#I just need an extra blockade to keep everything out of sight and out of mind

[anoddopal]

May assert an “Opal Don’t Look” tag for mutuals to censor doubles. My mental health is incredibly fragile atm I can’t handle seeing them rn.

[andypantsx3]

statistically significant | 6 | bakugou/reader

length: 23,490 words | 7 chapters

summary: You’re the scientist who developed a neural net to model the value of assists. Now that your work is feeding into the hero rankings, pro hero Ground Zero has a bone to pick with your results.

tags: romance, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, m/f threats of violence, problematic behavior

Mina, Kaminari, and Bakugou did not waste any time.

No sooner had Bakugou spoken than he had you on your feet, shepherding you to the door. His movements had completely changed--no longer was he loud, aggressive, the most volatile thing in the room. Now, he slipped behind you like a shadow, his body pressed firmly and protectively over you, lithe armor at your back.

Mina and Kaminari moved with you, looking solemn.

“We’re going for the surveillance room,” Bakugou growled, “Need to see what the fuck is happening.”

The hall was barren as you emerged into it, silent and still until another explosion rocked the foundations of the building.

“And fast, we need to get Y/N out,” Mina added.

You didn’t protest. You didn’t know what the hell was going on, but you knew distant explosions couldn’t mean anything good.

The surveillance room made it all too clear exactly what was happening. Tens of people were pouring into the top levels of the building, smashing through windows on the business floors, blowing the sides of the building clean open near marketing. A few men dressed in dark coats appeared to have the gall to waltz straight through the front entrance. Everywhere, Miruko’s civilian employees were fleeing in all directions, uncertain of where to run in the chaos.

Your pulse spiked wildly and you watched as Bakugou’s gaze narrowed to scarlet pinpricks as he seemed to spot something familiar to him.

Kaminari made a choked noise. “Is that--?”

“Sugimoto,” Bakugou growled, tapping the image of a tall man surrounded by some kind of glowing purple forcefield quirk. A crackle of sparks lit off from Bakugou’s palm, hot and sharp, and you jumped in surprise.

“What’s Sugimoto?” you asked, looking up into his face.

His lip curled disdainfully. “He’s head of a crime syndicate. Miruko agency raided them a couple months ago in coordination with the police, took down almost the entire syndicate in one straight shot. Miruko killed both of his brothers during the firefight--I’d bet anything he’s here for revenge.”

You suppressed a shiver. Either the man was incredibly confident in his own ability to take on the number seven hero and her entire agency, or he was fucking insane and desperate for revenge. Either way, you did not want to be caught in the crossfire.

“Raccoon, Pikachu, get up to the business level,” Bakugou commanded, a calloused hand closing around your arm. “I’m gonna get the nerd out first, and then I’ll be back to roast Sugimoto in his fucking skin.”

Kaminari nodded and Mina gave you a smile and a reassuring pet over your hair. “Don’t be too late or we’ll get to have all the fun,” she said to Bakugou, winking.

And then she and Kaminari were gone, disappearing in the direction of the stairwell. Your heart rate stuttered nervously, watching them go. Mina’s confidence was reassuring--she was fucking terrifying when she was in her element, and Kaminari was powerful too. But there had been so many people flowing into the building, like the rising tide of a sudden tsunami. You hoped they would be okay.

“You in there, nerd?” Bakugou’s voice cut through your flurry of doubt.

You looked up at him, steeling your features. He was still streaked with dirt and scratches from the training room. You hoped having trained so much already wasn’t going to disadvantage any of them in their fight. “Yeah, sorry. I’m fine.”

He considered you, blonde brows turned down. “You’re gonna be fine, nerd. I’ll kill anyone who fucking looks at you.”

A small strangled noise like a laugh escaped your throat. He was so bad at being reassuring, it was almost reassuring in and of itself. He still was going to be entering the fray several hours into using his quirk already, however. You wondered if his self certainty was going to be enough.

“You don’t think I will?” he demanded angrily, looking absolutely incensed. He looked like he might storm out of your office again, like you had just said the word help to him.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you said. “When you go back in, just--be careful, okay?”

His eyes picked over you curiously. Then a small, mortifying smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I fucking knew you had a crush on me, you little freak.”

Your face heated as you gabbled out a protest. “This is so not the time. And I didn’t say that.”

Bakugou rolled a strong shoulder, looking far more relaxed that he had any right to. “Yeah, whatever. You’ll be singing a different tune when this is over.” He watched you for a long moment, his expression looking strangely contemplative.

And then he leaned down and kissed you on the mouth.

Your brain went empty. This could have been just another day at the office for all the thought you were giving the fight upstairs. This could have been any day anywhere, because suddenly you couldn’t remember where you were or what the fuck was going on at all. Bakugou’s mouth was hot and insistent, and he curled a strong arm around your waist to draw you closer, biting down gently on your lip.

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt for dear life, knees going strangely weak, as he swore into your mouth and pressed you into him harder.

“Fuck, I’m not finished with you,” he said when he released you, pressing one last hard kiss to your mouth. “You’re gonna stay right the fuck where I put you, got it?”

You nodded dumbly, trying to will your fingers into unclenching from his shirt. “Y--yeah.”

He smirked, looking far too pleased with himself. You felt your eyebrow twitch reflexively, despite everything that had just happened. “Alright, stay close, nerd. I’m gonna get you the fuck out of here.”

You nodded again. He pulled you behind him, letting you fist your hands in his shirt again, and then lead the way down the hall, keeping close to the wall, the line of his body tense and alert. Some of your earlier uneasiness settled back over you, oppressively heavy, weighing down your every step. The training had been truly terrifying but this was much, much worse, the dread and anticipation coiling in your gut until you thought you might be sick.

You made it to the stairwell and flipped up several floors without incident, though you could hear with some clarity the scuffles ongoing on the floors above you. You encountered no one, not even fellow heroes or civilians, until you hit the ground floor.

Bakugou reached behind him, pressing you even closer to his back with a firm hand. “Alright, nerd. Stay close while I move. If I stop, stay still and trust me, alright?”

Your blood pounded in your veins and you took a calming breath. You could hear the sounds of a fight just beyond the door, but there was no other way out of the stairwell. You’d just have to go through the main floor. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good girl,” he said. And then he kicked open the door.

Your brain short circuited and you had just enough mind to register that he was moving, scrambling to keep up with him as he stalked forward through the doorway. You held on to the back of his shirt, pulse spiking wildly, and not just because of your apprehension.

There was a deafening boom like thunder and the hall in front of you went up in a flash, the walls splintering into pieces. Over one of Bakugou’s broad shoulders, you could see the explosion blowing two men straight through the window at the end of the hall, glass shattering around them.

From down the hall came Miruko’s harsh tone, her breath a little labored. “Katsuki, fucking watch it! That’s my window.”

“Yeah yeah,” Bakugou growled, not sounding the least bit chastened. He pulled you to the side as something cold went sailing past your left shoulder, firing off another blast from his palm to shoot the person right through the hole in the window he’d just made.

The two of you crossed through the halls slowly but surely, Bakugou sending anyone who came across your path straight through the wall. To your surprise, he ducked into rooms as he went, demanding that the agency employees hiding under their desks “stop acting like little piss babies and get a move on.” Soon there was a small squadron of people following after his back, and Bakugou had you out of the building and blinking in the sunshine before any of the villains caught the group escaping.

“Stay with these extras,” Bakugou commanded imperiously, shoving you after the group of employees towards the end of the street where the growing swell of sirens could be heard. “I’ll see you soon, nerd.”

He paused, fingers brushing over your mouth for a moment. And then he was gone, shooting himself straight back into the fray. The sirens at the end of the street got louder, and soon several squad cars were pulling around the corner. You joined the flow of people streaming out of Miruko’s agency towards the police, though you couldn’t rip your eyes from the agency building.

The windows had been blown out tens of floors up, and you could hear the crackle of quirks in use, see the flash and bang of Kaminari’s lightning, the blue glow of an unknown quirk on the fifth floor, a tangle of vines wrestling several men out of a window on the fourteenth floor. Mina appeared at a window briefly, covered in acid hardened to an armor, easily deflecting what might have been a devastating blow and kicking a yakuza straight through the glass.

You bit down on a whooping cheer. Now wasn’t the moment.

You tried to keep sight of what was going on as the police shepherded you behind a makeshift blockade, cordoning off the area and sweeping the nearby buildings to help evacuate. The crowd of people around you chattered and shifted restlessly. The longer the fight dragged out, the more anxious you became, your senses heightened to the point of strain, looking for any sign of Bakugou and the others.

Then, to your horror, detonations went off on several of the floors, blowing out the remaining windows, and the building itself shuddered and groaned. A chorus of screams went up from inside the agency as pieces of the building began to detach themselves, crumbling to the ground. Your heart leapt into your mouth, blood icing over in your veins.

A few terrified looking civilians appeared at the windows on the top floors, clinging to the window frames as the foundation lurched. You went still, hardly breathing. Oh my god, were they going to jump? They were several stories up, odds were low they would survive if they did. But--the building shuddered again--fuck, they weren’t going to make it if they went back inside.

Oh my god you were going to watch people die right in front of you.

No sooner had you had the thought than someone was rocketing straight up at them from the ground. Your heart rate spiked, recognizing that mess of blonde hair--Bakugou. Without ceremony he grabbed two people and leapt back off the side of the building, using his explosions to slow their descent. They’d barely met the ground before he was up again, catching another two around the middle and hurtling straight for the ground once more.

Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt, watching him anxiously. There were just a few more, just three more people and he would have everyone. You willed your breathing to slow, eyes glued to the scene before you.

Then there was a purple glow, and Sugimoto appeared behind the civilians.

You stopped breathing.

Sugimoto kicked one of the civilians in the back of the knee, sending him out of window, careening head over heels towards the ground. Bakugou had barely just enough time to react, tackling the man in mid air and hitting the side of the building hard with his shoulder before he was able to correct their trajectory.

The building gave another rattle as he did, a crack splitting straight up the middle, spiderwebbing into a thousand smaller fissures.

A blur of pink appeared at the base of the building, Mina materializing just as Bakugou hit the ground with the civilian. A crowd of heroes dragging injured civilians followed her, several of them immediately grabbing onto the people Bakugou had gotten to the ground and towing them out of arm’s reach.

You looked back up to the top floor where Sugimoto had the last two employees in his grip, the edges of that forcefield rippling and roiling over him. His mouth moved like he was saying something but you were too far to hear it, though you could guess the implication. He had a forcefield quirk in a building he’d engineered to collapse. The heroes could choose to go after him but the building was seconds away from imploding, and there wouldn’t be enough time to grab both him and the civilians. Even if Bakugou went up, he only had enough capacity for two people--he’d have to pick between the civilians if he also wanted to grab Sugimoto. And besides that, he wasn’t indestructible. Bakugou didn’t have a quirk that could shield him the same way Sugimoto did as the building went down.

The idea hit you at the same time it appeared to hit Mina and Bakugou. The people around you began to murmur in alarm as Bakugou sank back on the concrete, laying down flat on his back like he was going to take a nap in the sun. In the midst of a crisis the visual was certainly out of place, and a soft “what the fuck is he doing?” from behind you reaffirmed it.

Quick as a flash, Mina had coated herself in hardened acid, and then she was stretching out over Bakugou’s lean form, her vicious smile visible even from where you stood. Bakugou raised his hands to her stomach and called something to the heroes nearby. They all went stumbling back, tearing away from him as fast as they could.

All was still for a second. And then a blast of heat and fire ripped through the street, a roar like thunder rendering you deaf for a moment. You closed your eyes against the wave of hot wind and dust Bakugou’s explosion kicked up, and when you managed to crack one open, Mina was hurtling through the window like a rocket, hitting the edge of Sugimoto’s shield and driving him straight back into the building.

The civilians dropped from his grip.

Bakugou braced his hands against the ground and let off another massive explosion, propelling him straight upwards. He met the civilians in seconds, managing to grab them and flip around in mid air, aiming another series of blasts at the ground to control their fall.

A shocked cheer went up behind you when they hit the street, and you couldn’t contain your own gleeful noise that escaped you, though you couldn’t tear your eyes from the spot where Mina had disappeared.

Bakugou barely had time to get the civilians clear before the top floor began to crumble as the building shook, plaster dislodging itself from the ceiling and slapping down in loud thuds you could hear even from where you stood. You watched anxiously, waiting for Mina’s reappearance, as the building gave one final shudder and then caved in.

The second it did, a head of wild pink curls appeared and Mina flung herself off the top floor, just as the floor gave out underneath her. Bakugou was already moving, breaking into an all out sprint. He flung his arms out behind him, explosions ripping up the ground underneath him, and he collided with Mina mere feet from the ground, wrapping an arm around her and blasting them both back up just as chunks of the building slammed down where they had been.

The entire building came crumbling down in a shower of grey dust, shaking the street and sending a wave of car alarms sounding. Bakugou and Mina came down in a semi-controlled spiral, managing to hit the street just beyond the police barricade, Bakugou rolling in the same move he’d done with you earlier to disperse some of their momentum.

A wild cheer went up and you shouted too, elation rising in you like a flood, crawling through your limbs like a slow shiver.

Miruko hopped the barrier beside you, rushing over to where Bakugou and Mina lay. They were both panting, covered head to do in grey dust, looking worse for wear but alive.

“Sugimoto?” Miruko demanded.

Bakugou pushed himself up on an elbow, the red of his eyes bright against the dust covering him, like a spot of blood on a tissue. Mina popped up next to him, nosy bloody, but grinning.

“Unconscious,” she announced. “Shoved him out the back of the building before it collapsed. I melted the floor under him and he lost focus for a second. That’s all I needed to hit him and encase him in acid. He should be a little injured from the fall but alive.”

Miruko grinned savagely, leaning down to ruffle both of their hair. “You did good work, brats.”

“Get the fuck offa me, hag,” Bakugou complained. You noticed he made no move to dislodge her hand, though, and you stifled a laugh at how obvious he was. Mina had said he had a thing for girls who fucked with him...

Then Kaminari was bursting past Miruko, throwing himself onto the two of them in a whirlwind of tears and flailing limbs.

“That was the coolest shit I have ever seen!” he declared at a deafening volume. “You launched Mina through a building! It was fucking awesome!”

“I’ll launch you through a building if you don’t get the fuck off me,” Bakugou growled, shoving Kaminari’s weight straight onto Mina. He rolled to his feet before Kaminari could come back for more, cocking his head to look into the crowd like he was looking for something. An EMT to patch him up? An officer to make a report, maybe?

Then his eyes locked onto you, and you realized.

Oh, he was looking for you.

He was on you in seconds. You didn’t have time to even squeak out his name before he was swallowing it up, pulling you close to him. He tasted like ash and dust, frankly kind of gross, but you were so disturbingly relieved that he was okay that you didn’t even care, pressing even harder against him as he kissed you.

And okay. So maybe you did have a thing for him, you thought. Maybe. Just a little.

He was still annoying as hell, but he’d just saved a ton of people. Just now, you hadn’t even seen him engage in combat except to rescue people, he’d saved dozens of people including you and Mina, and he’d pulled off the most awesome assist that you had ever seen, letting Mina take down the big bad instead of haring in after the dude himself.

He could, maybe for now, totally get it.

Bakugou smirked down at you when you finally separated, red eyes and white teeth bright against all the grime on him. He leaned in, placing a hand on your cheek.

And in the haughtiest, most migraine-inducing tone ever, he said: “Now who’s the fucking best?”

You made no effort to conceal your eye roll. Well, you supposed, there was only so much about a person that could change in a month.

Instead of complaining, you let him kiss you again.

[lalainajanes]

More Trope X Trope! 1 Historical AU + 43 Dance of Romance requested via Tumblr messenger.

Situated as she is, on the upper level that overlooks the ballroom, Caroline has a clear view of everything below.

Her friend Katherine dances scandalously close to her new husband. That he allows such a breach of decorum has ceased to surprise Caroline. She’d thought them an odd match when she’d heard of it - Elijah Mikaelson’s reputation for stuffiness was well known and well earned - but seeing them together has soothed her doubts. He dotes on Katherine and Kat’s enthralled of him, an impressive feat given how easily Kat had dismissed her scores her suitors over the years.

She’s happy for them though Katherine’s love match has resulted in some unforeseen consequences for Caroline.

If one could call a person such a thing.

Her eyes find Klaus, her consequence, easily and she’s unsurprised to find him conversing with one of her footmen. Nor does she shy away when he looks up, his gaze locking on to her and a pleased smile curving his generous mouth. He says one more thing and the footman bows slightly, handing off a tray of champagne.

Caroline sighs as Klaus takes it and skirts the room. She’s had the staircases hidden, spent a fortune on silks and hothouse blooms to construct pretty blockades, but Klaus ducks behind one of the structures, disappearing from sight.

She’s just tugging her gloves back on when he reappears, having straightened from her appallingly casual posture. His eyes light up when he sees her and her sets the tray down on table, picking up one of the flutes. She’s just about to chastise him (not the first time she’s had to, undoubtedly not the last).

Honestly, had she known he’d be interested in marrying her she never would have agreed to a tryst. Though she cannot bring herself to regret that she had.

The end of Caroline’s mourning period had coincided with the end of last year’s season. Coming to town this year she’s been eager to enjoy the freedom being a widow offered, had been prepared to be a bit scandalous.

The title she’d married into, the great piles of money her father willingly supplied, Father’s business interests attaching his shipping company to several notable members of the ton, all would protect her from being publicly scorned. And Caroline didn’t much care what spiteful gossip got bandied about when her back was turned. 

She’d been introduced to Mr. Klaus Mikaelson at the second ball she’d attended. He’d been the only man she’d spoken to be more interested in her breasts than in the obscenely large emeralds that had draped over them.

He’d also been a lovely dancer, graceful, with sure hands, and he’d lingered in her mind as her maid had combed out her hair.

And later, one the maid had been dismissed and the candles snuffed, Caroline had let her fingertips skim under her nightgown and wondered how dark the blue of his eyes would be when he was aroused.

She’d taken to looking for him whenever she’d entered a social event and he’d always asked her to dance when they were at the same gathering. Whirling about the floor with him, flirting and laughing, had become the highlight of her evenings.

She’d endured leading questions from several of London’s matrons, some disaproving - a third son, one who had a rocky relationship with his father was not considered a catch. The bawdier types, the ones Caroline preferred, made sly jokes and pointed comments about home comely Klaus was, how his attentiveness to her in public spoke well of his prowess in private.

Caroline had batted the comments away, insisted she wasn’t interested in another marriage. Still, she hadn’t been able to stop speculating at night, once her bed’s draperies were closed.

So, when Kat had asked if a few of Elijah’s siblings might come to the small house party Caroline was throwing, she hadn’t hesitated to say yes.

Caroline, a lifelong believer in the power of planning ahead, had arranged for Klaus to stay in one of the rooms with a secret door. Should she wish to, if he’d been amenable, she’d be able to slip from the Duchess’ chambers, through the narrow hidden corridors, and into his room without being seen.

At the party, Klaus has made excuse after excuse to speak to her, to tuck her hand into the crook of his arm and draw her away, she hadn’t stopped him. When his hands had lingered on her each morning when he assisted her on and off her horse, Caroline hadn’t protested.

When he’d mentioned that he liked to select a book from the library before retiring, Caroline had taken the invitation.

That first kiss against the bookshelves, heated and bruising and messy, had been the best of her life.

One kiss had melted into two, two into dozens. Her hands had shaken as she’d tugged his clothes aside, greedy to feel the heat of his skin. Klaus had been the one to slow them, to rasp that he wanted more than a frantic coupling against the bookshelves.

She’d assumed he’d just meant a bed.

Because while Klaus had taken her in his borrowed bed (and hers, along with over her dressing table and in her private bath, once she’d explained how to navigate the hidden hallways) he hasn’t been content with just enjoying her body.

Caroline’s first marriage had been cordial, not passionate, her husband two decades older. He’d been fond of drink behind closed doors, more and more as the years passed. He’d stopped moving about in society, they'd stopped going to town or entertaining their neighbors, and Caroline had been awfully lonely at their country estate.

She’d had no desire to be shackled to a man once more.

Caroline had explained as much to Klaus, kept her reasoning vague because, for all her husband’s faults, she could have done far worse. She thinks he’s guessed much of what she’d not voiced, that he gleaned more from her face and voice than she meant him to.

When they first returned to town she’d been cool, had refused his offers to dance. Klaus had been persistent, even when she’d turned cutting. If anything he found her sharpness amusing, his eyes dancing as he returned her quips easily, using their bickering as an excuse to crowd closer, to set her blood to heating with brief touches and suggestive glances.

She’d snapped not three weeks into their little war, had hissed that he could let himself in through the servants entrance of her townhouse after the ball.

Thankfully, her servings were paid well, and in a timely fashion, and were exceedingly loyal.

The dress she’d worn that night, a dazzling confection of ice blue silk and fine French lace, had ended up tattered beyond compare, tiny buttons scattered to every corner of her bed chambers.

She’d awoken sore and sticky and fantastically well-rested. Klaus’ hand had lain heavy on her belly and his breath even and deep against her shoulder. She’d never slept with a man before, had found that she’d liked it.

Fairly terrifying, as far as revelations went. Any panic she might have felt had been easily chased away as Klaus had stirred, his hand delving lower, between her thighs.

That he could bring her such pleasure, with just his fingertips and hushed words, was hardly fair.

She’s done her best to keep Klaus at arm’s length, continued to refuse to dance with him, to avoid him in public as much as she can. His pursuit remains remarkably dogged. He shows up at whatever event she’s attending - Caroline suspects her butler is playing matchmaker. He’s in her bed most nights, stays to enjoy the papers and steal sips of the chocolate and bites of the buttered scones her maid brings her in the morning. April’s ceased being scandalized, doesn’t even blink at Klaus’ near nude form when she bustles in. She’s offered to bring an extra tray. So far, Caroline’s refused.

He’ll take whatever she’ll allow, he’s said, and Caroline knows her defences against him are weakening, that she might actually believe him when he claims he can make her happy. Klaus seems well aware that he’s winning, that his prods and pushes are entrenching him deeper and deeper into her heart and mind. He’s intelligent enough to keep his smugness contained.

Caroline’s well aware that’s likely temporary. She expects he’ll be unable to resist crowing a bit when she shows him the marriage settlement papers she’s had her solicitors draw up.

He passes behind her, pausing to brush a fleeting kiss over her bared shoulder. Caroline checks the crush of people below out of habit and, as expected, no one’s aware of her and Klaus above them. “Need help with your glove?” he asks.

The buttons are giving her trouble and Caroline sighs, offering him her arm. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“I’d rather take them off, of course.” Nevertheless Klaus leans in, squinting at the tiny buttons and even tinier loops of fabric they must go through.

“These are new and I’d rather not have them destroyed so I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

His thumb strokes down her forearm and it’s silly that she shivers, that she reacts so strongly to a caress blunted by two layers of fabrics. Klaus smiles softly, pleased, “Then you’d best remove them before you retire.”

Caroline blinks in surprise, “I didn’t think you’d want to come tonight.”

His eyes flit up hers, “I hadn’t planned on leaving. Thought I’d send my carriage away when the first guests trickle away, and slip round the back.”

“I’ll likely be late,” Caroline says, “and tired. Too tired to…” she trails off, letting her gaze drift down Klaus’ form. He looks delectable and tempting in sleek black evening clothes, so much so that Caroline wishes they had more privacy. Hosting a party is significantly more taxing than merely attending, the last time she’d had a ball here, back when she’d still been married, the sun had been rising by the time she’d found her bed and she’d been asleep before her head hit the pillow.

Klaus scoffs, expression hardening, “I’d assumed we’d just sleep, love. Or are you hinting that you have no need of me tonight?”

She’s a bit ashamed in the face of his derision but somehow elated too. “As it happens, I sleep better with you beside me. 

Klaus doesn’t react with pleasure, his head shaking as he returns to his task, “Perhaps you should consider why that is,” he mutters.

Caroline laughs but it’s strangled, “I haven’t done much else lately.”

Klaus’ eyes widen and Caroline savors that she’s taken him off guard. She grabs the glass of champagne he’d brought her, taking a sip to soothe her nerves. Klaus slips between her and the railing, leaning back and using his fingertips to tip her chin up. “And have you come to any conclusions?” he asks, deceptively light given how hopeful he appears.

She tries a joke, “If you’re truly only interested in my money now is the time to confess.”

Klaus’ eyes narrow, his hands coming up to frame her face, “I don’t want your money. 

Caroline knows that, of course. She wouldn’t be standing here otherwise. She smiles, tremulous, resting her free hand on his chest. “You’ll have my dowry, of course, that’s only proper. But my monthly allowance…”

His mouth stems her words as he yanks her into them, the kiss a frantic clash. He groans when she invites him in, his tongue tasting hers eagerly. Caroline regrets that she’d bothered with gloves when her hand delves into his hair, tangling in the curls at the back of his neck.

She makes a noise of protest when Klaus pulls back, grinding her hips into his when he lays his mouth over her throat. His teeth scrape and a hint of suction leave her knees weakening, her hands grappling at his shoulders. It’s a too brief sensation, Klaus setting her away from him after a moment. He kisses her cheek affectionately, “Your ring won’t be ready until next week.”

Caroline shakes her head, biting down on her lip before giving in and smiling, “Presumptuous,” she accuses. 

“I was going to tempt you with the passage I’ve booked to Italy,” Klaus informs her, without even a hint of shame. “You’ll love it and it just isn’t seemly for a young, pretty widow to travel alone.”

“So gallant,” Caroline says, feigning exasperation. “Marrying me just to keep up appearances.”

He moves quickly, walking forward until she’s forced a few steps back, deeper into the shadows. Her champagne glass falls from her hand, forgotten. “Appearances,” Klaus grumbles, fighting with the layers of her skirts, “can hang.”

Later, when they dance amongst friends and acquaintances, her dress is crumpled and her hair’s disheveled. Klaus’ neck cloth is lopsided and neither of them tries to maintain a respectable distance between their bodies. Dozens of pairs of eyes stare at them shamelessly, whispers fill the room, giggles, but Caroline doesn’t mind.

She’d wanted to be scandalous, hadn’t she? Mission accomplished. With Klaus murmuring to her, listing the reasons - some of them very naughty - that he wants to marry her, causing a stir feels better than she’d imagined.

[darkangelz87]

Different Perspectives

A Autistic Sherlock and eventually Queerplatonic Johnlock fanfiction. Read if you want. ^^

                                     Seeing from Different Perspectives

                                                                                                                           Chapter One

 Autism.

: a mental condition, present from early childhood, characterized by difficulty in communicating and forming relationships with other people and in using language and abstract concepts.

Vague snapping of fingers, twirling, chewing on pencil erasers, sleeves and hands, bright lights, colors, sounds, texture of food and clothing, comforting or abrasive, touch, unwelcome and hurtful, eye contact, nope, thoughts merging and turning into screams… “STOP!”

Sherlock froze, shocked at the sound of his own voice ringing in his ears as he still was pulling at his curly hair, his eyes growing watery with unshed and unwanted tears as he stared straight ahead which happened to be right above a crowd of milling people in a shopping mall and dear lord, no, John was here. He didn’t want John to see this!

John Watson stopped what he was doing which was interrogating a passerby and he immediately strode over to him where he was sitting on a bench, the army doctor mask coming over his face as he leaned down, trying to catch his eye sight, “Hey! Sherlock! You okay? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock frowned, an eyebrow twitching.

Okay… I should probably start from the beginning.

I was diagnosed with Autism as a child and that combined with my brilliant mind and swift calculations was an astounding combination.

I saw it as a gift, my brain but I learned from other people especially my family and fellow childhood students that it wasn’t such a brilliant thing.

I remember enjoying and getting lost in the rays of sunlight through dust motes and how my pleasure points of my brain lit up with joy as I spent hours running my hands through the magical streams. I tried to show it to my family and got scolded for spending hours loafing when I should be studying.

My first special interest and happens to still be a dear interest of mine before studying murders, literature and violin was the wonder of bees. I fell in love with them after I saw my first bumble bee. One landed on a flower near me as I sat studying on a hill near our old house and when my eyes strayed to it, I felt something in me stir with silent wonder at its tiny fuzzy body and its low almost soothing buzzing. I watched it, enthralled until it flew away, and I rushed into the house, went to the family computer and quickly searched ‘Bees’.

I began to draw hundreds of bees, reading and studying everything about them and catching them, putting them in jars and letting them go after a while. The thing that blew my young mind and made me admire the little insects even more is, scientifically, the bumble bee’s wings should be too small for it to fly. Amazing little creatures that no one ever took notice of.

My bees ‘obsession’ was dismissed as a childish phase.

Flapping my hands when I was happy was discouraged ‘It was embarrassing’, twirling was considered dangerous to myself, to everyone around me and to the breakable objects within reach, when I was quiet and wanted to listen to Bach with my headphones on instead of struggling to push words out of my mouth I was considered uppity and snobbish.

Everything I did was wrong, so I started to formulate a blockade around me, my emotions and my autistic side was pushed down and restrained so I turned myself over to my mind and my calculating abilities and enhanced those qualities about myself instead and silently reveled in the praise it brought me from my family and the school faculty.

It didn’t help me with people though, they were a foreign entity and I didn’t want them to get too close to me because if they found out all about me they would surely go away, and I didn’t want the trouble, the headache and pain of relationships. And having girlfriends or boyfriends was out of the question. Sally Reed from high school tried to kiss me and I punched her for touching my tongue with hers and all the boys wanted to do with me was they hit me and taunted me for being smarter than them. I can’t help it if I knew the formula for pi in 4th grade, I naturally excelled at mathematics.

Later, I found my calling in being a consulting detective for Inspector Lestrade, it fully utilized my brain in a healthy way (drugs got my pent-up emotions and energy out when I was high, and I didn’t care about keeping up facades when I was stoned) and I could get along with Inspector Lestrade (Even if some of his group are complete idiots). I eventually found a promising flat with an acquaintance I knew from an old case, Mrs. Hudson. The only problem which was a big problem considering my sometimes-low funds (I refuse to ask Mycroft for anything if I can help it!) was I needed a flat mate to help me with the rent.

In walks John Watson.

I admit, at first, I was only interested in Watson because of his ability to pay some of the bills and to furnish half of the rent but then it turned to something else when he really listened to my deductions with almost a form of awe and a word whispered in complete reverence like: ‘Marvelous!’, ‘Brilliant!’, ‘Fantastic!’, the list went on and to top it all, he killed a man for me.

I haven’t known him for very long but what I do know of Watson, he intrigues me, and no one has ever intrigued me before. I wanted to keep him thinking that I was this intellectual genius, so I hid my disability from him with care the last couple of months that we have lived together.

Well, seems like the proverbial cat is out of the bag.

I didn’t want to go to a mall to talk to a jeweler that had been robbed from, it was a category 3 at least, not worth my interest but Watson had shown interest in it and he said it would be nice to hang out together, that it would be a casual time out together.

Uhuh… I should’ve went with my instinct and said, most definitely no!

It was an onslaught on my senses ever since we entered the doors. Screaming kids, chattering, giggling girls and boisterous laughter assaulted my ears, fluorescent lights glared in my eyes making my head pound with intense pain and people getting too close for comfort sometimes made my skin crawl and unpleasantly itch all over.

By the time I was clawing at my hair and screaming for everything to “STOP!” I knew my cover was blown.

I didn’t dare to look up when John asked what was wrong, but I gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes tightly shut, trying to shut out the imminent look of pity that would surely be coming from Watson.

What I didn’t expect was gentle, steady hands on both sides of my face.

My eyes flew open in shock and I blinked unexpectedly at the change of brightness as I slowly registered that John had just slipped a pair of sunglasses over my eyes.

I blinked up at John and he just smiled, a little smile that he shows sometimes when he is reading the paper, writing in his blog, or drinking an extra especially good cup of hot tea and he walked back to the jeweler, continuing to ask him questions.

I was dumbstruck.

I composed myself and quietly felt around in my faculties, testing myself to see if my senses had calmed down somewhat and found to my surprise that just dimming the lights had made the sounds more bearable and my pounding headache melted down to a tremor of pain. Note to self: Start carrying sunshades in coat pocket.

John walked back to me and I cocked my head to one side, looking up at him with a question on my face, he answered the quiet question, “Nothing that the police can’t solve by themselves.” I growled in annoyance, rolling my eyes, “Like I said, clearly a category 3, nothing of interest.” John grinned, shrugging, “Ah, oh well. It was worth getting out of the flat for a bit huh?” I snorted, looking away, “I’d rather dissect a skunk than be around these swaggering, giggling bags of testosterone and hormones.” John laughed, making me turn my eyes on him, really looking at him and seeing him, I quirked an eyebrow quizzically at this seemingly normal man and I smirked.

John Watson was anything but normal.

 Author’s note: This chapter is insanely short and kinda pointless lol but I just wanted to start this story with something sooo here it is! I’ve been wanting to write this for a very long time and I’m starting it! I’m excited! :) I will be using my own Autistic experiences in the story (Using sunglasses does help dim down sensory issues for me. I wear them in public a lot.). I hope to be able to kinda write and put together a guideline for the next chapter so it won’t be so short and kind of random and I am debating just keeping the story in Sherlock’s pov and not switching back and forth like I am prone to do.

But yeah, this story is about Autistic Sherlock and how he tries to act neurotypical and generally succeeds until John Watson comes in the picture and figures things out and the big thing is, John doesn’t care that Sherlock is Autistic and it may possibly be one of the things that he loves about him. 😊

Yes, there will be queerplatonic Johnlock a lot later in the story cause it’s a slow burn, very sloooow but cutesy fluffy slow burn.

Hope you guys like it and feedback is appreciated! 😊  

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[podcake]

Podcasts & Style/Substance

I must share to you readers that I am in the middle of a very much expected but somewhat rough decision at the moment. After about six or more years of having the same black Toshiba laptop that has stored information from middle school crossover fanfiction to job resumes to questionable png files, I’m afraid it has officially kicked the bucket or at least fallen into some kind of cybernetic limbo. 

After one faithful day when it gave itself one less kick to grant me the privilege of finishing Miss Koboyashi’s Dragon Maid and was forced onto an infinite black screen for all eternity, it dawned on me that my little pal that has been my partner in blogging for years just couldn’t pull through the strength anymore. 

It was an old, busted thing by now-touch pad now replaced by a wireless mouse, brown-gray dust permanently caked onto the screen and in between the keyboard from lord knows wear, a severe lag that regularly musters an effort to keep my video files and word documents secure as I mindlessly surf the internet, and a battery that kept my computer at a pathetic half way point that threatened to undo all of my current progress if a passing dog were to trip the wire at the slightest. 

Little Tobi (as I called them) was a good friend and I will dearly miss them and the disposable information I will lose from letting it rot in the bottom of my bed for now. I write this now from my mother’s laptop as I secretly plan out my next move. 

The likely preceding from here is that I have plans to buy a new laptop to continue my work, to which you are entirely right. I am already aware that the simple black Toshiba with its decent screen size and functional keyboard are all I need for a few extra years of blogging and book pitches, but it’s so…boring. 

Beyond my desktop customization, there’s not much to old Tobi that really sparked the imagination of what kind of person I am and what business I have with a laptop from the get-go. To any passerby I could easily be an accountant or an overworked college student grinding through an essay. 

It’s a bland but perfectly usable piece of machinery that has done me no wrong for years, and yet I find myself eager to pursue something different. Something more pink.

I am set for my next laptop to be a pink one and my itchy buying finger might just make that happen before the summer ends. And my strong, personal desire for every item within my reach to be pink-or something related to pink-tends to skew my idea about features and actual quality. 

My sights have been set on a smaller computer with less memory and detachable keyboard for about a week and I am so very close to just finalizing the deal without anyone else’s input because…it’s pink. And I like pink.

This got me thinking about how we as content creators and consumers tend to be divided over what we perceive as genuine quality in our media. Specifically targeting podcasts, I do believe the concept of style and substance is a very common recurrence we come across and I have mentioned it at least vaguely in most of my reviews and other articles. 

The term “style vs substance” tends to have a fairly flexible meaning behind it that can pertain to multiple aspects at once. This contrast can come to mind when dealing with everyday obstacles and personal preferences over pretty much anything, though let’s talk about how it pertains to audio fiction since I know that’s what you’re here for.

Substance has to mainly deal with the idea of something’s overall depth and purpose. Substance aims to tell you one thing or multiple things and provide it in such a way that the idea can’t be muddled or misinterpreted. Be it an Aesop or a specific type of theme or message, substance is meant to leave an impression in more of the practical variety.

Style is much different. Style can be easily defined as to how something is done or presented in a way that is distinctly unique. Style aims to be eye-catching, interesting, or to generally appeal to a certain type of aesthetic choice. It wants to look good or cool or scary or weird and will go by any stretch of the imagination to fulfill that.

A story that relies too heavily on substance will certainly have a focal point and a clear narrative that is easy to digest, but it will be at the risk of being unremarkable. It will not stick with a listener if an audio drama has a very clean cut story and characters that all fit predetermined roles but no real flair of individuality that makes its whole plot really ring any bells besides the ones set to a very specific tune. 

On the flip side of this coin, too much style can provide an entirely different dilemma. This creates the situation in a which a show is rich in pretty little details and nice music and the occasional wit, but it will ultimately be as compelling as a screensaver. These stories don’t exist in the realm of being genuinely deep or progressive but rather to just to give off a unique vibe, which can make it rather hollow in everything else. 

In my last article, I did go on about my irritation with podcasts that don’t cater to a story and care more about being quirky for quirky’s sake, namely about the over saturation of the “fake radio show” format that is hopefully being reworked by The Bridge as we speak, but that’s a topic I’ve ragged on enough one March ago.

And despite this, I am lucky enough to be invested in a type of medium that seems to have this style and substance balance pretty well figured out. 

Not everyone is a winner in this department, though I am confident in my belief that many podcast writers know that their vision is not complete without a purpose and that this purpose can stay relevant with just the right amount of tasteful flourish. 

As this is a fairly open-ended topic, there is more than one way to manage this balance. For example, I believe a show is capable of being more heavy on substance while still having a style because the aesthetic of choice was minimalist to begin with. Titles that comes to mind is The Bright Sessions, Wolf 359, and the newest show I’ve gotten around to simply titled OAKPODCAST. 

I won’t go into much detail about each one though all of them do cater more to providing substance over style in a way that works. They are known best for their character focus, engaging dialogue and some occasional thoughtful narration, and mostly realistic portrayal of its setting even though they will occasionally lean heavily on otherworldly elements to show the setting is not as normal as it appears. 

These shows are abundant in the substance category because its ideas are meant to be narrowed down to a few very specific idea pertaining to whatever arc or character they may focusing on. And yet they are still memorable because they exist in a world that is just different enough from our own that we’d like to learn more about it.

Shows that play more into style than substance can be equally engaging. Ones that come to mind are Hadron Gospel Hour and The Meat Blockade, two very different shows that are dedicated to strong stylistic choices that don’t interfere with its narrative. 

Be it Gospel Hour with its love for dimensional travel and ideas directly inspired from seventies and eighties pop culture or The Meat Blockade’s ideas drawn from the likes of Kafkaesque and surreal humor and just the right touch of Broadway, it’s clear where the focus is meant to be without it being a deal breaker on where the story lies in all this. Thus the strange decisions work as a service to the story rather than it being treated as a lesser priority. 

Going back to the Broadway thing, I wasn’t kidding. The Meat Blockade has an entire, roughly four minute segment in their fifth episode where a group of anthropomorphic frogs break out in a music number…and it works really well because it’s ultimately an exposition song that describes their current situation, the hidden lore about the setting, some hints of foreshadow, and nicely transitions into the next scene and leaves on a cliff hanger for episode six.

It’s such a strange choice editing and writing wise and I’m choosing to provide this as an example because it’s a damn excellent way to establish creativity and tasteful zaniness that still works to inform.

But it is also possible to have a fifty-fifty situation going on where the style and the substance coexist so well that one cannot exist without the other.

Our Fair City comes to mind where it’s richly described dystopian world and unique characters are used to explore more in-depth themes and still have one single tale to tell, or, multiple branching tales. 

The same can apply to Greater Boston with just a touch more realism thrown into the mix, creating a fairly stylish and satisfying audio drama about life in a fictionalized version of a real city.

The key here is that the world and its rules play a part in why the characters act the way they do which lets it be equal parts distinct and fulfilling as a story.

Without these aesthetic decisions in mind, some of these shows simply wouldn’t be what they are while the same can apply the substance latent shows who wouldn’t be the same without their choice of character interaction and treatment of specific themes. 

Some are far more likely to lean more towards one than the other but that’s because it’s not a necessity for The Bright Sessions to have a jazzy backtrack and it’s not expected for The Meat Blockade to have a long and detailed monologue about Berenger’s relationship with his girlfriend. 

But that’s the interesting thing about the style and substance equation-it can be switched around as many times as necessary to fit a story’s current narrative. Maybe one day we learn the tragic backstory of a single gag character, maybe one day there will be a stretch of retro-funk music played over a straight faced hero’s inner thoughts. 

It’s when these ideas are of service to the stakes and a characters’ all around presence that the script can be flipped and deliver a much needed change of tone that keeps the listener on their toes.

This won’t only be impressive on a sound design and editing standpoint, but also establish some diversity in the writing style to keep the story varied and interesting. 

Whatever the balance may be, it must be one that lets the story flourish in a way that feels authentic and natural. A concept is only as strong as the effort going into it. 

Don’t allow a story to be expressed in a distinct way then it won’t be remembered but let flair and pizzazz be too much of a focus and your final product will come off as meaningless fluff. 

Let your world building and natural need for sparkle be the thing that draws in the viewer rather than isolate them from the goings on of what is especially important. 

Don’t let characters fade into oblivion from a need to make a story easy to understand, let them be factors and active players, not mouthpieces and exposition machines. 

And if one certain element speaks to your project more than the other, that is entirely understandable. Certain plots are better seen through a substance perspective than a stylish one and some ideas are best seen with stylish decisions being a priority with substance being a smaller part of the equation.

I suppose you could say it’s less a case of style vs substance than it is style/substance or substance/style-it’s a balancing act that comes with compromise and patience rather, not just a case of right and wrong.

So thus my decision about what new laptop I should get to replace my old one is less a choice of a functional laptop or a pink laptop, but rather settling on a functional pink laptop.

[hardcore-evil-regal]

In a Dream

They Call Me the Cavalry (BadassNinja)

Summary: He never thought it would happen. It has always been one blockade after another. Wrong timing. Wrong person. Wrong circumstance. Always wrong. Until now. Now they'd finally got it right. Their last chance.

Notes: So I have three and a half tests next week and was going to study, but I read this awesome writing prompt and couldn't help myself. It had to be written. Sorry in advance, I hope you guys enjoy ;)

You can keep reading this here or on AO3 or FF.net

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

In a Dream

He wakes slowly as sunlight streams through the sheer curtains in the room. It's early he realises, earlier than his alarm anyway. The stirrings of excitement begin in his stomach as he gradually wakes and he can feel a wide grin settling on his face. Today is the day. It feels like forever that he's been waiting for this day to come. Years? Decades? Too long. Excitement and nervous energy are thrumming through him as he rises from the bed and heads into the bathroom. It's still early but he can't stand to just sit around wasting time. He needs to do something, keep himself busy to some extent. It's almost surprising that his hands don't shake whilst he shaves, considering how he's feeling. There is so much riding on today. All his dreams, his hopes and wishes coming true. He never thought it would happen. It has always been one blockade after another. Wrong timing. Wrong person. Wrong circumstance. Always wrong. Until now. Now they'd finally got it right. Their last chance. He can't imagine their journey to this day being any different though,  try as he might. Maybe they would still be together, maybe they would've gotten together sooner or maybe they wouldn't be together at all. Trying to imagine his life without her is near impossible. Just spending the night apart from her was hard enough as it is. A life without his Melinda May… Well that's no life at all. Just thinking about her causes a smile to form on his lips. He can't wait to see her, her warm smile, the mischievous glint in her eyes, the amber glow of her hair in the sunlight. She's everything to him. His world and more. Just the sound of her laughter can make a bad day into a good one, a simple touch reassuring him whenever he doubts himself. Her presence alone can soothe his worries and he, to this day, has no idea how she manages to do that.

There is the slightest of tremors in his hands as he buttons up his shirt, nervousness and anticipation beginning to settle in. Looking at himself in the mirror his fingers tug at the bow tie around his neck, lips pursing as he contemplates whether to keep it on or take it off. Frowning at it for a moment he finally comes to a decision, fingers undoing the knot and pulling it off, just leaving the top few buttons of his shirt undone. Melinda always did prefer him without ties. He smiles at his reflection, yes, much better. He can't wait to see Melinda in her dress, he's sure she'll look beautiful; she always looks gorgeous no matter what she's wearing. Running his hands over the lapels of his jacket he takes a deep breath before turning away from the mirror. Picking up his phone from the top of his drawers he glances at the screen seeing a message from his best man. The wedding is well and truly underway now. His keys jingle in his hand as he leaves the house. Sliding into the driver's’ seat of his red corvette his palms sweat just a little as he grips the steering wheel tightly. He can’t remember having felt this way in so long. Usually he is unflappable, calm in the most serious of crises, even in the face of death.

Pulling into a parking bay, he turns off the engine before hopping out of the car. Tucking the keys safely into his pocket he walks through the tall iron gates into the garden. A glorious area filled with so many different shades of green, and vibrant colours from the assorted flowers spread throughout. A sensual paradise filled with the sweet fragrance of so many flowers and the beautiful sight of bright and exotic flowers. There is a large patch of green grass where white chairs have been arranged in neat rows,a walkway dividing them into two sections. Only a few people have arrived already, his groomsmen and best man, along with the celebrant and a couple of guests. Walking down the walkway, they all turn to look at him and he can only imagine how it will be for his soon to be wife when she makes her way down. His wife. How many times he’d thought that to himself with longing, never thinking that it would ever be a possibility. It’s funny how life works out sometimes.

Standing up at the front, he tries to look calm and confident when he is honestly feeling incredibly scared and excited and amazed all at once. It’s an odd combination of feelings, but regardless, this is the one thing in his life that he has felt absolutely sure about. When one of the bridesmaids appears he feels his heart rate pick up because he knows what comes next. It’s finally time. Receiving their cue, the band begins to play, and slowly the bridesmaids make their way down. The time between the last bridesmaid and when she finally appears feels like a lifetime, but when he does see her, she takes his breath away. For him, it feels like everything has stopped. Time ceases to exist and all he can focus on is her. Their eyes meet, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe. It’s perfect. She’s perfect. A brilliant smile forms on her lips, lighting up her features as she seems to float across the ground towards him, her expression of happiness most likely a mirror to his own. Her dress is simple, white with a deep v-neckline, a cinched waist and draping skirt. Stylish and classy with just a small bit of embellishment, a sparkling design of a branch wrapped elegantly around a part of the side of her bodice just above her waist. Meeting him at the top, in front of their small gathering of friends and family, she hands off her bouquet to her bridesmaid before turning to him, eyes sparkling with happiness. A warm feeling rushes through him, and like the first time they touched, his entire arm tingles as she holds his hand, grasping it tightly in her own.

It's almost impossible for him to tear his eyes away from her as the ceremony begins. Her eyes flick over to his and she smirks at him squeezing his hand briefly before flicking her eyes back over to the celebrant. Always the practical one, and she's right, he really should focus on what the celebrant is saying. He smiles at her squeezing her hand back in response before trying to focus on the celebrant. For something that he's waited so long for, it all seems to happen so quickly. Suddenly they are turning towards each other and two rings are being pressed into his hands as he hands one over to his soon to be wife. Feeling the cool metal of the ring in his palm his hands are practically shaking as he takes her small one within his own and slides the slim gold ring slowly, gently onto her finger. It rests snugly beneath her knuckle and he can't stop himself from tenderly sweeping his thumb across it. Her lips curl up in a smile as she looks up at him, dark eyes filled with so much love he feels like it's almost too much. The soft pads of her finger tips trace his knuckle before she slides the ring onto his finger, his hand warm holding her own cooler one. It sends tingles down his spine and he steps forward, even closer to her as he cups her cheek. Their eyes flicker closed as they lean towards each other, her lips soft and sweet against his as he slides an arm around her waist holding her closer to him. He can feel her smile against his lips and her eyes sparkle at him as they pull apart slowly, foreheads resting against each other, neither worrying about their audience only a couple of metres away. Brushing his thumb gently over her cheek, he places a soft kiss against her lips again before pulling back.

“I lov-”

His eyes snap open in the dark as his heart thunders in his chest, heartbeat racing, the sound of blood rushing through his ears is all he can hear in the silent room. On instinct his arm reaches out to the other side of the bed as he sits up, and the harsh truth of reality comes crashing down upon him as his hand closes around empty sheets, cold from not having been slept in, still tucked in neatly on the other side. A lump forms in his throat as he closes his eyes, hand still clenching the cold empty sheets. Breathing in deeply through his nose he practices the breathing technique she once taught him. In, one, two, three, four. Out, one, two, three, four. It’s been months now, months since she crumpled in his arms and left him alone in a world without her. Every night he still dreams of her and the future they almost had. How close they came to having their happy ending. Instead he now lives with a constant ache in his chest, a familiar feeling since she died, his heart shattered in a most irreparable way. Swallowing down the sob that bubbles up in his throat, he wipes away the tears that spill from his eyes. She meant everything to him, his whole world, his universe. His guiding light throughout the dark now extinguished, leaving him alone in pitch black. A part of him died too when she died in his arms, something within him lost. Something that only she could find. Almost subconsciously, a hand drifts up to the chain around his neck, fingertips running over the small gold ring hanging from it.

She never even got to wear it.

x

x

Notes:

Well that was about a cup and a half of angst. The prompt I found was along the lines of your OTP at the altar about to kiss and then person A wakes up sobbing staring at the empty space beside them because in reality person B died years ago. I tweaked it a little but that's pretty much it. I'm sorry for causing you guys all this extra pain, but please drop a comment. Even leave a fluffy prompt if you'd like me to write you something nicer :)

[themusiciantraveler]

Berlin in a Day

Monday.  May 28, 2018.

    We got to steal a little extra sleep again this morning before we started off on yet another long day.  The weather promised to be hot as the sun rose high overhead.  We started our day in Trinity Cemetery where most of the Mendelssohn-Hensel family is buried. After trekking around to several unlocked gates, we finally made our way to find the scattering of headstones.  It is said that after Fanny died, her brother Felix’s health soon worsened, and he died of a broken heart just a few months later. The siblings were incredibly close and at times seemed like twins, so the death of his beloved older sister was utterly devastating to the Romantic composer.  Both composers even signed their works “F. Mendelssohn” — forever mystifying whose work was whose, but also helping Fanny to publish many of her manuscripts in a woman-silencing time.

    After Trinity Cemetery we headed into the heart of the city once more to Checkpoint Charlie.  This infamous gate sat between the German and American borders of the east and west sections of the city and fielded the most foreigners.  It was one of three main gates and crossing points between the east and the west: Alpha, Beta, and Charlie, each of the gates militantly controlled the four sectors of Germany. Today, the monument to the atrocities of Communism has become quite the tourist trap.  Beware when visiting the monument, do not get your passport stamped with the vintage collection of German signage they offer for several Euros a piece.  These fake, out of date stamps will actually invalidate your passport and keep you from leaving the country.

    After wandering around ground zero of Communism in Germany, we stopped for lunch at one of the local supermarkets — honestly, one of the best decisions you can make when traveling abroad.  After scouring the aisles for sustenance, we plopped down and stuffed ourselves with a combination of fresh fruits, sandwiches, pastries, and fun European juice drinks.  Once we were all sufficiently fed, we motivated to the longest remaining section of the Berlin Wall which stands at just under a mile long.  Most places in the capital have a section or two of remnants of the wall and museums often have small pieces, but there is nothing like this anywhere in the rest of the city, or the world.

    Panel after panel of murals blockaded across the city as far as the eye could see.  Some sections were covered in profanity, others honored long-lost celebrities, and others still remain blank.  But the stretch was quite a sight to see.  You can actually pay to be able to spray paint whatever you desire on some of the blank sections of the Wall — it will cost you, but you can say that you painted part of history.  Small gaps are present throughout the wall where you can walk through from the east to the west freely and see a clear view of the Spree River.  After our stop at the Wall, we went further into the heart of the city to a section nicknamed “Museum Island”.  This patch of land that sits in the middle of the Spree River (making it seem like an island) is home to seven different museums of varying histories and cultures — the Pergamon, Altes, Bode, DDR, Neues, German-History, and the Berliner Dom Cathedral.  They all sit in the same couple of square kilometers on the other side of Humboldt University and boast excellent examples of the history of Germany and the surrounding world.

    Michael dropped us off at the start of the museum walk and gave us three hours to meet back at the van.  Most of our group went to the Pergamon museum, which houses many Greek and Roman antiquities, but a few of us chose to venture further down the walk and see all the other museums and the Berliner Dom.  We snapped pictures and checked on ticket prices until we settled on the German History Museum.  Rick Steve’s travel books are once again great resources for finding out an approximation for ticket prices for almost every museum and landmark in the famous cities around the world.

    The German History Museum houses information and artifacts of the country from around 500-1994, including the Reformation, both World Wars, Communism, and everything in between.  We started in the Reformation and moved through to the 1800s, marveling at the sights they had to offer and the historical significance they held.  We continued quickly to the 1930s through the 1960s seeing things like Hitler's desk, war propaganda, army uniforms, chilling footage, and photographs of the horrific events that occurred in Germany in just 30 short years.  We meandered back towards the van, but not before stopping for ice cream along the way.

    We returned to the hotel for our earliest night yet, but not before a brief and exciting photo stop in which Amy and I followed Doc down an overgrown median in the heart of downtown Berlin just to capture a far away picture of the Kaiser Wilhelm Monument — a bombed-out church that still stands in memory of Kaiser Wilhelm and his dedication to Germany. After trampling through the weeds, we made it back to our hotel to freshen up before walking just a few feet to a Doner (flame broiled, thinly sliced meat in a middle eastern style wrap) street cart.  Much like falafel and shawarma, this incredibly filling dinner hit the spot and helped fuel us for our last adventure of the day in Berlin.

    I was getting quite sick at this point and am ironically extremely allergic to Linden trees (which of course are everywhere in Germany and Austria).  So, after searching high and low through several “drugstores” — just a note, drugstores in Europe are not the same as in America, they are really just glorified convenience stores — we finally found an international pharmacy that hopefully carried the medication I needed. After pantomiming to the pharmacist about needing allergy medication we grabbed some ice cream bars on the way back to the hotel and settled in for the night.

    SIDE NOTE: I would not recommend staying at the City Hotel am Kurfuerstendamm in Berlin.  Though it is perfectly located in the heart of the city, within walking distance of most anything you could want to visit, that was about the only good thing about it.  The rickety elevator rarely works, which will necessitate multiple floors of carrying your luggage, the bathrooms are rather perilous when taking a shower, and your hallway will either be creepily empty or full of rude neighbors who talk loudly until the wee hours of the morning.  It honestly reminded me of the hotel from The Shining.  The more modern hotels may be better located, but I promise that the smaller, family run inns will be much more hospitable and well worth your stay.

[dimenovelsfromoblivion]

Lemniscate

The convoy of 18 wheelers racing along the road were nestled between armored humvees. Painted across the black metallic doors in bold font colored a steel blue was the name Hawkwood. Gunners stood half emerged from their steel-plated watching ahead with vigilant eyes tightly gripped the handles of their mounted .50 cals. UAVs hovered silently overhead stalking the ground below for any pray that might scurry into its panoramic field of vision. They drove west towards the receding night sky. The red and orange hues of dawn reflected brightly in rear view mirror.  The lonely two-lane road was surrounded by dense forests. Every now and again they passed a boarded-up building. Usually, a gas station or a rest stop derelict buildings that had been abandoned long ago. Token reminders of a sprawling, interconnected civilization that had been carved and dismembered.

LT Col Levinson formerly of the marines was the commanding officer of the convoy. He spent his extensive military career on the receding boundaries of a crumbling empire. He’d retired from the military to pursue a career with Hawkwood. It was similar work, with more than three times the pay, and with the added perk of being closer to home.

His eyes were covered by a translucent visor attached to his helmet where he could view, in real time the flow of intelligence being fed into the battlenet either through radio chatter, electronic messaging or through the electric eyes of the drones scouting ahead.

The majority of Levinson’s military career had been counterinsurgency work. He fought against guerillas in deserts, jungles, and cities. He had high confidence in his men and the automated systems, but one thing he knew about insurgents is no matter how tight you made the net they always found a way to slip through there was always a hole. There had been a few casualties in the no-mans land far outside the woods and from the city’s borders. Most of these were officially written off as “accidents.” Everything had been relatively calm though and from what Levinson understood about fighting that could be very ominous.

“Sir there’s no response from checkpoint alpha,” the driver informed Levinson.

“Shit, their comm equipment probably just fucked up again,” Levinson shrugged.

“What the hell?” Levinson muttered

A heavy layer of thick black smoke obscured the road ahead. A warning message in bold red letters flashed across his visor, and he was connected to the drones live feed. Less than two kilometers up the road was a barrier of burning cars.

“Oh, fuck,” said Levinson. “All units, all units we have a roadblock up ahead-”

He was interrupted by a rocket streaking out from the trees and striking one of the drones. The flying robot burst into flames and showered the area with jagged shrapnel. The gunners started laying down fire into the forests as they continued to drive head-on into the burning blockade.

“Fuck we’re stuck we gotta turn this motherfucker around!” Levinson shouted.

The forest was lit up by muzzle flashes. The automatic fire made a high-pitched clinking sound as the bullets struck the armor plating. The gunner fell back into the vehicle with his neck spraying blood.

Robert laid his yoga mat across the grass and inhaled the crisp morning air. It was a mild morning. The temperature was in the mid-fifties, but the bountiful sun combined with the slight chill in the air evened it out nicely. Billowy white clouds lazily drifted across the sky being carried by the wind as they slowly dispersed across the blue canopy.

Robert’s wife Rachel was already sitting cross-legged on her mat and well into her breathing exercises. His eight-year-old daughter Theresa was busying herself organizing irregularly shaped blades of grass on her mat. The only noticeable absence from the daily family ritual was Robert’s 15 son Chester.

Salutations to the sun was an integral part of the morning routine in the Pak household. Lemniscate sustained itself on the energy provided by the ever-abiding orb of fire. The city was built on the principle that settled society should be able to function on the resources nature provided. Exceeding these limits could only lead to destruction and thanks to some breakthroughs in engineering they had done quite well for themselves. Lemniscate had all the trappings of modern life and still even managed to provide the little extras the generation that built the burgeoning solar utopia were hopelessly addicted to.

There was no industrial agriculture in Lemniscate, in fact, most people didn’t even eat meat besides the occasional grass-fed beef. What could be grown in the vast greenhouses was distributed along with some perfectly safe nutrient-rich food substitutes boasting to taste just like the dishes they were imitating. They weren’t bad, but they usually fell just a little short on delivering the promised flavors.

People in Lemniscate had no use for markets like previous generations. They saw this system of food distribution as wasteful and inhumane. Instead, the nutritional requirements of a family were carefully calculated by an artificial intelligence that then delivered the food via a system of solar-powered drones.

Chester Pak was the fifteen-year-old son of Robert and Rachel Pak two of Lemniscate’s two most respected citizens and two of engineers behind the revolutionary solar technology that was the foundation of the high-tech bastion. Without their contributions, a self-sustained city that offered all the amenities of modern life would never have evolved into anything beyond a quaint idea. Their combined life’s work was the very existence Chester had grown accustomed to and in his adolescence had come to take for granted.

Thanks to the machinations of genetics Chester’s intellectual potential was a far sight more impressive than most of his peers. For the time being, however, the only way Chester could think to rebel against his brilliant goal driven yet very liberal and open-minded parents was to adopt an attitude of apathy.  His ambivalence to the world around him was considerably exacerbated by the numbing lifestyle his parent's life's work had managed to keep going in their little corner of the country.

Robert knocked on Chester’s bedroom door. Robert was very conscious about respecting his son’s space and tried to remember this was just a phase. Afterall rejection of the way of life of his parent's generation was what lead him and Rachel to take such an active role in building Lemniscate. Despite this though he was irritated at having his authority as a parent willfully ignored. He knocked again more firmly.

“Chester,” he said in a stern tone.

“What?” the boy replied sleepily.

Robert rolled his eyes and opened the door. Chester was laying face down in bed with the shades drawn. The only light in the room was the  LED light of the tv mounted on the wall.

“What, what’s up?” Chester asked not even bothering to turn his head on his pillow.

Robert pulled the shade up and sunlight flooded into the room striking Chester’s squinting eyes.

“Ah close that up,” Chester said turning away from the light.

“Why aren’t you up for salutations to the sun?” Robert asked.

“I don’t know I just feel like we’ve already said hello to the sun plenty of times already I don’t think it’ll take it personally,” Chester replied dismissively.

“Hey we didn’t raise you to be an ingrate,” Rachel retorted. Robert hadn’t even noticed her standing in the doorway. She arrived just in time and seemed to be in good parental form. Just from the tone of her opening line, she made it apparent she wasn’t in the mood for angsty teenage nonsense.

“We pay our respects because if it weren’t for the sun none of this, and certainly not you would be here now,” she said.

“The sun didn’t build the solar cells,” Chester mumbled.

“That’s not the point,” Robert said with frustration.

Rachel sighed. “Look I know you’re going through that phase where it’s cool to think everyone else is an idiot but believe me there is a fine line between being rebellious and independent and just being a jackass.”

“What does that mean?” Chester said defensively

“If you had any idea what it’s like out there you would never question why we express gratitude to the natural world,” said Robert. “You have no idea how good we have it.”

“Yeah? And what is it like out there? Why is it so terrible compared to here?” Chester asked.

Robert’s ringtone interrupted the conversation. Robert knew it wasn’t the best time to take a call, but it was from a number designated strictly for emergency purposes.

“Shit, I gotta take this,” said Robert. He didn’t see his son rolling his eyes.

“This is Robert Pak,” he answered as he stepped out of the room.

“Robert this is Greg you have to get here quick. Hawkwood packed up and left this morning. We don’t know what to do. We need you down here now!”

Greg was an anxiety-ridden individual, but his voice conveyed genuine panic.

“Just hang on. I’m heading over,” Robert replied authoritatively.

A driverless car was pulling up in front of the house just as Robert was walking out the front door. The car greeted him with a friendly female voice.

“Hello, Robert,”

“Hi,” he replied.

“I have calculated the shortest route to your destination. Is this ok or do you have a preferred route?” Asked the computer.

“That’s fine,” replied Robert reaching for his phone to dial back Greg. The phone rang one and a half times before Greg answered sounding even more terrified than before.

“Robert are you almost here??”

“I’m on my way now.”

“You have to get here fast none of us know what to do,” Greg wailed.

“Greg, what’s happening over there?”

“There's some kind of army heading this way. Apparently really well armed and they’re almost here.” Greg explained in a shaky fluctuating voice.

“What about Hawkwood what are they doing about this?” Robert asked calmly but firmly.

“They left Rob! the assholes fucking left,” Greg sobbed.

Rob shook his head. “They can’t just leave we have a contract this is the kind of thing they’re supposed to deal with.”

“I know that’s what I told them,” Greg’ wined. “I guess they got attacked this morning. They said it wasn’t worth what they’re getting! “We’re so fucked, we’re so fucked!” Greg said as he broke down into full on sobs.

“Greg calm down. We can’t panic. Remember there are always solutions it’s just a matter of finding them.”

Rob ended the call and looked around with confusion when he saw they hadn't moved.

“What’s going on how come we aren’t going anywhere?” He asked visibly frustrated.

“Sorry I didn’t want to interrupt your call,” the car apologized. “I noticed your phone only has fifty-six percent battery life. Would you like to plug into my power source?”

“What the fuck? Just drive this is an emergency!” Rob snapped. The car pulled away from the curb and sped down the road. Robert pulled out a tablet from his shoulder bag and started going through his messages hoping to get some better idea of what was happening. Through the windshield, he could see the sleek metallic body of a small jet gleaming in the sunlight as it ascended into the sky. Another followed in the wake of its exhaust trail, and another closely tailed that one. The exodus was underway.

Robert’s presence only provided momentary relief.  The brain trust got down to the business of thinking about how they could save their city from the wave of marauders and morale quickly plummeted. Despite the robust, cutting-edge security systems and protocols they put in place they never had any idea the dangering forming out in the wastelands. Now all they could do was watch helplessly as an army of barbarians marched towards Lemniscate.The rats were quick to desert the ship. After every break, they took one or two fewer of them came back. Soon word came the city’s airfield was going to be out of aircraft before the day was through. Robert had dedicated his life to Lemniscate but now the time had come where the safety of his own family superseded the much-lauded greater good. Now it was time to break the news to his wife. He didn’t know how such a willful woman would react to the idea of abandoning her home. So he made sure to make all the arrangements beforehand.

“I arranged passage for you and the kids on a plane out of here,” he whispered into the phone.

“Just leave? Where would we even go, Robert?” She asked in a tone that was a combination of fear and anger.

“North to Vancouver,” Robert replied calmly.

“This is our home!” Rachel fired back. “I’m not just going to let a bunch of militia assholes tack it form us!

“We can’t stop,” Robert sighed. “The security forces left already. We don’t have the weapons or the expertise. There’s nothing we can do.”

She was silent for a moment. “Robert how are they moving?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Robert asked.

“Are they marching single file or are they moving as a large huddled mass.”

Robert thought about it for a second. “I suppose they’re pretty close together,” he said.

“Well if there are no guns we can still use explosives,” she suggested.

“How?” asked Robert. “We don’t have any bombs, and even if we did, we have no way to use them.”

“The food delivery drones,” Rachel said. “We can fly them right into the middle of those assholes and blow them the fuck up. I bet they’ll disperse and run off if they had suicide robots coming down on them.”

Robert was skeptical, but it was the best suggestion he had heard so far. He brought the plan back to the rest of the committee, and by default, it went forward. Instead of food, the drones were loaded with makeshift bombs. They launched the fleet of suicide machines and watched from the basement of the office complex as the flying bombs headed east to find their target. They had a bird's eye view of the morbid pyrotechnics display. The drones flew over the mass of people hovered for a second before plummeting to the earth and exploding.

It was just like Rachel said. The fiery explosions broke the enemy’s cohesion and sent them scurrying in all directions. Robert and his colleagues cheered as they watched the fire destroy the horde, but the celebration was short lived. The fires didn’t stop burning. The flames began to consume the surrounding forests, and soon the landscape was set ablaze, and the wall of flames began its own march towards Lemniscate.