#I remember even showing her and the handyman she always sends out who’s just some guy she pays to do work whenever we call because she’s too

[tariah23]

Also, those birds in the wall are so loud tonight lol.

[live-laugh-lenney]

The One Where YN Meets Will.

Hello, hi!

I’m Emily, I’ve had this blog for a few months now and I’m not sure what I want to do with it, apart from reblog gifs of Will and catch up on all things Youtube and the Eboys and the Sidemen and all that. Thought about giving writing a go, since I’ve done some before on another blog for another fandom, and this came from my brain as an attempt at writing for WillNE.

I am willing to take requests or write anything that anyone wants me to write about, if anyone would like one written for a specific idea.

Hope you like it. x

A consistent buzz came beside her.

Rumbling on top of her bedside table, her phone laid overturned and ringing with an incoming call from someone, charging on the thick Stephen King book that she was halfway through reading, ripples rolling over the surface of the water in the tall glass placed next to it, that she took to bed with her the previous night. She glanced at the salt lamp, small and jagged-looking and emitting a dull orange glow behind the sunlight that streamed through her windows, and gave herself a tut for leaving it on overnight; she couldn’t remember leaving it on although she couldn’t help but give a mental clap at how truthful the benefits of having a Himilayan salt lamp had been.

‘MUM’

The three letter word flashed at her in bold text, above a candid photo that someone had taken of her and her mum in a heart-to-heart chat in the middle of a family barbecue that had taken a turn once her father had found the alcohol stash in the garage and turned a casual family get-together into a night where everyone stumbled over the front doorstep on their way out. A heart-to-heart conversation that had them both smiling brightly at one another.

“Mum, hi.”

“Hi, darling.” Her voice sounded so soft, so sweet, inviting and warm and YN missed her more than anything; if she had anything to say about moving miles away, she would always give the advice of making sure distance was something you could handle. “You sound tired, did I wake you? I thought you’d be on your way to work by now.”

YN looked at the red numbers on the screen of her alarm clock, reading 7:45, and she had a tiny freak-out for a brief moment before she came to the realisation that it was her day off and she wasn’t due into work until after the weekend had finished.

“You did, yeah. I’m not due at work today though. They gave me the day off since my boss’ schedule is just meetings out of town today. He’s up North for conferences and such and it was late notice for me so he didn’t mind me not accompanying him. I wouldn’t have been able to do much anyway,” YN clarified and she used her free hand to push herself up from the mattress. Her hair was knotted and pillow-messed, sticking up in all directions and falling loose from the ponytail she’d thrown it up in before she fell asleep. Her t-shirt twisted around her middle which she adjusted with her fingers, bringing her knees to her chest and staring out the window as the sun continued its rise in the horizon. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, don’t fuss about me,” she heard her mother tut from down the line. But YN couldn’t help but fuss over the two of them; if she lived closer to them, she wouldn’t worry so much because they’d be just a short distance away if they needed her help. But she didn’t live close and she hadn’t done for almost two years; she lived almost 300 miles northeast of where she used to live with her parents and it wouldn’t take her more than twenty minutes to tend to their needs. “We’re both fine, stop worrying yourself, darling. Your dad’s been back doing his gardening so he’s out there already. Watering his flowers, spraying fertiliser, cleaning all the fox poo up. He’s been growing some veggies in the plot next to the greenhouse so you can take some back when you next come to visit.”

YN smiled to herself, bringing her shoulders to her jawline before dropping them and relaxing against her headboard. The back of her head resting against the plush velvet, coloured a clean white, and her toes curled into the sheet beneath her, her fist clutching the duvet as she brought it tighter to her body.

“You can always send me some in a box? Or you could come and visit and drop them off yourself? You know I’ve got the spare room in the new place if you want to come up for a weekend. It’s vacant, just full of my empty moving boxes and bags that I haven’t gotten rid of yet,” YN said, a yawn creeping up her throat that she hid with the palm of her hand, “I need dad’s handyman work to come and help put some shelves up. You’ve not seen it yet.”

“Your dad said it’s a lovely flat. Lovely view. Lovely building. But, you know what he’s like when it comes to describing things. Everything’s lovely,” her mother snorted and YN laughed softly; her father had always been vague and she’s pretty sure that she’d never heard him use any other word to describe something other than ‘lovely’. “We’ve been talking about paying you a visit.”

“Please do. It’s a little lonely here by myself. I’m yet to meet new friends or have a chat with the neighbours. Everyone’s either back in Cornwall or back in Hackney and both are a hefty distance away.”

YN had never considered herself as an introvert so to call herself lonely felt strange.

She was always the friend who asked for the bill, she was the friend who made the complaint in a restaurant when a plate of food came back wrong, she was the friend who made advances on blokes in pubs and clubs because her friends were too shy to go and introduce themselves and she was the friend who always carried the responsibility of making polite conversation with people in pubs when they needed a table to perch themselves at. She was that friend. So making friends with strangers and starting conversations with her co-workers and approaching others who she found had kind features was never something she struggled with.

Moving to a new place and having to make new relationships and form new bonds, regardless of how far it was from the bonds and relationships you already had, she found it daunting to start fresh.  

“What are you doing today?”

“I’m not sure. The weather is really nice and it looks warm out so I might go and explore Canary Wharf and see what’s around. I need to do some shopping, food and furniture, so I might do some of that,” YN rolled onto her side and let her cheek rest against the cold side of her mattress, the backs of her thighs exposed to the cool air of her bedroom as her t-shirt rose up her body; and she made a mental note to buy herself so proper pyjamas because knickers and an oversized t-shirt could cause more problems than expected. “We’ve got a lovely grass area outside the block of flats so I might sit out there, soak up the sunshine, read a book and eat some lunch. I don’t know. Might see how the day goes, I have a good feeling about it.”

“Go exploring. You can find some places to show us when we come to visit,” and YN smiled.

“I’ll do that. You’ll love it mum. This place is amazing. I feel so lucky to have been given something as beautiful as this. I had a crack den for my first flat so this feels like a dream,” she stared at her ceiling. There was no yellow tint from how the previous tenants smoked inside and there were no unusually coloured stains on the ceiling’s coving that caught the eye because of how a stain of that colour shouldn’t have been there, leaving the mystery of just how it got there… and YN didn’t need that kind of stress over something like that. “It doesn’t smell like pee, there’s no syringes outside and there’s no sign of vomit or shit stains on the floor because it’s all laminate.”

“You deserve it, darling. You really do.”

“It’s clean, mum. It came clean, it smells clean, it looks clean. Everything looks brand new and,” YN pauses for a moment, rolling onto her stomach and she sighs with content, “I love it.”

*

After hanging up, she contemplated getting up and getting dressed for the day.

It felt rather tempting to stay in her comfortable loungewear and enjoy the silence, the time to herself and the time off she had been after for so long, taking advantage of Deliveroo and ordering food for breakfast, lunch and dinner rather than cooking something homemade and having the leftovers the next day (or for when she woke up in the early hours with a hankering for something to nibble on, because she could, because she didn’t have an authority figure to tell her no).

By the time her phone call ended with her mother, it was a little over forty-five minutes later and her alarm clock showed a time that she didn’t want to see on her day off; 8:35am. She expected another hour or two added on to her usual sleep schedule, to make a difference to the usual 6am alarm call that had her detesting her job just a tiny bit, but it wasn’t frowned upon because she’d take any given opportunity to speak to her mother. The one person she called her best friend because she really was the only person, apart from her father, that she’d drop anything and everything important for. Her sleep didn’t matter when she got to her the voice of someone she missed so dearly.

Porridge and fruit, a colourful array of strawberries and blueberries and bananas and cranberries in her bowl, and a warm cup of tea had been her breakfast as she caught up with the lifestyle Youtube channel she had been in the loop with. A Youtube channel that she had been a big fan of from the moment she moved to London, one who she turned to in times of need, one that she stumbled across when googling aesthetically pleasing ways to decorate a flat because she really needed to do something about how her Hackney flat had looked before a lick of paint and a hanging plant, one that she continued to view and like and followed tips from, even when it came to her new flat.

“Don’t be afraid to like monochrome and definitely don’t be afraid to follow a colour scheme that might seem ‘out there’ and in your face. If you like lime green then go paint a portion of your wall that colour. If you like the brightest shade of pink then go mad and add some colour to your life. You can never feel more organised than when your surroundings follow a consistent pattern that brings immense amounts of joy when you enter.”

The young girl on her screen, with space-buns either side of her head and an outfit that definitely came from a trendy thrift store clothes rail, sat before a wall of a delicious shade of peach that YN thought looked lovely; not for herself, because she’d stuck with the whites and the greys and the blacks that her flat already consisted of, but perfect for the young twenty-something year old.

“There are loads of websites where you can buy hanging plants, or artificial hanging baskets, and hanging canvas prints and wall art. I’m always looking for new things to buy so I’ll link some of my favourite online stores for you to check out; hit my Instagram mentions up with photos of things you’ve brought, too. That’s what I love to see.”

YN’s spoon clinked against the ceramic bowl in front of her as she pushed it away from her, reaching for her television remote and turning off her Youtube app, her television turning off completely and leaving a black screen behind. The flat falling silent. She looked around her, drumming her fingers against the tabletop, eyes squinting as the sunlight streamed through the wall-to-ceiling windows and made everything feel bright..

As much as she warmed to the idea of staying inside and ordering furniture and decor for her home, scrolling through online stores to buy something she thought she needed but really didn’t need, she had a good feeling about the upcoming day.

*

“Listen, love, I’m not sure if you could tell but I’m not exactly a people person. I don’t know you, don’t want to know you, have no plans to get to know you. You might live in the building but that doesn’t mean we need to be friendly.”

He spoke with such vigour in his voice that YN could only keep quiet so as to not entice a negative reaction out of him in such a confined space because confrontation was something she was never comfortable with. Sure, she’d endured confrontation before but that was from people she had been acquainted with, the ones she was friends with, people she saw on a daily basis and from people she worked with, from those who were supposed to confront her when something was wrong or hadn’t been down in a way it was supposed to be done; her boss, mainly. This man was a complete stranger, someone she didn’t know,someone she’d never seen before so instant regret filled her veins. She thought he looked friendly enough to start a quick conversation, to make the lift ride seem a little less boring, filling the empty space with general chit-chat.

Cowering away from him and almost closing in on herself, even though his attention stayed focused on the screen of his phone as he scrolled through a social media app, she thought he’d finished with her and she hadn’t expected him to perk up anymore.

“Not everyone likes to chat to strangers.”

“Well, I like chatting to strangers so don’t mind him,” a quirky Geordie accent perked up from behind her, her posture adjusting at the sudden appearance of someone behind her; she’s sure she didn’t see anyone else in the lift, apart from the towering bloke beside her, when she stepped into the lift but, then again, he was tucked away in the corner with a cap on his head and she had been looking at the floor as she entered because a mark on her white shoe had caught her attention. “Come chat to me, if you want. Promise I won’t bite your head off like matey-boy there.”

Her trainers squeaked on the floor as she spun around, eyes raking up and down his figure so she could get a good look at who the voice belonged to, almost staking him out in a way. He was a handsome chap, with brown hair sticking out from beneath a black cap upon his head that he’d pulled quite far down his forehead, a cheeky grin on his face that made the mood in the lift much brighter. There was a graphic print printed on the front of the black hoodie he had decided to throw on, the commonly-known Adidas stripes lining the length of his joggers, trainers on his feet with the laces loose and almost untying by themselves (clumsy, she assumed he was, because there’s no way he wouldn’t trip over them as soon as they loosened completely).

“I’m Will. Will Lenney.”

“I’m YN.”

“Do I get your surname? S’only fair since I told you mine.”

She laughed softly and replied with her surname, a look of appreciation on his features as he held his hand out for her to take, which she gladly shook with her own. Skin so soft, fingers so delicate, with a hold so strong that she couldn’t find herself letting go. She didn’t want to let go. This was the first contact she’d had with someone new, in a month of being new to the area, and it just so happened to be with someone she found rather attractive to the eye.

The bloke from before, who had tore down her attempts at being the friendly neighbour who he would, no doubt, see quite often, couldn’t help but let out the strongest sigh of annoyance. A sound that brought them back to reality, hands falling from their hold, dropping back down to their sides with a faint rosy-look on their cheeks that didn’t come from how warm it was. A sound that made the both of them turn their noses up, that made them their eyebrows scrunch on their browlines and made them want to really throw words at him until he gained some manners. Yet they ignored him because he wasn’t worth the time.

“You’re new here, aren’t you? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before,” he started, adjusting the backpack on his shoulder that had slipped with the movement of his arm falling down to his side. His fingertips and right down to the middle of his palm still felt heavy with the thought of her hand still in his. “I’d remember such a beautiful face.”

The heat already on her cheeks reached boiling and she knew her flushed look caught his attention. His smile turning into a grin which had her looking at her feet, shyly. A handsome lad with a sense of immense charm about him; she liked him and it wasn’t typical of her to form an attraction at such an early stage.

“Yeah, I moved in about a month ago. Floor 10, right at the end of the corridor. A proper upgrade from where I used to be located but thanks to my work, they moved me from my previous office block to my current office block in Canary Wharf and said they’d move me closer if necessary,” she thought she was rambling and she expected a look of faint annoyance on his features that would silently tell her to shut up. She picked at the loose string hanging from the hem of her t-shirt and twirled it around her finger, looking up from her feet and seeing a look of intense concentration on his face, enticing her to carry on. “The move was necessary. Completely necessary. It wasn’t a nice place where I was before, it was the first thing I saw on the website and I was desperate for somewhere to live. If I stayed there, I would be half an hour away otherwise.”

Canary Wharf.

It was a complete upgrade from the streets of Hackney and the dingy flat she had become so accustomed to for a little less than a year; the smell of weed and tobacco would fill the corridors and hit her in the face when she left her front door, the lights were always dim and flickered and the lifts were rickety and untrustworthy, discarded bikes and scooters and old prams and baby-carriers littered the space between one end of the hallway to the other, suspicious figures dressed in black hoodies and grey joggers always greeted her with stone-cold faces and squared-up jaws. An attempt, she guessed, to look like they were the typical hardnuts of the complex and that they weren’t to be messed with, even if it was just a polite ‘excuse me’ to pass them by and to be out of their hair within a moment.

It wasn’t all bad, regardless. Her neighbours were sweethearts, they always said hello and invited her in for cups of tea and a slice of cake after she finished work, most people were kind and warm and had their own back stories as to why they chose such a place to live - she could only imagine that the building was a nice place to live, with residents who took care of themselves and the place they lived in, before London gangs took over and were on the high of increasing and before drug dealers became more frequent on the streets - and her life, thank god,  was never bothered. No one intervened, no one found her life to be their business to spread and life felt normal; she had a home, somewhere to live, somewhere to sleep and eat and shower and feel warm and cosy in a bed. Even if it wasn’t as nice as she had wanted it to be, she had somewhere.

Her new flat was almost dream-like if you compared it to what she lived in before. It made her Hackney flat look like a pit; a drug-den, if you will. She could wake up to pure sunshine filtering through double-glazed windows and there was no chance that she would be rudely woken up in the middle of the night from the ghoulish moans of the wind getting trapped between cracked window panes or the drunken yells of people stumbling down the hallways back to their homes. She could walk to her new place of work rather than hop on public transport and she could take the time to explore a side of London she never had the chance to see. Her floor was laminated wood, heated when the nights were cold, and there were no stains of garishly and disgusting colours of god-knows-what from previous tenants who had lived there. The view was beautiful, she could see right to the end of the horizon, and the scenes she was greeted with on her arrival home were almost picturesque… except pictures could never do it justice.

She’d been there for a month.

A whole four weeks.

And she could already feel improvements in her lifestyle that weren’t so bold before. She woke up happier and didn’t feel the need to stay in bed for a lie-in, she felt happier during the day and had a bob in her step that brought light to her office block, she felt safe when she walked out the reception and into the open space by the entrance and didn’t feel like she would be jumped by hiding predators if she arrived home late at night. She was friendly with her neighbours, always popped round to give them any post that had been posted through her mailbox by accident or if deliveries were left with them when she’d been at work and always started a conversation with them when they stood waiting for the lift to arrive on their floor.

“Oh, nice. What is it-”

The ding of the lift stopped Will mid-sentence, silenced them and halted their conversation as the doors opened to reveal the reception floor, empty and desolate from people. It was mid-morning, almost lunchtime, so YN had assumed most were working or out in the streets of London to enjoy the sunshine; the latter being what she had planned to do.

The man from the lift, who had tucked himself in the corner and stuck earphones in to block out their conversation, made sure he was the first one out and disappeared before YN could give him a sarcastic goodbye, not that he would have heard her anyway so she settled with a wave, a really exaggerated and over-the-top wiggle of her fingers, and hoped he saw it in the reflection of the window as he left and disappeared into the mass of people walking by their block of apartments.

“You’re a right character, you,” Will admitted, nudging her with his elbow and smirking at her, “what is it you do, job-wise? That’s what I wanted to ask.”

“I’m a PA for a CEO at an advertising company. A personal assistant who runs and gets coffee for everyone, gets lunch during her lunch-break, who organises meetings and creates schedules and gets the big boss what he wants when he wants it,” she clarified, “it’s not exactly the best job and I wish I was doing something I wanted to do but it pays well. For now, it’s enough to get me by and keep this place.”

They started walking toward the automatic doors of the entrance, feeling the cool air of the shade on their exposed skin that definitely disappeared as soon as the sunshine hit them, coming to a stop just by a brick wall. Young children were running around with their parents walking behind, cyclists were dinging bells to pass through large groups and groups of university students were huddled on the grass, eating lunches they’d brought from restaurants on their way, backpacks discarded and being used as pillows as they laughed and joked. Tourists were taking photos and posing to show off where they’d been and what they got up to when it came to showing their friends back home and businessmen and businesswomen were almost speed-walking to get back to their offices in time with a styrofoam takeaway lunch in their hands.

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I? Just tell me to piss off if I am.”

“No, no. Don’t be silly. I’m only popping round the corner to see my mate. He won’t mind if I’m late,” he said, perching down on the brick wall and patting the space beside him. The legs of his ankles rose up to show the white ankle socks he’d paired with his trainers., “What is it you want to do as a job? Just, the way you talk about your job now makes it sound like you don’t like it.”

“I do like it there. But I don’t want to be a personal assistant, running round London to get coffee and sandwiches, for the rest of my life. I’ve always dabbled in blogging, taking photos, talking about nonsense and stuff. Posting videos and vlogging, too. I’ve tried it out as something fun, documenting holidays and stuff, and I’d love to do something with that and take it further but... I don’t know,” she sat down beside him, sliding her bag off of her shoulder and setting it on her lap, arm looped underneath the handles to keep it from spilling the contents inside, “I don’t want to be a social influencer but someone who does what she wants to do and gets by by just being herself. No companies to promote her or anything. Nothing to boost her. All her,” she stared off into the distance, tapping the heel of her foot against the concrete. Will nodded. “What do you do?”

“I, uh,” he scoffed out a laugh and rubbed the nape of his neck. His hat fell from his head and he decided to swap the shade of the cap to the sunglasses he had hanging from the neck of his hoodie, “funnily enough, I post videos on Youtube. I’m a Youtuber.”

Her head whipped round and she gawked at him. Eyes wide, mouth agape and her hand found his forearm, squeezing it tightly with excitement.

“You’re not?”

“I am, yeah. I was in university, didn’t like what I was studying, and I was told that if I really felt strongly about this Youtube malarky then I should pursue it to its possible potential and see where I end up. My mum’s words, not mine,” he snorted. He felt her hand loosen around his forearm and he watched her face become rigid as she came to the realisation of what she’d done. He dismissed it because he didn’t want to embarrass her but, really, he didn’t mind and he found it endearing.  “I’m not that big or popular or anything but I’ve got a couple million subscribe-”

“Not that big,” she mocked and rolled her eyes, “a couple million subscribers is huge. I’ll have to search you up. What’s your channel name?”

“WillNE. Like, Will then an N then an E. Like a-”

“Like a play on words with your surname,” she grinned as she proudly finished his sentence for him and he nodded, rather pleased with himself; and she had to give it to him, it was something special, unique and rather creative than some of the stand-out names she could think of from the platform. Some were really out there and had no relevance to who they were nor what they spoke about, some were vague and some were almost as bonkers as the people who came up with them. “That’s really cool. This is really cool. A famous Youtuber lives in my flat complex... I’m talking to a famous Youtuber right now... heck, I’ve managed to keep my cool around someone famous and I’m amazed I haven’t embarrassed myself. Wait till I tell my friends about this. They won’t believe me.”

“They’re not fangirls or anything, are they?”

“No, ha. If anyone’s the fangirl out of my friends then it’s me. I’ll find myself watching Youtube when I’ve got nothing else to do,” she admitted, “cooking dinner? I’ll stick someone on to watch. Can’t sleep? I’ll just binge watch someone until I’m tired. Day off and there’s nothing to do? I’ll find a channel and just let it go from there.”

“Maybe I’ll pop up on there one day. I’ll help cure your boredom,” Will grinned, “then you can say ‘hey, that’s one of my mates there on my telly, that is’.”

A comfortable silence swallowed the both of them as they sat and let the seconds tick by. The tweets of the birds came from above, distant chatter came from the students lounging on the grass behind, scuffs of soles signified people were walking and jogging nearby and despite the feeling of time coming to end between the two of them, neither of them wanted to leave the other, neither wanted to bring the conversation to an end and neither of them wanted to part ways.

“So, we’re mates, huh?”

“Yeah, I reckon so,” Will smiled. Eyes locking with hers for a brief second, long enough to catch the twinkle in her eye and the genuine smile that lifted up her lips, “you’re a good’un. I like you. I think we’ll get along really bloody well, me and you.”

*

(WILL’S TEXTS. YN’S TEXTS.)

Filming a video tomorrow. Fancy coming by?

Won’t I get in the way?

Bollocks will you. Come along. Please. You can see firsthand how to make a Youtube video since you said you’ve always thought about it.

Where?

Only at my place. A TWOTI.

This Week On The Internet… nice one. I’ll be there.

You’ve done your research on me!

Spent all day googling you. As soon as you walked away, I started my research and I cut my day short so I could come home and watch your videos. Just call me a superfan now.

Superfan, ha.

I’ll have to test you. Could get you in a video to see if you’re my biggest fan.

Try me. I’ll get full marks. Your subscribers will look like phonies compared to me, hahaha.

You might have to sit off camera, out of shot, tomorrow. If I don’t finish everything by the time you get here, that is. No distractions. No pulling faces behind the camera.

I’ll be on my best behaviour. I’ll fangirl at the door, drop my Twitter handle into conversation, ask for a signature and a photo and then I’ll be fine.

I’m not going to regret this, am I?

You won’t hear a peep out of me. Promise.

Come by after lunch then. We can get some takeaway for lunch or something, if you don’t eat before, and I’ll have some bits filmed by the time you get here so you won’t have to sit in silence for too long.

Make it 1pm and it’s a deal.

Why 1pm?

It’s Saturday tomorrow. I don’t get up before noon on the weekends. Not even for you, mister big-shot Youtuber. ;)

And here I was, thinking you would throw your routine away for your new best mate.

Nice try.. see you tomorrow, William.

Ohh, serious. Full name and all. I see how it is, YN.

Goodnight, you muppet.

See you tomorrow. x

[justlightlysedated]

I’m not sure if this is what you were after with your message earlier, but anything more with the Malex Charmed AU where Alex is a witch and Michael is a white lighter would be wonderful 💖💖💖

set in this au:

Michael’s never been so nervous about an assignment before. But that’s probably because he’s never been given such an important assignment before. Usually he takes care of future White Lighters or low level witches just learning to use their powers.

But these were not only the children of a Charmed One, but also the children of Jesse Manes, one of the most notoriously evil warlocks, who even the Source was rumoured to fear.

So yeah, he was nervous, but he knew what his strengths were, and he knew that he was chosen because he was the best at blending in and staying in character and the Elders really wanted to keep an eye on the Manes Brothers, without them actually knowing that they were being watched.

Michael takes a look at his reflection in the rearview mirror, and he looks just as terrified as he feels.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath trying to find his center, and calming himself down just like Max had taught him back when Michael had first become a White Lighter.

Once he feels more calm and less nervous, he gets out of his truck, making sure to grab his tool box.

Michael closes the door behind himself and looks up at the Manes Manor.

The architecture put it firmly somewhere in the early eighteen hundreds, and the mauve color of the wooden boards made it stand out even more in the neighborhood full of monotone colors.

Michael’s story was pretty easy to remember and to input. The Manes had several nosy neighbors, and Mrs. Karen Johnson, their next door neighbor had been heard complaining loudly about the fact that the boarded up windows at the Manes Manor hadn’t been fixed since they’d been broken almost a full week ago.

So Michael had decided that the best way to infiltrate was to pose as a handyman, after all, old Victorian Manors sometimes did need a lot of work done, if no one kept up with the upkeep, and something told Michael that the Manes were more concerned with other matters than their home falling around them.

Something which is proven when Michael gets closer and realizes that the door wasn’t left open, but was actually leaning against the door jamb, on it’s side.

Michael is trying really hard not to be judgemental here, but he’s surprised that they’re still alive at this point.

As he stops right by the edge of the welcome mat, covered in wood chips and what he’s pretty sure is green demon goo, and sets his tool box down, he can almost perfectly hear the argument going on inside.

“-should just admit that you have no idea what you’re actually doing,” one voice says, sounding very much on the edge of condescending.

“Just because you can’t do it, doesn’t mean that my patch job is bad,” another voice says sounding on edge.

There is silence for two seconds and then the sounds of wooden boards hitting the ground, along with the small metal sounds of nails falling.

“You were saying?” the first voice says.

Someone else scoffs, and then Michael hears footsteps.

Michael doesn’t bother hiding as the first brother appears, Flint, the middle one, walking out from where he thinks the living room is located and into the short hall that leads towards the front door, heading towards the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms.

But no one seems to notice him as his two brothers follow after him.

Gregory, the eldest and the tallest one of the three of them, is the one to speak next, “I agree with Alex. We should consider hiring someone.”

Michael clears his throat and takes a step closer to the entrance, but no one pays attention to him.

Flint stops right at the bottom of the stairs and gives Gregory a truly vicious look, “Of course you agree with Alex.”

Alex, who is the youngest brother, shares a look with Gregory and then obviously rolls his eyes, almost with his whole entire body, leaning back against the small table where an empty vase is located.

He’s the only one with his back to Michael, and yet, no one else notices that he’s standing right there.

“I’m just saying that your way didn’t work, maybe we should consider-”

“Dad always said that real men fix their own messes,” Flint interrupts.

Alex makes a truly impressive disgusted noise with his mouth, “Dad is also an evil bastard warlock who keeps sending demons to steal our powers, do you really want to keep listening to his advice?”

"Excuse-" Michael tries trying to interrupt them, but they keep talking over him.

Flint rolls his eyes with his whole body just like Alex did, “Just because you think he’s evil-”

“He’s sending demons after us to steal our powers,” Alex repeats.

Flint gives him an annoyed look, “Powers that we only have because of you.”

Alex pushes off the table then, making the vase rock alarmingly. "You're really still blaming me after the last demon confirmed that dad would've sent them after us anyway?"

Flint opens his mouth, but Alex cuts him off, before he can say a word.

"Do you want to be dead? Because that's what you'd be right now. Dead."

"I can't believe that you're willing to take a demon's word for it, when it's our dad-"

Alex scoffs, "Dad has wanted me dead our whole lives-"

Michael moves forward and knocks on the door, and he sees Alex twitch towards the sound, but at the same time Gregory speaks up, loudly.

"I think that maybe we should table this conversation for some other time," Gregory says speaking over his two brothers, who turn to face him. "And I also think that we should put it to a vote."

Flint and Alex just look at him expectantly.

"Should we call someone to look at the damage and give us an estimate so that we at least know how much money before deciding it costs too much and do it ourselves?" Gregory asks.

Flint scoffs, but doesn't move.

Alex raises his hand immediately, "I say we should."

"So do I," Gregory says, raising his own hand.

"Fine," Flint says, and turns around and stomps up the stairs.

Michael winces as the slamming of his bedroom door echoes loudly downstairs.

Alex and Gregory just look at each other.

"You make the call, I'll make the coffee," Gregory says, and turns around, heading towards the dining room and to the kitchen.

Alex just sighs and turns around and makes direct eye contact with Michael.

Michael feels very much like someone just punched him in the stomach and forced all of the air out of his lungs.

Michael had seen pictures of the three brothers to be able to tell who each one was and who had what power, but pictures really didn't do Alex Manes justice.

There was something magnetizing in his kohl lined gaze, and even though he was looking at Michael with suspicion, his gaze was so intense that Michael didn’t think he could look away, even if he wanted to.

Alex takes several steps forward which snaps Michael’s attention away from his face and down the rest of his body. The way his shoulders stretch out the thin fabric of his black t-shirt, and how thick his biceps look and down to how his black skinny jeans stretch across his thighs, and the flash of pale skin in the strategically placed rips.

Michael feels a stab of attraction low and hot in his belly and he thinks, oh, oh no.

“Can I help you?” Alex asks, sounding hostile, and Michael stares at him for a second longer, at the way he’s moved so that he’s right in the middle of the hall, but close enough to duck into the living room if Michael were inclined to attack.

Michael pulls himself out of the daze he’d fallen in, and lifts a hand and waves, "Hi. I've been trying to get your attention."

Alex gives him an expectant look like he expects Michael to explain why, so Michael does.

“I was fixing the back door for your neighbor, and she mentioned something about your windows, and I figured I might as well take a look since I don’t have any other jobs lined up for the next couple of hours.”

Alex looks him up and down for a second, taking in the toolbelt and the tool box that Michael had set down earlier.

“Which neighbor?” He acts like he’s testing Michael.

“Mrs. Johnson?” Michael responds, more like a question

Alex deflates at the answer, face losing all of it’s tension as he steps even closer, sending Michael a small, sheepish smile that almost sends Michael into a daze.

“Karen needs to mind her own business,” he says, sounding amused. “But since she has been dropping by with food and hints about knowing someone that would help, I’m not surprised she got tired of being ‘subtle’ and actually sent someone over.”

He does finger quotes around the word subtle, and Michael thinks that he maybe falls in love with him a little.

Michael shakes his head, and looks away from Alex. He hopes that this attraction thing is short lived, since he has a job to do, but a small part of him already knows that it’s not going to be as easy as that.

The only thing that he’s pinning his hopes on right now is that Alex is not interested and straight.

“Yeah,” Michael says weakly. “I heard the last bit of your conversation there, and I can give you an estimate right now if you want?”

He looks back to Alex, who looks up and then turns to look behind himself, the move making his shirt lift up, and showing off the rainbow studded belt he’s wearing.

Michael’s heart jumps in his chest, and he tells himself that that belt could mean anything, but that combined with the eyeliner and the cuffs around his ears are a blatant sign in a language that Michael is fully fluent in.

“That would be great,” he says turning back to face Michael, and the small smile on his face gets a little wider as he realizes that Michael had been staring at his belt.

Michael looks away from him then, and he leans down and reaches for his tool box, telling himself firmly that he has a job to do, that that’s all this is, a job, and that there are rules against this sort of thing. Rules that clearly state that relationships between witches and White Lighters are strictly prohibited.

He walks into the house, and signals to the door, “Should I add the door into my estimate as well?”

Alex looks over to the door, and makes a face, probably at the mess that’s on the welcome mat.

“Yes,” he says looking back at Michael, and then he takes a step closer, so that he’s within reaching distance.

“I’m Alex, by the way,” he says as he puts out one hand.

Michael swallows hard, but he reaches out with his free hand.

“Michael,” he says just as their hands make contact.

Alex inhales sharply, eyes falling shut as his hand squeezes Michael’s hand lightly.

Michael can feel the wave of magic that pours out of him momentarily, and he already knows that Alex is the one who can see the future, which means that he probably just got a premonition.

Michael needs to act like this isn’t something that he would know about, but before he can make an appropriately worried face, Alex is opening his eyes.

He licks his lips and looks at Michael with too wide eyes, pupils blown wide, and his eyes drop down to Michael’s mouth, and then even lower, before he looks back up to Michael’s eyes.

“It’s going to be so nice knowing you,” Alex says, in a low and breathy voice.

Michael’s eyes go wide and he feels heat flooding his cheeks as Alex’s voice hits him right in the middle of his stomach.

Fuck, he thinks. He is utterly fucked.

He wonders what the hell that could mean, what kind of premonition Alex had that would make him say that, but then Alex’s face goes a little panicked as he realizes what he just said, and he lets go of Michael’s hand, taking a step back and clearing his throat.

“I mean, nice to meet you,” he tells him in a completely unconvincing tone. “Let me show you the windows.”

He turns then and walks into the living room, and Michael watches him go, still feeling a little warm.

Oh no, he thinks again, and follows after Alex.

[kiwi-bitchez]

Ahoy-hoy. Yo so I got cheated on and TBH I can't smile. Idk if you're taking requests, but maybe write me a revenge-fuck sort of story? Sorry if you're not taking asks.

Hello! Don’t apologize, my asks are always open!! Thank you for sharing this with me, my heart really goes out to you. I’ve been cheated on before so I know how shitty you must feel. Sending you lots of love and also this fic. Not sure if I really captured the spirit of “revenge fucking” cuz this ended up being kinda #soft… but I hope you like it!

Manual Labor

Coffeeshop!AU / Carpenter!Tom

Word Count: 6.4K

Warnings: smut, the usual, oral, swearing, cheating, ex-boyfriends being shitty, lots of tea

Summary: After being cheated on you can’t seem to see the brighter side of things. That is until a familiar British carpenter comes into your work to fix some things. You bring him tea and things go a little better this time…

Dating in your twenties can be difficult. Everyone is at different stages in their lives, and everyone wants different things. Some people are looking for commitment, others just for hookups. So when you find someone who sticks, who wants the same things as you, it feels really nice.

Well, it feels really nice until they cheat on you after a whole year of dating. You would be foolish to say you thought he had been “the one,” but you really thought the two of you had clicked on a deep level. You were both mature, career-driven, hardworking, and caring people. Right? Well, it seemed so at the time.

But somehow you find yourself buried under seven layers of duvet blanket, bawling your eyes out on a Tuesday afternoon. It had all happened so fast, you hadn’t even had time to be emotional about it until it was all over. You kept running through your head what you had done wrong, what you could have done better.

Thursday rolls around and you realize its about time you show back up at work. Thankfully your boss is a sweetheart and told you to take all the time you needed. You tried to go into work the day after it all went down and ended up crying into someone’s coffee order.

You had cried all your tears and ate all your ice cream, and decided it was about time to rejoin society. Rolling out of bed you throw on your typical work outfit, black jeans and a t-shirt. You look in the mirror and try to splash some cold water on your face to kill the puffiness under your eyes.

Some mascara helped, and a little bit of lipgloss never hurt either. Once you were presentable enough, you make your way over to your job at the local coffee shop. Your coworkers all greet you with big smiles and empathetic hugs. It was obvious what you were going through, but you appreciated their support. You just wished everything would go back to normal.

“I never liked him anyways,” your closest work friend Margret admits, “I always thought you could do so much better.”

“Thanks Marg,” you don’t bother to look up from the pastry labels you were making, trying to signal that you really weren’t in the mood to talk about it.

Everyone kept telling you the same things, “He wasn’t good enough for you,” “You can do so much better,” “Fuck him.” Although you wanted to believe everyone, to be the badass independent woman you thought you were, you couldn’t help but well up with tears every time someone brought him up.

You manage to get through the week. Each day consisting of a little less crying and a little less binge eating, you slowly get back into your regular routine. Well, your regular routine excluding him of course.

It’s a slow afternoon, only a few customers dotted the coffee shop, most on their laptops doing work or having private conversations. You had zoned out, thinking about your schedule for the week, balancing school and work, as you stood behind the register waiting for another lonely customer to come in.

Your hand pressed into your cheek, leaning your weight onto your hand, you mindlessly stared at the wooden floor.

“Excuse me,” a strange accent asks from behind the counter. When had someone come in? Why hadn’t you noticed?

“Is Anna around? I’m the handyman here to fix the countertop,” his voice was like red velvet cake, and brought you right out of your trance.

“Anna’s right in the back, I’ll get her for you,” you answer his question instinctively before taking a moment to recognize the familiar face in front of you. You recall him from a few months ago, he was a carpenter who had come in to do some renovations over the summer.

His name was Tom. That you couldn’t forget. It had been a blistering hot summer day and he had come in to take a look at some part of the shop, something that had needed fixing. He went to the same school as you but worked part-time for a local carpenter.

He had assessed the damage and assured your boss Anna that he could start right away, only needing the rest of the day to fix up what needed mending. He had been wearing a white t-shirt that clung slightly to his body with sweat from the heat. He was good looking and certainly attracted the attention of most people in the vicinity, especially as he worked with the tools from his belt. You couldn’t help but stare for a second.

But only a second. Your boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, often spent his time in between classes at the coffee shop visiting you. He always sat at the table closest to the counter so you could talk to him when business was slow. That’s why you stared for only a second.

After around two hours, you decided to go over to him. He had been working tirelessly, and the exhausting heat must have been getting to him.

“You drink coffee?” you ask, causing him to stop drilling at whatever he was fixing.

“I drink tea, darling,” he responds, causing you to notice his thick accent.

“How do you take it?” you blush a little, as his dark brown eyes looked directly into yours as he answered your question. You figured you were just being nice, he was working really hard and looked like he could use a break, that’s all.

You quickly made your way back behind the counter, whipping up a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin that he hadn’t asked for but you were sure he’d appreciate.

“Thanks love,” he said appreciatively as you set it down on the table closest to him.

“On the house,” you smile back at him, “for all your hard work.”

You hadn’t thought too much of the interaction, just a nice gesture you felt like doing. Your boyfriend had thought otherwise, however.

“What the fuck was that?” he hisses at you, barely above a whisper from the other side of the counter.

“What?” you ask back, fully not knowing what he was angry about.

“Were you trying to make me look stupid?” he says a little louder this time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his tone worried you.

“You’re just gonna flirt with that guy right in front of me, do you think I’m an idiot?” his voice was rising in volume and you were starting to get nervous that the people in the café could hear you.

“Babe, I was just being nice, he’s working really hard,” your voice is back at a whisper, trying to encourage him to do the same.

“No, you always do this, you think you can make me jealous by being a fucking slut and flirting with every guy you see. Stop it, it’s not cute and it doesn’t work y/n,” his tone was abrasive and you could feel the eyes of everyone staring at you. You could feel tears well up in your eyes as his words burned into you.

“It wasn’t like that,” your voice cracked, “I promise it wasn’t like that.”

“Yeah, whatever you say,” he responds loudly and sarcastically as he slams his laptop shut and shoves it in his bag.

“Guess I’ll see you later,” his voice was still sharp.

You watched him stomp out of the small shop, tears threatening to spill from your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Tom had mouthed to you as your eyes made their way to him in the doorway.

“It’s okay,” you had mouthed back before running to the break room and begging Margret to cover for you as you cried in the bathroom.

This memory hit you like a ton of bricks as you saw Tom again, standing at the counter. Your ex had always been jealous like that. At the time you thought of it as “protective,” and “loving,” rather than seeing it as “possessive” and “manipulative.”

“She should be right over here,” you say a little slowly, your eyes not leaving his face. You were taking it in, the curve of his jaw and the angle of his smile, the same warm look he had given you all those months ago.

“Hey Anna, the carpenter is here,” you pop your head into the back room.

She shuffles out and greets Tom, shaking his hand quickly before showing him over to the area that needed fixing.

You sit blankly at your register, tending to the few customers who came in, somehow without taking your eyes off of Tom. Seeing him just reminded you of that day, reminded you of how your ex had humiliated you and made you cry, how he had been so rude and controlling.

Seeing Tom made something switch in your brain. Everyone was right. Fuck him. Fuck that guy and fuck what he had done to you. You were done crying over someone who would cheat on you, over someone who clearly didn’t love you the way you deserved to be loved. Everyone who was spewing clichés at you was right. You did deserve better.

Somehow through these thoughts, your hands had taken over while your mind ran in circles. Before you could even realize what you were doing, you were standing in front of Tom with a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin.

“Um,” you stutter out, not entirely sure what you were doing, “If I remember correctly, this is how you take your tea.”

His attention is pulled from the countertop, brown curs slightly pressed to his sweaty forehead, biceps filling out the sleeves of his shirt perfectly. Those perfect brown eyes boring into you once again.

“You remembered,” he said with a genuine smile, “that’s amazing, thanks a bunch love.”

You set the tea down next to him and stare for a second, not wanting the conversation to be over.

“You should hurry back though, if your boyfriend is here again,” he says quietly with a bit of concern.

“Oh,” you were taken aback, the implications of your action hitting you, “Oh, um, he, uh, we… aren’t together anymore. He doesn’t come here.”

“That’s a bit of relief then,” Tom says, putting down his tool belt and picking up the tea to blow on it, “that guy was a bit of a prick if I do say so myself.”

“Yeah,” you laugh a little, looking down at your feet, “bit of a prick.”

“This may be a bit out of line,” he takes a short sip before continuing, “but I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.”

“Not out of line,” you shake your head, “he was being an ass to you too, I’m sorry you were put in that awkward position last time you were here, I wanted to apologize.”

“Don’t apologize for a thing love, you’re much better off without him,” although he was essentially a stranger, his words seemed sincere.

“Ever since he cheated on me I feel like that’s all I hear,” you say with a laugh, your breath hitching in your throat when you realize what you had said. You weren’t really thinking, and this boy made you a little nervous, it had just slipped out.

“Oh, I- I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with a softer voice, “I-”

“Sorry,” you cut him off, “that was weird of me to say, you don’t even know me, sorry I’m like, dumping my personal problems onto you.”

You laughed nervously, wanting to clear the air. He looked at you with genuine sympathy. He had experienced first-hand how much of an ass your ex had been, and you seemed so sweet, remembering his café order and bringing it over to him when you truly didn’t have to.

“Thank you for the tea,” he said, taking another sip, “you smile a little brighter without him around.”

Your cheeks grew hot at his comment and all you could do was grin at him and scurry back to your position at the register. You bury your face in your hands, running through the conversation you just had over and over. You felt so stupid, yet at the same time strangely confident. The way he looked at you, smiled when you smiled, made your heart flutter. Were you imagining this? Was he just being nice?

You kept stealing glances over to where he was working. He would occasionally catch you and smile back, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his cheeks pink. You held your breath every time, wanting to go back over to talk to him. But you were at work, and so was he. So you continued to make lattes, and he continued to fix the countertop.

You start to clean up, throwing out old coffee filters and wiping down dirty tabletops. You start counting money in the register when you’re startled by a figure in front of the register.

“What do I owe you for the tea,” he asks, your face gets hot even before looking up at him.

“Come on, you know it’s on the house,” you respond with a smile.

“Now this isn’t fair,” he starts playfully, “you’ve given me two free drinks now. The gentlemen in me feels it's my responsibility to buy one for you now. It’s the least I can do.”

“You can make me a cup of tea anytime,” your response slips out before you can even filter yourself.

“In that case, let me know when you’re free. I’ve got jasmine, mint, earl grey, English breakfast…”

“I’m more of a chamomile girl,” you were completely unsure where this flirt was coming from, “you know, sleepytime tea.”

“In that case my flat is right around the corner,” he laughs.

“My shift ends in ten if you’re willing to wait around…”

“Yes, yeah, of course, I’ll be right outside,” he gestures out the door and hurries to gather his work tools.

Your eyes grow a little wide when you process what you had just said. Where was this found confidence coming from? Where the fuck could you find some more? And fast???

You finish cleaning up and hang your apron on the hook, giving a shout goodbye to your coworkers as you hurry out the door. Part of you hopes this had all been a joke and he would be nowhere to be found, the other part of you desperately looked for him in the parking lot.

A thud in your heart comprised of half relief and half panic hits as his hand waves to you from his car.

“Hey, you,” he calls over, “you still want that cup of tea?”

You jog over to his car and lean down to his open window, “I’m not sure London boy, I work at a café, I can make a pretty good cup of tea for myself,” there it was again, the flirty courage.

“Oh, but you’ve never had tea made by a real Englishmen, have you? You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”

“You make a compelling argument. Can I follow you to your place?” you nod over to where your car is parked.

“Sure thing, it's not too far from here.” He gives you a cheeky smile that makes the corners of your mouth turn up.

You can’t stop smiling as you hurry over to your car, starting it and not even bothering to pick out music before putting it into drive. Your mind starts whirling a thousand miles a minute as you follow his black car to his apartment. What the fuck were you doing? You barely even know this guy. But god, he’s so hot. And nice. And funny. Fuck.

Suddenly you’re parked next to him, turning the key and stepping out of your car in front of his building.

“Made it alright?” god, that accent. This boy was going to be the death of you.

“I’m Tom by the way,” he flashes you another one of those perfect smiles as you walk side by side to his building entrance.

“I know,” you realized how weird that sounded, “um, I know because you’re the carpenter we always hire,” you try to laugh it off, “I’m y/n.”

“Lovely to formally meet you y/n,” he opens the door for you, “I really appreciate all the free snacks you’ve given me. I always love doing business at your café. For more reasons than one.”

He presses the elevator button and stands close to your side as the two of you wait for the numbers to count down. You step into the small elevator, looking over at Tom as he presses the button of his floor.

“I’m sure you’re tired of hearing this,” he turns to you, “but that guy was a real dumbass for letting a girl like you go.”

“Thanks,” you can’t help but stare at the floor, “I’m not tired of hearing it as long as it’s coming from you.”

He laughs a little at your comment. He has a certain way of making you feel comfortable, of reassuring you with a laugh or a smile when you think you’ve said something stupid.

The elevator dings at his floor and he saunters out over to his apartment door. Your heart rate begins to pick up as he opens the door, not knowing what to expect. You walk in and take off your shoes and put your bag down on a coatrack.

He walks into his small kitchen and immediately puts on a pot of water. Part of you is relieved. He actually wants to make you tea.

“I moved to the states a little over a year ago,” he starts to rummage though his cabinet, pulling out boxes of tea, “everything is pretty nice here, except there isn’t really anywhere to get a decent cup.”

“Hey!” you protest, “I make alright tea.”

“Your tea is alright…” he jokes, “but its nothing compared to home.”

“That’s not fair,” you sit down on a stool across the kitchen from him, “it’s like apples and oranges.”

“Why can’t fruit be compared?”

You fall into an easy back and forth with him, finding the same things funny, laughing at each other’s comments and jokes. You can’t help but stare at his arms as he pours the hot liquid, at the way his tongue pokes out between his teeth in concentration.

“Here you go love,” he hands you a cup, “one genuine cup of tea made by a real Brit.”

You hold the cup in your hands but pay no attention to your own tea as he takes his first sip. You hadn’t flirted with anyone in so long. You didn’t have a reason to. This all felt strange and foreign to you, like you were thirteen again.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, still watching the curve of his jaw as he sipped his cup.

“What do you mean ‘thank you,’ you haven’t even tried it yet,” he gestures to your full cup.

“Not for the tea,” you bring your eyes to meet his, “but thank you for that too. I mean thank you for being so nice to me. For listening to me even though I’m so all over the place. I just… I just haven’t had anyone treat me like this in a really long time and I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Hey,” he brings a hand up to your knee, making you shiver a little, “you can thank me for the tea, but you don’t have to thank me for the common curtsey of being a decent person. You deserve to be listened to and taken care of, that you don’t ever have to thank me for.”

You feel your heart jump into your throat. You had never thought of that, of holding yourself to that standard. Your ex had been an ass to you time and time again, and you always came up with a reason as to why it was your fault. Even when he cheated, your mind went to what you had done wrong or how you could have been better. Fuck that. There was a boy right in front of you who was showing you what your worth was. Being treated like a true human being shouldn’t be rewarded, it should be expected.

“I-” your voice was caught in your throat, “you’re really nice. And cool. And you make really good tea.” You laugh, and he joins you.

“I would very much like to kiss you,” he brings his hand from your knee up to where your hand is placed on your cup, “I also think you are really nice, and cool, and although it is hard for me to admit, you make some good tea too.”

You lean over to him, tentatively waiting for him to meet you halfway. His hand moves up your arm to the side of your face, the skin of his palm was rough and warm against you. Your eyes slowly shut as he pulls your face to his, soft lips meeting yours.

Kissing him for the first time felt like the brisk ocean water hitting you with a wave. Sucking you under and pulling you back up, ice cold yet exhilarating. You pull away from the kiss, letting the wave roll back out to sea, the next wave close on the horizon.

You had never felt such a breath of fresh air, his lips meeting yours again and pulling you back in.

“Is this okay,” he whispers into you, hands cupping either cheek, tea long forgotten.

“Yeah,” you respond, wanting nothing more than to kiss him again, “more than okay.”

You can feel his body shift as he stands up from the stool, his chest coming closer to yours, his face leaning more into the kiss. Your hands make way up his arms, the perfect biceps that you had admired from afar in the coffee shop more than once before.

You press deeper into the kiss, addicted to the feeling of his lips on yours. You were getting pulled further and further in, and you couldn’t bother to look back. You let his tongue slip into your mouth as your hand dances up to his neck, playing with the curls that framed his face.

“Can we go to your bedroom?” you find yourself asking with eyes still closed, lips barely released from his.

“Mhmmm,” he mumbles into your lips, reconnecting them once again, seemingly as addicted as you, “only if that’s what you want, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” you respond a little too quickly, “I’m so fucking sure.”

His strong hands grip underneath your legs that dangle off the stool where you sat, slowly lifting you up to meet his height, legs wrapping firmly around his torso. Your lips never detach as he carries you down the hall, your tongue rolling against his in perfect harmony.

He places you delicately on his bed, cool sheets beneath your skin causing goosebumps to rise. You can’t get enough of the feeling of his hair tangled between your fingers. You run them up and down his scalp, gathering his locks in your hands as you go. He kisses you like he means it.

“I want you to know,” he whispers in your ear, a deep gravely tone, different and sexier than his speaking voice, “that I want to make you feel good, so much better than that guy ever made you feel.”

He juts his hips into yours, causing a moan to catch in the back of your throat.

“Please,” is all you can manage to say before lurching forward, meeting his open mouth with yours again.

His hands are rough and strong, feeling amazingly foreign as they make their way up your legs, dancing underneath the hem of your top. He presses his palms down into you, causing your back to arch into him as you kiss.

You take initiative to remove your top, to show him that you really want him. You toss it over your head, not bothering to notice where it lands. His lips dip down to your jawline, training kisses from the corner of your mouth down to the soft spot on your neck. His thumbs continue to rub soothing circles into the flesh of your torso, slowly making their way up.

You mimic his actions and detangle your hands from his hair to feel underneath his t-shirt. His skin was tight and warm and smooth under your hands. He was taking his time with you, moving slowly but with purpose.

You tug at his shirt, signaling that you wanted it off. He got your message and pulled it off by the back of the neck. You couldn’t help but stare with gawking eyes, you had truly never seen a body this nice so closely, let alone touched one.

He had a cocky smirk on his face, knowing well how hot he is. All you could do is bite your lip and laugh a little, completely unsure how you ended up in this amazing position.

“Manual labor does a body good,” he says with a chuckle before leaning back down to your chest, resuming his trail of wet kisses that were now dipping into the valley of your breasts.

“You’re telling me,” you comment back as your eyes flutter shut a little, feeling his thighs tense up underneath your legs.

He looks up at you for permission before pushing your bra up, kissing and nipping at your skin. He left red blotchy marks that caused a pool to form in your panties. Your hips continue to buck and roll into his, feeling his hardening cock press through his pants onto your leg.

He continues his journey south, taking pit stops to suck at the skin around your ribs, on your stomach, above your hips.

“Can I?” He asks before hooking his thumbs under the waistline of your jeans. You lift your butt to help him slide them off, head in a complete daze. His hands run up and down your legs as they had before, less barriers between you this time. He continues to kiss at the skin on your hips and down into your thighs as his hands slowly spread your legs open for him.

He spent time teasing and licking around your underwear, never quite moving in to where you wanted him most. Leaving a purple hickey on your thigh, he soothes it over with his tongue as he brings his hand up to your underwear, stroking up and down your slit through the fabric.

You cant help but twitch under his touch. He was moving agonizingly slow, and you could feel the dampness in your underwear soaking through to his fingers. Unexpectedly he licks a stripe up the cotton, mouthing at your lips through your underwear.

A breathy moan leaves your throat as your head rolls back, begging him to take them off. He slides a finger around the seams and runs it through your slick folds, loving the way you were already so wet for him.

He follows the row of red marks he had left down your leg again with his tongue as he slowly pulled your underwear down. Every time you looked down at him you felt yourself clench around nothing in anticipation.

Finally, you feel his warm tongue run from your inner thigh to your core, licking wide stripes up and down before dipping into you. His name leaves your mouth mixed with heavy breaths, your hands searching for his arms or his hair, or anything to grip onto as he licked slow circles around your clit.

“Holy shit,” you choke out as he slips a finger into you, curling it upwards perfectly.

You feel him smirk into you, knowing the effect he was having on you. You like his confidence, and the way he was taking his time, building your orgasm up slowly. A second finger joins the first curled up against your walls and your hips drag against his expert tongue.

Any worries you had were melted away, all your stress, your anxieties, your negative thoughts that seemed to haunt you more often than you would like, suddenly sunk away and all you could think was his name, over and over.

You feel your thighs push back as he presses his face deeper into you, licking and pushing his fingers in a perfect rhythm. He could feel your walls tighten around his fingers, knowing that your high was close.

“Fuck Tom, I’m-” you couldn’t even bear to finish your thought as your orgasm crashed over you, that perfect wave of pleasure pulling you out and pushing you back in. He knew just when to speed up and when to pull back, letting you ride out your orgasm on his face, lapping up your juices and kissing back up your thighs, finally meeting your face, two fingers remaining inside your pulsing opening.

“Holy shit,” you giggle out, “you’re really fucking good at that.”

“I told you I wanted to make you feel good,” he kisses into your neck, finally dragging his fingers out of you and running them softly up your skin, “and how can I not when you look so gorgeous like this.”

You manage to swing your shaky legs over him, moving on top to press your chest flat against his. Now it was your turn to leave open mouthed kisses all along his neck. That perfect jawline begging to be sucked on.

Your hand snakes down to his hard member, fiddling with the button of his pants.

“You don’t have to, if you’re tired,” he mumbles into you as you feel around in his pants.

“I’m yours, if you’ll have me,” you whisper back into his ear, finding his cock fitting perfectly in your hand.

He kissed you with a new hunger and passion, hands gripping at the roots of your hair and pulling your face into his as you slowly jerk him off. Low guttural moans growling in the back of his mouth as your tongue swirled around his.

He kicks his pants off, and you push the band of his boxer briefs down as well, exposing his perfect cock. It was pink and dripping precum, begging to be sucked on. You run your thumb over his tip, loving the way his body tensed under your touch.

You find yourself down between his legs, licking a long stripe up the underside of him. You swirl your tongue around his tip while making eye contact with him, his head tossing back once you finally sink your mouth down onto his length.

He had teased you relentlessly, so you decide to tease back. You jerk the base of him off slowly as you run your tongue in all sorts of patterns clockwise and counterclockwise around his sensitive tip, only sinking back down when he bucked his hips up into your mouth.

“Fuck, y/n,” his voice was weak, “can I fuck you, can I please fuck you.”

His eyes finally focus back down to meet yours, the sight of your lips wrapped perfectly around his cock make it twitch.

You detach your lips with a pop and give him a nod, taking your swollen lip in between your teeth. Suddenly his hands are on your shoulders, pressing you down into the mattress as he kisses you hotly, sucking onto your bottom lip.

He rubs circles on your clit with one hand as the other fumbles over to his bedside drawer to find a condom. You lay back with your legs pushed up for him, back arched, fully ready and open for him. He runs his rubber tip up and down your soaking folds a few times, making you beg for him before slowly pushing into you.

You moan into his neck, biting down on his shoulder to silence yourself as he bottoms out inside you. His slow movements give you time to adjust to his size before you meet his lips again with yours, telling him to fuck you harder.

One hand takes place on your inner thigh, pressing your leg into the mattress to angle you perfectly for him to fuck into you, the other remaining on your clit. He picks up his pace and starts thrusting deep and hard into you, properly fucking the shit out of you.

You could tell he liked it when you moaned his name and told him how good he was making your feel, always thrusting a little deeper when you would make noises. It wasn’t long before you felt the pit on your stomach grow hot again, threatening to spill over at any given moment.

“Please don’t stop,” you whine, “you’re gonna make me come again, fuck.”

Your eyes scrunch shut as he rubbed a little harder onto your clit, causing your walls to flutter around him, gripping his cock with every muscle you had. Your eyes roll back into your head, his mouth hanging wide open as he watches you come and writhe underneath him. He doesn’t let up on his pace, fucking you thoroughly through your second orgasm.

Your face was flushed and your jaw hung slack as you felt the waves of pleasure crash over you again and again, abdomen tensing up and letting go over and over. The look on his face could have easily made you come again, watching you intently as you shook with pleasure.

He moves his hand from your throbbing clit up to your face, cupping your cheek as he kissed you deeply, teeth grazing over your bottom lip. You felt your sweaty forehead press into his, eyes open and staring directly into his as he continued to pump inside of you.

“Tom,” you manage to say above a whisper, “fuck me harder, please, fuck, please.”

He leans back onto his knees, and with a swift motion, pulling out of you, he flips your leg over and places you on your stomach. Hands gripped tightly on your hips pulling them up slightly to meet his. He easily slips back into you, hitting a new spot inside you this time. You cry out into the mattress, moans silenced by his pillows. Your hands grasp tightly at the sheets, pushing back onto him as he takes you from behind.

One hand on your lower back and the other gripping at the flesh of your ass he fucked into you with incredible stamina and power. You couldn’t even imagine the fucked out expression on your face as he buried himself into you over and over.

You could feel his cock start to twitch and swell inside you, his thrusts becoming harder and more purposeful. With a final push, he presses hips flush to yours as he spills inside the condom

“Oh my god, y/n,” he groans out, rolling himself into you slowly as he continues to reach his peak. All you could do was press your ass back onto him and feel his warmth inside you.

After a few more profanities, he pulls out and discards the condom. He reaches down and helps you up, bringing your body to lay next to his, spooning you with an arm draped over your sweaty form.

You lean your head back onto his shoulder, looking back up at him through tired eyes.

“That,” you start to giggle, “was really fucking good.”

“Yeah,” he buries his face into your neck, taking in the smell of your hair, “I thought so too.”

He continued to hold you in his arms for a few minutes, allowing you both to relax into the post-sex bliss.

“I think… our tea is probably cold.”

You laugh at his comment and roll over to face him.

“Want me to make another pot? For real this time?” He asks, fingers still dancing up and down your skin.

“Sure,” you smile at him, “I’d like that.”

He gets up and throws his underwear back on, giving you a full view of his perfect body standing in front of you.

“You should pee and get cleaned up,” he suggests, “bathroom is just down the hall.”

You take a moment to stretch out and toss your shirt and underwear back on, making your way down the hall. You can hear him moving in the kitchen, and can’t help but replay the events of what just happened over and over in your head.

Slipping quietly out into the kitchen, you take your seat back on the stool, looking much more disheveled than you had when you sat on it earlier.

“You’re beautiful,” he says with unwavering confidence as he hands you another cup of tea. You blush at his comment and look down at the cup in your hands. You take a sip, letting the hot liquid coat your throat, dry and sore from moaning his name.

“Thank you,” you look up at him, “for the tea.”

“You’re welcome,” he laughs, “I very much like you, and would like to see you again. If you want.”

You smile and nod at him, happy that this wouldn’t be the last time you saw him. He rifled through a drawer, pulling out a pad of paper and scribbling his number down. He folds the paper in half and hands it to you over the counter.

After finishing your tea you get dressed and gather your things. He walks you to your car and kisses you before you open the door, lips lingering on yours.

“You’ll call me?” he asks, you assure him that you will.

“I’ll see you sometime soon,” you wave as he walks back to his building. You cant wipe the smile off your face the whole drive home, head on cloud nine. You twirl around as soon as you enter your apartment, dancing around to get rid of all your pent-up happy energy. You put your stuff down and go to get a glass of water, your cabinet creaking as you open it.

You didn’t want to seem desperate, but you immediately take out your phone, entering his number into your contacts. He had scrawled his name under the number with a little heart, making your smile spread wider across your face.

Hey, my cabinet door is squeaky: looking to hire a carpenter, know anyone good?

You hit send, hoping he thinks your message is funny and not desperate. Your stomach does a cartwheel as the three typing dots pop up.

Tom: I may know a guy… he can be over your place tomorrow at 6?

[friendlyunclej]

A King’s Depravity

Prologue

     My citizen’s have never respected me. I worked as a carpenter, sharing my desire to compete for the crown with those who hired me to fix their homes or refurbish their shops. They all scoffed at the possibility of a “mediocre handyman” being intelligent enough to become king. As I climbed the ranks in the competition, they then accused me of cheating, saying that a man who could “barely replace floorboards” shouldn’t have made it out of the preliminary rounds. When my competition began to drop out of the proceedings, my fellow citizens then accused me of bribery, claiming that a man who they barely paid would have the funds to pay off people. Soon after, some of my toughest competitors would mysteriously disappear after facing me and, just as before, the other citizens accused me of foul play. They weren’t wrong, but I made certain that any proof of such accusations would never be found. When I did become king, I made sure that those who accused me of such devious activities had their suspicions confirmed as I left them in the sewers to rot like the others.      The previous king died the night after I won the crown. I, at least, gave King Sigfried a proper burial. He was, after all, the only person who never questioned my intentions. On the other hand, the queen he left behind would prove herself to be more curious than useful. She joined him in the ground not too long after. Officially, it was due to espionage from visiting officials from another city on the continent. That truth was better for the citizens, anyway.

In Need of Warmth

     As king of the City of Tyriok, I’ve spent the past few decades caring for people who would rather see me dead. I believed that they would finally respect me once I had become their ruler, but it didn’t matter. I expanded the city’s control to half of the Verdant Green, including the nearby town of C’Moira, yet the citizens didn’t understand the importance of expansion. I kept Draturi City and its Elven leaders from encroaching on our beliefs, keeping their control out of our walls. They claimed to offer good tidings, such as silk and gems, for our cooperation. I saw through their deceit, though, and made the correct decision for this city, much to the ire of my constituents. Not a single High Elven heel will ever set foot in my city while I’m still alive, even if my new queen works against me.      I had gone nearly a decade before I had a proper queen by my side after the previous one found her way to an early grave. There was one interim queen after King Sigfried’s queen perished, but she proved herself unfit for the job and soon vacated the crown. For the years that followed, a number of women piqued my interest, but none proved themselves a proper ruler. To obtain the crown in Tyriok, one must compete against others vying for the position in many competitions of intelligence. For years after my coming to power, no one attempted to replace the previous queen, undoubtedly discouraged due to the fear caused by rumors about what happened to the previous ones. Out of desperation, I sought future rulers at the local orphanage. It was their that I met my future queen.       The queen I have now, a woman by the name of Beatrice, is the only thing in this entire city that I’ve been able to stomach. She’s intelligent and easy on the eyes. When I first met her years ago, she was the most cunning in the building.  She was far too young to actually obtain the crown at that point, but she showed enough promise and prose that I knew she must be my queen when she came of age. I opened my library to her, leaving her with proper teachers far superior to the ones in care of the orphanage. As the years continued, her promise grew but so did my hesitation. She had grown wise beyond her years and, I must admit, swiftly surpassed me in intellect. It worried me even further once I considered the company she kept.      There were two boys she always spent her time with, Sebastian and Freud. They weren’t “born” orphans, like Beatrice was. They had the great misfortune of actually having a relatively happy number of years with loving parents before being left as orphans. Their parents were emissaries for Tyriok City, whom I would often send out to parley with C’Moira and other nearby towns. They were loyal citizens when I first came to power. Well, they were loyal to the city more than they were to me. Many times I would send them to C’Moira to demand tax and recompense for being allowed to operate as a separate entity from my city in our territory. Every time, they would return with compromises and counsel meetings to speak in the town’s favor. They were proper emissaries whom I trusted, but their good hearts clouded their judgement. They served the city well so I saved their children from sharing their fate, but I had to prevent them from poisoning the city any further once I found out that they were trying to find favor with Draturi. It broke their hearts to leave their children at the orphanage. I didn’t pay the children of traitors any mind until it was obvious that the older son, Sebastian, was far too familiar with Beatrice.      They grew up together, so I should have known that they would take a shine to each other. However, what’s an orphan to a king? After all, I could have Sebastian and his slow brother, Freud, fed to a Gelatinous Cube at a moment’s notice if I so desired. The only reason why I never did was because I knew that it would dishearten Beatrice. But once Sebastian showed interest in becoming a knight for the city, I made sure to encourage him towards a life self-sacrifice in the hopes of him dying a “hero’s death”. Unfortunately, he proved more competent in battle than I had anticipated as he joined the ranks. He even showed himself to be a man of the people, reminiscent of his parents. If he wasn’t my queen’s best friend, I would have had him sent on a mission to never return years ago. Sadly, I was lovesick when Beatrice became my queen. It had been nearly a decade and a half until she became my better half but she proved far worth the wait.      Even in my ailing years, she more than proved herself capable without me. My age swiftly deteriorated only a few years after she became my queen, but she took care of the entire city as both ruler and expecting mother. Those first few years were nearly a dream for me, but the child’s birth soon proved it to be a nightmare instead.      I should have known that making the man she grew up with, Sebastian, our most trusted bodyguard was too kind. I, King Garland, the ruler of Tyriok who brought the city to its shining stature that it is today, was proven to be nothing more than a cuckold when their daughter was born. I should have known that the man she truly held affection for, the man who truly had her heart long before she stole mine, was working behind my back since the very beginning. From the moment that child was born, I had a constant reminder of how asinine and foolish I truly was. In retaliation, I sought ways to ensure that Sebastian’s life would be a worse Hell than he was already damned for. It took a number of years until I could send him off. However, as much as I wanted to give him a similar fate to his parents, I knew that Queen Beatrice wouldn’t leave the disappearance of her lover alone.       When his contract was up for renewal, I found the strength to attend the signing myself. My queen pleaded for me to return him to her side, and I looked him in the eyes as I stripped him of his status and pension. I knew that his parents were a deep scar in his heart, having been old enough to remember the pain of them leaving unlike his younger brother. So when my whore queen begged me to leave him something to live off of, I chuckled at the only property I offered him. I told her that I would take him there myself the next day.      Allowing him to keep his armor and possessions, I brought Sebastian on to my favorite cart on the way to his new home. He tried to ask me why he had been fired, but we stayed in silence as we made our way to the bar.

     As we approached the lower end of the city, I asked, “Do you remember anything about your parents, Sebastian?”

     Caught off guard, the fool took a deep sigh before replying, “No, I was too young when they left me and my brother at the orphanage. The only parent I know is Miss Frau.”

     “Come now, Sebastian,” I insisted, knowing he was lying, “We both know that you were plenty old enough to remember the sting of them leaving.”

     I hear the wood of his chest carrying his belongings creak as his grip tightens in annoyance before saying, “My king, I can assure you-”

     “You can assure me of what? My new status of ‘Cuckold’,” I say, angrily gripping my walking cane, “I believe your daughter is assurance enough, thank you.”

     I watch as he fills with rage, like a geyser nearly bursting through the earth, before he calms leans forward to say, “My liege, she is your daughter. You must believe me.”

     Laughing aloud, Sebastian slumps back into his seat as I retort, “Really? My daughter? That is what you and my queen would have me believe but we both know the truth. To be frank, the entire city knows the truth. You’re lucky I don’t have her tossed out into the ocean.”

     Upon hearing that, I see the geyser burst from stone as he drops his crate and nearly lunges at me. One of my guards pulls his sword and places it against Sebastian’s throat, forcing him to retake his seat.

     “Thank you, Roland,” I remark with a grin, as Sebastian forces himself to calm down, “Now, we should be at your new home soon.”

     “If you harm Olivia or Bea, I will hang you from the guard towers,” Sebastian spits, trying to intimidate me.

     Wiping a drop of spittle from my eye, I reply, “Don’t worry. They’ll be safe in their homes, just as you will be in yours.”

     The cart comes to a halt as we arrive outside of the only bar in the entire city, the same one his parents ran before they disappeared. I handed him the deed and watched his face go white as he read the names of his deceased parents. I soaked in the sight like warm rays of sunlight after a night of rain.

     “If you’re ever seen on castle grounds again, I’ve given the guards orders to kill you on sight,” I tell him, as I step out of the cart with my cane.

     As Roland tosses his possessions out of the cart, Sebastian just stares daggers at me as he replies, “You know that none of the guards will listen to that.”

     “Oh, I know and I’m betting on it. That means that they’ll capture you, instead,” I spout, a weak smile forming on my face, “Which means further use of the tools under the western guard tower. You remember those, don’t you?”

     Sebastian didn’t respond. He simply placed the deed in his cracked chest of belongings and snatched the keys from my hand. I bid him one last farewell before my cart left to return me to my home. Proud with myself, I feel the last bit of warmth from the sun hit my face just before the clouds steal it from me.

Epilogue

     In the weeks that followed, I did my best to ensure that my rule would continue in my absence. For the initial years of my queen’s daughter’s life, I was constantly there to take care of her. I tried to teach her as much as possible, but it’s difficult to implant anything useful in a toddler’s mind. I left the child to be dealt with for a different time. Aside from that, I left my control of the city to my Tribunal instead, just before I locked myself away. My health had deteriorated so swiftly that I was no longer fit to be seen by the public so I instead set a plan in motion to ensure that however my health would turn, I wouldn’t be leaving so indefinitely.      As I was helped up the many tower steps to my room, I looked to the new hire who was helping me. He was a dragonborn of black scales, no older than the age of twenty-two. He attempted to tell me his name, but I simply shooed him away as I told him to fetch me my council. I had to specify that I meant my Tribunal so that the idiot wouldn’t bring me the queen. After a few moments, Roland, Yaromir, and Valentia arrived in my room.

     “So, do you remember what I need?” I ask, resting on my bed.

     Cutting and eating an apple, Roland replies, “Honestly, all I remember is being told to kill Sebastian if we find him close enough to the castle. Everything else fell on deaf ears.”

     Valentia pulled out a small piece of parchment as she recited, “The heart of a newt, the eyes of a recently deceased child, poison oak leaves, a large cast iron urn, incense infused with nightshade, and poison derived from the blood of an Elf. Anything else, Garland?”

     Smiling as I turn to Valentia, I say, “Well, at least one of you have proven that Doppelgangers are worth keeping around.”

     Returning my smile with a wink, Valentia is nudged by Yaromir before he says, “Flirting aside, we need to better know who we’re contacting in Draturi. A name would better help us know who is the actual target.”

     “My contact in the city is not a target. They are a contact. Repeat it back to me,” I demand as I turn to stare at them.

     Giving a disgruntled sigh, Yaromir corrects himself by saying, “Your ‘contact’ in Draturi would be easier to locate if we had a name to go with the portrait you provided us.”

     “The portrait is enough, I assure you.”

     “Really? Because they all look the same to me,” Roland mocks, his body transforming into the person from the portrait I provided them, “I mean, honestly, can you at least tell us if it’s a man or a woman?”

     Valentia snorts, “He’s clearly a man. Look at the jawline.”

     “No, she’s a woman,” Yaromir bickers, motioning with his fingers, “Can you not see the more feminine cheekbones?”

     As they continue to bicker amongst each other, I angrily close my eyes before shouting, “It doesn’t fucking matter what gender my contact is. What matters is what I need them for. You do remember what I need them for, correct?”

     “Yeah, we do,” they reply in unison.

     “And you understand that if you don’t find them soon enough, I won’t be able to pay you what I promised you, correct?”

     “Yeah, we understand,” they echo again.

     “Good, now, before you all leave, show me the disguises you’ve chosen so that I make sure nothing is too jarring.”

     As I say so, the three of them transform before me. There clothes skin and hair all writhing into themselves. Their flesh turning a soft blue and their eyes becoming a pale yellow with no pupils before morphing into proper disguises. Valentia chose a more buxom female form with sharper features and long, dagger-like ear. Yaromir transformed into a shorter male Elven form with a stronger jaw than he usually preferred. Roland, much to my surprise, presented a more Wood Elven form with a gentle smile. I nodded in approval of their disguises as they returned to their normal visage.

     “Good,” I sigh, “Very good. Now, as for the last bit of business before you leave, I simply need you to tell some guards to bring my old personal throne into the room.”

     With a dumbfounded glare, Roland says, “ ‘Throne’ as in your toilet or...”

     Valentia rolls her eyes as she says, “No, you fool. His actual throne.”

     They continued to trade insults until I grew too tired to listen, shouting, “Yes, my actual throne! The stone one that I’ve always sat in. Take your bickering out of my tower and get it all done posthaste!”

     Stopping their childish bickering for a moment, they all salute and bow to me before leaving my room. As they do, I struggle to my feet and shuffle over to a window. I pry it open as I stare out over my city from the top of a 300 foot tall tower. The rain is heavily falling, washing the streets. Unfortunately, there’s not enough rain to wash the stench of betrayal that covers my home. I look out to the fields and see Queen Beatrice sneaking out with her daughter in tow. They’re dressed in clothes reminiscent of the orphanage. I slam the window shut as I return to my room.

     “All I’ve ever been surround by is snakes,” I say to myself, “From the ones I’ve put in the ground to the ones still in the sky, all they’ve ever proven to be are conniving traitors. All they’ve ever done is use me like a rag then tossed me aside like a pitiful copper piece. Soon, however. Soon, they’ll be begging me for mercy again. They’ll all fear me again. As they all should. As everyone should.”

     I stare at my hand and feel a familiar warmth coalesce around my hand. I hold my eyes closed and breathe hot air into my hand. As I open them, I see a ghastly blue flame escape my mouth and form in my hand. I let the embers turn red and dance in my fingers before clutching my fist to extinguish it. I toss the window open with a new vigor as I stare out over the city bathed in flame and devils. I smile as the hallucination shows my whore queen and her affair hanging on pikes, burning on pyres as the rest of the citizens are running for their lives.

     A soft voice whispers, “And you will find yourself as the ruler of a new kingdom as long as your end of the bargain is kept.”

     Twisting around as fast as I can, I nearly twist my ankle only to find no one behind me. I feel a spark of fire in my heart fill me with determination, just before I fall unconscious to the floor.

[claudia1829things]

"ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" (2019) Review

"ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" (2019) Review When I had first learned that producer-director Quentin Tarantino had plans to make a movie about "Old Hollywood", I assumed that it would be set during the early 20th century - at least sometime between the 1920s and the 1940s. I had no idea that the movie would be set near the end of the 1960s.

The reason behind my initial assumption was that I have never considered the 1960s decade to be a part of . . . "Old Hollywood". For me, that era in film history had ended by the late 1950s. I eventually learned that a good number of movie stars - Rock Hudson being one of them - had retained contracts with the industries movie studios even during the Sixties. Even those who had transferred from movie to television productions. Then . . . I heard that the movie would be about the LaBianca-Tate Murders from August 1969. Familiar with the level of violence featured in past Tarantino movies, I was pretty determined to avoid this movie. I am used to the violence featured in the director's past movies. But I really could not see myself sitting in a movie theater and watching a re-creation of the murder of actress Sharon Tate, Hollywood hairdresser Jay Sebring and a few other friends at the hands of Charles Manson's Family. I had seen the 1976 movie, "HELTER SKELTER" when I was a kid. Once was enough and that was only a two-part television movie. But when I had eventually learned that "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" was a revisionist movie like his 2009 film, "INGLORIOUS BASTERDS", I decided to give it a chance. "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" covered a six month period near the end of the 1960s - from February to August 1969. To be honest, the movie is divided into two time periods. Two-thirds of the movie is set during a 36-hour period in early Februrary 1969. The last third of the film is set during the afternoon and evening hours of August 8-9, 1969. The movie is about the experiences of two men - Hollywood television actor Rick Dalton and his friend/stunt man/chauffeur Cliff Booth. Following the cancellation of his television series, "Bounty Law", Rick had been making guest appearances in various television shows as villains. Casting agent Marvin Schwarz warns Rick that the longer he continues appearing in television episodes as the villain, his career will eventually die and no one will remember him from "Bounty Law". The agent suggests that Rick consider going to Europe to star in an Italian western or two. And Cliff find his career as a Hollywood stuntman over due to rumors that he may have killed his wife and an altercation with Bruce Lee on the set of "THE GREEN HORNET". Only his job as Rick's chauffeur/handyman has allowed Cliff to earn any cash, thanks to the actor's alcoholism and collection of DUIs that led to the removal his driver's license. Rick has also acquired new neighbors - Polish-born director Roman Polanski and his actress wife Sharon Tate - both with Hollywood careers that seemed to be on the upswing. The couple had just began leasing the home of music producer Terry Melcher. Rick has dreams of befriending them as a means to revive his career. Meanwhile, he contemplates accepting Marvin's suggestion, while he begins work on his current job - a guest appearance as another villain in the pilot episode of the TV western called "LANCER". As for Cliff, he becomes acquainted with a beautiful hitchhiker named Pussycat. She turns out to be a member of the Manson Family, who are staying at Spahn Ranch, where he and Rick used to film "Bounty Law". Cliff's encounter with the ranch's owner, the blind and aging George Spahn and members of the Manson Family foreshadows a later encounter on that infamous night, six months later. While contemplating his career, I noticed all of the four movies made by Quentin Tarantino in the past ten years were period pieces. All of them . . . from "INGLORIOUS BASTERDS" to this current film, "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD". I would never consider the other three films as nostalgic, but a part of me cannot help but wonder if I could say the same about this latest one. The pacing for "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" struck me as a lot more detailed, relaxed and reflective than any of his previous movies. It almost seemed as if Tarantino was paying some kind of loving tribute to the end of the old Hollywood studio system. For me, this seemed like both a good thing and a bad one. Tarantino always had a reputation for scenes that featured long stretches of dialogue or detailed action sequences. And yes, the pacing in his films - with the exception of scenes featuring action or revelations of previous mysteries - can be a tad slow upon first viewing. But "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" marked the first time I can recall such a small amount of violence or action. Tarantino seemed more evoking a sense of the past than in any other of his period films. For "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD", it was a good thing for the film managed to permeate the end of the 1960s in Los Angeles and the Hollywood Studio system thanks to Tarantino's direction, Barbara Ling's superb production designs, Arianne Phillips' costume designs and the art direction led by Richard L. Johnson. On the other hand, Tarantino's in-depth peek into Los Angeles 1969 also had a negative impact . . . a minor one, if I must be honest. This slow exploration also included a look into actress Sharon Tate's life . . . at least in the first two-thirds of the film. Basically, the movie reflected a peek into the daily life of the actress - attending a party at Hugh Hefner's Playboy mansion, visiting a bookstore in the Westwood Village, and watching her latest film ("THE WRECKING CREW") at the theater. I realize that Tarantino was trying to pay some kind of homage to Tate, but I found this . . . homage rather dragged the film's pacing. There were two other aspects of "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" that I found troubling. One brief scene early in the film featured an appearance by Charles Manson at the Polanski-Tate home, searching for music producer Terry Melcher, who owned it. In real life, Manson had visited the house on several occasions, searching for the music producer. These visits had led to the Tate-LaBianca murders. But the movie only featured one visit by Manson and it happened early in the film . . . six months before the night of August 8-9. I believe this is where Tarantino's narrative structure for the film had failed. I belief the film's second act, which is set during that very night, should have began at least a few days or a week or two earlier, allowing one or two more visits by Manson to 10050 Cielo Drive and setting up his plan to send some of his followers to kill its inhabitants. And there was Cliff's infamous fight with Bruce Lee that outraged a good number of critics and moviegoers and led them to accuse Tarantino of disrespct toward the actor/martial artist and racism. Many took umbrage at Tarantino's portrayal of Lee as a braggadocio who needed to be taken down by a white man in a fight - namely Cliff. If I must honest, I felt the same. I still do . . . somewhat. I recently discovered that one of the production companies backing the film is Bona Film Group, a Chinese organization controlled by Yu Dong and Jeffrey Chan. As producers and co-financiers of the film, why did Bona Film Group fail to protest against the Booth-Lee encounter? Did the company's executives have a personal grudge against the late martial artist? Was this lack of protest due to some unpopularity of Lee in mainland China? Or did the production company simply not cared? One minor nitpick . . . actor Mike Moh's hairstyle for Lee was a bit too long for that 1966 or 1967 flashback. Personally, I think Tarantino should have never added that scene in the first place. It was not that relevant to the film's overall narrative. Or he could have easily allowed Cliff to have a fight with a fictional character, instead of Lee . . . anything to avoid the unnecessary controversy that followed. Despite these flaws, I really enjoyed "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD". As I had stated earlier, I really enjoyed the film's atmospheric setting of the Hollywood community at the end of the 1960s. The movie also did an excellent job in conveying Tarantino's talent for creating a narrative structure for his films. The director allowed moviegoers a peak into a Hollywood industry that was in the process of change from the old studio system to the industry's American New Wave era between the mid-1960s and the early 1980s. This transistion was conveyed in the film not only marked by Rick Dalton's anxiety over his foundering career, but also capped by the Manson Family's attack upon Cielo Drive. However, Rick was not the only one anxious about his future. Cliff Booth faced professional oblivion following Rick's marriage to an Italian actress in the film's second half. Despite their close relationship, Rick made it obvious that he could not afford to keep Cliff in his employ. The night of August 8-9 was supposed to be his last night in Rick's employ. What is also interesting about this film is that like "THE HATEFUL EIGHT", it ended on an ambiguous note. Was Rick's career ever salvaged? Also, many have forgotten that on the following evening, Charles Manson himself led a second attack upon Leno and Rosemary LaBianca in Los Angeles' Los Feliz neighborhood. Did the revisionist ending of "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" prevent these murders? I wonder. The movie also featured many sequences that I found very enjoyable to watch. They also help set up and maintain the film's narrative. These scenes included Marvin Schwarz's frank assessment of Rick's career, Polanski and Tate's appearance at a Playboy Mansion party, Rick's delightful interactions with an eight year-old actress named Trudi Fraser on the "LANCER" set that helped him turn in a memorable performance, Rick's breakdown in a trailer after flubbing his lines, and Cliff's meeting with Pussycat. But there were two scenes that really stood out for me. One of those scenes were Cliff's encounter with the Manson family at Spahn's Ranch seemed like Tarantino's take on what happened between "the family" and a stuntman named Donald Shea in late August 1969. I thought Tarantino did a superb job with this scene. It was well-paced, filled with a great deal of tension. I can say the same about the movie's last sequence that featured the Manson Family's attack upon Cielo Drive during the night of August 8-9. This is where Tarantino' use of historical revision came into play. The director-writer used Rick's constant complaints about "hippies", his celebrity as a former television star and Cliff's previous encounter with the Manson Family to re-direct the latter's attack from the Polanski-Tate household to the Dalton household. And what unfolded was chaotic, occasionally funny and yes, very scary. It truly was a well shot and well-acted sequence. "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" featured a good deal of cameos - probably a lot more than any previous Tarantino film (I could be wrong, since I have not seen all of his films). Making solid cameos were Damian Lewis, Michael Madsen, Timothy Olyphant (as actor James Stacy), Luke Perry (as actor Wayne Maunder), Damon Herriman (as Charles Manson), Ramón Franco, Lena Durnham, Rumer Willis, Martin Kove, Clu Galagher, Rebecca Gayheart, Brenda Vaccaro, Scoot McNairy, Clifton Collins, Jr., James Remar, and Toni Basil. The movie also featured some very memorable supporting performances - especially from the likes of Al Pacino, who delightfully portrayed casting agent Marvin Schwarz; an entertaining Kurt Russell who not only portrayed stunt gaffer Randy Miller, but also served as the film's narrator; Zoë Bell, who was equally entertaining as Randy's stunt gaffer wife Janet; Mike Moh, who gave a colorful performance as Bruce Lee; Lorenza Izzo, as Rick's wife Francesca Capucci; a rather frightening Dakota Fanning as Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme, Manson family member; Maya Hawke as "Flower Child"; Nicholas Hammond as actor-director Sam Wanamaker; Rafał Zawierucha as Roman Polanski; Julia Butters as the delightful child actor Trudi Fraser; a very charming Emile Hirsch as Jay Sebring; the always entertaining Bruce Dern as George Spahn; and Margaret Qualley, who was very memorable as Manson Family member "Pussycat". I will be the first admit that Tarantino made little use of Sharon Tate in this film. It was quite clear that her presence really served as a catalyst for Tarantino's story and possibly a muse. But I cannot deny that Margot Robbie gave a very charming and ellubient performance as the late actress. Brad Pitt, on the other hand, gave a very subtle yet memorable performance as former stuntman Cliff Booth, whose career had seen better days. This was due to the mysterious circumstances behind the death of Cliff's wife. Many believe he may have killed her and got away with the crime. And Pitt managed to reflect this ambiguity in his performance and in his eyes. There were times when it seemed there was a bit of a "cool superhero" element in the character that at times, made it a bit difficult for me to relate to him. But thanks to Pitt's natural screen persona and a very subtle performance, I was able to do so in the end. If I had to choose the most complex character in the entire movie, it would have to be former television star Rick Dalton. And I cannot deny that Leonardo DiCaprio did an exceptional job of conveying this character to the movie screen. Thanks to DiCaprio's performance and Tarantino, Rick is such a conumdrum. One could label him as one of those actors from the late 1950s and early 1960s, who became television stars and later tried to make the transition to film. I have read many comments that Rick has a conservative outlook on his tastes and acting skills that will forever limit him from becoming a star in Hollywood's New Age in films. This is very apparent in Rick's pompadour hairstyle in the film's first half, his occasional rants against hippies and his reluctant to adapt to the new Hollywood. And yet . . . Rick eventually concedes to Schwarz's suggestion that he try Italian westerns, he changes his hairstyle and wardrobe to reflect the fashions of the late 1960s and early 1970s, and he seeks to make social connections with Polanski and Tate to further his career. Rick is also an alcoholic and might be bipolar. DiCaprio did an excellent job in conveying Rick's emotional state that reflect these traits. "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" is not my favorite Quentin Tarantino film, it has became my favorite film of 2019. I do not think it has a chance of winning any of the big prizes during the awards season of 2019-2020. I have a deep suspicion that the media and the Hollywood community is not as enamoured of it as I am. Which is okay . . . to each his or her own. But damn it, the movie was superb. I have heard rumors that Tarantino plans to retire from filmmaking. Personally, I think this is a mistake on his part. Perhaps he wants to end his career on a high note. And "ONCE UPON A TIME . . . IN HOLLYWOOD" is certainly a reflection of it, thanks to Tarantino's direction, his screenplay, the movie's production values and especially the cast led by Leonardo DiCaprio and Brad Pitt. But I hope that Tarantino continues to make movies.

[emospritelet]

Last Man Standing

So, you guys really wanted 14,000 words of pointless Golden Lace pron, right?  No?  Well, tough, you’re getting it anyway.

An AU of the Neverland verse, in which escort!Gold and Lacey try to bang each other senseless

AO3 link

x

Alistair Gold reflected that of all the things he could be doing that evening, walking to a hotel to meet someone who had paid for three hours of sex wasn’t high on his list of favourite activities.  He supposed he should be grateful for the work; his son Neal had two years of college left, and selling his body was the best way he knew to pay for that, but it was soul-destroying.  It also had the potential to be dangerous, although it had been months since he had been in a bad situation.  He had learned the hard way to recognise clients who took their pleasure from pain and humiliation.

The Arendelle Hotel was one that Gold had visited before.  It was a mid-price boutique establishment over twelve floors on one of Boston’s nicer back streets, and he looked it over as he drew to a halt, taking in the old-fashioned frontage with wrought-iron railings at the windows.  He had been waiting on the details of the client he was due to meet, and was surprised not to have received them; Tink usually sent them through at least an hour before the agreed time of his appointment.

He set down the black leather bag that carried the tools of his trade and dug out his phone, thumb flicking at the screen to call the agency.  It rang several times before being answered.

“Hello?”

A bright, cheerful voice chirped at him, and Gold blinked.

“Astrid?”

“Oh!” she squeaked.  “I meant to say ‘Good evening, Blue Star Escort Services’!  Please don’t tell Blue I screwed up again!”

“Where is Blue?” he asked.

“Networking,” she said.  “She had some sort of drinks party to go to.  She took Tink with her, so it’s - it’s just me tonight.  Sorry.”

Gold refrained from sighing with great difficulty.  Astrid was adorable, with a heart of gold, but somewhat on the ditzy side, and he wasn’t all that convinced of her computer skills, having overheard her conversations with Leroy, the handyman.  Of course, she could simply have been pretending not to know anything to let Leroy show off his own knowledge.  It was the worst kept secret at Blue Star that the two were in love with each other.  Gold decided to think positively.

“Right, I need you to send me the details of my client,” he said.  “It was all kind of last minute.  Tink left a message to turn up at Hotel Arendelle, but I don’t have a name or room number.”

“Oh no!”

“Well, I’m sure we can get to the bottom of it,” he said.  “Everything will be on the computer system under Danny Devine, okay?  I’m at the hotel now.”

“I remember Tink telling me about the bookings,” she said pensively.

“Yes, and they’ll be on the computer,” he said, figuring that repetition was his friend in this situation.  “I need the name and the room number.”

There was silence, and he shook his head.  He could hear her muttering in the background.

“Astrid,” said Gold patiently.  “The name?”

“Oh yes!”  There was a crackle of paper.  “I have it somewhere!”

The was an ominous clink, and a muffled “Oops!”

Gold pinched the bridge of his nose.  Hard.

“Okay, look, never mind about the name,” he said.  “What room number is it?”

She didn’t respond, and he raised his eyes to the sky.  “Astrid!”

There was a scrabbling noise, and she came on the phone again, sounding breathless.

“Yes!  Sorry, it’s just - just - I spilled my tea all over the computer, and - and there was kind of a mini-explosion, and now it’s - it’s not - working...”

Her voice trailed off lamely, and Gold sighed.

“Is there anything you can remember about this client?” he asked.  “I don’t want to have to knock on every hotel room door asking if anyone paid for sex, understand?”

“Oh, I think I remember that!” she said brightly.  “It was room 402, I’m sure of it!  I remember because that was the number of my first booking!”

“Well, that’s something, at least,” he said.

“Yeah, he was a Senator,” she said pensively.  “Not the nicest man, but he tipped well.  I remember he enjoyed spanking—”

“Yeah, I don’t think we need to go into that right now,” said Gold hastily. “You’re sure about 402?”

“Oh yes!”  She let out a squeak of alarm, and he shook his head.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine!” she said, in a too-cheerful voice.  “Well no, not fine, there’s - there’s a lot of smoke coming out of this thing...”

“Oh my God…”  Gold ran a hand over his face.  “Look - just get out of there!  Get a bloody fire extinguisher!  Not the water one!”

“Oh, I’m sure Leroy will be able to help me fix this,” she said, sounding confident.  “What about you?  Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll go and knock on 402,” he said.  “If there’s a problem, I’ll call back.”

“Okay!” she chirped.

He rang off, turning the phone to silent and shoving it into his pocket with a sigh of despair, then picked up his bag and trotted up the steps into the hotel lobby.  It was decorated in a modern style, the walls in shades of ice-blue, white and lilac, the staff in blue livery with silver buttons.  He walked through the lobby to the elevators, pressing the call button.  The elevator, when it came, had mirrored panels all around, and he gave himself a final once-over, his suit a spotless three piece in charcoal grey, his shirt midnight blue silk with a silvery-grey tie.  He was clean-shaven, no nicks on his cheeks, his hair cropped short, shining gold and silver in the light.  He nodded curtly to himself. As good as it got.  Clients always liked the suits.  Hopefully this client wouldn’t want an extension of their time together; he had already worked two nights that week and was tired.  He pushed the button for the fourth floor, and sighed as the elevator made its way up.  Three hours, and he could be out of there.

x

Lacey French was nervous, and she didn’t like the feeling.

She had heard good things about Blue Star, and for the most part they had all turned out to be true.  Miss Blue seemed a kind and gracious employer, the pay and benefits were excellent, and the escorts she had met thus far had all been very welcoming.  She even had the option to let the client book the accommodation, but for her first assignment she had preferred to let the escort agency do it. The Arendelle Hotel was clean, modern, and the room she was currently pacing back and forth in had a large king bed, lounge area with a couch and coffee table, and a bathroom tiled in slate grey.  The hotel receptionist, when she checked in, hadn’t batted an eyelid as she had asked for the key, and she presumed that he was well aware of her profession.  To his credit, he hadn’t even looked down his nose at her.  All in all, the evening had started well.  But now her client was late, and she had heard nothing from Blue Star.

She pulled her phone from her bag, swiping at her contact list to call.  It rang for a long time before someone picked up, with a hurried greeting that she was certain wasn’t the one the agency used.

“Hey,” she said.  “It’s Lacey.  I’m on my first job, and I’m not sure if we’ve met. Who’s that?”

“Astrid,” came the voice, sounding flustered.  “Um - I’m kind of having a situation here…”

“It’s cool, I’ll let you go in a second, I just need some info,” said Lacey.  “Who’s my client?  I was sure we said seven o’clock, but he’s not here.”

“I - I can’t get into any of the records,” said Astrid.  “The computer kind of went poof and now nothing’s working!”

Lacey rolled her eyes, pacing back and forth beside the bed.

“So you can’t tell me who I’m supposed to be banging tonight?” she asked. “Whoever he is, he’s fucking late.  Like an hour.  At least tell me he paid in advance.”

“Um…”  Astrid’s uncertain tone made Lacey sigh.  “I - guess?”

“I don’t believe this…”

“I’m sorry!” said Astrid wretchedly.  “This evening has been a nightmare!”

“Astrid, come on!” Lacey threw up her hand and let it fall against her leg with a slap.  “I could be losing money here!”

There was a knock at the door, and her head whipped around.

“Hey, never mind,” she said quickly.  “I think he’s here.  Maybe it was eight, not seven, my brain’s gone to crap!”

“Yes, but—”

“If there’s a problem I’ll call, okay?”

Lacey rang off, turning the phone to silent and shoving it in her bag before going to the door.  She glanced at herself in the mirror as she passed, tight black dress that showed off every curve, hair piled on top of her head, makeup on point…  She took a deep breath, and nodded to herself.  You got this, girl. Just remember to stay in character and keep your bloody wits about you.

She opened the door, and blinked.  A man stood there, gazing at her with a calm, somewhat flat expression in his dark eyes.  He was maybe in his late forties, possibly early fifties.  Short for a guy: perhaps five-eight, and thin.  He wore what looked like a very expensive three-piece suit with a dark blue silk shirt and grey tie, and his light brown hair was cropped short and scattered with grey, shining silver at his temples.

“Good evening,” he said quietly.  “I believe we have an appointment.”

Lacey started, remembering what she was supposed to be doing.  His accent was Scottish, though somewhat softer than she had heard from others.  There was a pleasant warmth to it, a low roundness that made the words flow out and wrap around her.  She licked her lips.

“Yeah,” she said, and then smiled.  She made her voice a little lower and softer, more sultry and inviting.  “Yes, we do.  Come on in.”

She stepped back, and he moved past her into the room, a black leather holdall swinging from one hand.  She pushed the door shut and locked it, turning to look him over as he glanced around the room.  He had an angular face, with high cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose.  Silvery wisps of hair brushed the pointed tips of his ears, and she wondered what he did for a living.  A company chairman, perhaps, or an investment banker.  It must be something that paid well enough to get him that suit and three hours of her time on a Friday night.  He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, so maybe he was too busy to have a proper relationship.  Or maybe he just liked sleeping with strangers where he could set the terms and avoid emotional entanglements. Either way he looked pretty good, and his money would spend just as well as anyone else’s.

“Three hours, right?” she said, and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Correct.”

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He set down the bag on the arm of the couch, adjusting his cuffs as he turned to face her, then inclined his head, and smiled, showing white teeth.

“Danny Devine, at your service.”

So did your parents hate you, or did they give all their kids stripper names?

“I’m Belle,” she said, keeping the amusement from her face.  “Belle Delacoeur.”

His mouth twitched a little, as though he knew that wasn’t her real name.  She reasoned that perhaps Danny Devine wasn’t his, either.  Clients often gave fake names, she had been told.  He opened up the bag, lifting out a bottle of champagne and holding it up.  She wondered what else was in there.  Work stuff, maybe?  Papers?

“Well, Miss Delacoeur,” he said.  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Would you like a drink?”

She hesitated, but the champagne had very obviously not been opened, and she couldn’t see any way he could have tampered with it.

“I’d love one,” she said.  “There are glasses on the drinks cabinet.”

He nodded, and proceeded to open the champagne, which was clearly something he was used to doing.  She watched with interest as he fetched a hand towel from the bathroom, removed the foil and the wire cage from around the cork, then wrapped the towel over the top and twisted the bottle, the cork coming free with a low phut sound.  He removed the towel with a flourish, and she heard a fizzing noise, but the champagne remained in the bottle, which was more than could be said for the few times she had opened one.

“Hey, you managed not to spurt everywhere,” she said.  “Good job.”

He shot her a look, and she wanted to clap a hand over her mouth as she realised what she’d said.  Lacey would happily say such things, usually with a wink and a suggestive snicker, but Belle Delacoeur was more refined.  Or so she had decided when she created the character she would use for her assignments.  A blush rose in her cheeks, but she decided to just run with the innuendo, and raised her chin, swinging one hip outwards.

“Guess that bodes well for me, huh?” she said.  A little flattery never hurt.

“The night is young,” he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

He poured two glasses, and handed one to her.  Lacey cradled it in both hands, breathing in the light scent and waiting until he took a drink before she did the same.  The champagne was crisp and clean, fizzing on her tongue, and she watched him over her glass, at the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and the light glinted on his hair.  Definitely attractive.  She ran her eyes over his body, realising that she was intrigued about what he was hiding under the suit, and he swilled champagne around his mouth before swallowing, dark eye studying her as carefully as she studied him.

“May I call you Belle?” he asked.

“Please do.”  Maybe it’ll encourage me to keep in fucking character.

He nodded.

“Well,” he said.  “Let’s discuss terms.”

“Terms?”

“What you want,” he said patiently.  “And more importantly, what you don’t want.”

Lacey stared at him for a moment.  He was offering her a choice?  

“I guess - I guess communication’s the most important thing,” she said.  “I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

“I understand.”

“And - and I really didn’t sign up for a world of pain, either.”

“Good,” he said briskly.  “I have no interest in causing you pain, Belle.  And if there’s something I do that you don’t like, I want you to tell me to stop, alright?”

Wow.  You are not what I was expecting.

“What about you?” she asked, and his eyebrows twitched.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” she said.  “What do you want?”

He stared at her for a moment, as though he didn’t understand the question, and then blinked.

“I’m already getting everything I want from this evening, I assure you,” he said quietly.

What the hell does that mean?  Guess it doesn’t matter.  He’s paid already. Doesn’t seem to be a creep.  Let’s go.

“Well, okay then,” she said.  “I guess that’s it.”

“Very well.”  He took another drink, and set down his glass.  “Shall we begin?”

“Uh…”

She took a final swig of the champagne, and set the glass next to his, her heart thumping with a small amount of trepidation.  You’re Belle, you’re Belle, you’re Belle...

“Yes,” she said.  “I’m ready.”

He stepped closer, moving until he was almost touching her, and Lacey felt her breath quicken a little as he reached up to cup her face with his hands. They were smooth and cool, the scent of cologne on his fingers, and she was surprised to feel arousal tug at her abdomen.  His eyes were very dark, gazing into hers as though he could see into her soul.

“Shall I kiss you?” he asked, and his voice was low and rough.  The gentle tug in her belly became a clench.

“Please,” she whispered, and he lowered his mouth to hers.

His lips were warm and soft, and he gently slipped his tongue into her mouth, causing her to rise up on her toes with a tiny moan.  His tongue stroked against hers, and she slid her hands up his chest, feeling the warmth of his body through the suit he wore.  He tasted good, and she let out a hum of pleasure as they kissed, his fingers sending tiny shivers through her as they stroked over the nape of her neck.  He broke the kiss, lips pulling at hers as they parted, and pressed his brow to hers, his dark eyes flicking open.

“What would you like me to do to you?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, and Lacey licked her lips as she shivered deliciously.

You want me to guide you, huh?  I can do that.

“Undress me,” she whispered.

He moved around her, his body brushing against hers, and she shivered again as she felt his fingers at her back, taking the zipper of her dress and slowly pulling it down.  She gasped as he pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, and his fingers slipped beneath the opened back of the dress, pushing it from her shoulders and down her arms.  It fell to her waist, and she slipped her arms out as he pushed the dress over her hips, leaving her in her underwear and stockings.  Moving around to face her again, he pulled pins from her hair, unwinding it and letting it fall, his fingers stroking through it to separate the strands.  There was a calm softness in his face, in his eyes, his gaze running over her without any of the lust or greed she had expected.  It was something like reverence.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.  “You’re beautiful, Belle.”

Lacey shivered as his hands stroked over her bare shoulders, wanting to take her lower lip between her teeth, the way she always had when she was nervous. She thought she had gotten over that.  She thought she had closed herself off enough that nothing could touch her.  And yet the way he was looking at her, as though she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, as though she mattered, was making her breath catch in her throat.  She decided that she trusted him.

“Now the bra,” she said softly.

His thumbs gently slipped under the straps at her shoulders, drawing them down her arms, and he reached around to the back to unhook it deftly.  The bra fell from her, and she licked her lips as he looked her over, a low appreciative murmur coming from him.  It gave her an unexpectedly good feeling to know how attractive he found her, and she sucked in a breath as he bent his head to kiss her neck, shivers running through her as his lips pulled at her skin.  She let out a moan, hands sliding up his arms to rest on his shoulders, and he bent his knees a little, kissing down her throat, mouth trailing over her chest until he reached her nipple.  Lacey moaned again as he sucked it in between his lips, the feel of his tongue against her sending jolts of sensation through her body.

She rose up on her toes, fingers stroking through his hair, her breath coming hard as his hand cupped her other breast and squeezed.  Her head rolled back, hair tickling between her shoulder blades as he sucked at her, and he slid his hand around to the small of her back, pulling her closer.  The fine wool of his suit was soft against her skin, and she felt a tiny thrill at being almost naked while he was so buttoned up and immaculate.  He let her nipple slip from his mouth, kissing back up to her throat to suck at the place where her pulse throbbed, and Lacey let out a moan of pleasure.

Gold let his hands slide down her back, cupping her small, pert rear end. Belle Delacoeur - he doubted that was her true name, but it suited her nonetheless - was certainly lovely to look at, and very pleasant in his arms, being just the right height and build to suit his own small frame.  She seemed nervous, and he felt that familiar urge to protect, to reassure.  He brushed his lips against the soft skin of her throat, reaching her ear as his thumbs slipped under the waistband of her underwear.

“Shall I take these off?” he murmured, and she nodded.

He pushed the underwear slowly down over her hips, letting it fall around her ankles, and she stepped out of it with one high-heeled shoe, then the other. Sliding her hands to his shoulders, she reached for the knot of his silk tie, and began tugging it open, drawing the length of silk through until she could pull it from around his neck and toss it aside.  She plucked open the first three buttons of his shirt, exposing the top of his chest, then her hands dropped to flick open the buttons of his jacket, and she pushed it from his shoulders.  Gold let it fall, snagging it with one hand and draping it over the back of the nearby couch.

“You want to get on the bed?” she asked.

He smiled a little, nodding, and she stepped away from him, walking to the bed with a swing of her hips.  He wondered what had brought her here, why a creature so lovely would feel the need to pay for sex.  There could certainly be no shortage of men who would be willing to oblige her for free, but perhaps she had been hurt or disappointed in the past.  She sounded Australian, so it was possible that she was only in the city for a short time, and had therefore chosen guaranteed pleasure, with the certainty of no strings attached.  Either way, it was none of his business.

He took the gold cufflinks from his sleeves as he watched her, slipping them into his pants pocket and letting the cuffs hang loose.  She had kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed in nothing but her lace-top stockings, and was sitting up with her hands braced behind her and her knees bent.  Her breasts were pushed up, the dark cleft between her legs glistening with promise, and he felt himself twitch with interest.  He turned to his bag, reaching for some condoms and throwing them onto the bed, and Belle picked one up.

“A moment,” he said, as she made to open it.  “Let’s see to your pleasure before we open that, shall we?”

Her eyes widened, and he nodded to himself.  Definitely disappointed in the past, then.  Well, she had paid for him to put her needs first, and he intended to.

“Lie back,” he whispered.

For a moment he thought she was about to say something, but then she slowly lowered herself back on the bed, knees still bent.  He knelt at her feet, hands on her knees, watching her chest rise and fall with her breath, red lips parted, her dark curls spread out on the pillows.  God, she’s gorgeous!  The prettiest thing I’ve seen.

He slid his hands up one thigh, fingertips tucking under the edge of her stocking, and he slowly peeled it down, baring her leg.  Her skin was as smooth and pale as the rest of her, and he pulled off the stocking at her foot, letting it flutter to the floor.  Her toes were painted dark red, the same colour as her fingernails, and he lifted the foot in his palm, bending his head to press a kiss to it.  Belle gasped as his tongue pushed between her toes, stroking against delicate skin.  He drew a toe into his mouth, sucking at her, and she let out a tiny moan.  His tongue flickered over her, and he sucked each toe in turn before running his lips along the underside of her foot.  She jerked a little, ticklish, and he briefly smiled before lowering her foot onto the bed.

He repeated his actions with her other leg, rolling down the stocking and tossing it aside, letting his tongue explore the curves and hollows of her foot before dropping it to the bed.  She was fully naked, chest heaving and lips gleaming, and he bent his head to press kisses to her knees, gently pushing them apart to kiss her inner thighs.  Belle sucked in a breath as his lips moved upwards, her skin as soft as silk.  He could smell her scent in the air, arousal making his cock swell in his pants.  There would be no need for chemical assistance on this occasion, it seemed.  At least not for the first time.  She had paid for three hours; it was likely he would be asked to perform more than once in that time.  It looked as though it was going to be as much of a pleasure for him as for her.  Which made a change.

He could hear her breathing quicken as his mouth trailed higher, the tip of his tongue gently tracing over her skin and making her start.  Her scent was intoxicating, sweet musk in the air around him, and he nosed the soft skin of her nether lips, letting his breath wash over her before pressing a kiss to her.  Belle moaned, and slowly, gently, he let the tip of his tongue part her soft folds, drawing upwards.  Her moan became a cry, her hands dropping to stroke his hair, sending shivers through him, and her flavour spread across his tongue, causing a low growl of appreciation to rumble up out of him.  He licked her again, achingly slow and deliberate, and Belle moaned and lifted her hips, trying to push herself closer to his mouth.

“That’s so good!” she whispered.  “Oh God, that’s amazing!”

He swept his tongue over her, feeling the hardened nub of her clit, tasting the salt of her arousal on his tongue, breathing in the scent of her.  One hand pushed her thigh down a little, so that he could reach more of her, and his other hand crept up between her legs, beneath his chin, gently stroking her flesh as his tongue swept and circled.  Belle continued to whisper how good it felt, and he got the strange impression that she was trying to encourage him, to reassure him.  An odd thing for a paying client, but he certainly wasn’t complaining.  It showed she was a good person.

He let the tip of his tongue tease her clit, stroking around it in slow circles, and Belle let out a whimper, back arching upwards before falling back against the blankets.  Her hands were still carding his hair, nails scraping his scalp, a pleasant sensation, and he let a finger tease her entrance, her flesh slippery with saliva and her own juices.  She moaned, fingers tightening on the few strands of his hair that she had managed to grasp, and he pushed the finger inside her, sliding deep and feeling soft, wet flesh close up around him.  It made his mind stray to how good it would feel to slide his cock deep inside her and fuck her, long and slow.  He shoved the thought away, trying to concentrate on the task at hand.  First I make her come.  Then I make her come again.  Then we’ll see what else she wants.

“God, that’s good!” she breathed.

He began to slide the finger in and out of her, his tongue sweeping over her in a steady rhythm.  Her body was starting to grow taut, her muscles stiffening, and he quickened the pace a little, thrusting and licking, her juices spreading over his nose, his chin, her scent covering him.  Belle let out a high, whimpering moan, clutching at his hair, her back arching upwards as his tongue flickered back and forth over her clit.  She came with a loud cry, her body jerking, and he drew out the finger, licking up salty, whitish cum as it leaked from her.

“You taste delicious!” he growled, and she murmured something in response, her body still twitching.

He ran his tongue over her flesh, pushing inside her, and finished by pressing kisses to her, sticky fluid on his lips.  Shifting onto his knees, he began kissing up over her belly to her breasts, his mouth fastening over a nipple and sucking at her.  Belle’s hands stroked up his arms to rest on his shoulders, and he pushed up on the heels of his hands to gaze down at her.  She was smiling a little, her eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy, but they latched onto his, and her smile widened.

“That was amazing!” she purred, and her forefinger stroked across from his shoulder to the hollow at the base of his naked throat, tracing a line down his chest to where the shirt was buttoned.  “But you’re overdressed.”

She went to work on the waistcoat, getting it open and pushing it from his shoulders, and he knelt up to shrug it off and toss it towards the chair.  His hands dropped to the buttons of his shirt, and Belle pushed up on the heels of her hands, watching as he tugged it from his pants and peeled it off.  She ran her hands over his body, eyes flicking over his skin, fingers running over his nipples and sending jolts of sensation through him.  The palms of her hands slid down over his belly, thumbs brushing against his belt, and he held her gaze as she slowly pulled it open with a clink of the buckle.

“I like your suit,” she said, and his mouth twitched a little.

“Most of it seems to be over on that chair.”

“I like what’s underneath it more.”

She unhooked the clasp at the top of his pants and drew down the zipper, pushing the pants over his hips to reveal black silk boxers.  A finger traced the rigid line of his cock, and she smirked a little, eyes gleaming.

“Well now,” she murmured.  “I think it’s high time I gave this some attention, don’t you?”

“We can wait a little while, if you like,” he said.  “There are many more ways I can give you pleasure, but it’s your decision.”

She put her head to the side, looking curious.

“Many more ways?”

He smiled, stroking a wisp of hair back from her cheek.

“Let me up a moment, and I’ll get some things from my bag.”

Lacey sat back on her heels as he got off the bed, bending to take off shoes and socks and slipping out of his suit pants, which were carefully folded and draped over the back of the chair.  He seemed very meticulous.  She wondered if he was like that in every area of life.  Perhaps he was one of those men who liked everything just so - a spotless house with everything in its place.  She imagined he had cleaning staff to take care of that sort of thing.  Unlike her tiny one-bed apartment with its piles of books, collection of used coffee mugs and the ever-present basket of unfolded laundry.  She imagined he’d curl his lip in disgust at the way she lived.

She watched curiously as he opened up the black leather bag and reached inside, rummaging around a little before bringing out what looked like a selection of vibrators in various sizes and stacking them on the dresser.  Lacey blinked.

“You - you brought your own toys?” she asked disbelievingly.

“Of course.”

“Oh.”  She brushed a curl of hair out of her eyes, tucking it behind her ear.  “Yeah, I have a bunch with me, too.”

“Perhaps we could compare notes,” he suggested, with a wicked grin, and she giggled.

“I say we try a few of them out first,” she said.  “Do you have lube?”

“Of course,” he said again, a faint look of puzzlement on his face.  “A moment, let me get some.”

“I’m not allergic to any of it, so it doesn’t matter which kind.”

“I have several varieties,” he said, reaching into the bag again.  “But this is excellent.”

He held up a plastic bottle with a pump dispenser, and Lacey nodded with a smile as she recognised the brand.  That would do nicely.  She held out a hand to him.

“Come here,” she said softly.  “Come to bed.”

He smiled faintly, and tossed the toys and lube onto the bed before taking her hand and climbing on beside her.  His mouth found hers, and she moaned a little at the taste of him as his tongue slipped inside, a hint of her salt still on his lips.  He pushed her slowly back onto the bed, and Lacey ran her fingers through the short strands of his hair as she settled back against the blankets, hs body a pleasant weight on her.  Their lips parted as he broke the kiss, lifting his head a little, his breathing heavy and his eyes dark with desire.

“Would you like me to use one of the toys?”

His voice was low and rough, making her skin tingle with anticipation, and she nodded.  He seemed to get his kicks from giving her pleasure, which made a surprising change, but she was well aware she would have to return the favour at some point.  She thought it over as he reached above her to grab the bottle of lube.  Perhaps she could ride him hard, make him lose his mind.  That could be fun for both of them.

He pushed up onto his knees and squirted a little of the lube onto his hands, warming it between his palms before he lay back down by her side and reached between her legs.  Lacey moaned as he touched her, gently stroking slippery fingers through her sensitive flesh.

“That feels so good!” she whispered.

She felt him smile against her ear as he slipped a finger inside her, and she moaned, pushing up against his hand as his thumb rubbed over her clit.  It felt good, and she was almost certain he could make her come just with the touch of his hand, but then he withdrew the finger from her and after a moment she heard the low, insistent buzz of one of the vibrators.  She licked her lips, breath catching in her throat in anticipation.  The first touch of something smooth and firm against her clit made her cry out in pleasure, and then he began moving it slowly, stroking against her flesh, sending waves of sensation through her body.

She opened her legs a little, arching her back, moaning as she pushed her hips upwards, and he continued to move the vibrator over her.  It felt incredible, and she let her head roll back against the pillows, her moans growing louder.  She could feel a tide of pleasure rising up through her body, making her cheeks flush and her heart pound, and she closed her eyes, lips parted, holding her breath before letting it out in a wailing cry as she came.

Bliss poured over her in a wave of heat, her body jerking, and he pulled the vibrator from her just before it became too much for her sensitive flesh.  She moaned and writhed, almost purring in pleasure, her whole body feeling heavy and loose and relaxed.  He was kissing her neck, soft lips trailing over her skin, and she let herself sink into the blankets with a contented sigh, her body tingling.

He pushed up on one elbow, looking down at her with a tiny grin on his face, as though he was pleased with himself, and Lacey shook her head a little. Okay, I gotta earn my money here, this is insane!

She pushed him onto his back, kissing him hungrily, and he slid a hand into her hair, fingers twisting around her curls as his tongue slipped into her mouth. Lacey hummed in appreciation, hands sliding down over his chest, and he let out a brief exclamation as she teased his nipples with thumb and forefinger. Her hands worked lower, finding the waistband of his boxers, and she began gently working them down over his hips.  He lifted up off the bed to help her, and she shuffled lower, drawing the black silk down the length of his legs and off at his feet.

Turning back to him, she ran her eyes over him for a moment.  He was perhaps a little thin, but in good shape for a guy his age, and very noticeably aroused, which made her smirk.  She dropped onto the palms of her hands, walking her way up the bed to gaze down at him.

“I think it’s your turn,” she said softly.

Gold closed his eyes at her kiss, and relaxed into the pillows as she pulled her mouth from his and began kissing down his throat.  Her dark, silky hair tickled the skin of his chest, the pull of her lips sending tiny bursts of pleasure through him.  She glanced up, holding his gaze for a moment, and then moved down the bed, kissing over his belly, her lips brushing against his skin.  It felt good, and he wanted her to continue, to kiss down between his legs and suck his balls in between those perfect lips.  He wanted her hot, wet mouth to close up around his cock and suck him hard.  But he had learned the hard way never to allow someone that kind of power over him, and as she kissed along the crease at the top of his thigh, his hands tightened on her shoulders, pushing her up and away from him.

“That - that won’t be necessary,” he said, a little breathlessly, and she sat back a little, looking puzzled.

“You don’t want me to?”

He shook his head.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t, thank you.”

She shrugged, as if to say it didn’t matter to her, and moved up his body again to kiss his chest, sucking on his nipples and making him groan before pushing up on her hands, dark curls falling around her face.

“Are you ready?” she whispered, and he nodded.

She wriggled back down between his legs, and he heard the crackle of the condom packet as she got it open.  Her hair was hanging in front of her face, hiding what she was doing, but he felt her grasp his cock, and he sucked in a breath as she gripped him hard, pulling him upwards to roll on the condom.  He reached for the bottle of lube, squirting a little onto himself and spreading it with his fingers, and Belle crawled back up the bed a little, straddling him, her core pressed against the hard length of him.  Her hands slid slowly up his chest, thumbs rubbing over his nipples and making him jerk in response, and then she reached between them, taking him in hand and gently guiding him inside her.

Gold groaned as she sank down onto him, her heat surrounding him.  She straightened up, sweeping her hair out of her face, her breasts pulled high as she arched her back a little, gently rolling her hips as she settled herself.  It felt incredible, and he reached up to take her hips and hold her in place, knowing it would increase the friction for her, increase the pleasure.  She braced herself with her hands on his belly, and began to move her hips with a slow, rhythmic, circular motion, grinding against him.

He let his head roll back with a groan of pleasure, pushing his hips up to meet her, tugging her against him, and Belle moaned in response, shaking back her hair.  He reached to the side, grasping at one of the bullet vibrators, and caught her eyes for a moment, getting a nod from her before flicking it on with his thumb.  She was breathing hard as she moved, eyes fixed on his, and he slid the vibrator down over his belly and between her legs into the wet heat where their bodies joined.

Lacey threw her head back with a moaning cry as the slim, firm shape slipped over her clit, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure through her.  She tried to keep her concentration, to keep her rhythm, letting him slide out almost all the way before sinking back down onto him, but it was hard not to fuck him hard and fast and take them both over the edge.  She shook her head, fingers digging into the skin on his belly as she quickened her pace just a little, hips moving in time with the thrusts of the vibrator.  His cock felt good inside her, hard and deep, and she arched her back a little, wanting to take as much of him inside her as she could get.  He seemed to sense her need, gripping her with one hand as the other thrust the toy in and out of the space where they met, hot and slick with fluid.  His hips pushed upwards, thrusting deep, and a low groan rumbled out of him, making her belly clench with need.

“God, that’s good!” she gasped.  “You feel so good!”

He groaned in response, thrusting upwards, one hand holding her in place as the other rubbed the vibrator over her flesh, and she leaned back a little further, increasing the friction, clenching her inner walls around him and tugging hard.  His eyes rolled, his head pushing back against the pillows, and she could see the muscles of his neck and arms growing taut with the effort.  She kept up her rhythm, squeezing him, pulling him, feeling the head of his cock rub against her, deep inside her body.  She rocked her hips, knowing it would excite him, and he arched upwards with a groaning cry as he came, cock pulsing inside her.

Lacey straightened up, shifting her hips forward a little and rocking against him over and over until pleasure burst through her once more.  She let out a loud cry, hands braced on his belly, and let her head drop as she tried to catch her breath, sweat beading on her lip and trickling down between her breasts.  The vibrator was still tucked between them, its buzzing too much sensation against her tender skin, and she plucked it out and tossed it aside.  Gripping the base of the condom, she eased up off him and rolled onto her back with a sharp exhalation of relief, and for a moment there was only the sound of their ragged, uneven breathing.

Gold ran a hand over his face, his heart thumping hard and sweat cooling on his skin.  He glanced to the side, where a clock sat on the nightstand.  Plenty of time left.  Turning his head, he saw that Belle was still gulping in air, the tip of her tongue sweeping over her lips.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, and she nodded.

He got up, grasping the base of the condom and heading for the bathroom to dispose of the thing.  Once he had washed his hands and returned, he refilled their champagne glasses and carried them over to the bed.  Belle had pushed up against the pillows, dark curls falling over flushed cheeks.  She smiled as he handed over her glass, and let out a groan of approval as he went to pour a glass of water.  The champagne was set down at once, and she cupped the glass in both hands, drinking it down and licking her lips.

“Thanks.  God, I was thirsty!”

He refilled the glass, but she shook her head and reached for her champagne, so he drank the water himself, taking a moment to pop one of the pills that he carried in his bag before climbing onto the bed beside her and sitting back.  She turned onto her side a little, eyeing him pensively.

“You want to take a shower?” she asked, and her voice had taken on that sultry tone again.  He smiled.

“Let me go and turn it on.”

“Mmm.”  She took a sip of her champagne.  “I bet you’re good at that.”

He grinned at her, then took a swig of his drink and got up, heading for the bathroom.  It was tiled in dark grey, and the shower was just the right size for two people to share, with small bottles of shampoo, conditioner and shower gel lined up in a chrome rack to the side.  Turning on the water, he let it run until it was hot, and started at the feel of hands creeping around his waist.  Soft lips found his ear, making him shiver.

“Sorry if I made you jump,” breathed Belle.  “Is it ready?”

He turned, smirking a little at her grinning face, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief.  Really, she was very lovely.  This was turning into the most enjoyable assignment he had ever been given.

“Ready to go,” he confirmed.  “Shall we?”

“You get in, I’ll be there in a second.”

She slipped out of the room, and he got into the shower, closing the glass door behind him and stepping under the hot water.  He ran his hands over his face with a deep sigh, letting the water course over his skin.  Reaching for the shower gel, he began to wash, smiling as he heard the glass door open behind him.  He turned to face her, and Belle stepped close, lifting her head to kiss him and pressing her body against his.  Their skin was slippery with water, lips sliding, mouths soft and wet.  He could feel something cool and hard against his hip, and broke the kiss, glancing down. She was holding a large vibrator and a bottle of silicone lubricant, which she placed on the rack, next to the miniature bottles of toiletries.

“You’re very well prepared,” he observed, and she shrugged.

“Ready for anything.  Within reason.  I’m a regular Girl Scout.”

He grinned at that, and grabbed her hand, gently pulling her under the water with him and reaching up to cup her face as his mouth found hers.  Belle pulled the glass door shut, sealing them in as steam rose.  He deepened the kiss, and she moaned into his mouth, water cascading over them, making their lips slippery as he pushed her back against the tiled wall.  One hand slid down between them to cup her mound, and Belle shifted, rubbing against his fingers.  He gently stroked through velvet flesh, making her moan again as a finger entered her.  She was scalding hot, soft and wet, and he fingered her with long, slow thrusts, his thumb rubbing over her swollen clit.  She moaned, nails digging into his shoulders, one leg lifting to hook around his hip.

He could feel his cock already beginning to twitch with interest, although he knew it would take a little while for him to grow hard again, and so he broke the kiss and drew his fingers from her.  She began kissing his chest, lips and teeth gently tugging at him, and he pulled away, circling around until he was behind her, his back pressed against the cold tiles.  Slipping his arm around her waist, he drew her back against him.  Belle moaned, shifting her hips so that her buttocks rubbed against his cock, and making him grin.

He reached to the side, grasping the bottle of lube and squirting a little into his palm before setting it down and taking up the vibrator.  He spread the lube over the end, flicking it on to feel a strong, insistent buzz.  Belle sucked in a breath as if in anticipation, and he bent his head to kiss her neck as he slipped the vibrator between her thighs.  Belle moaned as it brushed against her, and he trailed his lips around to her ear.

“Open your legs,” he rasped.

Belle moaned again, head rolling back against his shoulder, feet shifting on the floor of the shower as she opened her legs wider.  He began to tease her with the head, rubbing it in slow circles over her flesh.

“God, that’s good!” she breathed.  “Oh, that’s amazing!”

His lips brushed her ear, sucking at the lobe, and he gently pushed the head of the vibrator into her.

“Can you take it, Belle?” he whispered.  “Can you take it all inside you?”

She nodded, arching her back a little as he slowly pushed the vibrator inside her, the thick plastic shaft sinking into her flesh and making her rise up on her toes with a gasp of pleasure.

“Very good,” he said softly.  “That’s very good, Belle.”

Gold kissed her neck, his other hand sliding down over her belly, a finger gently circling her clit as he thrust the vibrator in and out.  She moaned, reaching up to run her fingers over his scalp, legs opening wider as he pushed and pulled, fingertips flickering over slippery flesh.  She let out a tiny cry, and he drew his tongue up her throat, water droplets spattering against his skin.  He was growing hard, his cock pressing against her rear, and she pushed back against him, moving her hips a little to send jolts of sensation through him.  Steam was filling the shower, blurring his sight and damp in his lungs, and he ran his tongue over her pulse point, feeling the heavy throb of it.

“Harder,” she breathed, and he pushed the rigid shaft deep, making her roll her head back with a moan.

“How’s that?” he asked.  “Is that good?”

She nodded vigorously, and he slipped the vibrator in and out, fingers flickering, feeling her body grow taut as she neared her peak.  She came with a shout, her body shaking, and he kissed her neck, holding her tight around the waist as she jerked and moaned.  Slowly, he drew out the vibrator, watching glistening strands of cum wash away in the water.  She took it from him to wash it, her hands shaking a little, her breathing heavy.  Water ran into his eyes, stinging, and he squeezed them shut, wiping his face and stepping back a little out of the torrent.  Dark hair was plastered to her skin in curling strands, and he brushed it from her shoulders, kissing her gently as she set the vibrator in the chrome rack again.  His cock was still hard, and he felt a powerful urge to be inside her, a need to feel her come.  He wondered how much time they had left.

“What would you like me to do to you?” he murmured, and she twisted in his arms, twining her arms around his neck as she nuzzled his nose with hers.

“I want you inside me,” she breathed.  “Are you ready?”

She slipped a hand down between them, gripping his cock, and her lips curved upwards in a grin.  Her eyes flicked open, clear blue pools meeting his gaze, her cheeks adorably flushed and her mouth full and dark and wet.  Her fingers stroked him, sliding up and down the shaft, tracing around the head and making him shiver.

“Feels like you’re ready,” she whispered.  “Feels like you want to use this hard cock on me.  Push it deep until you’re all the way inside me.  Is that what you want?”

“Yes!” he rasped.  “Yes, I want you!”

She leaned in a little, lips gently brushing his ear.

“Then take me,” she whispered.  “Take me to bed and fuck me hard, Mr Devine.”

She squeezed him, and he felt a surge of desire go through him, his body responding instantly to her touch, to the feel of her against him, to the self-satisfied smirk on her beautiful face and the gleam in her eyes.  He kissed her hungrily, and she released him, stepping back and opening the shower door, hips swinging as she left.

Lacey towelled herself dry swiftly, rubbing water from her hair, and heard the shower cut off as she went into the bedroom.  The air was cool against her damp skin, and she tossed the towel aside, rummaging in her bag for a set of anal beads.  She had a pink plastic set, grouped in a curved, rigid line in increasing sizes, and she threw it onto the bed along with a couple of condoms and some more lube.  She had thought of a way they could both get some pleasure.  After a moment, she dug out a hollow butt plug and a bullet vibrator, and tossed those onto the bed.  Never hurt to be prepared.

Her skin was tingling, her hands still trembling a little, and she could feel excitement and arousal tugging at her, making her belly clench and her heart thump.  It was the most incredible night she had ever had, and to be paid money for the pleasure seemed to good to be true.  

Crawling onto the bed, she heard soft footsteps, and turned to face him as he entered, a towel snagged around his waist and his hair damp.  Her eyes dropped to his crotch, a telltale bulge in the towel proof of his arousal.  It made her grin, and she held out a hand to him.

“Come here,” she said softly.

He smiled a little, getting onto the bed on his knees, and she shifted onto her own, kneeling up and reaching for the towel at his waist.  Her fingers pulled slowly at soft cotton, opening it up and throwing it aside, and she let out a hum of pleasure as she ran a finger up the length of his cock.  He was hard and ready, his chest heaving, and she traced a winding path around the head and down the shaft, stroking over the soft sac of his balls.  Flicking her eyes up to meet his, she smiled, and reached to the side for a condom.  He watched as she rolled it on, his breath quickening a little at her touch, and Lacey licked her lips before leaning in to kiss his chest, sucking at a nipple and making him let out a low, rumbling growl.  She drew back, catching her lower lip with her teeth as she met his eyes, knowing that it made her look adorably coy and infinitely corruptible.

“Here,” she said, and reached for the set of beads, holding it up.

Gold raised an eyebrow, but took them from her, along with the bottle of lube she passed him.  She turned around onto her knees, spreading them wide and lifting her rear to reveal the deep pink petals of her sex, glistening with her juices.  He licked his lips, wanting to touch her, and she looked over her shoulder and winked at him, lips parted in a soft pout.

“Give it to me,” she purred.

Gold smirked to himself at her play-acting, but squirted some lube into his hand, warming it between his palms before spreading it between her legs.  She moaned, rocking back a little, and he squirted more onto the beads, spreading it with his fingers and making them slippery.  Hooking one finger through the plastic ring at the end, he pushed the first, smallest bead inside her, and she gasped, tossing her head, dark strands of damp hair whipping across pale shoulders.  He pushed against her tight entrance, letting a larger bead slip into her, and she moaned, fingers curling into the blankets.  Another push, and a third was inside her.

“How is that?” he asked softly.  “Can you take another?”

“Yes!” she whispered.

He pushed again, feeling it stretch her, hearing her tiny cry as it entered.

“Again!” she gasped.

She moaned as he pushed another inside, and the sound of it went straight to his groin.  He shifted closer, his cock pressed against her right buttock, and she glanced over her shoulder again.

“Fuck me!” she breathed.  “I want you inside me!”

He shifted position, sliding two fingers wet with lube inside her, and she moaned, pushing back onto his hand.  Sliding the fingers out, he took himself in hand and eased into her, grasping her hips and pulling, sinking all the way inside her.  She let out a cry, throwing her head back as he filled her.  He could feel the beads inside her, pressing against his cock through her slick walls, and he grasped the plastic ring.  There were two beads remaining, the two largest, and he gently pushed against her, watching as she spread her knees a little further apart, feeling the pressure against his cock as the bead slipped inside.  He slowly rocked his hips, letting himself slide out almost all the way before thrusting back inside, and she cried out.

“One more,” he whispered.  “Can you take it?”

“Yes!”

He pushed again, and she moaned as the bead stretched her, her breath catching as it slipped inside.  Releasing his finger from the plastic ring, he stroked his hands over her hips, and let himself slide out again before pushing back in, the feel of the beads an exquisite ripple of sensation against his cock.

“That’s good!” she gasped.  “You feel so good!”

He started to move with a slow, even rhythm, sinking deep inside her with every thrust, watching the muscles in her back and shoulders twitch as her hands grasped at the sheets.  Glancing to the side, he grasped the bullet vibrator, pressing the button at the end to turn it on.  He reached around her hip and between her legs, and Belle moaned as the smooth tip of it rubbed over her clit.  He could feel the sensations where he was buried within her, and he kept up the rhythm, long, slow strokes, the bullet circling her clit as he pushed and pulled inside her.  The feel of it was incredible, and he found himself trying to run through all the Shakespeare sonnets that he knew by heart, to list the plays in order of date, anything to distract his mind from the way she felt and the sounds she was making as he sank into her hot flesh. Her muscles were stiffening, her breath coming in pants, and he could sense she was as close as he.

“Oh, please!” she gasped.  “Please!”

He sank into her again, letting out a guttural groan of pleasure at the feel of the beads against his cock, the sensation almost too much to bear.  She was whimpering, her body shaking with the tension, and he groaned over and over, fucking her with short, rapid thrusts, the bullet rubbing over her clit as he worked them both to the edge.  Coloured stars burst behind his eyes as he came hard, and she followed him with a high-pitched cry, her flesh squeezing him, her hips bucking.  He pushed deep into her one last time, dropping the bullet and moving his hands to her hips to hold her steady as he tried to catch his breath.

Lacey let her head drop, gulping in air, sweat beading on her upper lip and her damp hair sticking to her cheeks.  She could still feel him inside her, although he was starting to soften, and she licked dry lips, wishing she could reach her drink.  She felt him grasp the base of the condom and pull out of her, and then there was a gentle tug at the beads inside her.  He drew them out slowly, and she sighed as the last one left her.

“I’ll just be a moment,” he said.

She felt the bed move as he got up, and a moment later heard the sound of running water.  Her heart was thumping, her cheeks on fire, and she stayed where she was, on hands and knees, chest heaving.  She was pretty sure she’d collapse if she tried to move, anyway.  The bathroom door closed with a click, and she heard the sound of soft footsteps.

“Are you alright?” he asked.  “You haven’t moved.”

Lacey wanted to roll her eyes.

“Oh my God!” she panted.  “Just - just give me a minute!”

She turned onto her back, huffing out air as her heart thudded in her chest, and he crawled onto the bed and lay on his side next to her, propped up on one elbow.

“We can just rest for awhile, if you like,” he said soothingly.

Oh, you think you beat me?  Not even close, buddy!  Damn, this guy has some stamina!

“I’m fine!” she insisted.  “Just let me catch my breath and I’m gonna climb you like a bloody tree!”

He chuckled, eyes twinkling, and she wanted to kick herself for letting her persona slip.  She turned to face him, pouting a little, and ran a fingertip over his chest.

“What I meant was, I think I need a moment after that,” she purred.  “And perhaps a drink?”

He looked amused, a tiny twist to his mouth, and she wondered if it was her swift change of tone from Lacey French to Belle Delacoeur.  To his credit, he didn’t mention it.

“Let me get you something,” he said instead.

She watched as he got out of bed and poured champagne into their glasses before rummaging in that black leather bag of his, the crackle of plastic reaching her ears.  He had his back to her, but she suspected he was taking some sort of chemical stimulant to let him get hard again.  That was fine with her; they still had time, and she had already had more orgasms than she had ever expected, so if he wanted to go again, she was ready for him.  In every sense.  Just as soon as she had recovered, of course.

Her heart was still thudding, but she was breathing more evenly, and she sat up and took the glass of champagne from him, smiling as she settled back against the pillows and brushed stray wisps of hair from her flushed cheeks.  He got onto the bed, sitting back next to her and taking a sip of his drink, and they lay in comfortable silence for awhile.  Lacey let out a contented sigh, wriggling a little in the blankets.  Her skin had stopped tingling, her limbs feeling pleasantly heavy and her muscles loose.  It would have perfect to slip beneath the covers with him and spoon up together for a nap, but she was well aware that sleep would have to wait until she was back in her own apartment.  A thought occurred to her, and she turned her head to face him.

“Do you live in Boston?” she asked.  He eyed her, eyes narrowing a little.

“No,” he said at last.

“Oh.”  She thought for a moment.  “You have family here?”

“I’d rather not discuss my private life, if that’s alright.”

“Right.”  She sipped at the champagne, wanting to kick herself.  This was a job, not a date. Tink had reminded her not to raise anything personal unless the client did it first. “Of course not, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she added.  “I shouldn’t have asked.  Not my business.”

“It’s fine, really,” he assured her.

Lacey sensed that he meant it, that he was trying to make her feel at ease, but she still felt like an idiot for asking, for bringing the spectre of his real life into the bedroom with them.  For all she knew he had a wife and kids.  She didn’t think so, though; she got the impression that he was as lonely as she, for all his smooth ways and soft smiles.  She realised she felt safe with him, that she was relaxed in his presence.  It was a rare feeling, and she told herself firmly to liven up and be on her guard.  Just because a guy seemed like a decent person didn’t mean he couldn’t turn into an abusive piece of shit at a moment’s notice.  There had to be a reason this guy paid for it, after all.

The thought made her sad, because she wanted to trust him, wanted him to be the person he seemed.  It was as though two halves of her brain were in conflict; the more sensible part was telling her firmly to stay in character, use up the three hours, give him a good time and show him out the door when it was over.  And the part of her that was Lacey, the real Lacey, wanted to have a drink with him and ask him what books he liked and how he took his coffee.

The silence continued, but it wasn’t unpleasant.  Time was passing, though, and he would want his money’s worth.  They all did.  She took a deep, calming breath, and a fortifying sip of champagne.  Condensation had formed on the glass, running down it in thin streams, and she set it down on the nightstand, turning back to face him.

“Well then,” she said. “Now that I’ve got my breath back, I think it’s time for me to make those pretty eyes of yours roll back in your head, what do you say?”

He grinned at that, dark eyes gleaming.

“I thought that’s what I was trying to do to you.”

“Yeah, well, mission accomplished,” she said bluntly.  “I’m tingling all over and if I have another orgasm I’ll break something.  Just lie back and let me get a kick out of pleasuring you, how hard can that be?”

His grin widened, and he set down his own glass.

“Well, as long as you enjoy yourself, that’s fine with me.”

Oh my God, who is this guy?  And why the hell is he paying for it?  Damn!

Lacey shifted onto her knees, lifting her chin to stare down her nose at him.

“Hang onto something,” she announced, and swooped in to kiss him.

Gold kissed her back, fingers sliding into her damp curls, his tongue stroking against hers.  Her breasts were brushing against his chest, a pleasant feeling, and as she began to kiss down his neck and over his chest, he let his head roll back against the pillows, eyes closed.  She sucked on a nipple, tongue swirling over it and sending ripples of pleasure through him, and he smiled at the sensation, surprised that she wanted to try to see to his pleasure rather than have him concentrate on her own.  It made a refreshing change, and he wondered if this was her first time paying for sex.  It didn’t seem to be; she certainly had a collection of accessories that he hadn’t expected, but she also seemed vulnerable and a little awkward, hiding her true self behind an image that she had created and was finding it difficult to maintain.

He had noticed that her voice had changed, and was no longer the sultry, throaty purr she had used when he first entered the room.  He suspected that whomever she had been pretending to be for the night, she had given up on it.  Idly, he wondered who she really was, and what she did when she wasn’t in hotel rooms with escorts.  She was too young to be a lawyer or banker, as many of his clients were.  An heiress, perhaps?  One of those internet celebrities he’d never heard of but that Astrid was always reading about?  He supposed it didn’t matter, but a part of him wanted to know who she truly was behind the false name and the honeyed voice.  She seemed to have a good heart.

Her breasts were rubbing against his cock, making it twitch with interest, and he groaned a little, reaching up to stroke his fingers through her hair as she kissed over his belly.  He was thankful for the chemical assistance he carried; he would never have coped otherwise, and he knew he was going to feel like death the next day as it was.  Belle raised her head, and he opened his eyes to meet hers.  Her mouth was dark and full, lips glistening with saliva, and for a moment he wanted to break his own rules and ask her to suck him.  A wild notion, and a foolish one.  Besides, it was her night, not his.  She licked her lips, and reached to the side, holding up a butt plug and raising an eyebrow as she glanced back at him.

“I thought we might use this, if you’re okay with that,” she said.  “It’s hollow, you can put the bullet in it.  It’ll make your toes curl, trust me.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, and realised that he meant it.  He nodded.  “Alright.”

“It’ll be easier if you get on your knees.”

Lacey straightened up, shifting to the side so that he could roll over and push up on his hands and knees.  She reached for the lube, spreading plenty of it over the plug, and then onto him, before shifting position to kneel up behind him.  She pushed the plug into him slowly, gently, taking time to let him adjust to it, and he let out a low groan as it slid into him.  Flicking the end of it with her finger made him jump and chuckle richly, and she grinned, reaching for the bullet and turning it on.  She slipped it inside the hollow core of the plug, and he groaned deeply.

“Fuck!”

Lacey smirked, one hand moving between his legs and gently stroking his balls before sliding up to grasp his cock. She began fondling him with long slow strokes of her hand, and he groaned as he rocked his hips in time with her, the muscles of his arms growing taut.

“How’s that?” she asked softly.  “Is that good?”

“So good,” he said, between gritted teeth.  “You’re so good at that.”

She drew the bullet out and let it slip back inside again, and he threw his head back with a low groan.  The sound of it called to her, made her want him again, and she licked her lips, uncertain whether he would want her to stop what she was doing.  She bent to kiss his back, the faint salty taste of perspiration on her lips as she rubbed him.

“Do you want me to keep doing this?” she murmured.  “Or do you want me to fuck you?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, his breath heaving, and jerked his head towards the nightstand where the clock sat.

“Time’s against us,” he gasped.  “Your choice.”

She should have done the selfless thing and brought him off, but she wanted to feel him inside her again.  If it was to be their last time, she wanted to see his face and feel him fill her up once more.  His cock was hard and thick in her hand, and she fumbled around in the sheets, hunting for one of the condoms. Getting it out of the packet and onto him was difficult when her hands were covered in lube, but she managed it in the end, and he growled in pleasure as she rolled it down his length.  She moved, taking the bullet out of him and turning onto her back, and he got between her legs and guided himself inside, sinking into her with a cry.  She slipped the bullet vibrator inside again, and his eyes rolled back as he let out a deep groan of pleasure.  Lacey lifted her hands, pushing them up above her head against the cool pillow, and he bent his head to kiss her, tongue pushing into her mouth as he fucked her hard.

His movements grew harder, deeper, hands sliding up her arms, fingers lacing through hers, pushing her hands down into the pillows as he thrust inside her. Lacey drew up her knees, wrapping her legs around his back, their bodies slippery with sweat and lube, tingling with vibrations, flushed with passion and their shared heat.  She could feel herself nearing climax, her limbs growing taut as she chased her pleasure, and he thrust inside her with a low cry, pumping his hips as he came.  His cock pulsed, and the feel of it made a tide of bliss wash over her, her cries drowning out his.  She bucked against him, flesh tugging at him, goosebumps rippling over her skin as pleasure took her.

Gold tried to calm himself, slowing his thrusts as she writhed and moaned beneath him.  Her flesh was still clenching around him, pulling the cum from him, sending ripples of pleasure through his body.  He drew to a stop, releasing her hands and pushing up on his palms, head hanging as he tried to catch his breath.  She was panting, her chest heaving, eyes closed and full lips parted and shining.  He let out a final, shuddering breath, and reached between them to grasp the base of the condom before pulling out of her and rolling onto his back with a groaning gasp.  The plug was still firmly inside him, but the vibrator had fallen out; he could hear a muted buzz from somewhere on the bed, but didn’t have the energy to look for it.  Glancing to the side, he could see that the three hours were almost up.  Just as fucking well, I might die if I have to go again.  He ran his hands over his face as he tried to steady his breathing, and Belle let out a heavy sigh.

“Whoa!” she gasped, letting an arm fall over her eyes.  “That was fucking amazing!”

“Yes.”

He couldn’t say much more than that.  It felt as though he’d been beaten up and then turned inside out, and he was sure he’d ache like hell the next day, but his body was still humming with pleasure, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever forget how good she had felt beneath him.

“Best night of my life, no question,” she added, her voice shaking a little as she tried to catch her breath.  “I mean seriously.  Usually I have to spend my time stroking egos and faking orgasms.  That. Was. Awesome!”

“I aim to please,” he said.

“No shit.”  She lowered her arm and turned on her side to face him.  “Hey, have you ever considered doing this professionally?”

He smiled lazily.  “Very funny.”

“I’m serious!” she insisted.  “I have no idea what you do when you’re not having sex, but I’m telling you it’s time wasted.  The money’s really good, you know.  You could make a killing.”

Slowly, very slowly, Gold lifted his head up off the pillows.

“What?”

x

Saturday morning, and a fine day had brought gulls in along with the fishing boats that went in and out of Boston harbour.  Gold glanced up, watching them dance and wheel in the air above as he made his way along the street. Wailing, mewing calls filled the air around him, making it sound as though they were having a laugh at his expense.  As they should.  Sighing to himself as he came to a stop, Gold rolled his shoulders, gazing up at the building which housed, amongst other businesses, Blue Star Escort Services.  He was tired, his limbs aching, and despite having stayed over in Boston the night before, felt as though he needed about twelve hours’ extra sleep.  He wondered how Lacey was holding up.  Probably far better than he.

Once they had both worked out what had happened, they were able to find the humour in the situation, although Gold had to admit it wasn’t an ideal way to meet a colleague.  Lacey had laughed about it even more than he had, but she had grown shy afterwards, and had dressed and made her exit quickly. He had been perhaps five minutes after her, heading to the motel he had booked just outside town to get a night’s sleep before going to the agency for his regular medical, and for an explanation of how he had ended up screwing a fellow escort instead of his client.

Much to his relief, Tink was back on duty at reception, grinning widely at him from beneath a loose bun of messy blonde curls.

“So, here’s the man of the hour,” she drawled.  “Who’s been a bad boy, then?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” he said patiently.  “A mix up in the bookings, that’s all. Could happen to anyone.  How did the client take it?”

“She called up, screeching about being stood up,” said Tink, with a shrug. “Astrid couldn’t calm her down, so Blue had to take the call from the networking function.  It’s cool, she smoothed some ruffled feathers, offered a discount, and sent Graham out on a rescue mission.”

Gold sighed.  “I owe him one, in that case.  I haven’t seen this client before, but I hope she wasn’t too difficult.”

“He managed to win her over,” said Tink.  “She says she wants you next Friday, though.  No excuses, in her words.  Sounds the demanding type.  You up for it?”

“Given the right chemical stimulants,” he remarked dryly, and she snickered.

“Great, I’ll confirm the booking,” she said.  “Oh, and don’t worry.  Astrid isn’t handling anything more technical than the takeout order in future.”

“Is she alright?”

“Just embarrassed, really,” said Tink.  “Everyone knows, by the way.  If it’s any consolation, Lacey gave you a gold star.  Actually, I think she gave you five.”

“Right.”  He glanced towards the coffee room, where he could hear the murmur of voices.  “Well.  I guess I’d better go and face them.”

Tink grinned at him, and he sighed and turned on his heel, heading for the door and pushing it open.

“And here he is, the man himself!” announced Jefferson, waving his hand in an elaborate gesture.

Lacey, Astrid and Graham were slouched in the chairs around him, grinning.  The man who called himself Hook was sitting apart from them, apparently engrossed in a magazine, although he glanced up as Gold entered and scowled slightly before looking away.  Was he wearing eyeliner?  Gold supposed it went with the leather outfit.

“Devine, take a seat!” said Jefferson eagerly.  “The lovely Miss Delacoeur has just been telling us about how the two of you tried to fuck each other into a coma.  It sounds like a smutty version of Thunderdome!”

“Only one man entered, though,” said Lacey, with a grin, and Jefferson snickered.

“It was a simple case of mistaken identity,” said Gold evenly.

“It was the shag of the century as far as I was concerned,” said Lacey bluntly. “Most fun I ever had with my clothes off.”

“God, I’m so jealous!” sighed Jefferson.  “My evening consisted of convincing a finance manager that I really wanted a threesome with him and his mistress, so all I have to say to you is—”  He stuck out his tongue, and Lacey smirked.

“Put it away, Sparkle-Pants, I ain’t riding that face.”

“Hey, I’m not jealous of Devine, I’m jealous of you!” protested Jefferson.  “Not that you aren’t a total goddess, of course, but I always wanted to know why he gets so many repeat bookings, and you were the one lucky enough to find out!”

“Perhaps you need some pointers on technique,” said Gold, with a grin, and Jefferson winked at him.

“If you want to pass on your extensive knowledge, I’m ready anytime.”

“Stop flirting with your colleagues,” said Graham, with mock severity.

“That’s not what you were saying last night.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a special exception for boyfriends.”

Jefferson spread his hands.

“I just want to excel in my chosen profession!” he protested.  “You’re always saying I should take more pride in my work.”

“I’m always saying you should clean the kitchen after you cook breakfast, but you never listen to me about that,” said Graham, with a grin.  “Suddenly you’re the next Employee of the Month?”

“Well, if boinking each other is our new way to build team spirit, I’m in.”

“In your dreams,” said Gold dryly, and crossed to the coffee machine.

“Oh, every one of my dreams.”  Jefferson pressed a hand to his heart, batting his eyelids.  “Especially the dirty ones.”

Gold couldn’t help grinning at that, but busied himself making coffee as the conversation thankfully moved on to topics other than his sexual prowess. Lacey appeared at his elbow, chewing her lip nervously.  She had tied up her hair, and was wearing a black top and booty shorts over tights and high-heeled boots.  She smiled a little tremulously.

“Hey,” she said.  “Sorry about that.  Everybody already knew, so - so I thought I’d better sing your praises.”

“It’s okay,” he said, and she wrinkled her nose.

“Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have told Leroy,” she added thoughtfully.  “That guy couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended on it.”

“No matter,” he said.  “My only regret is that I lost a night’s pay.”

“Oh, crap.”  She frowned.  “Hey, my guy was a no-show, but I still got paid. Want to split it fifty-fifty?”

Gold shook his head.

“That’s your money,” he said.  “You keep it.”

“But you didn’t make anything!”

“I’ll speak to Miss Blue,” he said.  “She’s always very reasonable about mishaps.  I’m sure I won’t lose out completely on the financial side.”

“Oh, okay.  Cool.”

She chewed her lip, bouncing on her toes a little and looking uncertain, and he raised an eyebrow.

“Was there something else?” he asked gently, and she inhaled deeply, fixing him with a stare.

“I - I just wanted to say thanks,” she said in a rush.  “I wasn’t kidding when I told the others how great you were.”

Gold looked away, unsure how to react to her admission.  He knew he was good; he’d worked hard to become so, but she had made it easy for him too.

“Well, that’s my job,” he said.  “Just as it’s yours.”

“Oh, I know all about technique and all that crap,” she said impatiently.  “I can make a guy lose his mind in a hundred different ways, and I guess you can do the same with a woman, but that’s not what I meant.”

“What is it, then?”

She hesitated, as though she was unsure how to express herself.

“I - I didn’t have to pretend with you,” she said.  “Does that make sense?”

He eyed her for a moment, then nodded.

“I understand.”

“I just - I felt that I could be myself,” she added.  “That I could be Lacey.  I never want to be Lacey, you know?  Not at work.  Sometimes not even outside of work, to be honest, but that’s a whole other story of self-loathing I won’t bore you with.”

Gold stared at her for a moment.  He understood that very well, and he felt again that urge to protect her, to shield her from the world and anyone that might want to harm her.

“We all have our personas,” he said neutrally.  “Sometimes it’s easier to pretend to be someone else.  Someone who can handle what we do.  Even enjoy it.”

She nodded vigorously.

“Anyway, I started out being Belle Delacoeur, but a little way into our time together, I was Lacey again,” she said.  “And - and that never happened before.  I just - I wanted you to know.”

Gold smiled, giving her a tiny bow of his head.

“It was an honour to meet you, Lacey,” he said softly, and she sent him a wobbly smile.

“You too,” she said.  “And - and maybe I could buy you a drink sometime.”

His smile widened.

“Maybe you could.”

“Since we’ve seen each other’s O-face, small talk should be easy, right?” she added, and he blinked.

“You mean - you mean like a date?” he asked blankly, and she shrugged.

“Yeah,” she said.  “If you want.”

She was wavering, an uncertain look in her eyes, the expectation of rejection, and he felt it again, that rush of emotion, the urge to care for her.  He swallowed, nodding.

“I’d like that.”

[danfanciesphil]

too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

*Warning: This chapter has a mild reference to an eating disorder. Nothing graphic, and nothing more than a mention of past issues with it. But if you are easily triggered, maybe avoid this chapter.*

Three hours later, Kaspar is departing after a quick check around the hotel to see if anything needs repairing - “Little Dan, your handyman skills are excellent! You wound up Mona’s big ugly clock, and fixed all her trinkets! I am impressed!” - and then loading the cable car with around twenty large bags from the outside bins, which he does once a month.

“I am in for a smelly ride!” he shouts cheerily as he squeezes into the cable car amongst the bags, and waves to Louise and Dan as if he’s a child on a merry-go-round waving to his mum and dad. “See you soon, friends! Please do tell lovely Mona I think of her constantly, and send kisses upon kisses!”

Louise leads Dan back upstairs then, sits him down in a chair in the mezzanine, and brings him a freshly baked cupcake. He blinks down at the treat once it’s placed in front of him, pleased but bewildered.

“What’s this for?” He picks up the cupcake anyway, marvelling at the swirled peak of blue frosting. His mouth waters as he peels off the paper case.

“Well, I was hoping to get a smile out of you,” Louise says, pulling a chair around to sit beside him. She rests her chin in her hand on the table, and looks at him with obvious concern. “But perhaps I’m dreaming too big.”

Dan sinks his teeth into the cupcake. It tastes like sweet relief. “Unfghh,” he says, eyes falling shut. “Sensational.”

When his eyes reopen, it’s to Louise’s pleased smile, but her worry lines peek through, betraying her. “Was it that bad?” she asks.

“Meeting Nikolai?” Dan asks, and wrinkles his nose, contemplating the question. “Meh. I’m used to dealing with snobby wankers at this point. Though he makes Phil seem like a peach.”

“No, not that,” Louise says. “Obviously he’s a Royal pain. Could you tell he doesn’t remember my name? He learns it once and makes a big show out of using it, but after that you’re less than dirt to him, though he tries not to let it show.”

“Dick,” Dan says firmly, then takes another bite of fluffy, crumbly goodness.

“But I meant the weekend, Dan,” Louise says, apparently not willing to let this drop. “I knew you could handle it, but I did worry. What with all the... friction between you and Mr Novokoric.” She pauses, eyebrow arched, perhaps to give Dan a chance to jump in, which he doesn’t, instead opting to finish off the cake. “Did something happen? Another argument?”

At her first question, Dan almost chokes, but is quickly placated by her second. He thinks about pretending that nothing whatsoever occurred, that they barely glanced at each other in three whole days, but decides quickly that it would be far less believable that things went totally smoothly.

He shrugs one shoulder, trying to exude nonchalance, then licks his fingers of crumbs. “Some minor disagreements. He called me bony.”

Best way to disguise a lie is to conceal it in truth. That’s what Dan’s always found, anyway. The admission makes Louise laugh, and mercifully she seems to relax. “Struck a nerve, did he?”

“I have a perfectly normal amount of bones, thanks very much.”

She titters again, then eyes him curiously. “Anything else? You were alone up here for three days together. I half expected to walk in on a crime scene.”

Dan can feel the traitorous blush creeping into his cheeks, and he shrugs again, trying to think of something that will appease her. Perhaps he should give her a small nugget of the real story. The shock of it might be enough all on its own to get her to ease off. 

“We, uh, went skiing,” Dan tries. “Briefly.”

She balks at once, lipsticked mouth falling wide. “You what?!”

Okay, perhaps that nugget wasn’t the best one to choose. Dan winces at her obvious flare of anger. “I know it’s against the rules, but Phil’s super experienced. And anyway he practically dragged me out the door!”

“Do you even have skis?”

Dan hesitates, biting his lip. No point trying to backtrack now. “Phil lent me his new ones.”

A weighted blanket falls over the conversation then. It feels like Louise is scrutinising him, for some reason he can’t put his finger on. As if he’s accidentally revealed that he has gills beneath his shirt collar, and she’s spotted them peeking out.

“Did he now,” Louise murmurs. It doesn’t seem to be a question.

In the hopes of lifting the quilt of this weird new atmosphere, Dan decides a change of subject is in order. “Anyway, enough about me and dick-brain. How was it with Pearl?”

Despite her obvious reservations, Louise’s smile breaks through upon hearing her daughter’s name. Relieved to be off the hook for now, Dan listens avidly to Louise as she gushes about her little girl, about how she’s grown, about her predictable but adorable three-year-old interests - Frozen, My Little Pony, Peppa Pig, etc - and sits patiently smiling at photo after photo of the blonde toddler, beaming her gap teeth at the camera, ribbons decorating the wavy locks she inherited from her mother.

It starts getting dark eventually, he and Louise still talking about nothing much at all. It’s so pleasant, just sitting with her and laughing, bantering about life, sipping coffee and eating cupcakes, that Dan doesn’t even realise he’s stalling until Louise points out how long they’ve been doing just that. Reluctantly, Dan starts to extricate himself from the conversation, mind wandering to all the tasks he needs to accomplish. He hasn’t swept the balcony since the storm, and the lobby could do with a mop and tidy after all the hoards of people traipsing through it today.

“Oh, by the way,” Louise says, scooping cake crumbs off the table into her hand. “I don’t know if Mona mentioned, but as we don’t get a lot of opportunities to get into Mr Nov- I mean, Phil’s room, we usually snatch any chance we get as soon as he’s gone for any length of time.”

Dan sends Louise a puzzled look, and she chuckles.

“To change the bed and the bins and everything. He doesn’t let us do it normally. So might be an idea to go and give it a spring clean.”

“Ugh, do I have to?” Dan asks, dreading the idea of re-entering the scene of what feels like his very recent crime.

“You should go in just to have a nose around,” Louise tells him with a reticent grin. “You’ll never believe the size of his suite.”

Dan shrugs, picturing the untidy floorplan of room eight, already moving to the stairs. “The bed takes up most of it.”

He’s already up the second flight of stairs before he realises he’s probably let slip a little too much.

*

After three trips up and down the three flights of stairs, carrying dirty mugs, sheets, towels, and rubbish, Dan finally gets Phil’s room to a point where he can begin rebuilding. Phil Novokoric has the only King-sized bed in the entire hotel, so there are just two sets of bedding big enough to fit. After half an hour of searching, Dan is still unable to locate the second set, so he gives up, resigning himself to waiting until the sheets currently in the wash are clean and dry.

Knelt in Phil’s ensuite bathroom, scrubbing the glass pane of the shower, Dan is not feeling particularly warm towards the man. The bathroom isn’t dirty exactly, but it’s clear that it’s been a while since the sinks and bath have been properly scrubbed and bleached. By the time he’s done, he’s too exhausted to think about re-dressing the bed or lining the wastepaper bins. Instead, he goes down to Louise, wrung out and pissed off, to complain and beg her for snacks.

“I don’t know where you put them all,” Louise says as she hands Dan another cupcake - his third. “Phil’s right, you’re all bones.”

Dan shoots her a glare, but given that he has blue frosting smeared across his mouth, he doubts it’s particularly menacing. “He’s one to talk, he never eats anything. I practically had to force soup and pizza down his throat.”

She’s quiet for a minute, folding tea towels. “He ate soup and pizza?”

“Only after I yelled at him.”

Her mouth quirks. “What did you say?”

“Something like…” Dan tilts his head, trying to remember. The events of last night somewhat obliterated the rest of the day from his memory. “‘Starving yourself isn’t cute or impressive and I won’t be fired for your valiant attempt at martyrdom.’ Roughly.”

Louise stops folding, then leans against the counter. “And that worked?”

There’s something amiss in her tone. “Apparently. Why?”

She catches a strand of blonde curl in her fingers and twirls it. “I don’t know the extent of it, but I understand he has a tricky relationship with food. His brother, who used to be his PA, told me that once.”

Guilt lashes through Dan like he’s been whipped. “Oh. Shit, wow. I didn’t know.”

“I don’t think it’s as bad as it once was, judging from what Martyn told me,” Louise says with a shrug. “He only said something to me so that I wouldn’t push him to eat, or say the wrong thing. If you ask me, it was probably a sort of rebellion on Phil’s part, to do with all that awful Royalty training he had to go through. Can’t imagine the sorts of things they put him through.” She grimaces, and Dan replays some of the conversation he had with Phil last night, about nose jobs and personality bleaching. “You know, he told me once that they made him do something called ‘kidnap situation training’,” Louise says, clearly not noticing the anvil of guilt Dan’s struggling not to be crushed under. “They stage a kidnapping when he least expects it, take him to an unknown location and he has to get out of it using self-defense and mediation. And they use live ammunition to simulate reality. I mean, obviously they’re experts in avoiding actually shooting him, but can you imagine? It must be terrifying. And he has no choice. He’s forced to do undergo these crazy exercises because he married Nikolai so fast. He probably had no idea what he was signing up for, the poor kid.”

The impossible weight of the anvil buckles Dan’s knees. He feels himself crumble under its mass, slowly, and he has to discreetly grip the lip of the worktop to stop himself from slipping to the ground. Twenty-one, Phil had said. That’s how old he was when he was swept off his feet by a charlatan promising a life of love and luxury, and consequently forced through a complete physical and personal re-design, then locked away up a mountain. Is it any wonder he’s so moody, so snippy, so sad? And along comes Dan, griping and pestering him at every turn, telling him off for things he can’t help, for things he’s been traumatised by.

“I should…” Dan mutters, pushing away from the counter, only to wobble on unsteady legs. “I should get on. Lots to do still.”

“Are you alright?” Louise asks, slipping effortlessly into concerned-mother-mode. She lifts a hand to his forehead, and he shrinks away. “You’re all pale suddenly.”

“I’m fine,” Dan tells her, managing a tight smile. He walks briskly to the door. “Just… got a load to do before, um, before Mona gets back.”

“She won’t be back today,” Louise says, frowning.

Dan shrugs, already at the kitchen door. “Still. Best to prepare. See you later.”

“He’s alright, you know Dan.” Her voice is soft, careful. It makes him pause, halfway through the door. “He made a bad choice, I’d say, but he’s not completely without a brain.” 

“A dick-brain,” Dan says half-heartedly, though he still feels wretched. 

“Better than nothing,” Louise says. 

Dan doesn’t know how to reply, so he nods, swallowing something acrid and bitter, then pushes out of the kitchen. 

*

An unfamilar noise splits through the silent crackle of the night, burrowing beneath the thin skin of Dan’s light slumber, and waking him. His eyes are crusted and filmy with dried tears as he wrenches them open, and he scrubs a hand over them, sitting up. There is only one thought clear enough to articulate in the gloop of his viscous mind: why am I awake?  

Blearily, he turns to the window, or the place he knows the window to be, given that it’s dark and his eyes have yet to adjust. Nothing seems out of place as far as he can tell. No ghostly movements in the shadows, or unusual shapes that might be demons lurking, ready to pounce. Of course, these things are impossible anyway, but Dan’s rational brain doesn’t like to be disturbed during the nighttime hours. He listens for a good minute or two, ears straining against the thick blanketing silence; faintly, he thinks he can make out muffled movement from downstairs.

He sighs, thinking of Louise scuffling about, trying not to make too much noise, and reaches blindly for his phone. It’s two in the morning. Given that Louise often tells Dan she would rather watch her own legs be chewed off by ravenous wolves than disturb her slumber for anything less than an emergency, he thinks he’d better go and see what’s stirred her. As he peels back the duvet and drops his feet to the carpet, trepidation begins settling around him like a cloak. The more he wakes up, the more images his paranoid brain provides of possible situations happening below: Louise, legless and bleeding, at the mercy of an actual wolf. Some sort of mountain-dwelling-specialist burglar, currently hauling the TV down the floating stairs. A poltergeist, smashing coffee cups and tugging Louise’s curls. He’s barefoot, but it’s not cold in the over-heated hotel, so he pads out of the room and begins making his way down the stairs, wishing he’d thought to grab some kind of weapon on his way.

The shadows paint the wooden walls with hunched, crouching ghouls, warping the layout of the familiar building until Dan is disoriented enough that he has to pause on the lower landing and re-evaluate where he’s headed. Eventually he makes it to the mezzanine, and the moonlight streaming through the balcony windows illuminates things a little better. Dan looks around, thinking idly that he’s likely to find Louise in the kitchen, if anywhere. He starts towards the door, and stops suddenly, heart lurching into his throat as he catches sight of a shape curled in one of the beanbag chairs, large and too bulky to be a stray blanket.

As his eyes adjust, he’s sure he can make out the form of an actual body, and has to swallow a scream of terror. Luckily, as he’s spent the past few days staring at or thinking about a certain sweep of jet black hair, the specific hue of pale skin and big, long-fingered hands, he recognises the blob in under a second. He has to blink a few times to be sure he’s not hallucinating.

“Phil?” he asks once he’s relatively certain this is not a mirage.

Eyes flick open, and that brilliant blue shines out, caught in the wash of moonlight. “Dan.” His voice is barely a croak. He moves sluggishly into a more upright position, as if his limbs are weighted, and presses his palms to his eyes. “Ugh. Di’n’t wanna wake you up.”

Ignoring the urge to unpack that statement for now, Dan decides to tackle a more pressing confusion. “What are you doing here? How are you here?”

“Plane,” Phil says vaguely, floating a hand in the air above his head, as if Dan needs a visual aid.

“You’re supposed to be in Milan,” Dan says, utterly bewildered. 

As his eyes adjust, he can see Phil is in a suit and tie, somewhat creased now, but still obviously expensive and posh. He doesn’t appear to be wearing a coat, which is concerning. Had he walked from wherever the plane landed to the hotel without one? And even then, how he got inside is a mystery. It occurs to Dan that he’s pretty sure he didn’t remember to bolt the front door, which answers that he supposes, but the rest is still completely up in the air. 

“Yeah,” Phil sighs, shoulders slumping, “couldn’t bear to be parted from you, I guess.”

Despite the typical sarcastic response, there’s something off about his words; they’re all bumping together, the consonants jostling for position. It occurs to Dan that Phil’s probably drunk, as he’s been at some fancy event, and he doubts the snobs that put those together skimp on the champagne. Further interrogations can wait until he’s sober enough to speak some sense. It’s obvious that Phil is not capable of looking after himself right now, so Dan needs to get this man into bed. He contemplates how best to do this, chewing his thumbnail.

“I stripped your bed earlier,” Dan tells him in a sigh. “Your room’s not ready for you.”

“S’fine,” Phil says, toeing off his loafers and leaning back into the beanbag. “I’ll sleep here.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a prat. Just wait here a sec while I get the bedding.”

He descends into the dark lobby, shivering from something that doesn’t feel like cold, then ducks into the tiny laundry room to retrieve the sheets he’d washed and dried earlier. He folds it all up diligently - though not very neatly - and puts it all into a basket to bring back upstairs. As he passes through the mezzanine lounge, he inclines his head as a signal for Phil to follow him up to the top floor.

Dan walks slowly on account of his weak ankle and the dark, but he can hear Phil’s plodding, unsure footsteps behind him, careless and clumsy. Dan wonders how fast the other man’s mind is spinning, and wishes he had another set of hands to help keep him steady.

“Not far now,” Dan reminds him in a low voice, because they’re approaching the floor where Louise sleeps. “One more set of stairs.”

“Thank God you’re here, I almost forgot,” Phil mutters, though his words are so slurred that the contemptuous remark loses its potency.

In a way, it’s almost soothing to know that Phil is still lucid enough to deride him. They reach the top floor eventually, Dan’s arms aching and his ankle throbbing. He’d left Phil’s door unlocked earlier, so he pushes it open now and heads straight for the bed. Phil ambles in afterwards, moving to switch on a lamp on the bedside, which offers some yellow light that glosses the moonlight pouring in through the huge windows.

Dan sets to work immediately, pulling off the pillows and duvet in order to cover the mattress with a clean sheet. Given the size of the bed, this is no easy task, and the corners spring off twice in his haste. To his surprise, Phil begins attempting to help, moving sluggishly, but managing to hold the corners in position.

They work together silently, dressing the pillows and even stuffing the duvet into its cover. By the time it’s done, Dan’s about ready to drop, but he can feel the weight of responsibility on him right now, along with that anvil of guilt Louise heaved on his back earlier. It’s not something he can just shrug off, so despite the fact his shift doesn’t technically start for a few hours, and Phil is supposedly not his problem yet, Dan finds himself going to Phil’s small kitchenette area and finding a glass. It looks a bit smeary, but otherwise fine, so he takes it into the bathroom, rinses it out and fills it, then brings it out to Phil, who is now sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forwards, face in his hands. He still doesn’t look up to giving the full explanation Dan wants to drag out of him, so it will just have to wait until tomorrow. Not that he’ll be any more forthcoming then - he certainly doesn’t owe Dan any explanations if he doesn’t want to share. 

Given that there’s no point in attempting to pry answers out of him at the moment, Dan places the glass on Phil’s bedside table and studies the man in front of him, deciding how best to approach the task of getting him into bed. Probably best to start with removing his uncomfortable outer layers, Dan decides, and reaches for Phil’s suit jacket, which he then begins shoving awkwardly down his arms. As he works the material over Phil’s biceps, Dan vaguely notes Phil’s head lifting, blue eyes squinting at him curiously. 

After a moment or two, Phil asks, “um, what are you doing?”

“As fun as it would be to watch you attempt to struggle out of your clothes in your inebriated state, it’ll be a lot quicker if I help,” Dan replies, managing to pull the garment off him.

He turns to fold the jacket carefully over a chair, then spins around to find Phil fighting a smile. Dan ignores it, reaching for Phil’s shirt buttons, some of which are already undone. He works efficiently, keeping his mind focused resolutely on the action of slipping the round discs of plastic through their respective holes, and not anything about the soft, pale skin beneath slowly revealing itself.

“Dan?”

Dan tuts, wishing he’d just shut up and be helped without argument. “What?”

“I’m not drunk,” Phil says.

Dan’s fingers still. Phil’s shirt is almost entirely open, revealing the length of Phil’s lean torso in a long, deep ‘V’. “Yes you are,” Dan says stubbornly.

Phil shakes his head. “Not even slightly.” 

“But... you were at that event,” Dan tries, though his stomach is squeezing, and he can already feel the blush creeping into his face. 

Belatedly, Dan realises then that he’s got one knee on the mattress beside Phil’s left thigh, and the other nestled between Phil’s legs, almost pushing into his crotch. He’s essentially in Phil’s lap, methodically undressing him. For some reason, this incriminating position doesn’t seem to be anything other than mildly amusing to Phil. 

“Yeah, well after about a minute of watching Nikolai schmooze a bunch of CEO’s and their wives, I knew I had to make a break for it at the first opportunity.” He shrugs; one of his hands rests absent-mindedly on Dan’s knee, like he’s not even aware of the action. “Can’t fly drunk, so I avoided the free schnapps.” 

“Fly drunk...” Dan tries to process this information, and fails. “You don’t mean- you flew the plane up here?” 

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches. “And here I thought I was running out of ways to impress you.” 

Dan stares into Phil’s eyes - they’re bloodshot and drooping, but the pupils are small, the irises bright and clear. He’s not lying, Dan realises. He’s stone cold sober. Too caught up in the embarrassment of having tried to undress and basically straddle a man who was totally capable, the information Phil is feeding him - that he apparently can fly planes, that he’s been trying to impress Dan of all things, that he’d escaped from Nikolai’s side to come back here at 2am - is enough to have Dan totally flummoxed. He attempts to leap backwards, to extricate himself from Phil, but Dan being who he is, trips and stumbles. 

Though sluggish and inalert, Phil somehow still manages to catch him before he lands on his ass. He tugs Dan sharply forwards, and he ends up falling front-ways instead, pushing Phil until he’s toppling backwards, both hands coming down to bracket Phil on the bed. 

“God, you’re insatiable tonight,” Phil jokes as Dan attempts to scramble off him, mortified. “Relax,” Phil laughs, though it sounds numb and hollow. “I’m not under any impression that you’re actually that unable to resist me.” 

“Sorry, fuck,” Dan says, flushing, having rolled off Phil smartish. “I’m barely awake right now, and I thought you were sloshed and-”

Phil throws him a tired laugh. “Not sloshed, no. Just exhausted. Can barely see straight.”

Dan’s heart is jackhammering, but one look at Phil, sprawled out on his fresh bedclothes, eyes half-shut, tells Dan that this is a lot more than exhaustion. He can joke that watching Nikolai hobnobbing with a load of posh gits is enough to send him running for the door, but if Dan had to guess, he’d say something happened at that party. Something bad enough to have Phil finding the nearest plane and pointing its nose straight back up the mountain he loathes being stranded at the top of. 

“Well yeah, I’d imagine,” Dan replies carefully. “Round trip to Milan and back in less than twelve hours?”

Phil doesn’t answer; Dan wonders if he’s fallen asleep. He dithers, shifting, and the mattress bounces Phil up and down.

“Don’t,” Phil mutters.

“Don’t what?”

A pause. Dan’s ears strain to hear the response. When it comes, it’s almost a whisper. “Don’t leave.”

To spare Phil the humiliation of explaining himself given his current state, Dan just nods to the otherwise empty room, and shuffles to the edge of the bed. He gets up to plump the pillows, then pulls back the duvet. He turns to prod Phil in the leg.

“Get in, then.”

When Phil immediately begins moving in accordance with Dan’s instruction, Dan tells himself it’s because he’s so tired that he’d do anything he was told. Once he’s beneath the covers, Phil shuffles around a bit until he’s shucked off his trousers, which he then pulls out in a magician-like reveal, and throws to the ground. Dan picks them up, and folds them across the chair with the jacket. They’re still warm.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dan asks as he slides in to the other side of the bed.

“No,” Phil says half into the pillow. He sounds seconds away from unconsciousness, which is promising. Then, quietly, he says, “if you’re really gagging to know, I suggest you check the news.” 

Given that Dan himself is about five years away from getting any sleep, he reaches into his pyjama pocket for his phone and opens his news app. He doesn’t even need to use the search bar. Right there, on the front page, blares the headline:

‘SIR NIKOLAI’S HUBBY THREATENS DIVORCE IN SHOCKING DISRUPTION AT CHARITY EVENT’

Dan scrolls down, already alarmed. Granted, the newspaper this particular headline belongs to could probably be best described as a tabloid, but he hasn’t the patience to look for a more reputable source of information just yet. He reads quickly, eyes darting along each line like he wants to get it over with all at once.

‘...came as a surprise to us all when Swiss bachelor Sir Nikolai Novokoric announced his marriage to Philip Lester, a Manchester-born student he’d known for less than a year. The two lovebirds married in a secret ceremony in early 2016. After a few months of being snapped canoodling at various parties and events, Sir Nikolai pulled his new man out of the spotlight, and he’s barely been seen since.

Last night at the annual European Young Person’s LGBTQ+ charity event was the first public sighting of Sir Nikolai’s husband in some time. Evidently, due to the shockingly dramatic stunt Philip pulled during his husband's speech, this absence might be the sign of trouble in paradise between the young couple.

“It’s bloody hypocritical!” Philip spat into the microphone once he’d pushed Sir Nikolai aside [see video below]. “He’s getting an award for being this charitable gay icon, but he’s exploiting his own sexuality.”

As you can see in the video, there was little chance for him to finish his impromptu rant, as he was quickly escorted off stage by security. He did however shout, as he was being pulled out of the building, that he intends to file for divorce. We’ve yet to pin down Sir Novokoric for a responding comment.’

Beneath the wall of text is a video, taken on someone’s phone by the looks of things. Dan’s thumb hovers over the play button, heart pounding. Does he really want to see this?

“Go ahead,” Phil says from beside him, making Dan jump. He’d assumed the other man was asleep by now. “The rest of the world’ll have seen it in a few hours. Why not join them.”

Dan hesitates for less than two seconds, then locks his phone, placing it on the bedside table. “I don’t go in for that tabloid bollocks.”

There’s a moment where Dan thinks Phil might smile, but he just rolls over again, fringe falling over his face. “I was dumb,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Somebody needed to,” Dan replies sniffily, thinking of Sir Nikolai’s irritating winks. “I mean, if you’re right about the exploitation,” Dan clarifies quickly. There’s no use telling Phil that he has a personal dislike for his husband. “That should be brought to people’s attention, if it’s true.”

“Well of course he’s exploiting himself,” Phil says. “And me. And anyone who identifies as gay or bi. He’s pretending he’s the Ellen Degeneres of the Swiss Royal family, happily married to his true love, when he’s actually in the Bahamas, shagging anything that moves - male or female.”

“Well, if it’s male or female-”

“Don’t,” Phil cuts in, tartly. He sits up, pushing a hand into his hair. “Are you really gonna argue, to me, that just because he’s bi, and he’s up front about it in the media, that he still deserves to be heralded as some admirable icon for the LGBT community? Why is it that just because he fancies blokes as well as girls, everyone can look past the fact he’s married? Don’t the public give a shit about what I might feel? It’s all so creepy, the way everyone pretends he’s some Saint, looking the other way when he’s caught snogging models on beaches. He’s a sociopath if you ask me. He doesn’t fuck people based on real attraction like everyone else - for him it’s all about who can get him the most publicity. Who would look best next to him in the paparazzi photos, or in the leaked sex tape.”

Dan is only able to glean bits and pieces from Phil’s rant at a time; the slew of information is startling, as is the sheer loathing coating each sentence. One thing Dan does catch though, are those last two words. “...you and Nikolai have a sex tape?”

Phil throws him a withering look, but there’s a tinge of amusement tucked into its far corner. “Not the point, Dan.”

“Sorry.” Dan sighs, sinking back into the pillows, mind spinning as it attempts to process everything. Dan doesn’t know the other side of it, has never paid attention to the public’s fawning over Nikolai, so perhaps he’s biased, but everything Phil is saying makes a worrying amount of sense. “Seems like he’s an absolute bellend,” Dan says, succinctly summarising his own responding feelings. He can hear Phil snort with laughter, and it’s nice. “Way I see it,” Dan continues, slowly allowing his words to shape around his developing stance on the matter. “He shows up here after months of nearly no communication, expecting you to play along with his plans, go right back to being the perfect little house-husband. If you ask me, it’s his own fault. Anyone in your position would have been fuming, ready to explode at the drop of a hat.”

“Yeah, but other people would probably have exploded in private,” Phil sighs, picking at the duvet cover. “You don’t get it. I’ve been in this world for a while now. I should’ve known better than to blow my lid on a damn stage like that, in front of all the press. Now the world will be on Nik’s side, and I’ll be the trashy scumbag that Kanye’d his acceptance speech and broke up with him in front of a live audience.”

Dan is silent, contemplating this. Instinctively, he reaches out and places a hand over where he thinks Phil’s knee is. Phil stares at the hand, perplexed, then turns to look Dan in the eye.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Phil asks, eyes round. 

The bits of Dan that still reverberate with hurt from all his mean comments, and a disgust for the bourgeoise in general, tell him to say yes. Dan thinks he could say yes, if he were crueller, if he didn’t think he’d throw up after watching the glacier-blue eyes in front of him fill with tears. It’s perfectly reasonable to argue that Phil’s been an idiot since the day he put on that bloody ring. 

But it’s too late. The pieces of Dan that started, days ago, to warm to Phil, to understand him, to sympathise, now form the majority of Dan’s being. He wonders if it was the same way for Phil, back in the first weeks of knowing Nikolai, as that charming grin and laser-focus on just him began chipping away at his resolve. Dan hasn’t much experience in love, but he’s beginning to suspect that even with every scrap of common sense you have at your disposal, pretty much anyone is in danger of being a complete idiot.

“No,” Dan says truthfully. He remembers Louise’s words from earlier. He made a bad choice, I’d say, but he’s not completely without a brain. She’s a lot wiser than she gets credit for. “A dick-brain, sure. But you’re not stupid.”

“I feel stupid right now.”

Dan lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, searching for a bright side of this gloomy looking cloud above Phil’s head. “At least he can’t pretend that everything’s fine between you now,” Dan tries. “You announced to the whole world that you’re unhappy. Puts him in an awkward position if he tries to just brush it under the rug.”

Phil cocks his head, looking at Dan as if he’s never seen him before. “I didn’t think about that.” He turns away slowly, eyes unfocused as he settles back down into the pillows. “Maybe there’s a way out.”

“Get some sleep,” Dan advises, noting the exhaustion in Phil’s voice. “It’ll all seem better in the morning.”

“Mmm,” Phil says, eyes already closed. 

“Can’t believe you Kanye’d him,” Dan marvels, trying to picture it. He notes the twitch of Phil’s mouth, and laughs softly. “And you weren’t even drunk.” 

“They should give me a medal for not chugging a bottle of Greygoose, listening to Nik talk about morality and political change like he has any clue,” Phil says, sighing heavily. 

“How’d you resist?” Dan asks affably, hoping to send Phil into dream in a lighter mood. 

“Just kept thinking...” Phil mutters, trailing off.

“Thinking what?” 

“Thinking that if I just didn’t drink... if I could hold on and hold on...” he breathes a long sigh, mouth falling slack, and whispers, “I could fly back to you.” 

(Chapter Twelve!)

[spyvstailor]

As A Thanks

So, since you all were generous in helping me with rent. THANKS FOR ALL YOU DID!

Here’s my end of the bargain. Chapter Three of Graveyard Dirt & Salt.

Don’t forget to follow me on my Ko-Fi and hey, just because we reached my goal, doesn’t mean you still can’t help a struggling author out by kicking a few funds her way over at my PayPal.

Chapter Three

There was a parable Father Jeffords told one Sunday in her childhood that she always remembered in times of doubt or worry.

It went like this.

A woman was beginning to worry that her husband didn't love her anymore. So she went to her church and confessed this to the priest.

'Does he still offer you support and encouragement in times of dire need?' The priest had asked.

'No,' she confessed.

'Does he hit you or make you believe that he in unfaithful?'

'No.'

'Does he sleep in another bed at night?'

'No.'

'Could you imagine your life without him?'

This question struck the woman. Could she? For a moment, she gave pause and thought about it.

'Yes.' She answered.

'Close your eyes,' the priest said. 'And imagine you're walking through a secluded wooded path. Are you alone?'

'No.' She admitted.

'Is it your husband at your side?'

'Yes.'

'So when you're alone, you feel him at your side?' The priest asked.

'Yes.'

'But you believe that this isn't love?'

'I want him at my side here and now,' she insisted. 'I don't want to have to imagine him in my head.'

'But I didn't tell you to imagine he was there, I just asked if you were alone. You put him there at your side, because he brings you comfort and companionship. Love isn't grand gestures and embraces, it's as natural as breathing. Close your eyes and allow yourself to just feel without thinking. Doubt comes with too much thought.'

When Sister Evelyn Marie and the others didn't return the day they had gone to the farmer's market, when Sister Agnes and Mr. Carruthers their handyman didn't come back after they went out to fetch them, Philomena began to worry.

It just so happened that as she decided to set out on foot the next morning to find them, that one of the abominations had been right outside the gate waiting.

If it wasn't for that thing, she would have succumbed to the same fate as the others.

Philomena recalled just standing there, staring at the ugly thing as it gawped back at her hungrily, the gate between the two of them, she had stood there for hours looking at it in disbelief, before Sister Mary Agnes came out to find her.

Guilt weighed on her heavily for allowing Sister Agnes and Mr. Carruthers to go. She knew that she would never forgive herself for that.

That was the day doubt began to creep into her mind.

Try as she might. As hard as she could, she could not tamp down that feeling.

But it remained, and the more she tried, the bigger the doubt became.

When she began to duck out during Sunday mass to kill the abominations that came when the bell was rung, was when she knew her faith was faltering.

If this was the end, the rapture. If all good souls were to be removed to heaven, then why were they left behind? Was this a test? Was it just chaos? Where was God among the dead that walked around their walls?

To the others, she was still a staunch leader of faith. God was everywhere, if anyone asked her. They were simply in the midst of their hardest trials and tribulations and would be rewarded in heaven for their duty.

But with every day that passed, she began to worry. They needed their well water tested come spring, who would do that? They needed clean water to live on.

Were there more milk cows out there should anything happen to theirs?

How long could flour last before it succumbed to wheat midge and mildew?

What would happen if one of the nuns needed a doctor? Sister Mary Claire had medical training as a nurse, but that was the best they had.

What did she do? What did she do?

She prayed.

Every night she prayed until it was practically mad begging and pleading. God if you love us, you must raise us up and out of hell on earth. Please, send me a sign. Send me something.

When it seemed like God wasn't listening, she began praying to every saint she could think of.

Saint Jude, Patron of hopeless causes, please hear me?

Saint Agricola, Andrew, Adrian, she worked her way down the list, but nothing. Not a sign, not a burning bush in sight. Her people, her nuns were lost in the desert.

Every day it was hard work as usual and more doubt.

The dead still came and went, she still climbed onto the wall every Sunday in jeans and an old blouse, to strike down at the dead with her stick, to pierce their heads and put them down.

The stink, the horror, it stuck with her, it tainted her and changed her. Warped her until she felt she was no more than one of them. Shuffling around blindly. Eating and sleeping, only to wake and eat and sleep some more.

When that man appeared on the wall, living and smiling easily, she was horrified that the dead had finally come for them. And they were getting better and better looking.

But he proved he wasn't much of a threat.

She was still wary.

It was like, seeing a man, living and breathing and capable of speech, it flipped something inside her on. She was a nun again, a normal woman with a duty to her faith.

He had to go.

As handsome as he was, as pleasant as he seemed. She had nuns here, they were her charge.

And that was when she realized, if God had left them here, then her trial was to lead these women, to keep them safe and as happy as they could be.

Maybe for a moment in the millions of minutes of her life, she had a purpose.

But then he came back, at least she suspected it was him leaving those silly little things on the wall where he first appeared at the back of the convent grounds, right behind the cloister's kitchen door.

It alarmed her for some odd reason, to think of him still hanging around, bringing them things like a cat leaving dead birds on their doorstop.

But when he showed up again, coming out of the woods as she was putting down the abominations that came calling to the sound of the mass bell ringing, she had a change of heart.

He had cleaned up some, shaved that backwoods beard he had, washed the grime and mud off his face, looked more like a man than a monster.

She knew he was still dangerous though, not in a bodily harm sort of way, but she had seen how a few of the younger nuns looked at him. They were still hot blooded women, and no amount of praying could chase away the feelings God gave women whenever a handsome man smiled their way.

And he was handsome. She had two eyes that worked just fine and they didn't miss the fine details God put into the man. Sure he was tall, dark, well muscled, with rangy limbs and broad shoulders, but there was more to him than just that. His eyes wavered between grey and blue so easily, she wasn't certain from one day to the next which colour they'd be. His face was both somehow boyish, but also patrician and villainous in a sort of brooding way. When he smiled the world around him seemed to light up, when he was at rest his face was grim and stern, eyebrows dramatic and dark, mouth firm.

But Lucifer was beautiful too and just as dangerous.

“We can't just keep shoving food out the backdoor at him like he's some stray,” Sister Mary Agnes finally said as they were scrubbing the cloister clean one morning, standing on the front steps sweeping as Philomena scrubbed the railing with a good stiff brush.

The older nuns were gathered there, a few of them plucking weeds from the shadowy side of the wall beside the steps.

“It's not Christian,” Sister Mary Monica pointed out.

“And you propose we bring him inside the cloister?” Philomena asked. “Give him a bed in a room beside ours?”

“I wouldn't mind,” Sister Thomas Aquinas declared loudly from where she was washing the north side windows. “I've survived the temptation of men for a good fifty years, I think I'll survive this one.”

“And what of the younger nuns?” Philomena asked, stopping her vigorous scrubbing to look at the older woman. “Do you suppose they could resist such a temptation?”

“He is awfully tempting,” Mary Monica said with a bright smile. “I almost got a little dizzy when he smiled at me yesterday.”

“Nothing more dangerous than a snake in the garden of Eden,” Mary Patrick declared firmly from where she was watering the flowerbed.

“Oh, charity and kindness cost nothing more than a smile,” Mary Monica said.

“I think he should be welcome into our flock wholly and without judgment,” Mary Elizabeth said, popping up from where she had been rounding the corner from the garden, her arms full of clippings and weeds to dump over behind the infirmary where in the fall they would be burnt. “He's come to us and offered to protect us and has asked for nothing but company. It's cruel to keep him out of our way.”

“He could be here to rape and kill us all,” Mary Patrick stated, her mouth tightening into a firm line.

“We shouldn't get carried away by wild dogs, Mary Patrick,” Mary Agnes said. “As far as I'm concerned, he's welcome around me. I would even go so far as to say I feel comfortable around him. He's a hopeless flirt, but he's goodhearted and lonesome.”

“We'll take a vote at lunch,” Philomena said finally. “And then decide what to do with him.”

“We should have taken a vote in the first place,” Mary Patrick stated.

There was a sort of eerie stillness to the countryside.

Even in the small town the Lieutenant approached. Normally there were the sounds of cars rushing by, driving on the streets, sometimes the far off laughter of children, a dog barking, birds singing.

There was nothing now. It was like the moments after an explosion, when you got caught too close to the action, when your ears were ringing, when around you was chaos and calamity, but you were in a vacuum of sorts.

He had been to the town before, it was one of his regular stops for supplies in the early days, though at this point he avoided it as best he could. Anyone could be driving through, moving on through the Georgian countryside. And at this point, he wasn't certain those left behind were friendly. Everyone was of the 'us or them' mentality at this stage in the breakdown of civilization.

But he would have a better chance finding a vehicle that would still start up, the odds were better in the town, so he moved with caution through the streets, eyes on the windows for signs of movement, both alive or dead.

Every nerve was on alert for a sound, for a movement, for a sign to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Ducking into a dust mote filled garage, he figured he might find a car and keys to match it in there, better than anywhere else.

What he found were two shufflers standing beside an Oldsmobile. Granny bronze, Sunday ready.

One, missing the lower half of her face, wagged her tongue helplessly at him, the other with her guts trailing behind her, stumbled towards him, tripping on her own intestines.

It didn't take much to put them down, he bashed them with the butt of his rifle and stepped onward, deeper into the garage.

Sorting through shit on the desk of the garage's back office, he tried to think of where they would put the keys to vehicles they were working on, when a change in the sunlight in the main area caught his attention.

It was subtle, like the light caught something that changed it only just a little.

Taking up his rifle, he quietly made his way back into the main garage bay to find a man in what looked like an expensive suit treading over the uggies the Lieutenant had dispensed of earlier.

The man didn't look like much of a threat, he was short and dressed like one of those fancy men from the city, which despite the grime and wear and tear to the suit, still stuck out in the middle of the end of days.

Was he alone?

Wandering if he should run and hide or reveal himself, show that he meant no harm and then head out on his way, the Lieutenant waited in the doorway of the office.

“You do this?” The man asked without turning around, his back still to the Lieutenant.

Glancing around, the Lieutenant realized he was caught, but the short man still didn't even offer him a look, eyes on the corpses, before he looked up and over his shoulder at him in the office doorway.

“Fucking nightmare, huh?” The short man went on.

Knowing how dangerous a man could be when he felt cornered, the Lieutenant remained in his doorway, hands on his rifle, ready for a fight.

Turning to face him, the short man huffed a deep sigh. “Look, I'm not looking to cause shit, I was trying to find some goddamned food. Thought there'd be a vending machine or something in here I could tip over.”

Normally the Lieutenant was the chatty man, but he didn't know this short fellow and he damned sure didn't trust him.

Narrowing his eyes, the short man came toe to toe with the Lieutenant, not at all scared of him. He opened his mouth to say something, when he sensed movement to their side, near the open bay door of the garage and turned his head.

Standing there were five deepwoods looking rednecks, rifles, ball caps, camouflaged, dirty and mean looking.

“You're in our town,” the leader said in that slow Georgian drawl they were known for, speaking around what sounded like a bunch of marbles in his mouth that the Lieutenant suspected was chaw.

Compared to them, the short, pretty boy in the black skinny suit looked like royalty, but he stared hard at the Lieutenant for a moment, before deigning to address the rednecks, turning his head.

“What?” He asked coolly.

The Lieutenant began to sense he was caught in the middle of some kind of situation he wanted nothing to do with and began to look for a way out if things went wrong. There was what looked like a backdoor through the office he decided he'd use if he had to.

“I said you're trespassing in our town, we don't like it.” The redneck leader drawled.

“We got a fee for trespassing, you have to pay it,” another man supplied with a slimy grin.

“The fuck you say?” Shorty demanded. There was a hint of a northern accent in his tone, something like New York or Boston maybe? The Lieutenant wasn't great with Yankee accents.

“Guns or your lives,” another redneck stated.

Reaching down the short man pulled a wicked looking custom trailing point knife from a strap near his fancy boots and held it up.

“I don't have a gun, but I got this. You want it?” The short man asked.

“What about you soldier boy?” A redneck asked.

“Hey, hey!” Shorty broke in roughly. “Do I look like some ten dollar whore you can bend over and rail after chowing down on a two dollar hot dog buffet? You were talking to me not him! Show some respect!”

The Lieutenant side eyed the man beside him. The short, Yankee voiced man with the thick, wavy chestnut hair, seemed ready to square up against the four rednecks who stood before them.

Flipping his knife in his hand, the man chuckled, “I mean, come on, guys. I know the world's gone to shit, but let's have some manners.”

Feeling a sort of chill creep up the back of his neck, the Lieutenant turned his head enough to spy the man licking the side of the knife, before grinning.

It was unnecessarily homoerotic, but he had a feeling that was the intention, it seemed to throw a few of the rednecks and they gathered themselves with an inhale and a scowl.

“I'm going to stab this fucking knife into your eye,” the man pointed the knife at a nearby redneck. “Before castrating you with it--”

The redneck nearest the Lieutenant pulled his trigger and hit the short man, sending him spinning backwards against the Oldsmobile, the Lieutenant took that chance to dive for cover behind the car, as the five men backed away, firing their guns into the gas station.

For an instant, just a short blink in time, before he reacted and hid for cover behind the Oldsmobile, the gunshots flashing brought to mind bodies, people falling, pleading, begging to live.

But they had kept firing, hadn't they?

“You don't fucking shoot your fucking rusted assed pieces of shit at me!” The short man hollered from where he had crawled to cover beside the Lieutenant, a bullet graze to his head. “I refuse to die by a .22!”

The Lieutenant wished the man would keep his distance, he didn't need anyone thinking he was with the yippy pup.

“Fuck!”

Shifting his rifle from hand to hand for a moment, he deliberated what to do, before deciding he did have a duty to protect the yippy pup. After all, in this situation, the man was the innocent party.

Despite claiming he had no gun, the short man whipped out a Springfield XDM from inside his suit jacket, and waited with zen-like patience for a pause in the shots, to reach up and fire back at the rednecks.

The Lieutenant peered around the edge of the car where they had scrambled and caught a few of the men get hit and fall.

“Fucking get blood all over my last good suit, you fucking cunts!” Short pup shouted, leaping out from behind the car and walking towards the remaining two rednecks, still firing his pistol. “Fuck you!”

Shocked into silence, the Lieutenant stood up from behind the car as the crazy little man finished off the second last rednecks with his pistol, before picking up a wrench from the nearby workbench to approach the last redneck who was clearly out of bullets and out of time to think of another weapon.

He watched as the short man bashed the shit out of the last man's skull, before throwing his wrench weapon away and huffing, “fuck,” under his breath.

Easing towards the backdoor he had spied earlier, the Lieutenant paused when he spied the man grab at his head wound, beyond him uggies who had heard the gunshots were ambling from the town, coming out of the woodwork, it seemed.

A snap decision had him returning to grab hold of the back of the man's suit.

“We gotta go,” he said quickly, dragging the little man with him out the back way. The short fellow cursing and swearing a blue streak the entire way.

Knowing the nature of the uggies, they would be distracted by the fresh meat and stop for a snack, so the Lieutenant knew they'd have some time to book it out of the town and back towards the convent.

“Let me go, fuck! Get off me, you goddamned fuck!” The short man argued, as they tore out of the town into the woods.

The Lieutenant released the man and he staggered, but stayed upright, holding his head.

“Come on, I'll patch you up and then you can get on your way,” the Lieutenant said as they ran together deeper into the woods.

“I'm fine, probably'll get tetanus, but I'm fine.”

“You're lucky them good ol' boys didn't Ned Beatty you,” the Lieutenant teased as they hurried North. They would circle wide around back to the convent, just in case the uggies were still after them.

The short man staggered and this time fell to his knees.

Stopping short, the Lieutenant approached him. “You alright?”

“Dizzy,” the man murmured, before dropping face first into the leaves of the forest floor.

The nuns were in a flurry when he dragged the short man's carcass back to the convent, a few of them were in a tizzy because he looked 'dangerous'. Sleeve tattoos and a nice suit apparently meant the man was trouble (though the Lieutenant had his concerns about that too), the others were in a panic because Sister Mary Monica was the only one with some medical training and even then it wasn't enough if the head wound proved serious.

Mother Mena was more unimpressed than angry or worried, but Mary Agnes reminded her about the virtues of charity and the woman made herself scarce in order for the others to coddle the wounded man.

The Lieutenant didn't go far, he didn't want the man waking up and terrorizing the nuns, but he also wanted to learn more about the man. What the hell was a well dressed man doing in the middle of the end of the world in small town Georgia scrounging for food?

The more he studied the passed out man, the more he realized the man didn't fit in at all with the Georgian countryside.

He dressed like one of them slick Las Vegas gangsters you'd see in films. Skinny suit, patterned silk shirt unbuttoned about three buttons too many, no tie in sight, silver rings on his fingers and fancy ankle boots that had been well polished and loved at one point.

Searching his pockets for weapons, produced a nice pair of knuckle dusters, a switchblade, a trailing point knife strapped to each leg, his handgun, a pack of playing cards, a pack of cigarettes, a nice silver lighter engraved BM, some loose bullets for his Springfield and a moneyclip with enough cash in it to choke a horse.

What he didn't find was any water or food, so he assumed while the man seemed capable with a gun, survival wasn't really for him.

Reaching into his pack, he pulled out some bottled water and a bag of trail mix for the man, he left them on the table beside the infirmary bed, before ducking out to get some fresh air and sunshine before the sun went down.

He loitered by the infirmary door, making sure no one went in and no one came out who didn't belong, protecting his nuns from the man, but also ensuring the man didn't wake up and just slink off into the night.

Popping a squat, he dropped his pack and pulled out his whetstone and knife to sharpen it.

He must have stayed there in that position, grinding his knife to a nub, when Mother Mena found him. She settled at his side like a lady, legs together, on the balls of her feet, hands on her knees.

“Are you alright?” She asked.

“Yeah,” he lied.

Gazing out at her well maintained convent grounds, Mena said, “I've only known you a few days, but I've never known you to be this quiet.”

“Aw, well, I just figured the nuns were getting sick of my jokes,” he said with a grin.

“Actually, it seems they like you a little too much. We voted ten to one, for you to join us for meals now.”

“In the cloister dining hall?” He asked.

“Yes.”

He smiled and leaned in to whisper, “were you the one vote against it?”

“I won't tell,” she said with a small grin. “But no. Not me.”

“I knew you liked me,” he teased.

She laughed softly. “I think you're good for us. But no more dragging back strays, please? We don't know this man.”

“I know,” he said. “I don't really trust him much, but I couldn't just leave him there.”

“The thing is,” she began cautiously, “with you and this new fellow, my Christian heart says be charitable, but my woman's intuition says be careful.”

“It's probably for the best if you listen to your intuition, there are dangerous sorts roaming wild these days.”

Mena was quiet, then said, “well, thank the Lord we have you. At the very least, my gut says you're a good sort.”

“I try,” he said, with a small tilt of his head, “but we all have our demons, don't we?”

Beside him Mena was quiet, before reaching out and touching a comforting hand to his forearm and asking, “did you rifle through his pockets?”

“You bet I did.”

[leo-lucid]

Bewitching Which Monster Chapter 1: The Home

The road to my new home was bumpy and long. I looked out the window from my cab and watched the trees go by. I smiled a little as I saw the wind start to blow up the colorful leaves that were lying on the dirt road. They swirled around within the air and landed on the back on the ground behind us. Oh yeah, I could totally find myself living here and practicing my magic for a while.

"So, what brings you all the way down here? Young women tend to go off to the big cities, not small towns with nothing but forest for miles." My driver tried to make conversation. I settled back into my seat and looked at her through the mirror.

"I inherited the mansion up this road. My grandparents left it to me in their will and I have been looking for a more secluded place surrounded by nature. It may help me work more productively and it's peaceful up here. I have a greater chance of finding what I'm looking for here too." I explained.

The driver kept glancing back and forth between me and the road. "So, you're their granddaughter, Anise Devane. They talked about you fondly whenever we met in the town festivals. I'm so sorry about your grandparents. What are you looking for exactly?"

I returned my attention back to the trees. "A plot of land to grow herbs and plants. And to grow as a person myself." I answered as honestly as I could. I couldn't tell her that I was a witch and I was going to plant plants for my magical practices. We witches are a lot more free to practice than we were many years ago but it was still a little bit of a taboo topic to talk about with normal humans.

"Well, you'll definitely find peace and quiet up here. Welcome to Hazelview. Small town, small people and a whole lotta nature. You'll fit right in in no time." She chiperily described. "Here we are!"

I looked out the front windshield to see the small mansion my grandparents have left for me. The foliage was covering a majority of the grey shingles and the curtains in the window were drawn back. The steel gate would've looked menacing if it weren't for the flourishing vines wrapping all around the bars. I remembered this old house. So many memories. Even if the mansion was huge for one person alone and secluded in the woods, it still looked warm and welcoming.

The taxi driver pulled into the white gravel driveway and stopped the car. I got out and looked up at my new home. The driver opened the trunk and started to unload my luggage for me. "Here you go, sweetie. Hopefully, your moving truck will arrive before you run out of clothes to wear."

"Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?" I asked as I reached for my wallet in my back pocket.

"Nah, free of charge. You're one of us town folk now. If you ever need a lift, just give me a call. See ya later, neighbor." She declined, finished unloading the trunk and sped away before I could insist or even say thanks.

I grabbed my bags from the ground and began to drag them inside the house.I pushed the gate open with my shoulder and made my way to the large, oak door. I put my bag down on the porch and fished around my pocket for the key.

The door swung open slowly once I unlocked it, creating a loud squeaking noise. I made a mental note to fix that soon.

The house was a bit dusty and there was a lot of furniture that was left behind. The wood would need to be shined again and the walls would probably have to get a new coat of paint. The house was on the older side, dating back a good century or so. It's had a lot of work done since when it was first built. It was always known as the Devane house. Always have and always will be.

I went up one of the staircases that elegantly curved towards the wall. As I walked up, I could see all the old pictures that decorated the wall. There were old, antique pictures of my grandparents, the generations before them and the generations after. At the very top of the stairs I could see my moms at their wedding and a few more family photos including me.

I finished looking at the pictures and headed to one of the upstairs bedrooms. Upon opening the master bedroom, I noticed that the room was incredibly dusty. If I was going to sleep in the room for the night I would have to clean up a little and get some fresh air in.

I settled my luggage on the king sized bed and went to open the window. It took a bit of strength but I was eventually able to get it open. The room already started to feel a lot better. But if this one room was like this then the others must be in the same condition.

Instead of unpacking immediately and resting, I went downstairs to find the broom closet. I grabbed a clean rag and some polisher to start clearing away the dust. I traveled from room to room, opening windows and rubbing down the old furniture. To my surprise, a bunch of rooms were pretty decent. They weren't as dusty as I expected.

In fact, the bedrooms almost seemed recently lived in.

I shrugged it off, remembering that my grandparents would occasionally run a bed and breakfast out of their home for extra money. They must've cleaned the guest rooms last before they passed away. As my grandparents got older they began to sleep in smaller, separate beds. It would explain why the master bedroom was so bad.

I continued to make my way through the house, dusting and cleaning anything I could reach and opening windows to air out the house.

The house creaked slightly with each step and sometimes it did it by itself. I knew it was an old house but it almost sounded like someone else was living here still.

Again, it was probably just nothing. It didn't stop me from being a bit nervous though.

The entire house was mostly dust free and promised that I could rest easy tonight without suffocating. While I was cleaning the house I found my grandmother's Witch Room. She left a bunch of mason jars with herbs, plants that were slowly dying in their pots, and other materials scattered around like crystals and feathers and inks.

I went back to that room and looked through the scattered papers along the floors and shelves. They were all in Irish Gaelic with little English words scattered here and there. Old sketches flooded the papers as well.

I gathered them all up and stacked them on top of the wooden table. I promised myself to check them out later after I got settled into the house. It was getting late and I haven't eaten since the morning. I had to call my moms too to let them know I was safe.

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I called up a pizza place to order something quick. I was told that my mushroom and bacon pizza will be ready and delivered in less than thirty minutes. After thanking the person who took my order, I sat down at the family dining table on the first floor to Facetime my moms.

It only took about two rings before they picked up. My mom's red, frizzy hair was in a sloppy bun and she was wearing a black tank top covered in dirt. She probably started cleaning the house as soon as I left. She tended to clean when she was stressed, nervous or worried.

Her cool, ocean blue eyes lit up through the screen as she saw that I was perfectly safe and managed to make it to the mansion. "Hi, Ani! Oh, Olivia! Honey, Anise is on the phone!"

I could hear my ma run towards mom, excited to finally see me after waiting for me to get here. Her face appeared next to mom's, almost pushing her out of view. Her walnut wood skin was covered in sweat and showed signs of being slightly sun-burnt. She was most likely working in the garden before I called. "Anise! Oh my gods you're alive!"

"Yeah, Ma. I didn't die on the way here. Thank you for worrying about me. Once I got here I cleaned up some of the dust and opened the windows to circulate the air." I joked and explained.

"My baby is growing up! I already miss seeing her freckles that are scattered across her nose and cute cheeks, Avery!" Ma exclaimed to Mom, talking about me like I wasn't listening.

Mom pushed her away so she could have some camera time. "Don't you think I'm gonna miss her asking me to help dye her hair dark purple? I miss our baby too, ya know! Anyways, Ani, make sure you call us whenever something goes wrong, okay? Your ma and I love you very much and we want to help you get used to living on your own."

"I'll send you some boxes of purple hair dye, herbs, books, and cookies every month, Ani. If you need anything else that you can't afford on your own just call us and we'll send it over." Ma continued, her smoky quartz eyes tearing up.

I gave a small giggle and smiled. "Got it, ma. I'll be fine. I'm nineteen for crying out loud! I can take care of myself so there's no need to worry."

Mom frowned. "Of course we're gonna worry! We're your moms!"

The doorbell suddenly rang and I hovered my finger over the hang up button. "My pizza is here. Gotta go! I'll call you guys when the moving truck and handyman gets here. Love you!"

"Love you too, sweetie! Enjoy your pizza." They said goodbye. I hung up and went to answer the door.

I paid for the pizza and tipped the delivery guy. As soon as they left I close the creaky door and headed to one of the living rooms to watch some television. My grandparents should've had Netflix on all of the televisions as an app since guests would've most likely requested some modern media.

Turning on the TV, I sat down on a dusty, pink rose couch and tried to enjoy my pizza and Earth documentary. Most people my age weren't really in to documentaries, but I personally found them fascinating. It was like reading a nonfiction book but much quicker and much more entertaining.

Due to me watching mainly documentaries, my brain is filled with all sorts of facts from science to history and anything in between. It definitely made high school a breeze for me. It also helped convince my moms to let me take online college classes instead of going to an actual college.

An hour later, the cities episode ended and my pizza was completely gone. I checked the time and saw that it was 7:00 pm. Like the responsible adult I was, I got up, cleaned my mess and went to get ready for bed.

I decided to inspect the master bathroom before stripping down and using it. It would've been terrible if I noticed mold or spiders while I was bathing. To my astonishment, the bathroom was perfectly polished and cleaned. The marble counter was clear and dust-free, the shower was sparkling as well as the freestanding, claw-foot tub and even the towels seemed fresh.

Perhaps my grandparents still preferred to use the master bathroom?

I grabbed my bath essentials and began to draw up a bath. While the tub filled up with warm water, I put some music on from my phone. The sound echoed through the massive bathroom, almost drowning out the sound of the running rush of water from the faucet.

With a little bit of bubbles, some candles and crystals and some rose petals that I packed with me, I was ready to relax.

I slid right in and adored the quiet time I was able to have. There weren't a lot of opportunities to relax like this back when I lived with my moms. But now I was able to take a bath like this whenever I wished.

Just as I poured some lavender shampoo into my hand, there was a loud creak and footsteps from outside the bathroom door.

My heart sped up, my breathing stopped and I froze. There was no way that that was just the wind or the house settling. Unless I was going crazy, that was a stranger.

I stopped the music on my phone and sat in the bath in silence. I wasn't a particularly brave person so taking the time to muster up some courage to see if there was an intruder was necessary for me. With a few deep breaths and a reassuring nod to myself, I got up and grabbed a towel to cover myself with and began to check out the noise.

I opened the door very slowly and peered out. It didn't seem like anyone was in the bedroom and there was no evidence that anything was tampered with. I opened the door wider and noticed something on the wooden floor in front of me.

Bending over, I picked it up and held it in my hands. It was brown fur.

It suddenly hit me. During the few times I visited my grandparents I noticed that a few stray cats would occasionally roam around the property. Most of the windows from when I opened them up were still open. One of the cats must've found their way in and began to explore the mansion.

It was possible that the cat stepped in a particularly creaking spot in the floor and scared itself, causing it to run away. I knew that I would get freaked out if I heard a foreign sound seemingly coming from nowhere.

Hopefully, the cat would find its way outside without me intervening. The last thing I would want is to scare the poor thing with my presence.

I shrugged and went back to my bath. I wasn't able to enjoy it like I first did but it was still kinda pleasant. My time bathing was over within several minutes and I drained the tub. The only thing I packed as pajamas was an over-sized shirt that said "Inconceivable!"

Within a few minutes, my teeth were brushed and my purple hair was let loose from being in a tight bun all day. I changed the sheets on my bed with fresh ones I found from a linen closet. I made sure that all the windows were closed and all of the doors were locked before getting into bed.

Man, I was so tired. It's been a long day and I still had a long list of things to do. The moving guys and handyman were supposed to show up sometime tomorrow, I had to do some grocery shopping and budgeting, clean some more of the mansion and more.

It was best to get some sleep and be ready for all of that in the morning.

I rolled on to my side to find a more comfortable sleeping position and shut my eyes. Before I could fall asleep, I could feel the bed dip from extra weight and a body hovering over me. I snapped my eyes open and looked up to see a strange man with deep red eyes and white fangs inches away from my face. I couldn't help but scream.

"AHH!"

[mmazzeroo]

Chapter 2: DANY I - How Does She Do That?

@helloimnotawesome - Happy 2nd December <3

Chapter 2:

DANY I - How Does She Do That?

"What a shit day!" she mumbled as she idly ran her finger round the edge of the shots-glass. That lousy piece of shit! It was her third and last glass for the night. He's not worth your tears, Dany, remember that!

She could feel Viserys edging closer. Holding up her hand, she closed her eyes and sighed. "I don't want to talk about it, Vis. Not now."

"Alright sis," he placed his arm across her shoulders, "just say the word if your brothers need to 'wake the dragon' on someone's ass, yeah?"

She nodded and couldn't help the little smile that crossed her lips.

Giving her a tight squeeze and a kiss on the head he whispered, "you know where to find me when you're ready."

Her sweet brother. Always loving and protective. Both of them though she was closer with Vis than Rhae. Could be very funny too, but couldn't think of that now. She could feel the anger coursing through her veins, needing to project it somewhere. She just couldn't deal with it right now.

"And what's with all the fucking elfs and gnomes and lights and relentless singing everywhere?! The noise. Oh the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!", she cried out. Pissed off at Christmas because of an asshole? Good choice Dany, not a cliché at all. At. All! She rolled her eyes at herself.

"'tis the season", replied Tyrion calmly. "So just hakuna your tatas there for a sec 'Grinch'."

"'tis the season", she said mockingly, "yeah season for all the rats to crawl out of the sewer. Hope the turtles are enjoying the peace and quiet. I know I would!" She knew she sounded bitter but she couldn't find it in her heart to care. Not now. "Besides", she continued, "it was Halloween like last week! No reason to break out Santa and the reindeers just yet if you asked me."

"It was Halloween a few weeks ago...and no one asked thus the lovely cheery decorations everywhere", Tyrion said sarcastically. In the background Tormund muttered something about reindeers and farting.

She sighed again staring at the glass in front of her. He's not worth your anger either, Dany. Just drag your ass to bed, sleep it off and start afresh tomorrow. Gently pushing the still full glass away she slid down from the stool. Staggering a bit she blinked a few times trying to gain her balance.

Davos' gentle voice sounded behind her, "I'll have this added to your tab Dany-girl, don't worry."

She gave him a half-hearted thumps-up.

When he stretched his arm over the bar and padded her on the shoulder she reached her own hand up and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. Thanks, Dadvos.

The old sailor had a good heart. He had landed on their shores some 12-13 years ago with a badly infected leg wound. In the end Dr. Stark had to amputate the leg below the knee to save Mr. Seaworth's life. Having lost his own family to war he had dedicated his life to helping others caught in the same kind of chaos. On that fateful night his ship docked in King's Landing he had been dragged into the ER by a shouting Gendry. They'd barely managed to dock before Davos had collapsed. What no one knew at the time was that the ship was loaded with Dothrakhi refugees. Scared, hungry, many wounded, and almost all of them seasick, but what parent wasn't willing to risk almost anything to save the lives of their children? Even crossing the poisoned water if it meant safety.

Gendry, being Gendry, had of course confessed to Dr. Stark after a day or two not knowing what else to do or where else to go. So her mom and Dr. Stark had pulled a few strings and somehow managed to get DA Tyrell (current President Tyrell) to reward Mr. Seaworth with amnesty for his heroic actions instead of being charged with human trafficking. They had showed up at the docks with food, water and meds for the refugees before sending them over to Dragonstone where a Dothrakhi community had long been established.  

Since then the Stark pack, Vis and herself had basically adopted Davos as their uncle, or 'Dadvos' as they lovingly grew to call him. Not entirely trusting his footing with an artificial leg he had given up sailing; not for good but no more rescue missions. Instead he and Tyrion had established a little pub which served as the front end of their 'shelter for cripples, bastards and broken things' as Tyrion proudly referred to it. Hot Pie and Gendry had been the first beneficiaries — Hot Pie had been sent to culinary school and now worked as head-chef at the pub. Overseeing trainees was part of the job description but Gendry and Davos made sure to alway be around. Hot Pie was a good guy, but a few sandwiches short of a picnic so to speak, so some of the kids liked to try to play tricks on him once in a while. Something that did not sit well with Dadvos! Gendry helped work the bar and being a pretty good handyman as well he would fix up whatever needed a brush up here and there. And Tyrion? Well, being a Lannister he obviously provided the cash, and though being trained as a psychologist, he also managed the business side of the pub. Loving every second of it. The heart of the place was Davos himself - always ready to listen, play games, give advise, or simply let people have their space.

Reaching the door, bag in hand she heard Tormund call out to her, "Whatever stupid shit the fucker did, where I'm from his woman would cut off his cock and wear it on a string around her neck as a trophy!"

"A pecker that small could never be anyone's trophy", she replied dryly stepping out in the snow.

Out in the cold she remembered why cold weather and alcohol is such a bad mix. You only feel warm because of the booze, Dany, don't let your body fool you. She could feel her head buzzing. Breathe! Stay focused! Luckily the hospital and thus the Stark and Targaryen residence was just across the street.

Watching the ground as she walked trying to steady her steps in the slippery snow, she didn't notice the man coming towards her. Inevitably they collided in the hospital foyer.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"My apologies, miss!"

With the speed of light a strong arm was wrapped around her back preventing her from falling on her ass. Looking up she saw a familiar face.

"Commander Selmy", she smiled, "what a surprise! Sorry for, literally, bumping into you like this."

"Could say the same to you, Dr. Targaryen." He removed his arm from her back and gently resting his hand on her upper arm. "Was just informed that you weren't expected back until tomorrow or, technically, later today." He smiled back at her.

She cleared her throat. "Yes well, complications arose, ensued, were overcome."

Narrowing his eyes slightly Commander Selmy gave her a long inquisitive look. She did her best to look back at him with as much confidence as she could muster at this hour. Just breathe, Dany. Whatever you do he'll know something's up anyway. Whatever his conclusion he just gave her a tight nod and warm smile.

"Right, I best be on my way now, have something for the lab." He lifted his hand slightly holding up a paper-bag.

"Oh? Has there been any trouble here?" She looked around the foyer for any signs of an altercation of some form, but saw nothing other than the usual few anxious relatives and a couple of nurses sitting behind the reception desk working quietly.

"There was a serious traffic accident earlier in the evening. A family of five was brought in, but no ID's so..." He trailed off. When anyone was admitted to the hospital without any kind of identification fingerprints and blood samples were taken to hopefully verify the individuals' identity that way.

"So standard operating procedure was followed. Got it!" She nodded absentmindedly eyes again scanning her surroundings. "But why you though?" Her head shot up, eyebrows furrowed, giving him a puzzled look. "It's usually something the City Watch handles, but you're Commander of the Gold Cloaks. Must be very high priority." She  tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. What in the Seven Hells is going on?

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes looking over and behind her clearly avoiding direct eye contact. Looking very uncomfortable he cleared his throat and said, "Just a precaution. Wish you a good night Dr. Targaryen." He was out the doors before she could respond. What the fuck was that about?!

As she crossed to the private lift at the back of the foyer she was approached by Margaery.

"Dany! Didn't think you—"

"—you'd be back until tomorrow, yeah I know", she finished exasperated.

Margaery gave her an amused look trying to hide a smile. "Won't ask", she said smiling holding up her hands as if surrendering. "Since you're here though would you be up for doing me a favour?"

"What's up?"

"Grey is currently sitting watch at a dog we got in this evening. The poor thing was in a terrible vehicle accident. Thing is he's beginning to wake up and..." Margaery looked at her expectantly.

"And you'd like me to go have a look to see if I'm going to get my head bit off, is that it?" she asked with a smirk while crossing her arms over her chest.

"Exactly!" Margaery grinned.

"Give me the headlines as we walk." Work! Nothing focuses the mind like work! Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much? Who do you think you're kidding, Dany, that's exactly why you love your job! That and you get to help. Helping does make me feel useful. She could feel the anger from earlier slowly began to subside, her body felt more relaxed. The alcohol had done it's job now it was time for her to do hers, and with a task at hand she quickly felt sober again. Strange how the mind can clear up like that. Damn it Dany, pay attention to Marg now!

"He came in sedated so we had to work quickly. The x-rays only showed a broken front leg. Lots of bumps and bruises though and some burns, but overall just getting away from that alive is a miracle."

"How so?"

"According to Tormund the vehicle took a tumble downhill and burst into flames."

She gasped in shock. Poor guy! "What about the rest of the family?"

Margaery waited as she dropped her bag off by the door to their break-room. She heard Margaery sigh next to her. The normally optimistic woman was clearly hesitant.

"They didn't exactly get away that easily." Another heavy sigh. "The man was patched up by Dr. Lannister and is currently stable and expected to wake up sometime within the next few days. His wife on the other hand..." She trailed off and dropped her eyes to the floor.

Her heart dropped. Oh gods! "She didn't make it." The words came out only as a whisper.

Margaery closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. "Sadly no." She lifted her head again and looked at Dany, "but Dr. Martell and Robb were able to save the babies so I guess there's a bit of a silver-lining?"

"Babies? She was pregnant? How far along was she?!" She could feel her eyes grow big in horror. Does this story just keep getting worse?!

"Robb said based on weight and length they estimate she was about 36 weeks, so based on that alone the babies are quite well and safe." Oh thank the Gods, but there's a 'but' there's always a 'but'. "But" Yup, fucking knew it. "because of the rolling, falling and  various hits their mother suffered Dr. Martell wants to keep them under observation for a while just to make sure they're as good as can be. Robb's up there with them now."

"Wow! Can't even imagine what it must be like for him when he wakes up." She couldn't find any words to describe how she felt for that man somehow losing and gaining everything the same night.

They walked in silence until they reached the pens at the back of the vet wing. The smaller animals had cages where they could rest and heal, but the bigger ones had a pen. Basically fences only about 50 cm high as the animals kept there were not in a condition to stand up on their own, and this way also made it easier for the caretakers to check on them, change bandages etc.

In the pen in front of her was a big fluffy ball of white fur with two red eyes squarely fixed on Grey. He's gorgeous! Teeth barred and a low growling.

"Hey there sweetheart", she said tenderly as she carefully stepped in front of Grey. "I know this is scary. Unknown surroundings, unknown humans, and bet that foot of yours hurt too." She was gently guiding Grey away from her and towards Margaery and the door. "I'm sure those wounds on your leg and shoulder is stinging as well." She kept talking in a calm and gentle tone until the dog stopped growling.

"Atta boy, just breathe, I won't let anyone hurt you." She was holding a palm against the fence letting him get a proper sniff.

Glancing towards Margaery she asked, "do we know his name?"

"His name tag said 'Ghost' which by the looks of him is a very fitting name I'd say."

Grey smiled and nodded.

"Ghost", she whispered. The dog looked up. Didn't care when Marg said your name? "Hmm like my voice, do you?" She couldn't help the smile forming on her lips.

She opened the gate of the pen and took a seat in the corner next to the dog's head. A bold move but a necessary one. For a few tense seconds the dog just laid there looking at her. Then, as if he'd made up his mind about something, he put his head in her lap.

She carefully stroked his head and neck. "I'm so sorry this happened to you and your family," she whispered, "and I promise we're all doing everything we can to make you feel better."

She moved a bit lower so that Ghost was resting his head on her stomach. That way she could rest a bit as well.

Last thing she heard before dozing off was Grey's voice, "How does she do that?"

[thetruthaboutlovecomesat3am]

Hey! Not a kiss prompt but I was wondering if you could write a follow-up on the handy-woman prompt you did? How about, instead of making a move on Maria at the end, Natasha never said anything. She finally admits the truth during a press conference (Maria is in the panel). She's trying to be relatable so she tells the story of her first "mission" for shield. (so that'd be post WS but like fuck IW for obvious reasons #alwaysinpyheart). Thanks!

Oprah’s voice: You get a seuqel, and YOU get a sequel, everybody gets a sequel!! Apparently it’s still sequel season, so this is a sequel to this. I’m sorry this took so unbelievably long, I forgot how much I love writing silly stuff and silly sequels, so have this short fluffy thing!

This,is a farce. Natasha knows it, the panel members know it, the wholeworld knows it. But alas, it has to be done. They’re doing a pressconference to show that the Avengers are all reunited and ready tofight side by side if the need arises. The few of them who werefugitives sign a quick apology letter read by Steve and Tonyapologizes on behalf of the other side.

It’ssupposed to be a short thing.

Supposedbeing the key word, because it’s, after all, one of the very fewoccasions the Avengers are on a panel ready to answer whicheverquestion is thrown at them. The results are…not what they have beenexpecting.

“CaptainAmerica, were you and Mr Stark involved before the fight broke out?”

“MissMaximoff, are you really as young stated by Mr Stark in previousadmissions?”

“MissHill, is it true that your involved in the re-building ofS.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Then,some dumbass must realize they’re all quite public figures except-

“MissRomanoff, are you in fact an android?”

“BlackWidow is it true that you don’t feel any kind of human emotion?”

“MissRomanoff-”

Theyrealize who they really should be focusing on is Natasha. They’llnever get another chance quite like this one.

“Ihave plenty of human emotions,” Natasha almost scoffs.

“Yeah,right,” Tony mutters, forgetting his mic is still on. “Uhm. Imeant-”

“Ido. I feel annoyance, for one,” she looks at Tony pointedly.“Anger. Vengeance.”

“Maybetry something at the other end of the spectrum?” Clint says intohis mic, because he’s at the other end of the table. “Like, forinstance, try the story about your first mission. That’s always adelight to remember.”

Natashahas barely the time to groan, when suddenly every single reporter isasking a question about it, and now it seems impossible to avoid.

“Inailed my first mission,” she says coldly. “Figured what wasgoing on quickly and had it taken care of.”

Morequestions come up and Clint raises a challenging eyebrow.

“Okay,okay. My first mission with S.H.I.E.L.D., I was undercover inCalifornia, in what I think might have been the most boring part ofthe suburbs, honestly. And I was fresh out of Russia, and I was notused to the weather. And of course, on my second week there the airconditioner broke, so I had to call my emergency contact and ask forhelp. They sent two Agents to keep an eye on me, in case myreprogramming didn’t work properly, one I met already, Agent Coulson,and so he couldn’t come himself. The other one, I hadn’t met. So theysent the second one. But I-” she clears her voice, looks quickly atClint, then at Maria.

“Thatwould be me,” Maria speaks up with a nod and a barely-there smilemeant to reassure her that she’s doing okay.

“Oh,you’re going to wish you hadn’t admitted to that in a minute,”Clint almost laughs, but refrains himself. He clears his voice oncehe realizes he said that into his mic and has at least the decency toblush.

“Anyway,I call Coulson and he says he’ll send someone. The next day, theperson I think is a local handyman knocks on my door, now as I saidthe A.C. was broken and the house was burning up, so this woman walksin and goes to fix it, takes it down the wall, all toned arms andfirm back. So, once she’s done, well, maybe I flirted with her alittle. She didn’t flirt back, I was crushed,” Natasha looks likeshe’s almost starting to enjoy this, now that she’s remembering itstep by step and not just as an embarrassing story Clint likes tore-tell to Laura when Natasha comes around.

“Youdid not,” Maria affirms surely.

“Didtoo. So, she fixed the A.C., and I thought that was it. Until, fourdays later or so, a kid breaks my porch swing. I call Coulson again,because I don’t want stranger on the property, remember that I stillthought this was a real mission and not just a trial to see if myreconditioning had worked properly. So I called him, told him theswing broke, and asked for the same woman he sent the first time.”

“Imean, who wouldn’t,” Tony smirks. “What?” He shrugs when Hilllooks at him harshly. “You do have a nice figure, and you did fixthe A.C.,” he shrugs again.

“Right,so my handy-woman shows up, this time in shorts and a tank top,doesn’t even notice me – or my neighbor Susan – flirt with her,doesn’t glance twice at my very unnecessarily short dress. She comes,fixes the swing, and goes. I’m heartbroken.”

Mariacan see the smile Natasha is trying to stop from forming and itinfuriates her that Natasha is enjoying this story so much.

“SoI do what any sane person would have done in my place, bored out ofmy mind as I was and as into her as I was, I break a tube under mykitchen sink. I call Coulson, I ask him to send Maria again, and whenshe comes I ask for a card. She says she doesn’t have one, but Idon’t question that, because it’s the suburbs so I figure she’sprobably on the phonebook and everyone knows her by name and whywould she need one, so she writes down her number for me.”

“Iwasn’t supposed to do that, you know? Fury could have had my badgefor giving my real number at an undercover asset,” Maria pointsout.

“Yeah,but I didn’t know it then. So, of course, I called the very next dayflirting like my life depended on it, asking her if she would cometake care of my- uh,” she clears her voice, but Maria remembers nowand it’s too late to deflect. She tries anyway. “I punched thishole in my wall. Took her for or five days to fix it, my dress keptgetting shorter. Maria was either clueless or not interested, but Iwas dead set on finding out if she might be.”

“Neither,I was just your superior trying not to perv on you!”

“Well,I didn’t know that, did I? So as she was finishing up with the wall Iimmediately mentioned the shower was clogged, so she’d have to keepcoming back. Director Fury called the mission off, congratulated mefor figuring out Hill was an Agent. Commander Hill congratulated metoo. I had no idea, I was just enjoying watching her fix allof my stuff. Got my trial mission cut short but it also got me on herwrong side. It took almost two years for her to warm up to me again,and by then one of us was always working a mission in anothercontinent, until I ended up working undercover and the rest, well, Iguess it’s public knowledge.”

Natashalooked at Maria for a moment and could see in her eyes she genuinelyhad no idea Natasha was hitting on her at the time.

Shesmile and barely noticed how silent the room was until Tony clearedher voice.

“That’sthe story of my first mission. I excelled at it because I had a crushon a girl. Tell me that’s not a human emotion and I’ll resign rightnow.”

Mostof the reporters laugh, obviously relating to that, but it’s MariaNatasha can’t quite take her eyes off of, she seems pensive andslightly confused.

It’safter the conference has ended that Natasha goes in pursuit ofanswers. She follows Maria for a couple of blocks. Maria lets her fora while. Then, Natasha sees her take out her phone and dial someonebefore putting it to her ear. Her own phone starts ringing a momentlater.

“Yeah?”

“Anyparticular reason you’re following me?”

“Yeah.My shower’s still clogged, you never came.”

“Theydo say finding a good plumber takes years.”

“Andnobody’s as good as you,” Natasha wonders how Maria has nevernoticed this is the way Natasha talks to her and nobody else.

“Well,we’re almost at mine. How about we take a look at your showertomorrow and for now you come up and have a drink with me.”

Natashasmirks. “I can find so many things for you to fix at my apartment,if it means you’ll come around more often.”

“Well,Miss Romanoff, now that I’m not your superior anymore, you’ll have tostart finding ways to pay me back, if you want me to fix stuff.”

“Thatcan be arranged,” Natasha says, finally catching up with Maria,falling into step with her, easy smiles on their lips.

[theartificialdane]

Galactica, part 248

In this Sutan can’t sleep, Jinkx shares her past, Courtney does her best, and christmas is right around the corner!

Thank you @samrull @veronicasanders and @toriibelledarling <3

“Ow!” Violet woke up, a sharp pain stabbing her in the ribs. She opened her eyes, and saw that Sutan was sitting next to her in bed, a pen from the bedside table in his hand. Violet had fully expected to see Frida, the little dog often sneaking into bed, but Frida was nowhere to be seen. “... Did you just stab me?” They had gone home right away, Sutan holding her close in the taxi as they kissed, a strange new desperation over him that had taken them straight to the bedroom, the delicious soreness in Violet’s bones a reminder.

“What were you thinking?”

“Wha-”

“Because I don’t understand. It doesn’t make any sense. Why you would just leave?”

Violet felt taken aback. She had never seen Sutan so angry before, so upset.

“I-”

“Do you know how worried I was? I looked like a fucking idiot, I felt like a fucking idiot Violet. Do you understand that? You left your phone! You’ve never done anything like this before, I- Fuck!” Sutan threw himself down on the bed, his arm over his eyes, and Violet felt stupid. Of course Sutan had worried. Of course he had.

“I’m sorry…”

“You’re not.” Sutan didn’t even look up, but Violet couldn’t help but smile, her sweet boyfriend slowly coming back to her. She could feel the embarrassment rise in him, and it was a little childish that he had woken her up in the middle of the night. But if she was honest, she deserved so much more.

“I am..” Violet laid down, a small breath of relief leaving her as Sutan allowed her to curl up. “I shouldn’t have left.. I just…” Violet bit her lip. “I saw someone I knew a lifetime ago..”

Sutan put his arm around her as Violet whispered her story in the deep of the night.

***

Jinkx bit her cuticles nervously, answering Adore’s FaceTime call from her hotel bed. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Adore whispered. “How are you? Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. How’s Lasky?”

“Still passed out.”

“No. I mean…”

“I know what you mean,” Adore sighed. “I don’t know, Jinkxy. She was a mess, I don’t...Sharon really got in her head. We saw her again on the way out and it was just like...god, what an /asshole./”

“Yeah.”

“What are you gonna do?” Adore asked. “You can’t stay at some hotel. This is your house.”

“I know. But...Adore, Alaska has never believed me. I’ve tried to explain to her, about my life before, but. She’s always known this version of me. The sober version. You know? And...I promise I’ve tried but she just doesn’t want to hear it.”

“I think you need to tell her everything.”

“Everything? That could take awhile.”

Adore laughed. “Well...yeah…”

***

“Nooooo.” Ruby groaned. “Please, turn it off.”

“... It’s the sun?”

“You’re lying, it’s december. The earth is dead.”

Ruby could hear Max laugh, and if she could, she would have reached out and kicked him, but under the covers was so lovely and warm.

“I told you not to get the last glass of wine.” Ruby could feel the mattress dip, and she considered once again if it would be worth kicking Max.

“It went with my dress.”

“It did.”

Ruby opened her eyes. The night before had been insane. She still wasn’t sure if she was happy that she had gone with Max to his work party, but it had somehow worked out to be an amazing night, her and Pearl dancing on the tables while someone named April or June sprayed champagne at them. Her and Max had gone home so late that her favorite corner pizzeria had actually closed, but she hadn’t cared, until she woke up with the worst hangover of her life.

“Here, have some tea.” Max was sitting on the edge of the bed, the flower tray Ruby had gotten so used to in hand.

“Thank you.. You’re the best.”

**

“Come on, baby, you’ll feel better,” Adore cooed, brushing some matted blonde hair off Alaska’s forehead.

“No, I don’t wanna…” Alaska whimpered, covering her eyes, pushing away the vile-smelling hangover cure Adore was trying to force upon her. “It smells disgusting…”

“It is. And then you’ll throw up and you’ll feel better.”

“Nooo…”

Suddenly the bedroom door banged open and Jinkx sailed in, dressed in her evening gown from the night before, tossing her fur coat onto a chair, followed by their building handyman, Raul, with a dolly full of boxes. Alaska shrieked and dove under the covers. Adore reached out and gave Raul a fist bump, seemingly unbothered that she was topless, in a pair of lace underpants. “Hola, what’s up?”

“Hola, Miss Adore,” he replied cheerfully. “Miss Jinkx, where would you like the boxes?”

Right here is perfect,”Jinkx said, handing him a tip. “Thanks, Raul.” She leaned over the bed and smacked Alaska on the ass, as Raul left the room, closing the door behind him. “Come out! Pouting time is over!”

Alaska crept out from under the covers, a frown on her face. “Excuse me, I’m still mad at--”

“Right, right, I know.” Jinks began opening boxes and dumping the contents onto the bed - dozens and dozens of tabloids and trashy magazines. “You say that I’m keeping things from you? Well, here it is. Here’s everything. My life in tabloids. Have at it.”

“I-” Alaska began, but was cut off by another box being dumped out on the bed.

Adore picked up a magazine, the cover a picture of Jinkx straddling some random girl in a bar while another girl grabbed her by the hair and the headline /DRUNKEN SOCIALITE BAR BRAWL/, laughing hysterically. “Damn, Jinkxy. I hope you won this fight.”

“Of course I won. I slept with both of them. I mean, I think. Who was that? Oh yeah. Both of them. And the bartender.”

Adore laughed, leaning over to give her a high-five as Jinkx turned the last box upside-down. Jinkx looked at Alaska, who’s face was solemn, examining the sea of tabloids.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Alaska looked up, a lock of hair around her finger.

Jinkx took her chin gently in her fingers, her other hand resting on Adore’s shoulder. “I never meant to hide anything. Okay? I pulled all this shit from storage - where I keep it out of sight, because, you know...gross. But I do keep it. Because I don’t ever want to be this person again. So you need to look at this shit, and tell me. Are you okay with who I used to be? Can you handle it?”

Alaska threw up her hands, exasperated. “Of course, I just needed a minute! I just-”

“Really?” Jinkx asked.

“Oh shit,” Adore said, holding up another paper, which read, /NIGHTY-NIGHT JINKXY/, across a photo of Jinkx sprawled facedown on a table in a nightclub, ass out. Raja and Bianca were chatting nonchalantly in the background. Both Jinkx and Alaska shot her a look. “Sorry,” she said with a slight laugh, pawing back through the piles of magazines.

“Jinkx, listen. Okay, I know that you had a fucked up past. I know all of that. I probably saw most of these in the supermarket while they were happening. But, like, the thing with Sharon just threw me, okay? Sharon and I, we had a very messed up situation. And when she produced Cabaret? That was one of the GOOD years. I mean, that’s how I remember it. So, yeah, it fucking got to me.”

“Well, if it helps, I don’t think I slept with Sharon.”

“You don’t?”

“No,” Jinkx said. “I mean, you know, anything is possible. But I called my friend Sarah, who was also in the show, and she remembers all of us partying and she said that Sharon was never involved. But...I can’t know for sure. So you have to figure out what that means for you.”

Alaska nodded. “I know.”

***

“Are you really doing gold for New Years?” Betty sipped her drink, the sugary caramel helping her perk up. “It’s like.. So passé..”

“Classics can’t be passé Betty.” Violet and Betty were at Violet’s desk, the two going over their final pre holiday presentation where the last of the pieces for the New Year’s miniature collection would be chosen.

“They can if they’re boring.”

Violet rolled her eyes. “And neon pink is better?”

“Neon is hot right now.”

“If you’re 13.”

“Better than 55.”

“Girls, girls.” Betty and Violet turned, Shane looking up from his desk. “You’re both pretty.”

“Shut up Shane.”

***

“Yes?” Bianca asked, stepping into her shoes, as Joslyn opened her office door a crack.

“Uh...I’m not really sure what to do. There’s some people here to see you who aren’t on the schedule--”

“Well, send them away. I’m on my way to the NBC lunch, and then I have the--”

“I tried, they won’t leave.”

Bianca rolled her eyes. “Well, who the fuck is it?”

“That actress, Farrah whatever? The one who used to be really amazing when she was a kid but now she's on that dumb Disney show? And her momager, who’s terrifying, by the way,” Josyln whispered.

“Ugh, fine, let them in. How the fuck did they get past reception?” Bianca grumbled.

“I think there’s a temp up there.”

“Fire them.”

“Copy,” Joslyn said, and then left to get Farrah and her momager supreme, Darienne Lake.

“Well, well, well, what a beauuuutiful office you have, Ms. Del Rio!” Darienne began.

“Save it,” Bianca barked. “I’m late for a lunch. What do you want?”

Darienne and Farrah sat down. “You remember my daughter, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, hi.” Bianca nodded in Farrah’s direction. The blonde gave her a flirtatious little wave, blowing a kiss.

“Well, she’s been trying to break her way out of that Disney box and into the pop music scene, but I’m afraid we’re getting nowhere. We’d like your help.”

Bianca laughed. “I’m not in the music industry.”

“But, you make stars.”

“I don’t /make/ stars. Can you even sing, Farrah?”

Darienne laughed. “Who cares? We’re talking about pop music! We want her to do a collaboration with Courtney.”

“I think we’d look really cute together, don’t you?” Farrah fluttered her lashes.

Bianca sighed. “Okay, this is ridiculous. Why don’t you call /Courtney’s/ manager? I have literally nothing to do with her career.”

Darienne closed her eyes briefly. “I was afraid you’d say something like that. I guess I have no choice but to remind you of the night you first met my daughter. Almost 2 years ago.” She pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to Bianca. “Emmy Awards. You were pretty intoxicated.”

Bianca glared at her for a few moments before taking the envelope and pulling out the contents. A few slightly grainy photos of her chatting with Farrah...and then touching her hair...and then one of them kissing. /Fuck. Courtney is gonna lose her goddamn mind./

“I’m sure you’re doing the math in your head already, but she was 16 in those photos.”

Bianca stuffed the pictures back into the envelope, pulling together her poker face. “We were in public. All this proves is that I’m a lecherous asshole. Everyone already knows that. So this bullshit attempt at blackmail isn’t going to work--”

“But what about what happened afterwards?” Darienne asked coyly.

“What are you talking about?” Bianca asked slowly.

Darienne looked over at Farrah, who looked down at her hands, saying softly, “I was so scared. I mean...it was my first time. But Ms Del Rio kept saying how beautiful I was, and so I…I let her...it was my fault, I should have said...” she looked up, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Bianca stared at her, horrified.

“Pretty good, huh?” she asked, a wicked smirk on her lips, brushing the tear away.

“Why the fuck do you wanna be a pop star? You could be Meryl Streep.”

Farrah laughed, tossing her hair. “I wanna EGOT. I’ve already got the Emmy.”

Darienne rose from her seat. “Look, no one wants to release those photos, or tell that terrible story. We just want to work together.”

“Oh, right, you’re just a nice normal mother-daughter team.”

“Exactly!”

“Jesus Christ.” Bianca shook her head.

“We know that the holidays are coming up, so we’ll check back in January on the collab. I trust that gives you enough time to use your influence and make something happen. Enjoy that lunch, B!”

“Ta ta!” Farrah sang, tossing Bianca a kiss and sailing out the door after her mother.

***

“Darling, you look lovely tonight,” Patrick said, taking Fame’s hand. They were in the car on the way to yet another holiday party. It had been an exhausting week, crammed full of social obligations and Patrick couldn’t wait for the proper holiday to begin.

“Thank you,” Fame replied tersely.

Patrick moved closer to her. “Just think, my love. In less than 48 hours, we’ll be lounging in the sun, cocktail in hand, Caribbean breezes on our faces…” He kissed her cheek gently.

Fame sighed. “Yes, that’ll be nice. Away from...all this.”

“Are you alright, dear?” he asked tentatively. He could see that she was brooding slightly, and although his normal inclination was to just let her work through it, he was afraid that if they didn’t talk to each other right now, things could quickly get out of hand.

“I think...maybe we should see someone when we’re back in town.”

“See someone?” Patrick cocked an eyebrow, puzzled.

“A therapist.”

“Oh.” Patrick swallowed. /See/ someone.

Fame bit her lip and looked at him. “I think it would be good for us. I still...I think we have things to work through, and I think it would be smart to get help. Is that...would you be okay with that?”

Patrick gazed at her, placing a hand on her soft cheek and leaning in for a tender kiss. “Of course, my love.”

***

“Hey Trix?”

“Yes?”

“Are we bad parents?”

Trixie turned to look at his wife. ”Why would you think that?”

“I mean, isn’t getting tissues for our kid as a Christmas present kinda lame?” Katya looked into their basket, the bright and sparkling packages of Kleenex with cartoon characters on them

They were in Target, the hustle and bustle of worried Brooklyn moms and busy families all around them, Katya getting the last ingredients for the sochivo pudding for their Christmas dinner. Trixie had insisted on coming, Max staying behind and watching Ivan as he and Katya had driven out in Katya’s car. Normally Katya loved going to Target with her husband, picking out yogurts and finding funny shirts with ugly prints, the time one of her favorite dates with Trixie, but she couldn’t help but look at the other families that had stacks and stacks of toys in their carts.

“Not really. I mean, it’s kind of his favorite thing.” Trixie took one of the boxes out of the cart, holding it up. “He’s gone through 12 boxes at work already.”

“But shouldn’t we get him like...stuffed animals or one of those big Fisher-Price playsets or something? Look at that fancy play kitchen over there!” She pointed to another cart.

“It’s not what the gift costs, but the thought behind it.”

Katya smiled and leaned forward, kissing Trixie. “You’re amazing.”

***

“Oh my /god/,” Courtney flopped onto the bed, throwing down her bags, letting Bianca pull her into an embrace. “That was the longest overnight of my entire life. Those bitches are /insane./”

“The Housewives wore you out, huh?”

“B, omigod. So, first of all, you know, I got that news about my dad being in the hospital, so I was kind of freaking out.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s fine though, right?”

“Yeah, it turns out it was a false alarm, thank god. But at that point the tests hadn’t come back and so we still didn’t know. But Bethenny and Luann got into this ridiculous fight and Bethenny called Luanna a whore, or something, and Luann comes outside where I was trying to FaceTime dad and she’s trying to recount their conversation and I’m like, putting it into perspective and telling her my dad’s in the hospital and she’s like ‘a /whore/ Courtney, a /whore/, I mean have you ever heard such a thing?’”

Bianca burst out laughing. “I’m glad your dad is okay, baby.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna see him when I go for Mardi Gras, so that’ll be fun. Omigod.” She sighed. “What time is our flight tomorrow?”

“10. And don’t worry, I’ve already basically packed for you,” Bianca gestured to an open suitcase.

“Did you put jewelry to match my outfits in little ziplock bags?” Courtney asked, climbing on top of her.

“Of course.”

“Mmmm, your organizational skills are so sexy…” Courtney purred, leaning down to kiss her neck.

Bianca’s phone began to ring and she whispered, “Hold that thought,” before answering her phone.

Courtney sat back on her heels, slowly unbuttoning her top, teasingly opening it while Bianca spoke to someone at the magazine about layouts for their next issue.

“...I said get it done, and don’t be a messy little cunt like last time!” Bianca barked, hanging up. “Now, where were we?”

Courtney frowned, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What?” Bianca asked, picking up on her disapproving expression.

“Kind of a mood killer to hear you speak to someone like that, doncha think?”

“It’s just work, who cares?”

“Well, as someone who’s been on the receiving end of that kind of energy, it wasn’t very fun. It was actually demeaning and awful and-”

Bianca laughed. “Please, teach me more about office politics. You’re so experienced from your four month career as an assistant.”

Courtney closed her mouth, eyes blazing with anger for a second before saying quietly, “You know what would be really sexy? If you didn’t think I was an idiot.” She climbed off the bed, slapping away Bianca’s hands.

“Baby, come on, you’re being-”

“Save it.” Courtney walked over to the bathroom and began to run the hot water for a shower.

Bianca jumped up from the bed to follow her. “Courtney. I’m sorry. Please look at me, baby, please!” She put her hands on Courtney’s shoulders, lips grazing her ear. “I don’t think you’re an idiot; I think you’re perfect. I just didn’t want to get into a whole work discussion right now, I wanted to be with you...” Bianca sucked gently on her neck, hands sliding around her body. “I’m sorry for being dismissive.”

Courtney closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Okay.”

“Okay, you forgive me?” Bianca nuzzled her shoulder.

“Yeah.” Courtney wriggled free of her grasp. “I’m sorry too, I’m probably just on edge from dealing with neurotic Upper East Side tantrums for two days. I’ll be fine once I get some rest.”

“Alright.” Bianca watched her while she shed her clothes, back still turned. “Baby?”

“Yes?” Courtney asked, stepping into the shower.

“I love you.”

“Love you too, B.” Courtney gave her a tense smile, pulling the curtain closed.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Fic: Don't You Forget About Me (Ao3 Link) Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow, Irish Mythology Pairing: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart

Summary: After Len, nothing seems to be going right for Mick. He keeps going listlessly -

- at least until something cold as death starts crawling into his bed.

(In which Mick Rory braves the Sidhe to win back his True Love)

A/N: For @jq-piccadilly - happy birthday!! (also special mentions to @ice-whisper who inadvertently gave me the idea and @oneiriad, for who this fulfills another Coldwave Bingo Board entry)

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

After Len died, everything sort of stopped, for Mick.

Oh, he kept going, kept fighting, kept up with the great and noble mission to which he had been consigned by destiny and by Len. The flesh of him kept right on going.

It was the spirit of him that came to a halt.

He stopped caring about the things that made him happy, before; stopped caring about the game, or food, or even fun; stopped caring all too much about being alive.

But he kept going and time, wicked time, starts healing even his most dire wounds.

Mick had a chair in his room - big, comfy, just the way he liked it. It was good that it was so comfy, because he slept there, now, forsaking the bed in his cabin.

The bed that had been his and his Lenny's both.

Not even Kronos had dragged on his soul like Len's death - a hundred years and a day disappearing like a wink in the salt of Len's tears, but no salt would save him from this loss. Nothing but time could help.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

He remembered with terrible clarity how it was, that bed, a touch too small for two grown men but comfortable regardless. Reminded them both of a prison bed, when they'd first seen it, and it had made them laugh.

They shared that bed, just like they'd shared all their beds. Mick always went to bed first, pointedly, because Len's brain whirled so fast and so hard it needed to see good behavior to model it, but he liked to stay awake, dozing, until Len crawled into bed with him, cold from the air outside the bed, and wrapped a chill arm around his chest.

Len liked to put his icy fingertips – terrible circulation, that man – under Mick’s shirt, to warm his hand on Mick’s heart. It was one of the things Mick loudly complained about but secretly enjoyed.

It’s one of those thing Len will do no more, because he’s dead.

Mick doesn't sleep in the bed.

Mick kept on with the Legends. They treated him badly, and he let them. He encouraged it, even, playing up his stupidity, his brutishness, his uselessness, wanting the emotional spikes of pain under his nails, under his skin. He would never harm himself physically - Len would turn over in his grave, if he had one - but he could torment himself in other ways.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

Time passed, and passed, and passed, until he was lighting a year's time candle for Len and watching a false version of the man disappear like the illusion he was.

"Do you think he sleeps uneasy, what with no grave?" someone asked at one point.

It may have been Mick, come to think about it.

He doesn't sleep in the bed.

But in that year, time passed and time healed and even the worse wounds can become scars, and at any rate when Mick swore to Len's ghost that he'd care for the team that Len'd died for, he'd meant it, and he took such oaths seriously. Keeping the Legends intact was a trip and a half, and more work than he'd ever done before, and it just didn't stop.

The work he let himself be made to do, the abuse he'd once invited and now resented -

He was tired, damnit.

And one day, a day after he lit that blasted candle that he can still see gutted on the desk, a day he should’ve had for grieving but instead spent out fixing yet another stupid aberration, he's so tired he just staggers right into his room, eyes barely staying open, and he collapses in the bed where his feet and his friends - Ray, he thinks, though it could be Sara - help him, and he curls up in the bed, which is sweet and perfect.

If he'd fallen straight asleep and never repeated the act, well, he might've fared better.

He doesn't.

He has just enough time to realize he's in the bed, the bed and not the chair, and he yields to his exhaustion and doesn't rise up and leave.

Time heals all wounds, he thinks blearily, thinks sadly, thinks regretfully, and he closes his eyes and he sleeps.

He wakes up in the middle of the night to a footstep.

A single one, but even in his exhaustion, watchfulness is part of who he is, and so Mick is awake if still reluctant to move.

It's probably one of the Legends, looking for something and not bothering to knock.

Another footstep.

The blanket lifts behind him.

Mick expects to be roused with a shove.

He isn't.

A cold body crawls in with him, cold as ice, cold as - Len - and Mick shivers. He doesn't turn. He doesn't want to. It would ruin the illusion. The dream.

The nightmare.

A chill arm wraps around his body, and the hand finds his heart.

Mick knows that hand, knows that arm, knows that chill, and he would weep for the fact that he's clearly gone and lost it at last, but he doesn't want to disturb the dream.

He closes his eyes and dreams -

He dreams of blue.

The next morning, he's more tired than the night before, but he's upright, he's mobile. The Legends will have to make do with that.

"Wow, Mick, you look like shit," Sara says, eloquent as always.

Mick grunts and grabs the coffee. He has it Irish, of course. He's Irish.

"You do look positively haggard," Amaya says.

Mick grunts again and ignores them both.

He doesn't expect it to happen again.

It does.

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

Mick Rory's ma was Irish even in a town filled with Irishmen. She was a proper mac something-or-other, some other child told Mick solemnly once; she might even be descended from a queen.

She certainly carried herself like one, marching through town with a straight spine and steel in her gaze, making pennies stretch for miles, raising her gaggle of children - six all together - with no family around to lend her aid, and not too shy to challenge even the big department stores when she felt she wasn't getting her money's worth. She was tough as dirt and just as practical.

Except, of course, when it came to the faeries.

The aos sí, the daoine sídhe, Tuatha de Danann, or whatever they were called.

Ma Rory's boys went around with salt in their pockets and iron nails, too. No one else did, but Mick's ma insisted.

And, to be fair, there were some moments where it seemed the rest of the town didn't disbelieve as big as all that.

See, Mick's ma was the seventh daughter, with six older girls that had nearly bankrupted her poor father, and Mick her sixth son, sons all in a row. There was talk in town, anticipation, when she got pregnant again.

"A seventh son of a seventh daughter; that's powerful magic," one of the children at school tells Mick. "A seer, a mage. A portent of great things."

He looks at Mick, then, all beady-eyed. "Not that you really matter," Mick is told. "No one ever pays attention to the mage's older brothers. Except where they fail first, of course - but that's usually in threes."

There are sighs of relief and disappointment when Mick's ma gives birth to a girl instead.

When Mick turned ten, his ma ordered his brothers away, sends her husband out with his baby sis, and brought him into the house.

"Michael," his ma says.

Mick blinks, indignant. "I didn't do nothing!"

For once, it's even true.

His ma sighs. "It's not about what you've done," she says. "It's about what I've done."

Mick frowns. That's not how the lectures usually go.

"Before I married your da, I got myself in trouble," she says bluntly.

Mick's eyebrows go up. He's always heard that nice girls ought to about that mysterious pre-marriage 'trouble' as much as they should. Of course, he never thought of his sharp-tongued, bull-headed ma as particularly nice...

"It were a boy, too," she says. "Sickly, he was, but he survived, and the nuns at the convent took him away. But he was mine. My first boy. After that, my parents took me around and I met your da, and I came here."

Mick nods. "So Jacky ain't the eldest." That'll show Jacky, who's always boasting about it and claiming it gave him special privileges.

"Jack is my second," she confirms. "And you, my baby boy, are the seventh, not the sixth."

Mick frowns. "But ain't a seventh son supposed to have the Sight?"

His ma chokes back an unhappy laugh. "My baby boy," she says, and it annoys Mick that that's the nickname she picked for him for all that it's technically true. "I wouldn't have told you about this, 'cept for the fact you need to know it. Weren't you telling me just last week about how you stopped your big brother from going to rescue the horse from that flooded river, all 'cause you saw it had gills?"

"I thought it were like in the comic books," Mick says. "Radioactive."

His mother shakes his head. "We call 'em kelpie. Horse-spirits that drag boys to their deaths. You saved your brother that day."

"I got sent to bed without dessert!"

"You did punch him in the face. And a year ago, do you remember the day you went up to the governor's house with your school? And you got lost and went to the kitchens and spent a few hours with the cook and the cobbler and the handyman, all of 'em complaining about how their wages been cut? And the governor got all pale when you mentioned it?"

Mick nods.

"They cater at the governor's house," she says gently. "They don't have a cook."

"But -"

"T’were the brownies, my boy."

"Is that why they liked my chocolate?" Mick had felt bad for them, their wages all cut, and he'd given them the chocolate bar in his pocket, all cut up in equal size portions, just enough for all of them if he didn't take one for himself. He'd regretted it - a chocolate bar of his own was a rare indulgence which he'd saved up two months' allowance for - but they'd been so happy he couldn't bear to keep it for himself.

"I think they liked the milk in the milk chocolate," his ma says. "But that's why I'm telling you now, you've got to be careful. You've got the Sight, just like everyone said, and people with the Sight get themselves in trouble."

"I get in trouble all the time."

"You just keep telling me if there's anything weird," she instructs. "Right off."

Mick sighs, but he's a good boy, and he obeys.

Well, he tries.

"We should take him to see a shrink," his da says, watching him guiltily clean up after another fire.

"Won't help," his ma says. "The fire comes from inside of him."

When Mick is ten, he starts getting into fights. He has broad shoulders that he'd grow into one day, but right now he's still skinny as a rake and his fists aren't strong enough to defend his temper.

The boys at school jump him after school, strip him bare, and pitch him into the local pond, hollering insults the whole time. Mick hollers them right back, but what's he to do? They ran off with his clothing, and he's got to get home before dark.

Mick grits his teeth against the slight. It won’t be too bad, getting home; it's getting cold as the summer draws to a close, but it’s not so cold as to hurt. He's embarrassed, sure, but embarrassment won't hurt him. Not on the outside, anyway, only in the soft gentle parts inside of him, and men weren’t supposed to have those anyway.

He's walking home, head held high because why not, when he sees the cat.

Big and black and beautiful, she is, with eyes as wild as stars, and she's got six little babies curled right up at her side, nursing, and a mate at her back, smaller, licking at her shoulder in homage.

She's near as big as a dog, she is, with a white stripe dead center on her chest.

One little runt is sitting not far from the others. It ain’t nursing or anything, but it looks fine.

Mick smiles a little at the cats. He likes cats.

Somehow, they notice him looking and all of a sudden the big cat starts to wail, and the little cats all wail, too, and the mate, too, all of them, all but the little runt who starts to cry, softly, instead.

Mick feels cold, all of a sudden, scared. "You stop that, right now, you hear me?" he snaps at them, and suddenly three more kittens run from the mama, what keeps a-wailing. The little kittens scatter off, sticking together, but they don’t go anywhere near the runt.

The fear is still there. He runs the rest of the way home, pride be damned.

"Mickey, my darling, what's happened? Where are your clothes, and why are you so scared?" his ma asks.

He tells her everything, and his ma goes pale as a ghost.

 "What was it, ma?" he asks.

"The Cat," she says. "Oh, that ain't no good, no good at all."

She gnawed at her lip. "Only one runt, all alone," she says. "Crying where the others are wailing."

"Until I said something," Mick corrects her. "Then there were four."

"And I'm glad you said something. The Cat Sidhe is a collector of souls. Did the kittens run together?"

"No, the runt was still alone."

"And so alone you will be, my baby boy, but you have saved all their lives."

His ma sends away his baby sister to her parents, his brothers whoever she could. The oldest ones laugh at her fears and refuse to leave so close to the harvest, but the youngest she can insist upon better. In the end, she sends away two boys and the girl.

That's why they don't die in the fire.

Mick hates his Sight for not letting him save more.

He ain't all too fond of cats after that, neither.

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

Mick always did wonder why he'd started seeing Len those days before the false version came to him. It wasn't grief, like Stein claimed; he'd never seen visions in his grief before. It wasn't what was in his head, courtesy of the thrice-damned time-stealers, the fickle monarchs in their palace three steps removed from the regular flow of time.

In Ireland they spoke of people who'd gone sideways into the hills, and how they never returned the same.

Mick's not impressed. He went sideways, as sideways as you get, and they tried their absolute hardest to make him forget who he was so that he'd stay with them forever - but he rejected them.

Oh, Mick swore himself to them, he played the role of the Knight, but when a hundred years and one had passed, his Tam-Lin Len had grasped his soul tight, grasped him hard through rage and pain and hate, had offered up his life and so won Mick's freedom.

And the time-stealers had no hold on Mick anymore.

He's not the same, no, but he's not as different as all that.

He's still himself.

"The story's supposed to end with a wedding," he tells himself, a year of death come and gone. The ring of platinum - spell-cursed silver that it was - was warm beneath his clothing. "The story's supposed to end with a wedding after the rescue. Not a funeral. Even I know that much."

No one responds, of course.

But every goddamn night Mick goes to sleep in that bed, and every goddamn night something crawls in beside him and curls that cold chill arm around him.

"You look sick," Jax says. "Have you gotten checked out by Gideon?"

Mick rolls his eyes, but Jax is not so easily deterred.

In the end, Mick admits that he has - sure, it was only because Sara insisted at knife-point, certain that that zombie disease was coming back or something, but it isn't his fault his eyes have bags under them large enough to steal something in, or that his skin's gone grey with exhaustion.

He sleeps every night in his bed.

Every night.

"You should go again," Jax says.

Mick goes again.

Gideon returns a clean bill of health - but for the exhaustion, which she cannot explain, and the fact that everyone around him can see that Mick's dying.

They make him sleep in the med bay that night.

Mick doesn't want to. He can't sleep anymore, not without that arm curled around him - him, who used to sleep anywhere and anytime! He can't even nap anymore.

Not without Lenny.

Oh, it's not Len, Mick knows it can't be Len. He held the hope of Len's resurrection in his hands and he let it go, and he put that illusion back on the road to perdition where it belonged, because he couldn’t let a Len live that lived under that type of brainwashing.

He didn't tell any of them that he knew that the mind-wipe would fix the brainwashing, where nothing else would. He didn't see why it mattered.

He didn't want to sleep anywhere but the bed.

Their bed.

The Legends made him. "Your skin is grey," they said, "your eyes are red, you look as though you're a corpse risen up."

"If only, if only," Mick says.

They looked uncomfortable. "Corpses can't rise up," Stein tells him, using different words, fancy words, but the meaning is clear enough. "You know that best of all."

It's a lie, of course. Many a corpse has stood once more - monsters, the lot of them, but standing tall and proud. Mick’s ma told him all about those, and she told them their names: the red cap, the washer-woman, the screaming in the dark.

The Legends make Mick sleep in the med bay.

But joy of joys, that night he feels the chill hands on his shoulders, spreading down the blanket, crawling in, wrapping the arm around him.

Putting a hand on his heart.

Mick smiles and sleeps.

The next morning he looks even more wretched than usual.

Gideon has nothing.

No explanation, no cure, nothing.

Mick wouldn't take it if they did.

The Legends give up and let him go back to his room.

Mick sleeps in his own bed.

And smiles at the cold.

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

"Mick."

Mick grumbles. He's tired, damnit. Let a man sleep.

Sure, it's all he does these days, but really, people should accept that.

"Mick."

Mick has thirty years of training to drop everything and respond to that insistent nasal whine.

He sighs and opens his eyes.

Len is perched on his goddamn chest, straddling him, peering down at him.

"Y'weigh a fucking ton," Mick tells him, slurring with sleep. "Gerroff."

"Can't," Len says, not without regret. "You're almost dead, you know."

Mick murmurs agreement. He'd accepted that already, hadn't he? Why is Len kicking up a fuss about it now?

Wait, since when have his hallucinations started to talk again?

"I'm not a hallucination," Len grumbles. "I wasn't then, either; I stole a mirror to talk to you, all those times."

Seems like a Len thing to do.

Len prods at him. "Mick."

That one means 'Pay attention to me'. Mick is very familiar with that variant of his name.

He forces himself more and more awake, or as much as he can, nowadays. "What issit?"

"You're almost dead," Len repeats, as if that's important. "I want you to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop being almost dead, of course," Len says snippily.

"Can't," Mick says, because it's true. The Legends have tried - fancy future doctors, changing locations, even took him to see John Constantine, who had taken Mick aside in private and told him "if you want to die, it's easier to blow out your brains, you know", which hadn't been all that helpful and so Mick had declined his offer of an exorcism.

"Exorcism wouldn't have helped anyway," Len says. "I'm not a ghost."

Mick's not too tired to pull up his cheeks in a bit of a smirk. "Not a hallucination or a ghost. What are you, then?"

Len blinks down at him, inhumanly blue eyes luminous. "I'm a hag."

A what?

Mick wakes the rest of the way up, all at once, and he stares up at Len. Len, who doesn't look like any of his neat hallucinations, like his brainwashed former self, nothing.

Len, with glowing blue eyes with pupils shaped like stars, with teeth that are long and filed to a sharp point, whose skin is grey like a corpse but for the black shine of his long and deadly claws, his beautiful fingers curving into terrible talons, his clothing dirty rags that fall off his frame.

Dirty, but familiar. He'd been wearing that outfit when he'd gone to the Oculus, over a year and a day before.

It had been exactly a year and a day, in fact, when the dreams had begun.

"Bean sidhe," Mick gasps.

"That's a woman," Len sniffs. "I'm still male. Well, non-binary with a preference for masculine pronouns, whatever. Not like the Underhill cares."

"You've been?"

"The Time Masters were something of a renegade bunch," Len says, baring his sharpened teeth. "Changelings all, you know; they trapped a Queen in a labyrinth so she could fashion them more of the same. We met her, remember? In that orphanage, where we put our past selves within her grasp."

Stolen children from all the ages - of course.

Of course the bastards were changelings. Human-born but raised beneath the Hill, who aped mastery of magics they could never hope to truly control. Jealous, bitter creatures; they helped steal more of their kind to spread the misery further, hoping it would be lessened and failing to understand why it didn't help. All they ever wanted was for someone ranked lower than themselves to step on.

Somehow Mick's unsurprised that they ended up forming a bureaucracy.

"And you?"

"They went too far," Len says. "A Queen more or less - well. There are Queens in every nook and cranny, you know; male and female, strong and weak. You get enough followers willing to call you a Queen and a bit of land, that's good enough. But they weren't satisfied with that. They wanted the power to raid and rule the Hill itself."

Mick knows enough of his folklore. "They wanted the power of the High King."

Len grins. "They wanted his throne. I don't think they entirely understand the concept of an elected monarchy, but in fairness, Oberon ruled a thousand years in his time. They might've gotten confused."

"What happened?"

"I unbound the wellspring they'd created. A cat jumped across my corpse and snatched my soul - same cat as what tried to warn you before, as it happens - and the King built me a new body of straw and silver. It's silver what runs through my veins now, Mick, not iron. That dream that the changelings all wanted, and he gave it to me - to spite them, I think."

Mick swallows. "And you're - what are you?"

"I'm a hag," Len says. "The mara, the banshee, the night-mare - whatever you want to call me."

A night-hag, bearer of nightmares, who rides you in your sleep and drains your soul - and indeed, Len is perched upon his chest, a crushing, draining weight, and Mick may have been talking but his arms lie paralyzed by his sides.

"I haven't had nightmares," Mick says, his only protest.

Len looks at him like he's lost his mind. "Of course not," he says. "You're my partner. I took the nightmares, and gave you dreams of peace."

That was always the way of Len: throwing himself in front of the bullet he himself fired at you.

As fickle as Fae, Mick had thought before, amused.

Not so amusing now.

"Why can I see you now?" Mick asks. "When I couldn't before?"

"I have the strength, now," Len says. "I've drained you near to death."

Mick nods. That makes sense.

"If you weren't who you were," Len continues, "it might still have not been enough. You shut your eyes to the Sight long ago - but the Sight doesn't forget you."

"What's the purpose of this visit?" Mick asks, because Sight or no Sight, he knows his partner.

Len's waiting for him to ask.

Len gives a sigh of contentment, tension relaxing; he must have needed Mick to ask the question. Probably one of the strange laws of the Sidhe that Mick doesn’t know about.

"I'm a hag and shall remain so till the tides come no more," Len says, wrinkling his nose at his own poeticism - undoubtedly words of ritual, based on his expression. "But a hag is not a lord, and may be bound into service - and taken from the Hill."

"Taken," Mick says, his heart leaping in his mouth.

"You're no singer, and your violin playing would scare away dead souls," Len says dryly. "But you're the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and though it has been hidden from sight and memory, there have been six such generations born before you. If you die now, there will never be a seventh, and magic throughout the land will be the weaker."

Mick frowns. "I don't have -"

Len makes a face that says he's trying not to laugh. "Did you really never think about the consequences of sperm donation, with your family line?"

Oops.

"Six daughters you have sired - their families are very grateful, just so you know, the kids are great, all very happy, and those with mental illness are getting it seen to properly - but you will never sire a seventh if you die now."

Mick raises his eyebrows. "You asking if I'll trade my kid for you?"

"Like I would ever agree to suggest that," Len replies, rolling his eyes. "No - we give you a chance to win me back, if you promise that, if you are successful, you'll go about having that seventh kid. What you do with her beyond that is all on you. Free will, you know, that sort of thing. Magic loves it."

"And I'll have you."

Len smiles, and his teeth are sharp and pointed and shine in the light. "If you still want me."

Like that's a choice Mick has to think hard about.

But Mick's ma was Irish, in a land filled with Irishmen, and she didn't raise a fool.

"I think," Mick says, "that I'd like a written contract, if you will. And I'd like my lawyer to look at it first."

Len throws back his head and laughs.

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

Mick knows the stories, well and good. He’s no singer to charm the Lords of the Sidhe to give back what he’d lost, and – as Len so succinctly put it – his violin skills would scare off spirits of the dead, and not in a good way. But he’s the seventh son of a seventh daughter, and his mother a seventh daughter of a seventh son, and so on and so forth, hidden from Sight by magic and from memory by lies, and his child will be a marvel should she ever be born.

Marvels can also be terrors, of course.

No wonder John Constantine offered him the path of the bullet.

Mick sleeps three days and three nights in his bed, overriding Gideon to lock his door, and each night at the stroke of midnight, Len comes to him. The second night, Len brings a negotiator, a woman so pretty that it hurts Mick’s eyes even to look at her; but Mick’s heart belongs firmly in Len’s pocket and he declines her overtures in favor of negotiating long and hard into the night. When they finally reach an accord, she offers him a hand to shake, grudgingly impressed, and Mick refuses: Len came once to make the offer, twice for the negotiations, and so the bargain would be sealed on the third night, not the second.

She's even more impressed with that.

That night Mick writes down all he can remember of their agreements and made Gideon send it to Lisa with strict orders to get it back to him before nightfall. It’s all he can manage before his bed drags him back into the arms of sleep.

He wakes up, once, to Gideon telling him that he has a reply. Lisa took his contract to all the lawyers they knew, and the sharpest minds out of the lot pointed out a few clauses that Mick might want to be wary of – after all, the Underhill does so love its tricks, and giving a man his every wish while denying him his hearts’ desire is their favorite.

Mick considers the matter, and slips back into sleep.

Midnight comes again, and with it Len and his negotiator, who today was a hideous crone wearing a cloak of crows’ feathers and yet was the same as yesterday – Mick suspects that if she had come with Len the first night, she would have been a child – and Mick lays out his requirements.

“A what?” the negotiator says blankly.

Len howls with laughter.

“A best efforts clause,” Mick repeats. “Means you gotta try your hardest to make it live up to the spirit instead of the letter.”

“We don’t agree to those!”

Mick shrugs. “I was willing to let the hag –” He doesn’t use Len’s name; he’s not so stupid. “– sit on me for months and months before agreeing to hear you out. You want this, bad as I do; I figure we ought to meet all equitable.”

Her eyes glow like the moon. “And if we refuse, and claim you for our own without relief for your insolence?”

Mick smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “I’ve spent a hundred years and one beneath the Hill,” he says. “Kronos, they called me, 'cause they could not break my true name; a hundred years and one as a Knight before my true love held me fast and pulled me out. You cannot claim me – you’ve already tried that, and failed. You want my magic to reach its fulfillment?” He points at the contract. “Then sign.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I go tell all the bards I know that the Lords of the Sidhe no longer keep true to their deals - and are cowards, too.”

The negotiator laughs, a wretched thing, long and lolling and gruesome, but she plucks a crow’s feather from her cloak and she signs the contract with her own blood. Then – much to his surprise – she offers him the same feather.

“Didn’t know we were on such close terms,” he says, accepting it. You don’t turn down a gift kindly-meant from the aos sí.

“Any man, seventh son or no, would can out-stubborn the Morrigan deserves blood-brothership,” she replies gleefully, and really, if Mick had realized he was negotiating with the goddamn goddess of war maybe he wouldn’t have been quite so rude, but he’s not going to say no.

He cuts his hand – a prick at the base of the thumb, which has no impact on mobility, rather than on his fingers, which he actually uses – and signs his own name besides hers.

“Well done,” the Morrigan says. “I wish you the best of luck in the battles ahead.”

Mick inclines his head in thanks.

And so they go –

- and so he awakens.

He gets up, dresses, and walks to the bridge.

The Legends all gawk at him: standing tall, hearty and hale and flushed red with the blood of a goddess.

“I need to borrow the ship,” Mick tells them. It’s not a request. “Strap in.”

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

Mick goes first to visit John Constantine.

“You freed yourself from a haunting,” Constantine observes. “That’s rare.”

“I need a map to the Underhill,” Mick replies.

“Oh hell no.”

Mick shrugs. “I’ve got seven days and one to make it to the meeting place. Want to see my contract?”

“You contracted with the buggers? You’re right fucked, you are,” Constantine says, but he takes the contract.

After he reads it, he squints at Mick. “You’re a seventh of a seventh and you never thought to mention it?”

“A what?” Jax asks.

“Seventh of a seventh of a seventh,” Mick confirms, ignoring him. “Six times over.”

“And I suppose you’ve got seven of your own?”

Mick smirks. “Six, apparently.”

Constantine groans. “Now I see what you have to trade that they’d want.”

“Is someone going to explain this to the rest of us?” Sara asks.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” John asks, following Mick’s lead and ignoring her. “Even though you get to keep the kid, the Gentlemen are going to have a vested interest.”

Mick shrugs. “I’m on my way to rescue my True Love who has been transformed into a night hag.”

“…I take your point.”

“Wait,” Ray says. “Mick’s fallen in love? When?”

Mick isn’t even going to engage with that.

Constantine gets him the map.

“Really?” Mick says dubiously. “A strip mall?”

“Don’t doubt the value of liminal spaces,” Constantine says. “Also, have you seen those places at night? Even I think they’re creepy.”

Mick shrugs. “I’d say thank you,” he says, “but I don’t do that.”

“Because you have no manners?” Stein suggested.

“Wise man,” Constantine says. “You keep up with that, especially if you're playing games with the Fair Folk. And if I ever need something that requires a drop of blood from a seventh of a seventh, I’ll call you. You have no idea how many useful things call for that.”

“I have some,” Mick – who had totally been kidnapped a few times by foster parents with an eye towards genealogical records, albeit ones who hadn’t read the fine print of ‘disturbed juvenile arsonist’ and had no idea what they were getting into – replies. “Guess I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re going nowhere without my agreement,” Sara puts in. “How’d you even get Gideon to bring us here, anyway?”

“He’s a seventh,” Constantine says, stressing the syllables. “And you’re in a time ship.”

The Legends all blink at him.

“Think adoring puppy dog and someone who smells of bacon.”

Any technology sufficiently advanced will be mistaken for magic, Mick thinks, amused; looks like the other way is true as well.

Time ships always did answer to him particularly easy when he was Kronos, a matter of some great frustration to some of the other bounty hunters...

Map in hand, ignoring the Legends' protests, Mick goes on the next leg of his trip.

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

This place had no name, no place, no time - by those that knew it, it was the Floating Market, but ask any of them what that was and they'd deny they'd ever heard of such a thing.

Indeed, many said it was impossible to describe, even if you were willing to spill its secrets.

Mick thought of it as a time traveler's Mos Eisley.

The greatest collection of thieves and vagabonds in the timeline.

Today, it was in Rome.

Mick doesn't actually pay much attention to where and when - no togas and no t-shirts, so somewhere in the 1000s - because it didn't matter, not really. You don't find the Market by looking for it, you find it with a dowsing rod reserved especially for the purpose.

Mick's never needed one.

"The Floating Market is one of the places that even Captain Hunter feared to go," Gideon tells him.

"Probably because Time Masters aren't treated like gods there," Mick says.

More like pests to be stomped out, actually; their arrogant and high-handed ways had no place in the Market. The Time Masters' bounty hunters, on the other hand, were welcomed as fellow-travelers.

Mick likes the Market.

"I wouldn't go, if I were you," he tells Sara. "They'll peg you for the League in a minute and black-ball you."

She frowns. "They know the League?"

"The League picked a fight with the Market once. I'm pretty sure the League calls that period of time the Great Disaster."

Sara's frown deepens. She recognizes the name. "Why are you going there now?"

"I need to see a man about a cat," Mick replies.

His favorite of the Market's watering holes, of which there were an infinity, is still there. Mick's sure that for some of his fellow travelers, he only stepped out for a minute; such is the way of things.

Underhill's not the only place that knows how to play with time.

He heads in with Jax at one side and Sara - who never listens - on the other. The others were guarding the ship: they'd already gotten six offers to purchase it, and two attempts to steal it.

"Good to see ya, Kronos," one of his old drinking buddies calls out. He's big and tall, wearing black leather pants and a matching vest. His shaggy black hair is as wild as his smile. "The Main Man missed having a challenge."

Mick can't help a smile.

"Lobo," he says. "Just who I wanted to see."

"How can I help ya?"

"I'm looking for Cat Anna," Mick tells him. "I need to know how to care for a hag, once you've got one to care for."

Lobo belches from his beer and roars in laughter. "Cat Anna! Care for a hag! You'd better not be getting romantic on me, Kronos - and even if you were, Jenny Greenteeth or Canrig Bwt is far more, heh, feisty."

"Canrig Bwt eats brains, Lobo," Mick reminds him.

"So? Who needs 'em?"

Mick grins. He likes Lobo. "You got me a lead on Cat Anna?"

"Oh, sure. And you're in luck, too - she's just about to make the switch to Black Annis. Look for her by the witches' feet."

Mick nods acknowledgment. "Good hunting, Lobo."

"And you!"

Mick drags a gaping Jax and Sara out of there. He's not sure what the big deal is.

Kali always has that many skulls tied onto her belt.

The witches' feet is another part of the Market, best identified by the bunches of chicken's feet at every stall, done the same way hookers hang red lanterns.

Finding Cat Anna is easy enough. Not many black cats are being given the royal treatment.

"I wanna talk to you," Mick says to her, ignoring the way Sara seems to be doubting his sanity and how Jax appears be considering purchasing some newts' eyes for some godforsaken reason.

Cat Anna stretches, long and lithe, and in a blink of an eye she becomes Black Annis, the one-eyed, long-haired, sharp-toothed hag of the hills.

"You've been ridden hard," she rasps. "But gentle. That's not like a hag."

"I'm seeking my true love," Mick tells her.

She snorts. "You and the rest of humanity."

"He's the hag."

"Now that's interesting! Human-born, I take it?”

Mick inclines his head.

“Well done, well done. And what need you with Black Annis, then?" she bares her teeth. "Lest you've got some children you don't need."

"He ain't for sale," Mick says, swatting her reaching hand from Jax. "I need to know how to care for one. What'll you charge me? And you can get your own kids."

She snorts. "Oh, hell, I ain't gonna charge you, not for bringing another hag into the world - assuming you manage it. Tell you what, m'boy - you wrestle your hag out of the sidhe and you'll have all you need to know, and all I'll ask is to spread his name."

She looks at him expectantly.

"Captain Cold, they call him," Mick tells her.

She cackles. "Oh, that's a fine one! We ain't never had a Captain before."

She shoves her wrinkly hand at him and Mick kissed it in thanks. He feels the knowledge settle into his mind where it ought to be, locked away until he's fulfilled the conditions on his side.

Getting the Legends out of the Market before they spend every penny they have and some they don't is yet another battle.

And with that done, their eyes still dazed, he goes to claim himself a hag.

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

The stories don't differ.

Oh, some are charmers, some are singers, some are poets, but in the end the job's the same.

You want to take something out of the sidhe, you'd better grab it tight and hold it to your heart, no matter how it burns you.

Lucky for Mick, he has plenty of experience with things that burn.

The Legends follow in his wake, silent and unjudging, less as support than as witnesses.

He’s warned them not to eat or drink and not to say their names to anyone, but to accept any gift they are given. He hopes that they’re wise enough to listen, but his focus has to be on his challenge.

The strip mall at night becomes a Queen's Court - one more in the style of Mab than Titania, if Mick had to guess. The bean sidhe coo when they see Mick and a familiar cat the size of a dog - all black but for the stripe of white at her heart - brushes by his feet, all approving.

Len's his prize and his challenge both, and he stands at the center of the .

"Welcome, Kronos," the Queen says. "Seventh son of a seventh daughter, Hunter of the Timeline and Rover of the Waves, Knight of the Summer’s Shadow, Victor of the Battle of Bet-Adon, Trieste, and Atlantis-Ouest, Master of The Leviathan, Destroyer of the Renegade Court –” By which Mick assumes they mean the Time Masters. Nice to know that that’s been added to his list of titles. “– and guest at our court.”

“Don’t forget Heatwave,” Mick reminds her.

The Queen inclines her head gravely. The Lords love etiquette more than anything else; the best way to get the upper hand is to point out a flaw in their approach. This must be a young Queen indeed.

“Heatwave, Supervillain, Member of the Rogues, Enemy of the Flash, Commander of Absolute Heat,” she recited. “I did not forget; I was unsure if you had reclaimed those titles.”

“I have,” Mick replies, just as solemnly.

Though not without worry. The stupid “Rogues” idea Len had actually comes to fruition?

Ugh.

Mick would say he’s having second thoughts about winning this contest, but he can’t even joke about that; the wound is still too fresh.

Len grins as though he knows what Mick’s thinking, because he’s a dick. He’s totally going to take advantage of this to make Mick join his stupid Rogues.

But on the other hand: he’ll be around to do that.

Mick will take it.

“You will face three trials,” the Queen says. “To rescue a soul from the Sidhe requires love and hope and faith. We will try all three.”

Mick nods, unsurprised.

She waves her hand, and suddenly there’s a dozen Lens standing there, all the same.

“Tell us which of these is your true love,” she demands. “For love will know love, even in disguise.”

Mick gnaws on his lower lip, staring at them. “Might I test them, your Majesty?”

“You may,” she replies haughtily. “Ask your questions.”

Questions? Mick doesn’t need questions. Besides, changelings-constructs have the same memories as the original. Questions won’t help, as the Queen well knows.

No, love needs a different test.

Mick pulls out a hammer.

The collected Court withdraws from the stench of iron, which causes them pain even at a distance.

Mick steps forward, puts his hand on a nearby surface – a squat barrel which he suspects spends its daylight hours as a garbage can – and spreads his fingers wide. He lifts the hammer up high.

“What are you doing?” the Queen asks.

“My love gave up his hand for me,” Mick says. “Seems fair.”

He brings the hammer down, as hard as he can.

The iron never touches his flesh, caught instead by one of the Lens darting forward, his face flushed with rage. He ignores how his own hands sizzle at the touch of iron, too focused on Mick, too focused on yelling, “What the fuck are you doing?! You don’t need to smash your own hand, you - you - you asshole! We already had it out about the hand! What the fuck?!”

“This one,” Mick says to the Queen dryly.

“Well played,” she responds, equally dry. A wave of the hand vanishes the remainder.

Mick pries the hammer out of Len’s hands before they burn any more. “I’m not going to smash my hand,” he assures his partner.

“You’d better not!”

“The next of your tests is this,” the Queen says, and she waves her hand. A table appears, with a wooden cup filled to the brim.

Len’s eyes go wide. “What? No!”

“Drink of the forgetting water,” the Queen says. “It washes away all care, and with all care all memory.”

Mick raises his eyebrows skeptically. “So I’m supposed to drink away all my memories?”

“All your cares,” she corrects. “If your love is true, then have no fear: you will remember him. But if not, you will leave without him and without the memory of him; and ne’er will you meet again.”

“Damnit, he’s already been brainwashed enough!” Len snaps. “And he hates it, too; that’s a terrible test.”

The Queen frowns thoughtfully. “If he will not trust to his own love, he cannot pass the test. And yet I have some sympathy to your plight: it is indeed an old wound. Very well: swear to me your services for three tasks of my will, and he may forgo the drink.”

Mick reaches out and takes the cup.

“Mick!”

“The test is for both of us,” Mick tells him. “And you know it.”

Len falters, just long enough for his brain to start to work – logic overcoming concern, his cold heart overcoming the heat of his emotions.

“I see,” he says. “She can’t bind a hag to her will without their oath, and I ain’t giving her no oath – not for anything but this.”

“She’d trade it and then laugh at us for failing her test,” Mick agrees. “You’ve got to trust me that I can do this, and I’ve got to trust in myself. That’s what hope is.”

“Then go ahead,” Len says. He looks like he’s regretting it.

Before Len can say another word more, Mick lifts the cup to his lips and drains it.

It is –

A blaze of flame surrounds him but does not burn him, soothing his innermost pain, the oldest of all his friends. It welcomes him, calls him to rest, a peaceful slumber.

It wipes away all cares: the old hurt of his parents’ loss, the newer stings of the Legends’ cruelties, even his disagreements with Len over all those years.

But Len is more than just a care, more than just a worry, more than just a disagreement.

He's everything.

Mick opens his eyes. “You ought to market that as an antidepressant,” he observes. “What’s the third test?”

Len punches him in the shoulder, smiling. “They’re still looking to get FDA approval,” he jokes.

“Well done,” the Queen says, ignoring their levity. “Your hope and love is true. And now there is only the test of faith.”

She says no more.

That’s fine.

Mick knows what to do.

He reaches for Len and he takes him into his arms and he holds on.

Holds on through leopards and foxes and spitting cats, through flames and blistering cold, through hurricanes, holds on as his hands hurt and his gut feels like it’s been ripped out, holds on, holds on, holds on –

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

“Is anyone going to explain what just happened?” Sara asks, a little plaintively.

They’re back on the Waverider.

Len is by Mick's side, where he belongs.

He has on that wretched blue parka that Mick would've sworn was lost on some time-traveling jaunt - and indeed that might be so, because this parka gleams subtly in Mick's sight like maybe it wasn't made of fabric from this plane. Also like maybe it could hold off a bomb.

Mick reluctantly approves. He’s in favor of Len being bomb-resistant.

Len also has a bag that seems to contain more things than it really ought. He says he won it off - someone.

He refuses to give more details than that.

His smile is still too sharp, his pupils still star-shaped, but his eyes have returned to their original shade and his talons have reshaped into familiar fingers and at any rate judging from the way none of the other Legends have commented, Mick is pretty sure that he's the only one who can see Captain Cold in his full, newly-inhuman glory.

Mick is -

Mick is content.

No.

Mick is happy.

He's also getting a shit ton of information on the care and feeding of night hags - 'mara' is apparently the preferred name for the singular, Len was just being a dick - so he's not really in the mood to answer the question.

"I'm back," Len says in belated response, when it becomes obvious that Mick has no intention of answering. "Obviously."

"And it's the you we knew?" Jax asks cautiously.

"Mr. Blow-Yourself-Up, in the flesh," Len confirms.

"Oh," Jax says. "Uh. Good to see you again?"

As if that's the switch, the rest of the Legends start crowding around with greetings and smiles and introductions to Nate and Amaya, stories and comradery and all that. Several of them step around Mick to do so.

"I'm a little tired," Len says pleasantly. "As I'm sure Mick is. Perhaps later?"

Human or not, Len's charisma is a force of nature.

They are left alone.

"You're back," Mick says, finally letting himself believe - really believe - that it's true.

Len smiles, his secret, honest, hidden smile, that only Mick and Lisa get to see. "You saved me."

Mick snorts. "You saved yourself, with my assistance."

"Maybe," Len concedes.

"You have plans already, I take it?" Mick asks. He knows that look in Len's eyes.

It's so familiar, so wonderfully familiar, that his chest hurts.

"Oh, yes," Len says. "Many - the Rogues, of course, and finding you just the right woman to bear our child -"

Because of course it's their child.

Mick objects not at all.

"- and maybe having a bit of a snack off our dear friends the Legends, who seem to have grown disrespectful of you in my absence," Len continues. "But that's for later. For now I have other plans."

"I'm all yours," Mick says.

Dangerous words, to say to one reborn among the Sidhe.

Mick finds he can mean it no less. Everything he is, the flaws, the virtues, all the powers he was born to, the full sum of him - it's all nothing without Len.

Len's eyes glitter with pleasure and he takes Mick's hand, and he leads him to the bed.

The bed where they slept together when Len was still a man, the bed that Mick avoided so much that year they were apart, the bed where Mick gave himself, body and soul, to the hungry nightmare Len has become.

Mick smiles and climbs into the bed.

Behind him, a cold body climbs in.

A chill arm wraps around his body.

A hand rests upon Mick's heart.

"Sleep," Len whispers in Mick's ear. "I'll watch over your dreams."

Mick closes his eyes.

And sleeps.

[hungrywhovianjedi]

In an alternate reality, everything is different. Emma got to raise Henry, Neal never died, and Hook never changed. This is the story of when Hook changed the past, and Neal never left.

Read where it all began: : Prologue, chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4, chapter 5, chapter 6chapter 7 Epilogue

IHTSYH Also on: FFN

read the rest of If I Never Leave: The prologue, Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

If I Never Leave also on: FFN

The sequel:Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

I’ll Fight It for You also on: FFN

tagging a few who showed interest last chapter: @fortunatelyshynerd @andiirivera @revanmeetra87

It turned out, as the years passed, that Boston was where they were meant to get going. By the time Henry was five, they were living in an upper Boston apartment, and Neal finally had a good job. He worked as a handyman for their building. Emma continued to work in bail bonds, quickly becoming one of the most successful bail bondswomen in Boston, specializing in parents that walked out on their parents. The subject striking her hard, because of her own experience with parents, or lack of them.

Henry’s first day of school hit seemingly without warning. Emma took him shopping, and bought all of the tiny notebooks, and pencils, she bought him new shoes, and several new outfits, her favorite a Peter Pan T-shirt, with the Jolly Roger on it, and Henry’s favorite a Captain America shirt.

Then came the day. Neal and Emma were both there to see him off, shoes on wrong, and eyes wide, when he realized they weren’t coming in with him.

Neal kneeled in front of the small boy, “Hey kiddo, don’t worry, me and mommy will be here to get you after school.”

“Why can’t we go home now?” He asked, voice going up in pitch slightly, as he looked at all of the other children, darting past him, as they met with friends. “I don’t know anybody. What if they don’t like me?”

It was Emma’s turn. She crouched by him, and pulled him into her leather clad arms, and pulled back to look him in the eye. “Henry James Swan-Cassidy.” She began, using her soothing mother voice. “Now you listen to me.” When the boy nodded, she continued. “You are going to go through those doors, and you are going to do what a Swan-Cassidy always does.” She told him firmly. “You are going to keep your eyes up, that upper lip stiff, and you are going to walk in like, you belong there. You know why?”

Henry shook his head.

“Because you do belong. Henry, you know mommy didn’t have a lot of friends when she was little, but you know what she did have?” another head shake. “Confidence. You go in there, and if they don’t respect you, make them. Because if you believe hard enough, that you belong? You’re gonna find out, that you really do.”

Henry nodded.

“Now, what are you gonna do?”

He took a deep breath, and tried to look bigger, failing, because his shoulders weren’t that big, and his cheeks turned an adorable pink with the effort. “I’m gonna go in there, and be a big boy.” He promised. “Because A Swan-Cassidy is strong, and They belong wherever they wanna.” He told her.

Emma nodded, and pulled him in for another crushing hug. “That’s right, and I’ll be here waiting for you, before the last bell rings.”

Henry looked up at her, with wide vulnerable eyes. “Promise?”

Emma nodded. “promise.” She promised, holding her pinky out to swear on it with her son, then the first bell rang, and Henry turned to look at the building.

“I’ll see you as soon as school is over?” he asked.

Emma nodded. “Just as soon as that last bell rings.” She promised.

Henry nodded once, then twice, and turned and ran into the building. Emma held back a sob, as her little boy went through the doors, of the school, shooting them one more look, before the doors closed between them.

~~If I Never Leave~~

The hours between, when Henry walked into the school, and when he walked, were the longest hours since the hours spent in the delivery room, when he was born. Neal found himself pacing outside of the car.

“Neal, get back in the car, school doesn’t even let out, for ten minutes.” Emma sighed. “You’re going to wig me out, pretty soon. Just get in the car, he’ll be out, when the bell rings”

Neal set his jaw, and nodded, climbing back into the car, his fingers drumming on the dashboard. “Are you sure it’s okay? I mean, would it really be so bad to go and check with the office?”

A warm hand settled on his thigh. “He’s fine Neal. We promised ourselves, when we agreed to send him to school, we wouldn’t be those parents. We’re not going into the office, we’re not going to be helicopter parents.” She said soothingly. “Now, just relax, and wait, for your son to come out of the school”

Neal took a deep breath and nodded. “I know, it’s just, I’ve never done anything like this before. I just worry I’m going to make some sort of mistake”

Emma huffed. “And I have? We have the same fears, pal. The only difference is, that I know that even if we do make a mistake, it’s part of being a parent. Every parent makes mistakes. Those that don’t? Are lying”

As though on cue, the bell rang, and a minute later, a torrent of children came flooding out of the school. She scanned the crowd, and together, Emma and Neal climbed out of the car. They waited, side by side, as the children rushed past them. All but the one they were looking for.

Neal started to get tense, but then Henry came out the door of the school, with his teacher beside him, talking animatedly. The woman smiled sweetly, and urged the boy forward, when he saw his parents he darted forward.

Neal and Emma met him with open arms, Neal spinning his son around in a circle, feeling like it had been days, rather than hours, since he had seen the boy.

“Hey, Spinner, how was school?” He asked letting his son down on the ground gently.

Henry grinned. “It was great!” He turned to his mother, and tackled her. “You were right mom. I did exactly what you said, I walked in, I helded my head high, and I pretended to belong, and I did!”

Emma beamed at the little boy, pulling him into her arms, and Neal saw tears in her eyes. “I knew you would, kid, I knew you would”

~~If I Never Leave~~

Later that night, after Henry was tucked in, and told his story, Emma and Neal were laid back in bed, just relaxing, before they went to sleep for the night.

“He’s growing up so quickly.” Emma mused. “Was it just yesterday, that he was just learning to walk, while we held his hands?”

Neal smiled, pulling her back to him, Emma rested her head against his chest. “Was that yesterday? I thought yesterday, was when we brought him home.” He joked.

Emma sighed, a wistful sound. “I always knew he would grow up, I just didn’t expect it to feel like I blinked and missed it all, even though I remember every moment with perfect clarity.” She brought her hand to cover his heart. “I just wish we could freeze him like this, so I wouldn’t miss a moment”

Neal ran his fingers through her hair, thoughtfully. “Yeah, but think of all the moments we would miss, by never giving them a chance to happen. Think about what might happen five years, ten years down the road. Think of his first boy scouts camping trip, think of his first school dance, of the first date, the first heartbreak. We could freeze our perfect little boy, but think of all we would miss if we could.”

Emma sighed again, a sleepy sound. “I know, but it is a nice thought… just to have our little boy forever.”

[puckish-saint]

Hello love! Hope your day is going well. I have a request! If you're interested. How do Genii and/or McCree react when they admit their romantic feelings to their best friend, only for their friend to tell them that they see their relationship as strictly platonic.

can I please have some mccree and reader or genji and reader angst? injury or kidnapping or something, as long as it is ANGSTY

McCreeHe whistles a tune while he waits forthe coffeemaker to finish, stroking his freshly shaved face. He didleave some beard, he’s not about to make the mistake of cleanshaving again, but it’s neatly trimmed, even waxed to keep everyhair in perfect place. “You’re in high spirits.” Satya saysfrom over her tablet, giving him a once over as if she suspects hemight have been brainwashed. “And did you get a haircut?”

“Dead on.” He makes finger guns ather, not admitting that this has been his first professionally donehaircut in six years and that he still hasn’t gotten used to theway his hair tickles his nape. “New shirt, too.”

“I noticed. Looks good, man.” It’sLúcio this time who has to comment, but he’s far from the last.Everyone, as they slowly trickle in for some fresh buns or at least amug of coffee, notices his effort to clean up. Jack half-seriouslytries to remember the last time Jesse bought new clothes and wondersaloud if he missed the memo for another UN meeting.

“I bought clothes in the lastseventeen years.” Jesse says a bit defensively, but not even theteam’s fond teasing can ruin his mood. He’s finally made up hismind to tell you about his feelings and he’s got it all plannedout. There’s a bunch of red roses waiting to be picked up at theflorist at the corner and he’s practiced his speech for days. Latertoday, when both your duties shifts have ended, you’ll be hangingout as you always do and he’s going to confess his love.

Only that nothing goes according toplan. An emergency with the base-wide AC forces him to polish the oldhandyman skills and get his hands, hair and new clothes dirty. By theend of a shift that lasted hours longer than it should have he’scovered head to do in grime and dirt. The shirt he bought was hisonly new one and so he has to resort to wearing, after a quickshower, one of his old ones, washed out and patched up almost asoften as he himself has been. No matter what he does with his beardit simply won’t lie as nicely as it has that morning and eventuallyhe gives up, brushes the wax out and settles for a look that’sstill somewhat better than usual. He hopes.

He hasn’t stepped out of the doorwhen you send him a text, telling him that since your usual routinegot delayed you took to spending the afternoon with Hana and Genjiand he should join the three of you in the recreation room.

The roses therefore stay in the vase,he’s not going to confess in front of everyone, he wanted it to besomething special and now fears it won’t be anything at all.Somehow he manages to keep face throughout the rest of the day,laughing along to Genji’s jokes, losing to Hana in a game of chess,embarrassing himself in front of you, and pretending he doesn’thave the confession of a lifetime lying on his tongue.

At some point you excuse yourself toget drinks for everyone, including Fareeha and Zenyatta who justjoined, and he sees his chance by offering to help. It won’t be onthe rooftop watching the sunset as he planned, nor will his now lessthan dashing looks inspire you to swoon in his arms and the roseswill have to wait until after, but he still has his speech. He stillhas his heart ready to wear on his sleeve.

“You got a minute?” he asks themoment the kitchen door falls shut behind him.

“Sure. What’s on your mind?”

Jesse swallows, takes a deep breath tosteady his pulse thrumming rapidly under his skin and starts.

“Wanted to tell you somethin’that’s been on my mind lately. You’re ma best friend, hell I cancount the number of people who cared for me the way you do on onehand. You’ve become real special t’ me, darlin’, and I … I …”He breaks off as your face falls. You’re not wearing theexpression of someone shocked but overjoyed to hear their secretcrush is reciprocating their feelings. Your face is that of someonewho just had the L-bomb dropped on them out of nowhere and doesn’tknow how to say ‘no’ in the least hurtful way possible.

While Jesse fidgets with his shirt, hechastises himself for never even thinking about this outcome. Healways imagined you falling into his arms, all too happy to progressyour friendship to another level.

“Jesse, I … I’m sorry.” you sayand you are, he can see that much, you really are sorry for having tosay it. Not that it helps his broken heart anything. He tries hishand at a reassuring grin but barely manages a grimace of a smile.

“Nah, it’s okay. Don’t need tosay anything, I got it.”

“You’re a wonderful person, youare, but-”“Nothin’ t’ be done, I know.” Oh God, he’sgoing to cry. He’s going to cry right in front of you unless hegets out of here fast. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I’llget over it.”

And to show how well he’s alreadygetting over it, nevermind he’s just trying to flee withoutarousing suspicion, he picks up the tray of drinks and walks back tothe others. They immediately see something is wrong.

“Jesse …?” Fareeha says, brushinglightly against his arm.

“‘S nothing.” he lies and then,as an afterthought, pulls out a piece of paper out of his jeanspockets and lays it on the table. “Won’t be needin’ thatanymore. Figure one of you might have better use for it.”Hewants to leave right away but Hana’s gasp forces him to stop.

“That’s a reservation for thefanciest restaurant in this country. The tables are booked out half ayear in advance. How the hell did you get this?”He shrugs,keeps his back turned so no one can see him fighting with the tears.

“Doesn’t matter. Should probablyget some shut eye, though. Was thinking about hitting the road againsoon. G’night, yeah?”

Not even Fareeha’s concerned ‘Jesse,wait’ can hold him back. He all but runs to his quarters, sinksagainst the wall the moment he’s locked the door. He feelspathetic, weak, like the biggest idiot in existence. Most of all hefeels like running away.

No one, and nothing is there to stophim, either. He’s gone before dawn breaks, taking the earliesthypertrain out of Gibraltar.

He runs as far as he can and when he’sthere he’ll keep running just the same. Anything to avoid having tolook at you every single day and know you’ll never love him.

Genji

It starts with him, barely hanging onto life by mechanical threads he already despises, and you, confinedto the sick bay with a broken leg.

You try to get his attention, but don’tknow his name yet and resort to increasingly creative nicknames.Genji ignores them all. He’s focused solely on the thought ofrevenge. Or he tries to be focused, failing as you keep trying to gethis attention.

“What?” he finally snaps. Yourecoil from the force of his words but catch yourself quickly andgrin.

“You wanna trade my jelly for yourfruit cup?” you ask and at this point he assumes you just don’tlike the chemically tasting jelly that’s part of your hospitallunch. Just to spite you he says no, hoping to gain any kind ofsatisfaction from this. He doesn’t.

But you stick around.

Even after your leg has healed youalways seem to hang around the clinic when he’s there to receivefurther enhancements. More than once he wakes from surgery to findyou slumped in a chair nearby, catching up on sleep everyone elsetells him you haven’t been getting a lot.

Eventually your presence becomesbearable. Even later it becomes comforting.

Now when he has to report to Dr Zieglerfor another treatment - his mostly organic lungs are rejecting themechanical transplants and have to be replaced - he expects you to bethere and is not disappointed.

You lie together in the hospital bed,watching a movie on the laptop resting on your legs. It’s inEnglish and you’ve turned on the subtitles without a word, knowinghe still sometimes has trouble understanding every word. Resting hishead on your chest he doubts you do this with all your friends. True,he’s used to being tactile, downright cuddly with the friends heused to have before, but he’s no longer human. His artificial skinfeels wrong, too cold, with too little give. No one would want tocuddle with him just out of platonic affection. Or that’s how hetries to reason with himself. There is something deeper between you,there has to be. Over the last months he’s grown closer to you thanhe has with anyone else in his life. You, more than all thescientists in this hellish place, have saved his life by making himwant to live.

A lull in the movie’s plot urges himinto action. He turns a little, uncomfortable with the unnaturalstretch of his fake muscles, and pulls himself up enough to press hislips to yours.

He knows right away he’smisinterpreted all the signs. He knows and he still doesn’t stop,presses forward, hands curling into the collar of your top, pleadingwith you to just let him have this for one more moment.

You push him away, gentle but firm,pity crossing your face. He can’t bear looking at it.

“Genji … look, I-”“Yeah no,I get it.” he says and pushes himself off, turns his back to you.“Lead me on and have your laugh but when it comes to deliveryou’re-”“It’s not like that-”“The fuck it is.”He’s being unfair but can’t stop himself. Not with the hurtburning in his chest.

“Genji.”“Get out. Just getout.”You stay, try to reason. When you reach out to hug him hesnaps. Whips around and punches you in the chest, throws you off thebed. Only the wires and tubes attached to him prevent him fromfollowing.

“Get out!” he screams, throws thefirst thing he can reach which just happens to be the laptop. Youcatch it, scramble to your feet, throw him one last look and leave.

Dr Ziegler passes you by on your wayout, wants to check with her patient. Genji makes her go away, too.

In the end he’s alone to regret hisoutburst. To wish you’d come back, tell him it was all amisunderstanding. That you do love him, that he hasn’t ruinedeverything.

You don’t come back and Genji doesthe one human thing he has left, the one thing no omnic can mimic. He buries his head in his pillow and cries.