested against him again; it was almost as if they were both working on instinct and seeking comfort from the other. He soaked up the essence of honey and sweetness and breathed her in. She let out a drawn out sigh he swore must have been a yawn she was trying to hide.

“Wanna stay here a while?” He asked just barely above a whisper and felt her nod against him.

He had no complaints for that. His day was free and the mid morning was painting a lovely picture out the window before them. The couch was comfortable and her presence made him warmer than the sun heating his skin. He had a culmination of plans for them that he could sit with in the silence. For everything fake they had to do he wanted to follow it with something real. He wanted to show Arden the sides of him that no one else got to see. Wanted to show her the places that made him feel like himself. And if in that process he got to see the sides of her no one else knew or secrets she had never shared before then that was a bonus.

They sat in a comfortable silence and position. Time slipped past unbeknownst in the quiet that surrounded them. Calum had never been one for something like this. He had never been so at ease he didn’t need words or background noise or distractions. But with only the sound of her small breaths, his heart beating a little louder than usual and the occasional snore from Duke he was convinced he was finding a liking for it. Without thinking his hand wandered to her hair. Just minutes before his fingers were tangled in the strands and his lips pressed against hers. This time he calmly stroked through the soft tresses and ate up the content sigh that escaped her. She watched out the window and he watched her until her eyes slipped closed and he allowed himself to follow her into sleep.

When they woke the sun was behind the tree line, hiding between leaves and branches that were casted in a warm and golden glow. Calum was first to wake and take a moment to gather his surroundings. The couch. A usual napping spot for him. Arden. She was still rested against him, his arm still around her and fingers falling on her collarbones where their trail of brushing through her hair ended. Duke was still in his bed but peaked up with a half interested gaze as Arden shifted as she woke. She greeted Calum with slow blinks and a slow smile crossing her face.

“I haven’t slept that well since I’ve been here,” she admitted around a yawn and a stretch; leaving Calum’s side with the motion. “I should probably get back before Michael thinks we’re up to no good.”

She reached for her phone in her shorts pocket, Calum assumed she was going to call for a car and stopped her with a hand on top of hers. “I’ll bring you.”

The car ride was quiet as they both contemplated the events of the day. The plan for their parents would need to be set into motion soon. Luke and Ashton could now help in their endeavors. The new photo was exploding with buzz and speculation. The kiss on the cheek lingered and became something much more. Their real moment when the camera and their guards dropped was tailspinning through Calum’s subconscious. Calum could see how busy Michael’s house was when they arrived. Cars spilled onto the road and people passed in the front windows. He put the car in park and caught the end of an eye roll from Arden as she took in the added company.

“Give me your phone,” Calum said quickly in a force of realization. “We need each other’s numbers.”

Arden gave him a puzzled look but handed the device over unlocked. Calum quickly added his number to her contacts and sent himself a text so he could have hers too.

“Text me whenever you want to get away from the noise,” he offered as he passed her phone back.

She bit her lip and looked down at the screen; seeing his name and the small message sent to his phone. A ring in the message box made her laugh and for the first time he noticed small dimples appearing as her smile grew.

“You’re ridiculous,” she commented as she shook her head and tapped the screen. He leaned over to see what she was doing but she angled herself away until she was done; showing his updated info to include the ring in his name. “Just in case I ever forget we’re fake engaged.”

She said it with a wink and a small giggle that filled Calum’s chest with a nervous warmth and flutter as he laughed along with her. She unbuckled but didn’t make a move for the door handle. Instead she leaned over towards Calum, a now familiar brush of her lips ghosting on his cheek as she thanked him. Calum swore he’d never tire of her gratitude though he wasn’t sure he truly deserved it. He didn’t feel like he’d done anything worthy of a thank you; but he never rejected her words or the warmth of her closeness. It was all so consuming and just a bit addictive.

“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you soon,” she said with a pointed gaze at the colossal house filled with too many people in front of them.

“I look forward to it,” he replied with every ounce of honesty in him.

Arden left Calum with a smile and a wave when the door was shut. He made sure she got inside okay, waited to drive off until the door was shut behind her and his head stopped spinning from the overwhelming scent of peaches lingering in the car. He drove home with the windows open in an attempt to get his head above water and mind away from places it shouldn’t dive into. She said it herself; they were caught up in the charade. Everything meant nothing more than the facade they had to put on. A speck of doubt pushed its way through his thoughts; her words were drawn out and unsure. He wondered if she too was trying to convince herself of that. He couldn’t bring himself to believe it was all fake. At least not on his end. Falling failures crashed around him in plumes of smoke that threatened to choke him; his descent was becoming more and more dangerous as each smile and real moment forced him down faster and faster.

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