#but my god did it bring me absurd levels of delight

[ysabelmystic]

Devastating!

You experienced a piece of media that altered your brain chemistry, and there is not even a single post about it on tumblr!!!

[lightsinthedistancee]

Congrats!!! Angst 11 with Frankie? I can totally picture one of the boys asking him that and calling him out when he’s in denial of his feelings for f!reader

Thanks! Hope you enjoy!

“Is she really just a friend?” - Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x Reader

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Secrecy

Words: 1.6k

Excerpt: “You’re the one who always knows how to keep him up when he begins to spiral, begins to drink a little too much, begins to think of certain substances he’d once abused in order to forget.

“You’re the one who always knows what to say when he feels his exterior cracking, feels events of the past begin to seep through in anger, grief, or pure instability.

“In uncomplicated terms, perhaps you’re simply the only one who always seems to know him.”

Warnings: Very Mild Smut, Language

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.

Present

You’re simply staring.

Out the window of the living room, into unremarkable space. Onto the street where car after car passes by, each one seemingly blending into the last. Upon overcast skies that drain the colors outside of their saturation.

“You gonna say something or not?” says Frankie, breaking the silence. An air of hostility lies between the two of you. He sits on the couch, back hunched, forehead propped against his fist.

The main event of the past few hours lays heavy in the background, fogging both your minds—storm clouds that threaten to bring carnage upon everything.

It’d been a statement by Frankie in the company of the guys—just the mere beginnings of one, one with enough information behind it for you to intervene, to cut him off and shut it down before anything was heard.

The statement…it was one that would’ve told a lot. One that would’ve told of the many times Frankie’s hands had woven into your hair before his lips found yours, one that would’ve revealed numerous long nights together.

Not officially a secret, but never a relationship mentioned nor told.

“Why don’t you want to tell them? Why don’t you want to tell anyone?” His voice is profound in the quiet, loaded with hurt and confusion and a desperate need to know. “What’s the harm in it?”

And still without a single word, without a single glance towards him, you walk from the room.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Past

“F-Frankie….”

His name is a stutter from your lips as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, practically panting into his skin as his hips work against yours.

The wall you’re pressed up against painfully digs into your spine, yet the ache is an afterthought, buried in the shadow of the pure pleasure coursing through your veins.

The sounds of the guys in the kitchen below faintly travels through the floor. It makes a thrill as well as a menacing nervousness spike hot in your mind.

It was a simple weekend get-together among friends that had brought you here, you and Frankie being sent up the stairs of the house to get something, somehow ending up in this situation.

You groan at a particular movement, knotting your hands tighter into his locks, pulling hard enough to make him groan. He’s muttering filth in your ear, your legs gripping his waist tighter and tighter.

“Did you find it?” Benny’s voice echoes up the stairs all of a sudden, piercing the haze you and Frankie had been lost in together. Your mind is in an incoherent state, entirely forgetting what you’d been sent up here to find. “What’s taking so long?”

You stare at Frankie, whose eyes are wide open now, his movements frozen. The corners of your lips beg to turn upwards, and you nearly giggle at the absurdity of it all, and you slowly raise your index finger to your lips, signaling for him to stay quiet.

“Still looking!” you call out. “Should find it soon.”

An affirmative response sounds back, and despite everything going on, Frankie feels all his emotions diminishing to one thing, one sensation that sets every inch of him alight.

The feeling of you clenching around him, your index finger to your lips, a hint of a smirk on those beautiful lips of yours—the secrecy of it all…it’s exciting.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Present

“Sweetheart….” His voice is a whisper as he approaches you from behind.

You’re in the kitchen now, hands shaking as you pour yourself a glass of water. Exhaustion is seemingly the main product of the tension that had hung between the two of you.

His hand rests gently on the side of your waist, the rest of his body refraining from even grazing yours. An acute worry runs through his head in circles. “I know you’re not leading me on with whatever this whole thing between us is—“

“I’m not,” you whisper, saying your first words in a while.

“—so talk to me. Why don’t you want to tell?”

The ever-pervasive question. Again.

You sigh, turning around to face him. Your hips gently settle on the edge of the counter, your eyes tiredly shutting. “I…I just…I really like you, Frankie.”

He raises an eyebrow, the confusion written across his face nearly comical. “I-I should hope so? I mean, you’re not really explaining anything, cariño.”

You laugh weakly, the sound pathetically dying out near the end, lacking the conviction to even resolutely finish. “What I mean is….” You draw in a deep breath, your eyes finally flicking to his. “…I don’t want what I have with you to fail, and I’m terrified of that happening, and…isn’t that only possible when something is officially real?”

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Past

“C’mon, ‘Fish. Is she really just a friend?”

Frankie laughs, shaking his head in a perfect lie of denial. “You’re an idiot. Of course she’s just a friend.”

The small bar the four of them are in—him, Santi, Will, and Benny—possesses a unique calmness and comfort to it, a place they’d been going to for ages.

“Friends who fuck, then?” Santi continues his barrage of questions, the beginnings of an infuriating smirk on his face.

Friends who fuck really fucking well. “No,” Frankie insists, even as the other clumsily-formed thought sounds in his mind.

The other three guys practically shake their heads, returning to their previous conversation. The questioning is nearly a ritual at this point, said repeatedly, as if they’re determined to wrench what they want to be said out of him.

Frankie can vividly recall the things all of them had been saying over and over for months, in one way or another.

She knows you entirely too well.

What is it with the two of you?

You cannot possibly fucking tell me there is nothing going on.

And perhaps they’re right.

Frankie had risked his life with these guys, almost died with them, made last confessions and regrets in the near certain face of death. He’s inexorably bound to them till the day he dies. But despite that, when it comes to Frankie, even in competition with his closest friends, you always seem to be just one step ahead when it comes to knowing him.

You’re the one who always brings up the subject of leaving when places grow too crowded for his liking, striking a subtle discomfort across his face that no one else notices.

You’re the one who always knows how to keep him up when he begins to spiral, begins to drink a little too much, begins to think of certain substances he’d once abused in order to forget.

You’re the one who always knows what to say when he feels his exterior cracking, feels events of the past begin to seep through in anger, grief, or pure instability.

In uncomplicated terms, perhaps you’re simply the only one who always seems to know him.

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

Present

Your words shock him.

Isn’t that only possible when something is officially real?

He doesn’t know what you’ve been through to develop this level of paranoia, this level of reservation, but god, does he want to know. He wants you to let him in all the way, wants to be able to kiss you whenever he likes, wants to say three words that’ll  officially cement things as serious.

But, even then…looming over all of that is a more menacing question that demands to be answered, one that makes him want to shrink into nothing.

“You don’t think this is real?” he whispers, his voice cracking at the implication—that what the two of you feel even in secrecy is not enough to make it so.

“What?” Your eyes snap up to his with the urgency of distress. “No, of course I think it’s real.” The statement is a near desperate exclamation as you watch him, looking for any sign that he believes you, that you haven’t destroyed even more of this with a single sentence.

His features relax, back to a quiet concern.

A long, drawn-out stretch of silence passes, filled with relief and more questions to be asked.

“Then why does telling make it more real?” he finally asks.

You falter, searching for an explanation beyond a simple feeling of fear. “I…I don’t know,” you admit. “Maybe it’s just conceptual, maybe something I’ve just made up in my head and refused to go back on, but…but it just scares me, the thought of this being real and then failing. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but—“

“—I think it makes sense,” he interjects. More tentatively this time, he leans into you, wrapping his arms around your waist, rubbing soothing circles over the small of your back. “And why are you terrified this’ll fail? Do you think it will?”

“I…I don’t know,” you respond softly, brow crunched in apprehension. “Things just happen…I suppose.”

He hums in contemplation, fingers pulling your chin up to look at him. “Well, that’s not a very good reason,” he muses, a signature humor to him that you’re all too familiar with. When you laugh quietly, it’s a real laugh, one that delights his ears. “Things just don’t happen, too, y’know.”

You press your face into his shoulder, the slightest act of affection, an unsaid agreement. It feels different now that he’s in it with you, now that he knows and can challenge every absurd thought you’ve entertained.

“We can start just by telling the guys,” he proposes quietly. “If you want to…. It’s just them.”

His hand squeezes yours assuredly, a promise that everything is going to be fine. Your response is soft, a little hesitant-sounding at first, but ultimately decided. “Alright.”

..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::.. ..::::..

A/N: I’ll admit I’m not super sure about this one since this is a little different from what I usually write but it was so much fun to write and such a fun challenge to create. And @hnt-escape, so I…umm….obviously changed the “Frankie in denial of feelings” part of the ask, so I hope you didn’t mind that?

Taglist: @dark-academics-and-florals @theultimateslashgirl @princessxkenobi @djjarins @jitterbugs927 @whovianayesha

If you’d like to be added to my taglist, let me know or do the form on my masterlist. If you’d like to be removed, don’t be afraid to ask!

100 Follower Celebration Masterlist

Thanks for reading!

[sillyfeathers]

A Lesson in Laughter (Tahani x Eleanor)

A Lesson in Laughter Characters: Tahani Al-Jamil, Eleanor Shellstrop

Tahani's oblivion to the typical ways of the world reveals an interesting quirk of hers.

Warnings: fluff, Good Place curses? Words: 992

A/N: my femslash feb fic for @tickle-bugs !! I adore your writing so I truly hope you enjoy this, and special thank you to @ticklishraspberries for hosting this! <3

Eleanor never really looked ‘dignified’, but this was a whole new level of disarray.

“What on earth happened to you?” Tahani exclaimed ,her eyes scanning Eleanor from her dishevelled hair to her scuffed sneakers.

“Don’t you worry about me babe, I can take care of myself just fine,” was all Eleanor replied with, flopping down onto the sofa. Tahani narrowed her eyes, her suspicious amusement now bordering on concern.

“Eleanor, what happened?” she asked again, firmer this time. Eleanor just laughed, holding her hands up in surrender.

“Relax, hot stuff, I was goofing off with Jason,” she explained. Tahani sighed, and the relief she projected made Eleanor’s eyebrows shoot towards her hairline.

“Wait — you weren’t actually worried about me, were you?�� Her voice was light, teasing, and caught Tahani off guard. She instinctively drew herself up.

“No! Well — whenever I saw someone all messed up like you are now, it wasn’t a sign of ‘goofing off’.” She mocked the words in an American accent, bringing forth a snort from Eleanor.

“Okay, babe, sit down.” She patted the sofa cushions beside her, reclining into the pillows. “You are a tall, sexy, supermodel, super famous giraffe of a person and I love that about you– ”

“No, you don’t– ”

“But,” Eleanor continued as though Tahani hadn’t spoken, “The fact that your parents were forking benches who didn’t give a shirt about the wellbeing of their children is really starting to have an impact on our relationship.”

Tahani laughed at that, an airy, melodic sound.

“See!” Eleanor exclaimed, pointing an accusatory finger at Tahani’s lips. “Even your laugh is perfect! That cannot be your real laugh.”

Tahani rolled her eyes, smiling. “That’s absurd, Eleanor. The videos we were shown during our laughing lessons weren’t at all –”

“‘During our laughing lessons’,” Eleanor mocked, putting on her poshest British accent. “Do you even hear yourself?” They were both biting back smiles at this point, and to break the tension, Eleanor shoved Tahani’s shoulder. “C’mon, we’re gonna wrestle!”

Tahani scoffed, almost instinctively. “I am not wrestling with you – hey!”

Eleanor may have been far tinier than Tahani, but her play-fighting skills were far superior, as was demonstrated by the way she quickly had her pinned against the sofa, straddling her waist.

“You little –” Tahani batted at Eleanor, who was now throwing superficial punches, whispering “bam!” under her breath every time she did so. Tahani was now pushing her arms in an X against Eleanor, and annoyed that she could no longer effectively prove her superiority, she instead jabbed at Tahani’s hips.

And Tahani made a sound.

Not just any sound. A snort. A full on, ignoble, utterly unsophisticated snort.

“That was a snort,” Eleanor said. It was. 

“It was not,” Tahani replied. Eleanor raised her eyebrows, and she instantly knew she’d made a mistake, but before she could think her way out, Eleanors hands had locked onto her hips and that was a snort.

“Oh my god, you’re ticklish and you laugh like us common folk? This might just be the best day of my not-life,” Eleanor said, mischief underpinning her every word. 

“Neither of those statements are true,” was what Tahani wanted to say, but Eleanor’s thumbs had hooked behind her hips and she was squeezing, so all that came out was an undignified hiccupy-laughter. 

“Ehehealeanor,” Tahani gasped. “You’re –” she broke off as Eleanor hit a spot that made her squeal, almost throwing the two of them off the sofa – “you’re killing me!”

“Sorry, babe, I’m not letting this go so easily,” Eleanor replied, fingers creeping up Tahani’s sides. “It seems the duty of giving you a real lesson in laughter has been thrust upon me.” She shrugged as she spoke, seemingly indifferent, but the way her eyes shone when Tahani let out a full shout of belly laughter gave her away.

“Eleanor!” Try as she might, that was all Tahani was able to say, and the more Eleanor tickled her, the more she felt her dignity slipping away, arms flailing and hair starting to tangle from shaking her head back and forth.

In a moment of desperation, much like the action that sealed her own fate, her hand flew out to scribble under Eleanor’s outstretched arm. Although Tahani was fairly discombobulated, all she needed was Eleanor’s surprised yell and recoil to turn the tables, towering over the smaller girl as she shrunk into the cushions.

“Tahani –”

“No talking,” Tahani interrupted, immediately sliding her hands under Eleanor’s sweater and swirling her nails against her ribs. Eleanor was far less coy in her laughter, spluttering out what was meant to be a string of curses but had devolved into loud, bubbly giggles.

Delighted, Tahani lowered herself down until their noses were almost touching, one hand sliding up to gently tickle around Eleanor’s neck and ears. The blonde scrunched her face up, letting out an odd gurgling sound. Still, she met Tahani’s gaze with a steely one of her own — but before she could open her mouth to match it with a surely damning statement, Tahani was tilting her chin up to catch her lips in her own, and every fight-or-flight instinct of Eleanor’s softened, melting into the touch, pressing herself upwards into Tahani.

Tahani’s other hand still rested at her side, and Eleanor giggled into the kiss as her fingers involuntarily twitched, feeling Tahani smile back. They relaxed back into the sofa, Tahani slumping down by Eleanor’s side, practically forcing them to snuggle.

“You’re a tall, British ashhole,” Eleanor breathed, eyes flicking between the brunette’s eyes and lips. 

“And you’re a short, Arizona trashbag,” Tahani replied, her thumb running along Eleanor’s cheekbone as she rested her hand against her cheek. “I’m going to kiss you again, okay?”

Unable to resist, Eleanor crowed, “Oh, my, Tahani Al-Jamil, asking to kiss me? Well, I’d have to think –”

“Shut up.” A poke to the ribs, a quiet snort. Tahani kissed her again.

[mirrorforevers]

graham/reader • and i love him

hmmmmmm so

i wrote a lil smutty n angsty gra/fem!reader fic set in the late 90s and im kinda proud of it ‼️

👉🏼 👈🏼 

this is my first work for the blur fandom and im Nervous bc i haven’t been writing for a while and english is not my first language but hope u guys enjoy it anyway - if you enjoy it enough i’ll post it on ao3 too, aight? also this hasn’t been beta’ed by anyone so yeah. also feel free to send me a message if u want to beta it in case you wanna see it there. aaaaaaaaa

tw: alcoholism

You haven't been sleeping very well these days.

Any noise, no matter how insignificant, would wake you up. When there weren't noises, there were nightmares that you were losing him - those were the worst nights. Many times you woke up crying because everything was so real, and you couldn't have peace even in your moment of rest.

Sometimes it was difficult to love him.

The memories of the long lazy days you spent watching TV, painting each other's backs and tasting all sorts of bizarre treats he brought from the different countries he travelled to with his band were gradually replaced by memories of corrosive words exchanged between the two of you and moments where either you or he ended up crying in each other's arms - out of shame, out of despair, out of frustration. But that didn't mean that you were loving him any less, just that your individual tribulations sometimes got too heavy even to share.

You knew he was going through a very difficult time, but he didn't open up to you very much about it and it frustrated you on a level that you could barely describe. Being in a serious relationship was something so new to you, and it helped you so much in your bad times, and you just couldn't understand why he didn't trust you like you trusted him. "It's not that I don't trust you, you're the most important person in the world to me," he'd typically say. "It's such a terrible feeling, and I just want it to go away. I don't even like to talk about it."

This is the same thing he says to you with teary eyes as the hot water in the shower wets your skin and his. For the third time that week, you had to help him, without even having the opportunity to take your own clothes off, to take off his clothes that smelled unbearably of alcohol and sweat and to take a shower. You no longer had the strength to argue or lecture him, and your silence of resignation somehow seemed to hurt him even more. He tried to bring up other subjects and remind you of good things, and your throat seemed to close more and more. Before your eyes could also fill with tears, you just left a small, shaky "Gra, please... let's just get this over with." escape from your lips. He got the message, maybe. And he agreed to have his hair washed in silence.

After you help him dry off and choose clean underwear, sleep got the best of him and then it was your turn to take a shower and try to sleep. You swore he was asleep a long time ago, when, just before you fell asleep, you heard an almost whispered, fragile "I love you" coming from the other side of the bed. It somehow hurt you more than it should - it's been so long since you've wanted to hear it from the man you truly know - a sober Graham, a little unsure of himself but a guy with such a full and gentle heart. You knew that his problem with drinking was not just the search for overcoming that insecurity, but a constant attempt to escape from the reality that, years before, he thought he wanted to be part of. And as for that, there was not much for you to do. But you still missed it so much in another context, in what now seems to be an eternity ago.

By some miracle, you did not wake up in the middle of the night due to some noise caused by Graham or due to some nightmare, but only in the morning thanks to the sunlight illuminating your face. But Graham was no longer on your side, and you closed your eyes, sighing. Another long day without him among thousands of rehearsals and concerts and meetings and photoshoots he had to attend, which anticipated yet another long night of ill-resolved fights.

"I'm terribly sorry for fucking up again." And then you opened your eyes. There he was, now with a shirt over the underwear you chose for him, his voice as low as ever. Without his glasses.

Finally, the Graham you knew. Your eyes light up and you move to get up from the comfortable bed you shared when he interrupts you. "No, stay right there."

"I've been missing you." You say with an almost whiny voice, a faint but genuine smile taking over your expressions. "Don't you have *anything* to do today?" You ask, as he pulls out a camera to photograph you in your current position - messy hair, while wearing only his t-shirt. You don't hide from the clicks. After being satisfied with the result, he positions himself between your legs, and you spend a few minutes in silence in that position, face to face, just reading each other's expressions so closely.

It was very difficult not to love the beautiful boy in front of you.

"I do." And with that, he places a very soft and loving kiss on your lips, which slowly incorporates the latent desire burning on both of you. It's so good not to taste the alcohol, just the mouthwash with the touch of a cigarette that he just smoked. He only stops after a few more long pecks, calmly brushing away some of the strands of hair off your face, "I'm sorry for being such a cunt. Things are being very difficult for me lately."

You look away from him so you don't cry. This subject really breaks your heart. "Things are very difficult for me too."

He calmly brings your face up to look at him again. "They don't have to be. I don't want to make you go through this. I swear I will try to get help."

This is not the first time he has said this. But you pretend to believe him. And this time, you start the kiss, a little more fervently than before. Perhaps this is a silent agreement between you two. You feel something slowly grow beneath you, and you move against the feeling, making you both gasp softly in the middle of the kiss. The lips part, and then he looks into your eyes deeply again, both foreheads touching - as he silently asks you for permission to make it up to you. You just nod between heavy shared breaths. He goes to kiss you intensely, albeit very lovingly, while slowly lowering his hand to your clit, where he begins a slow circular movement. You close your eyes, and he pleads, quietly – “Keep looking at me, love”.

Gradually, you start to grind harder against his talented fingers, and when he realizes that your body is prepared enough (and quickly expresses it to you - "fuck, you really missed me", making your cheeks burn), he inserts two fingers into you, while insisting on the circular movements that delighted you so much. You're having goosebumps and you slowly feel that delicious wave of heat build up in you as he continues with his movements. You surprise him by kissing his neck slowly between timid but sincere moans that gradually escape from you. His voice trembles with arousal. "This is all about you, love. But that's quite nice." When he feels your body stiffen, and hears your moans become more urgent, he stops his movements and gives you a kiss on the cheek that borders on mockery, giving a small laugh with your grunt of protest. He mutters a small "Be patient baby, please. Come on my mouth instead.". Graham's hoarse voice in your ear almost kills you. He raises the hand that was stimulating you in an absurd way seconds before to lift and remove your shirt, basking in the sight of your breasts - hands sliding down your sides, he lifts your chest to his mouth, which makes you happy but it does not meet 100% of your needs. He knows that. And he wants to take his sweet time while his talented tongue takes turns between each of your breasts for a while, eliciting smaller moans from you but still giving you so much pleasure.

Honestly, what a view. His big brown eyes, when not closed due to his determination and focus on making you feel good, sometimes fixes on yours and the cloud of attraction between you two almost becomes tangible. Then, he quickly lifts up to give your mouth a sensuous kiss while his hand then makes its way down your body, taking a detour at your already sensible breasts to grab one and give it a slow squeeze. "You're so fucking beautiful. I love you." His pure adoration for you drips from his voice, and you feel like you're about to burst from how much in love and horny you are.

"I love you too."

He gives you that goddamn smile that melts you every time before he lowers himself again, this time placing his head between your thighs while snaking his arms above them, trapping you in what is about to be a hell of a great time. He begins on an exploratory pace, then gradually starts eating you out with passion, though not forgetting to be gentle enough so he doesn't hurt you or seems inexperienced. That he *really* isn't.

He moans deliciously on your clit the moment your grip on his hair tightens - he loves it when you're rougher with him, a sub at heart, really, though he's undoubtedly getting better at dealing with your more submissive side lately. Your body is reacting in the prettiest ways, and he recognizes it's the time for his fingers to be inside of you again. You have to contain yourself not to wake up your neighbors with the sound of your excitement, and you bite your finger. You can't help but buck your hips in response to the stimulation. “Gra–God. I--I need to--”

“Keep still, darling. I know what you need,” His eyes are gleaming with mischief when one of his hands moves to rest on your waist so he can hold you in place. It's too much, and when he hears your quiet pleas and sees your back arching and the frozen expression of pure pleasure in your face, he intensifies his movements and you freeze - your legs twitch and he lets you ride your orgasm freely on his gorgeous, hungry mouth.

You looked down to see his chin was resting on your stomach as he gazed up at you with *that* infatuated look that suited him so well along with the cheekiest smile - he keeps his thoughts to himself before his suggestion makes your satisfied smile grow even wider: "Let's spend the day together. I still feel like I owe a lot to you.".

[wicked-game-black-butler]

Fic questions, 2 for wicked game

Question from this post

What’s your favorite part of this fic?

Oh my! I don’t think you realize how difficult of a question this is, lol. I have so many favorite parts, so if you’ll allow me, there are a few that I’d like to mention.

1. I always love it when Sarah tells Sebastian off. Two of my favorites are:

I had been a fool to push him this far.

"Now you will listen and you will listen well," he began, his voice a low, menacing rumble as he brought his face close enough to mine that the warm waves of his breath washed over my face as he continued, "If I have not made it clear in the past, you owe me a great debt for where you are right now. If it were not for me, you would still be in a wheelchair, or worse, murdered by those men who I have protected you from. My master would not have offered you a position as a maid had I not suggested it. You would not be gaining such attention by the Queen if I had not agreed to train you. So, yes, I will train you as long and hard as I feel is necessary, because you owe it to me," he paused, his eyes searching mine.

While he had been speaking, tears had begun to unwillingly spill from my eyes in response to the painful hold he had on my jaw and how cutting his words were, wetting his pristinely white gloves. I had come to realize the night of the ball just how possessive Sebastian had felt towards me, but I had not seen any indication that he felt it to this degree until now. So was that it…he felt he could do these things…he could demand my upmost obedience, touch me and play with my heart as he pleased, even push me to the brink of breaking me physically because he felt he owned me? My heart clenched as the piercing dagger of the truth thrust deep inside. The man who stood before me, the one who I had come to admire, who I considered a dear friend, who had, in fact, done so much for me to the point that I had started to believe he loved me and that I had begun to love in return, was no better a man than the likes of Mr. Woodley. If anything, he was worse.

He gave my cheeks a slight squeeze, snapping my attention back to the present before he continued, "It is infuriating enough that I am saddled with an insolent cur as a master and servants who could not survive if I did not constantly fix their idiotic mistakes, do not give me reason to add you to my list of grievances. However, if you cannot accept my standards, then leave and do not make me waste any more of my time."

As the last venomous word passed his lips, the bridle on my anger snapped. Without thinking, I jerked my knee up to strike his groin, just as he had taught me, causing him to crumble to the ground.

"Accept your standards?!" I spat, my fists clenching with rage as I glowered down at his wheezing form, "How could I accept such absurd standards?" I paused briefly, crouching next to him as I took a fistful of his hair in my hand, pulling back so that he was forced to look at me, knowing I would not have much more time before he recovered from my blow, "If I have not made it clear in the past, you, nor any other man for that matter, owns me. I am Sarah Anne Wakefield and I am a woman of my own possession and I will not be guilted or bribed into being anything other than what I am, a free woman. Now if you cannot accept that, sir, then you are no better than men like my father or the Mr. Woodley who you have come to despise so much."

Chapter 17- Valentine’s Day Misfortune

And 

“How long was I out?”

While I waited for his answer, I traced a hand along my skull to search for the source of the incessant pulsation. A whimper sounded from my throat when my fingers brushed against something tender, sticky, and warm.

“Not long. But long enough for me to kill the rest of the crew.” Sebastian answered, gently pulling my hand away.

His eyes widened, and I turned, ignoring the screaming objection of my head, to see what was causing his alarm- the dripping crimson that coated my fingers and stained the cuff of my shirt.

“This has gone on long enough. We are returning to the townhouse.”

“No!” I objected, jerking my arm from his grasp when he made to scoop me up in his arms.

My eyes pricked with tears, Sebastian’s fingers painfully gripping my chin.

His hot, angry breath fanned against my cheeks as he seethed, “That was not a matter of debate. The mission was successful. So we’re returning to the townhouse because your wounds need proper attention. We can interrogate Edward and Lord Willoughby tomorrow.”

“No!” I insisted, despite his answering, exasperated growl, “We have to be the first ones to talk to them. We can’t risk the Infinitas silencing them before we can find out more about Father.”

Fire smoldered in his eyes, nostrils flaring, but I refused to back down. My own determined, unflinching gaze answered his instead.

“Very well.” he spat, “If you insist.”

Without warning, he tugged me forward to press me against his torso. I shoved my hands against his chest and screamed in objection, but he did not budge.

Something warm and wet swiped over the wound on the back of my head once, then twice. My cries ceased and I blinked, mind suddenly clearer as the fog lifted, the throbbing of my wound inexplicably gone as well.

It was only then that Sebastian released his hold on me, allowing me to rest against the mast and steady myself.

“Better?” he asked, cocking his brow mockingly before extending an assisting hand toward me.

I scowled at the tattered, blood-stained glove. There was no chance I would reveal that, while my head was in a far better state, the rest of my body still felt as if I had been run over by a coach. Instead, I rose to my feet- ignoring the pain that shot up my thigh- brushing against his outstretched hand as I did so.

Sebastian’s gaze narrowed while he watched me dust off my pants and give my waistcoat a swift tug.

“In polite society, such assistance is typically answered with some form of gratitude.”

I grimaced, a jolt of pain shooting up my arm as the palm of my hand smacked into Sebastian’s cheek. It was well worth it, though.

His head snapped back, but before he shot off a reply, I grabbed his tie and tugged it to bring our gazes to the same level, my tone even, but no less threatening, “If you touch me like that again without my consent, I’ll break that perfect nose of yours. Got it?”

Chapter 26- The Sea Sprite

2. The Bread Making Scene

Silence fell between us, charged and tense, as we fell into a natural rhythm. Press and pull. Back and forth. My mind clouded over as the rich cinnamon of Sebastian’s scent wafted around me, overpowering the tang of yeast, and I slowly lost awareness of all else save our undulating movements and the hunger it awakened within me. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, the thrill of treading into the unknown silencing any warning from my more rational thoughts. What we were indulging in was illicit...dangerous.

“That’s it.” Sebastian’s voice praised, his voice no more than a gravelly whisper, the air becoming thick and heady as he gave a shuddering breath, “Feel how the mound is becoming firm beneath your fingers.”

A soft gasp escaped my lips, my eyes widening when, as we pressed forward on the the dough once more, an unmistakable hardness pressed against my lower back. Was Sebastian...? As the sound passed my lips, his grip on my hands tightened, almost painfully so, our fingers burrowing deep into the resisting dough. My thoughts whirred sluggishly as we pressed forward once more, torn between propriety and debauchery.

Yielding to such desire was forbidden. If Ciel happened to venture down and discover us, he could give us our notice immediately and he would not be in the wrong, our current behavior dishonorable among those who considered themselves part of polite society. I could demand he cease his salacious behavior. I could storm out in righteous indignation. I could finally put our depraved game to an end and save myself.

However, as his arousal pressed against me, a darker part of my thoughts reminded me that what Sebastian had awoken in me was something that, in spite of the risk, had been one of the most liberating and genuine experiences of my life. Any other pleasure paled in the wake of the carnal force of how it felt to desire him and be desired by him in return. To hold such power over someone who was otherwise so poised, every movement calculated...to see, to feel that composure crumble, giving into insatiable hunger was intoxicating.

Chapter 24- His Butler: Domestic

3. When Sarah finally admits her feelings for Sebastian

My gaze searched his as his honeyed words hung in the air. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, my breaths short and shallow, while my thoughts warred in cacophonous chaos. I should deny it. I should refuse such an offer and return to my quarters. But for what, to delay desire another day? I had reached the pinnacle of release from fantasies of the butler enough to know I could not deny that I wanted him in the most primal, gut-wrenching way possible. And I had experienced the sting of longing for his return and delight in his company enough to know that I loved him.

No, the only way I would ever be safe from Sebastian would be to leave and I should. Despite the danger, I should advertise for a different post under a new master, a new butler-one who could not ignite my body with a mere look.

However, I knew deep down that such a solution would be temporary at best. The connection Sebastian and I shared was something that transcended reason. No matter the time, no matter the space that separated us, I knew unequivocally that chance, fate, God, whatever name humanity assigned the ruling forces of the universe, would lead us together. I was drawn to him, his presence alone magnetic, drawing me to him with the intensity of a collapsar. And I was tired of fighting.

I took a deep breath, trailing my fingers up his torso, relishing as he tensed under my touch. Sebastian’s hurried breath mingled with mine, his eyes sparking with voracious hunger as I snaked my hand around the back of his neck. My eyes closed as I pulled his face to mine, my lips brushing against his as I breathed, with finality and conviction…

“Yes.”

As Sebastian’s lips captured mine, a fleeting hesitation whispered in my mind. Loving Sebastian was dangerous. My desire uncontrollable and consuming. It was like a fire, unquenchable, an ever present threat, for such a heat could devour and destroy as much as it could comfort and please. However, my thoughts whispered in answer as he shoved me against the ledge, our teeth clicking from our fervor, our hands tangling in the other’s hair, such a threat did not frighten me.

I wanted to burn.

Chapter 24- His Butler: Domestic

At the risk of this post being too long already, I’ll stop there, even though I have so many more I could list (like the interactions with the other servants, Nina, Ciel, Menowin, and Madame Red). 

Just out of curiosity, what are some of your favorite moments from Wicked Game? I’m always curious to see what catches readers’ attention. (And that question is open to everyone, if you’d like to answer ^_^)

Thank you again for submitting this ask. I love gushing about this story. It’s my literary baby, so I enjoy talking about it every opportunity I can. Take care, darling!

[lisinfleur]

My fate, my rules!

The request:

Author’s Notes | I hope you like it, dear anon! Universe | Vikings Pairing | Ivar x Reader Info | Viking Age AU, Saxon Princess! Reader, requested by anon for 5CW7 Words | 3245 ⁑ Warnings: None

When you first saw the man standing inside that hall, he was nothing but a rag. Young, dirty, a prisoner being carried around by your father's men like a bag of potatoes or something similar. You could still remember how his face was softer, his body was thinner, and his hair could barely cover his forehead with a strange hairstyle that caused your brother to call him "Nordic Acorn" for days…

Well, you had to notice Aethelwulf's expression since your brother's eyes were almost popping out of his head as the acorn-boy he liked so much to mock as inoffensive, was now standing in front of him - taller than him, by the way… - with long braided hair, fierce blue eyes, and a thousand soldiers wanting to put your castle down to the ground for his desires, held back by nothing but his command.

"Ivar, the Boneless," your brother stated as if recognizing that boy from years ago. "The second to last son of Ragnar Lothbrok."

You rolled your eyes when Ivar frowned, naturally not understanding your brother's colocation: Aethelwulf was convinced Kwenthrith's son was one of the sons of Ragnar indeed.

"I think you don't know my family as well as you think you know, Ecberth's son… I'm the last son of my father, but surely not his last legacy in this world."

Even his voice changed from what you had in your memories. Ivar was a grown man now despite the lack of a beard that you could say was even charming in him. He became a beautiful man. But your feelings for that Viking weren't something new.

The two of you weren't something to come from those glares Aethelwulf already had noticed. Ivar was the owner of your heart since the time when you sneaked into the dungeons to know him in a cell and spend entire nights talking to him about the most variable subjects as your father was deciding his father's fate. He earned your heart with his ways, learning how to read the parchments you brought for him, teaching you words in his language your father's friend Athelstan didn't teach. Ivar was the first man that ever touched your lips with his, even thou there were metal bars in between the two of you.

You never really forgot how hard it was to let him go without goodbyes, watching as the chariot took him away leaving you with nothing but his promise.

"What will happen after you go away?"

"I'll come back for you."

Aethelwulf never dreamed about this. He never understood why you became more astute after "the heathen" - in his words - went away with his desires that Ivar's boat would sink and no one would ever find his remains. Your brother would only repeat incessantly that Ragnar's visit was a curse and even you were different after those men appeared in your father's door - words that the following events that ended up with your father's crown in your brother's head confirmed in the peasants and your brother's minds.

But the truth was that Ivar taught you. He changed you and stimulated your curiosity. Because of him, you sneaked to read the whole library, you learned, you studied and understood. And regardless of what Aethelwulf was planning for you, you had in your mind that Ivar would never forget you.

And you were right…

"I see you're not aware of Magnus…" your brother started and, without respect, Ivar simply cut his sentence, remembering you of the frisson of seeing a Norseman facing one of yours.

They were fearless. And it always made you melt.

"Kwenthrith's son wasn't my brother. And I'm not here to speak of the past."

Firm, like the tone you'd always imagined his god Odin should have to speak.

"Then what brings you here, Norseman?" Aethelwulf said.

And you held your breath. It was always funny to hear how your brother used to say words like "heathen" or "pagan" or even "Norseman" as if they were curses or mocking terms. Well, if they were, Ivar wasn't as bothered by them as your brother wanted him to feel.

"I've come to keep my word for I might break a bone but I can never break a promise."

Aethelwulf's face frowned but you smiled. Those weren't words to your brother but to your heart. And you couldn't avoid showing how happy you were to know he didn't forget.

"I don't remember any promises coming from you nor your people other than killing my lineage and stealing our lands," Aethelwulf's pride taunted.

But Ivar's eyes remained on yours. He knew you understood and you stood forward, surprising your brother with the smile you had on your lips for that man he would call a pagan.

You walked down the stairs and stood in front of Ivar, and for an instant, nothing seemed to exist but those two sapphires clear like the sky looking at you with the same tenderness you remember seeing into them years ago. He was pretty taller than you now - standing, Ivar was imposing and huge, like any other Norseman you ever see. - and it was good to look up to see his face now: you could remember how much he hated people had to look down to speak to him and the many times you sat on the floor just to lower yourself to his level so the two of you would look at each other as what you were: equals.

Now, he was bigger, stronger, more beautiful. And yet he was looking at you from upon your head, his eyes were still the same. Your pretty boy was grown, but still yours such as you were a grown woman now, but still his were your heart and your soul.

"May I ask what, in the name of God, is happening here?" your brother's voice cut the scene and took your sapphires from you, to his face.

Ivar's glare was fierce and strong when looking at your (noisy) brother who was really looking bothered in his throne.

"You come into my kingdom, take lands that aren't yours, kill my men and invade my territory, stand into my hall with promises I don't recognize and now this... What is this that you have such intimacy with my sister?"

You looked back at Aethelwulf, sighing.

"When our father took him and Ragnar as his visitors..."

"Prisoners," Aethewulf corrected you, not giving you space to speak, causing Ivar to crisp his lips, annoyed.

But you only sighed again. You knew your brother, but somehow, you also knew it was soon to be over, so why bother yourself with his behavior?

"When our father took him and Ragnar as his prisoners," you repeated, correcting your word just to have Aethewulf's silence, "I took care of Ivar's cell for a while and he made me a promise when he went away."

"What kind of promises could a Norseman do to you, Y/N?" he cut you again and this time, Ivar's head moved that snaky way you knew were a clear sign he was about to get himself fed up of your brother's behavior.

"He said..."

"It doesn't matter anyway," Aethelwulf cut you once again and this time you sighed annoyed and Ivar frowned looking at him.

His ways towards you were really bothering the Norse Commander but it wasn't enough for Aethelwulf to stop.

"We have no time for these minimalisms when something bigger demands our attention," he said, standing. "I hope you came intending to negotiate the withdrawal of your army from my lands, Norseman."

"Kinda," Ivar answered, surprising Aethelwulf that from the top of his arrogance wasn't waiting for an attempt of negotiation coming from the enemies. "I think the lands I have are quite good and enough for my people to establish a settlement and since I'm about to become a king, I think I'll need a proper queen to reign beside me over my new lands..."

Despite the arrogance and intentional taunt in his tone, Ivar's words surprised you.

His queen?

Was he speaking of marrying you?

You never thought he would take it so far and your heart hushed into your chest with the mere idea of becoming his wife.

Crowns were never important to you, but the thought of being by his side was delightful, despite your brother's disbelief stamped in his face.

"So," Ivar continued, "My proposal is quite simple: you won't stand in my way as I take my precious Y/N to be my wife and I'll cease the attacks and settle in my new lands with my new wife. We can co-exist without problems and I may even be your ally in case you need any military support, which seems to be something pretty valuable for someone with men like yours."

A clear mock on the fact that Aethelwulf's army was losing terrain for Ivar's men like rats fleeing from a bunch of cats.

"What you're proposing is absurd!" Aethelwulf protested "I would never deliver my sister in the hands of a man I don't trust!"

Lies.

Your brother was offering your hand like a prize to any Christian king that was up to get his lands free from the threat the Norseman represented to your people. And Ivar's men were so strong and harsh that not even the promise of a future crown was enough to bring suitors to his proposal.

Yet, Ivar giggled at your brother's almost hysterical reaction.

"In this case, I see no option but invade your town, take the crown from your head, and marry my Y/N unfortunately without the blessing from my brother in law."

The sound of those words was enough to have all his men unsheathing swords, causing a huge tension to install itself into that Hall when your brother's men also did the same in what would be the prelude of war to happen in your house.

The most sensate thing to be done would be to cede: Aethelwulf knew he should accept Ivar's request and grant his people's safety by marrying you to him - it would be something to warrant the end of the Norsemen's threat over his kingdom once and for all and the price was low taking the fact that the lands Ivar's men had invaded were unused and idle since your father's time as king. However, your brother was no king...

Aethelwulf was a spoiled brat with a crown in his head and an ego that would never admit taking the same ways your father once took. For him, to negotiate with the heathens was to lower himself from God's grace somehow he thought was over him and you knew he would never accept what was obviously the best option to your people.

Even then, you tried to guide him in the right direction.

"It's a good proposal, brother. A low price for something we're longing for..."

"That's ridiculous! You're my sister! A Christian! A soon to be queen! I would never give you to these pagans as a sacrifice and a plead for mercy we don't need!" Aethelwulf cut you for the last time before Ivar was finally full of his bullshit.

He stood, chest stuffed, ready to speak in your favor, but, for his surprise, it wasn't his voice that echoed at the Hall, but yours, finally taking the reins of your own life.

"What's ridiculous is your stupid ego speaking louder than your mind, Aethelwulf!" you started, hearing his scoff as you proceeded, ignoring his outraged expression, "You're a king, my brother, no longer a spoiled child that can only hit your feet on the ground for what you want! You have dozens of people relying on you to protect them, to keep them safe, to get rid of the threats around them! What you're doing is not the right posture for a king! Even our father knew when it was time to cede and accept king Ragnar had won and if he wasn't stupid like you, maybe we had ended the Norsemen's thread earlier with that deal! You, men, seem to have your balls thinking instead of your head sometimes! We could have his people as our allies and once again this chance is presenting itself for you as once it did to our father!"

"And I'll take it as our father did and spit on these demons' faces! I have no intentions to..."

"Then it is my duty to decide for you, once you show you're not in the plenty of your mental faculties," it was your time to cut him and watch as the steam started to come up from his head.

You knew Aethelwulf never admitted your voice sounding louder than his. But this time, you wouldn't accept his stupidity.

"You have no say in this!" he insisted, but you stood for your ground, looking at him with strong eyes that weren't able to notice the amused and aroused expression in Ivar's face by your side.

Your Norseman was pretty taken by your strong behavior, thinking you had grown even better than his imagination allowed him to draw in his mind.

"Before speaking about lands and people, we're talking about my life, brother! I am the one who will marry for this alliance, I'm the one who will become his queen, and I decided long ago that if this ever happened; if Ivar ever came back for me; I would be his. It won't be you to prevent me from ruling my own life, not when you can barely rule your own men, my king."

Ivar's laugh echoed through your Hall along with the sound of his hands clapping. He never thought you could be so strong and whatever changed in your personality was really attractive for him, even more than what you were before.

His laughs were enough to infuriate Aethelwulf and he threatened to advance towards you, causing Ivar's smile to close immediately and his hand to raise a dagger that landed in your brother's neck as soon as his steps were close enough to you for him to almost touch your neck.

Aethelwulf grunted, angrily. Yet, you stood in front of him without fear.

"Our father died because of these pagans, Y/N and he trusted me to care for you after his death. I won't allow..."

"You won't allow or disallow me anything, brother," you cut him one more time causing him to clench his jaw, furious. "I've learned enough along the years to know I'm more than just a property for you to trade for your interests. I'm a free woman and the owner of my destiny and whether you want it or not, I'm leaving with Ivar today. You can take this chance and sign the papers to have my future husband as your ally or I can sit and wait as he comes to take this stupid crown from your hands and land them in the hands of someone that will surely take care of our people better than you do."

"Your hands sound perfect for me, my queen," Ivar said, looking at your brother's face.

Aethelwulf growled in fury. He knew he was defeated. With your support, Ivar would soon be accepted as King in his place, once the people of Wessex had you in their higher place of admiration and love. You would conduct them easily and his memory would be nothing but dust in a few years...

By letting you go, he could maybe take the chance to get some time, gather some support, maybe go against your husband later, despite knowing it would be hard to convince his people to betray the Norsemen one more time when the first time had such disastrous consequences. Yet, it was the best option in his mind.

He had no other choice.

"You leave with your filthy heathens away from my hall, Y/N! And don't you dare to claim our father's blood to your unacceptable progeny with this demon you'll call your husband! You abandon all your rights to Wessex's crown by deciding to get yourself married to this sinful man under his false gods!" he vociferated, angrily.

But you just sighed, looking at him.

"Don't worry, my brother. I have no intention to steal what you have that's most precious for you. Keep your metal crown, Aethelwulf. Freedom sounds better for me," you said, touching Ivar's hand and feeling as he lowered his dagger releasing your brother from the tension of imminent death.

With a single wave of his hand, Ivar's men sheathed their swords and the tension around started to dissolve slowly, despite your brother's crescent fury.

"I think there is nothing to be solved in here anymore, right?" Ivar mocked, looking at your brother. "You have my word as long as your men stay away from my lands, no new attack will be done and if you need any help, do not hesitate on sending me a crow... Brother."

That smile on the corner of Ivar's lips was taking your brother out of his sanity and you knew that, but Aethelwulf straightened himself, looking at Ivar with that attempt to pretend he was still upon the situation.

"If something ever happens to my sister..." he started trying that stupid theatre of a protective brother you knew he never was.

"Don't worry. I'm sure I'll be safer beside Ivar than I ever was into this castle," you said, looking into your brother's eyes. "And don't mind about coming to my marriage, brother. As you said, it will be under my husband's gods and we both know you must keep clean your image of a good Christian king so let us pretend you politely refused to take part in a heathen ritual and keep things among us restrict to the papers I intend one of our messengers to come and pick up tomorrow," you stated.

Getting one more amused smile from your soon to be husband.

"Our father would be disappointed with you, Y/N, but it is not like you didn't know that, right?" the last movement: an emotional shot that passed far from hitting your heart.

"Our father knew me as nothing but a coin to be exchanged, brother," you said, looking at Aethelwulf untouched by his words, "Let us think he would be proud that you knew how to exchange this coin for a good alliance instead of wasting it with that Southern King you thought would do more than pee on his pants if he was here when Ivar crossed those doors."

The more you spoke, the more Aethelwulf's anger was growing into him. But you had a life to enjoy outside those walls and now, with the Norsemen opening the castle doors, you wouldn't waste your time with your brother's tantrums.

"Take care of yourself, brother," you said over your shoulder.

Feeling when Ivar's hand embraced your waist, conducting you towards the doors in the hallway that his men opened for the two of you to pass.

You could still hear Aethelwulf breaking half of the hall's vases and decorations in an outburst of anger after you crossed the doors with your soon-to-be husband beside you.

But you were too happy with yourself to really pay any attention to him anymore.

With Ivar smiling by your side and conducting the horse, you stood in his chariot, looking forward to seeing how pleasurable it would be to be the owner of yourself.

Do you like my work? Support me!

Tagged ones:

|| @bluearchersstuff​ || @ivarswickedqueen​ || @directionlessbuthappy​ || @akamaiden​ || @bang-kim-bap​ || @cris101071​ || @elysias-temple​ || @alicedopey​ || @captstefanbrandt || @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla​ || @lol-haha-joke​ || @normatural​ || @readsalot73​ || @rekdreams247​ || @slutforasoldier || @naaladareia​ || @laketaj24​ || @therealcalicali​ || @grungyblonde​ || @arses21434​ || @honestsycrets​ || @rabeccablake || @2thequietone4​ || @blackspiritshake​ || @vikingsbifrost​ || @wallabieswisher​ || @sincerelysinister || @lyanna-the-giantsbane​ || @chinduda​ || @isthat-tyra98​ || @xinyourdreamsx​ || @littledeadrottinghood || @thiahilmarsdottir​ || @queenbeeta​ || @notyouraveragegirl17 || @winchesterwife27​ || @gold-dragon-slayer​ || @mzliterarydreamer​ || @youbloodymadgenius​ || @alwaysbenhardysgirl​ || @marvelouuse​ || @tgrrose​ || @lif3snotouttogetyou​ || @lordsexmachine​ || @deathbyarabbit​ || @ietss​ ||  @hissouthernprincess​ || @thorins-queen-of-erebor​ ||

Want to be tagged? Ask me!

[starkerisendgame]

Yo. I’m a sucker for jealous tony. But like, I also love tony being relentlessly hit on by an ex and tony just shutting her the fuck down™️ and peter calming him down and ugh I just... like tony being like “I’m in a relationship you psycho” and peter being like “Tony it’s fine I can take it” and tony being like “no it’s not you are a great person and you deserve the whole ass world and I won’t let bitch face over here belittle you like that as if I’m not hopelessly in love with you”

I hope I did you proud, Anon! Thank you so much for the request

If there was one thing that Tony enjoyed, it was spoiling his boy. From $400 champagne to luxury bathing products. From letting him steal a hoodie to buying him the whole spring collection. The one thing he enjoyed probably the best, however, was introducing Peter to new, fancier foods. 

As a typical teenage and as someone who wasn’t exactly rolling in money, Peter’s diet was almost entirely sandwiches, ramen and energy drinks. Tony had been appalled when he’d looked through Peter’s cupboards, handling the packets of various ramen flavours as though they were biohazards. 

It had spiralled from there. Tony would take Peter to restaurants, to tastings. Would bring him home little taster dishes, hand-feeding Peter and watching his pupils blow, the way he drooled a little over certain explosions of flavour. Tony relished in the way Peter ate exotic fruits dipped in chocolate. How he could be easily bribed with fine sushi. 

It had led them to here, sitting at their reserved table at The Rose and Ivy, one of the most luxurious, elite dining establishments in Malibu. They served a luxurious lobster tail that Tony was sure Peter would probably cream his pants for. Red wine he knew would stain the boy’s lips and coat his tongue on the way down. A cheesecake Peter might actually leave him for. 

Peter was talking, animated but soft in the general hush of the place, Tony ridiculously endeared as he listened to Peter talk about how he and MJ had done this amazing art piece on feminism for their art class. Tony was ensnared, gazing at the way the soft, golden lighting cast a glow on his cheekbones when Peter’s voice faltered slightly, gaze sliding quizzically up and over Tony’s head. 

“Tony Stark” came from behind him, a shrill voice that was distantly familiar. Tony’s brows climbed upwards, tilting his head slowly as he turned around in his seat. Approaching was a tall, leggy red-head. He had a set jaw and lips a little too obviously enhanced. She had changed, but he knew her well enough. 

“Delilah Martin” he responded evenly, stretching a leg to nudge Peter’s gently. He could sense the returning smile, ever delighted at Tony’s attention. He could tell the boy was curious, leaning forwards as the woman continued to approach, stopping only when she was practically pressing her hips against his shoulder. 

“It’s been a long time since you’ve gone prowling in these streets” she greeted, a coy smile on her lips. Tony scoffed lightly but kept a pleasant smile on his lips, having to tip his head back to look up at her. She wasn’t wearing as much makeup as she used to, and she now had crowsfeet at the edges of her eyes, but she hadn’t changed much. 

“I wasn’t aware dinner was classed as prowling, these days” he responded with disinterest, glancing across at Peter, who didn’t seem to be put out by this situation. Delilah followed his gaze, her smile turning easy and light. 

“Awh, how sweet. He’s adorable. Yours?” She asked, a brow cocking. Peter’s cheeks immediately flushed, a gentle kiss of red that Tony knew crept down to his collarbones. He ducked his head sweetly, seemingly un-bothered that their romantic dinner had been interrupted. 

“Mm. Mine” he remarked, allowing just a breath of possessive energy to lilt his tone. The blush deepend and he watched it with a dark gaze, felt the urge to lick his way across it. He wasn’t necessarily a jealous man. But he certainly enjoyed having things as his. Peter was giving him that look, shocked and sweet but under his lashes, like he knew what Tony was thinking of doing. 

“You always were the Daddy type” she smirked, turning her attention back to Tony. She said it with a slight husk, almost a purr. Except it did nothing for him, not when it wasn’t coming from the mouth across the table from them. At the comment, Peter sniffed delicately, raised his glass of virgin cocktail and sipped. 

“Peter does seem to think so” he drawled back, letting his dark gaze remain steady on his boy. Peter’s hand were shaking as he set his drink down, furiously avoiding looking anywhere in Tony’s direction. It made his lazy smirk grow, only slightly dampened when he realised that Delilah was still there. 

“No hot date to get to?” He prompted, doing his best to keep his tone polite as he gave her a pointed look. She gave a throaty chuckle, as though the idea was absurd. She pointed off across the room, instead. 

“Oh, just a dinner with Verity. Some down time, yes? Life can be so stressful. We all need to find our ways to relax. Let loose” she responded, reaching up a hand to comb through her hair. When she dropped it, it landed on his shoulder, squeezed gently. Tony intercepted before she could continue. 

“Mm, well. If you don’t mind, I’m entertaining my letting loose” He shot back, turning away from her. It knocked her hand from his shoulder, but she didn’t seem affronted, her gaze sliding briefly up to Peter. The boy squirmed, as though suddenly re-aware of the fact he was still sloppy, still loose from their lazy morning in bed. 

And the shower. And the kitchen counter. 

“It’s good to see you back around, Tony. Almost like the good days” she stated after a pause, the implication deep in her words. Tony contemplated how many levels of Hell he would travel if he tripped her on her way past, but he behaved, resolutely not looking at her as she turned away and moved past the table, heading to her own. 

“An old friend?” Peter piped up after a moment, looking at him demurely over the rim of his glass. Tony shifted, slid his knee along the inside of Peter’s thigh slowly, heavily. Peter’s head dipped slightly, his exhale soft in the space between them. Tony had never lied to Peter, and he would not start now. 

“I dated her, for a while. A year or so, I believe. I didn’t particularly love her, but she was out-going and attractive and wasn’t overly demanding of my money” he answered honestly, watched the thoughts and information turn over in Peter’s head. Peter wasn’t particularly jealous, either. He had the odd moment of petulance when an old article resurfaced or whenever Tony displayed just how much more experience he had, but it was never anything more. 

“Okay. Thank you for telling me” Peter responded simply, dropping a hand below the table to gently skate his fingers over Tony’s knee reassuringly. Tony allowed a warm smile. This was part of why he enjoyed Peter so. He wasn’t one to throw a hissy fit over Tony’s prior companions. He went to respond when a waiter approached, setting down a dome in front of each and whipping away the lids with a flourish. 

Peter looked sceptical but also enthusiastic as he picked up his fork, glanced at Tony before he delicately procured a piece, brought it to his mouth. Tony could tell the exact moment the flavor hit him, Peter’s lashes fluttered slightly and his body relaxing as he sighed. A low, content sound. Appeased, Tony begun to devour his own meal. They’re just polishing off the vegetables on the side when the waiter approached again. 

“Please pardon the interruption, Sirs. But the woman on 16 wished for me to bring this to you”. He directs the last part at Tony, placing a glass down on the table, stooping, before retreating away. Tony doesn’t need to guess who is sitting at 16. There’s lipstick on the rim of the glass. A clear message. 

Pete was watching him, a brow arched. He didn’t seem annoyed or offended, however. In fact, Tony could clearly see the boy was at least a little amused. “That’s a good tactic” Peter whispered, nodding towards the glass. Tony gave a non-committal sound in response. After a moment, he picked the glass up, flagged down a passing waiter, who took it easily. 

Dessert arrived not so long after, Tony having trapped one of Peter’s legs between his own, squeezing gently. A promise of later. His attention is completely blindsided when the cheesecake arrives, however. Realistically, he’s not all that offended. The moan is entirely worth it, the smear of cream on his bottom lip. 

Tony wants to lick it off. 

“Aw. Looks like you got your dessert first” comes from besides them. Tony stabbed his fork down, almost pushing his cake right off his plate in shock. Impossibly, she’s back. Across, Peter looks nonplussed, halfway through chewing. He still doesn’t appear jealous, but more aggrieved, now. She is a persistent disruption to their date. 

“Never-mind. You know what they say about first desserts” she smirks, dragging her gaze over him deliberately before moving on. She’s heading for the bathrooms, and Peter gave a soft snort. 

“What. The. Fuck” he ground out, jaw setting as he put down his fork. He had half a mind to follow, to really chew her out in a way she wouldn’t enjoy, but Peter’s fingers were around his wrist, firm and grounding. His eyes are big and docile when Tony relented, turning to look at him. 

“Hey. Tony. It’s okay. I mean, I can’t blame her. I’d be salty if you ever got away, too” he teased, voice soft and earnest and Tony turned his arm in the grip, held Peter’s wrist gently. God, what he wouldn’t do for this kid. 

“She’s unstable” he remarked, slouching back in his seat. Peter’s laugh is delicate, amused. 

“I’m serious. This is- Clearly, we are on a date. And she’s in the bathrooms waiting ,for Christ’ sake” Tony scoffed, letting go and picking up his fork. Before him, Peter doesn’t seem as un-nerved, shrugging gently and taking another luxurious bite. The peace is short lived, however. His gaze slides over Tony’s shoulder again and his expression goes pinched. 

“Didn’t realise older also meant senile” comes from behind his ear, low where she’s stooped. It took a deep breath for Tony to set his fork down calmly and not stab it into her nearest eyeball. 

“Delilah. The only person I would sneak off to a restaurant bathroom to fuck, is Peter. This one. Here. You can see him, right?” He asked, head tilting as he pointed to Peter. The boy froze for a moment before offering a sheepish wave. “Yes, that one. Hi, sweetheart. But I would not, in the rest of this lifetime, fuck you in a bathroom. Or…At all, really” he admitted with a scrunch of his nose. 

Besides him, she opened her mouth, but he flapped a hand at her with determination. “Now. Shoo. Please. Now, preferably. Before I-” 

“Tony” Peter’s voice is stern but concerned, the boy reaching across the table. His brows are furrowed, a gentle pout on his lips. And oh, how Tony hates her more. Now his baby is upset. “Really. It’s okay”. His voice dropped to a murmur, soothing and low. 

“Tony, really? I-”.

Tony sighed, deep and heavy, and pushed to his feet abruptly. Cheesecake be damned. He would bring Peter here another time. As it was, he signalled for the waiter who had taken their coats. Peter was looking up, confused, a little wounded as Tony rounded the table, reaching for him. 

“Come on, baby boy. We’re going to leave. Go somewhere we aren’t being interrupted by psychotic exes” Tony announced, uncaring of the attention they had begun to attract. Peter took his hand obligingly, standing. “You deserve better than this” he added, more of a whisper. 

She scoffed,obnoxious and offended, pushing past to return to her table. But the mood is already gone, his attempt to woo his boy dashed. 

“Tony. We don’t have to leave” Pete whispered back, pressing close as Tony wrapped an arm around his waist, turning to guide him towards the door. He can make up for this. He will. In any way he can. 

“No, baby. We’re gonna. Because you deserve more than this. You shouldn’t have to put up with it” he murmured, low against Peter’s ear as they stepped out into the crisp, night air. The steward is already waiting, their coats in hand. The valet is already bringing the car. 

“I want you to have the world, my sweetheart. I want you to enjoy peaceful, fancy dinners and to know how much I love and value you”. The steward is holding out Peter’s coat first, and Tony took it, sliding it over Peter’s shoulders and helping him to tuck his arms into the sleeves. He can already hear the Lamborghini. 

“I know how much you love me, moron” Peter murmured back, cheeks tinged pink and bashful as he ducked his head, a shy smile curving his lips. Tony ducked his head, kissed his temple fondly, took his own coat. 

“I want the world to know it, Peter. I’d shout it from every rooftop. Every skyscraper. I’d broadcast it to the world, if you let me” he continued, tugging Peter closer on the top step. The wind bit their cheeks, tousled Peter’s hair. He pressed his hands against Peter’s spine, closing the space between their bodies. 

“You deserve to know that I’m hopelessly, completely gone on you. And you deserve for the world to know it” he reminded him, kissing the tip of Peter’s nose. The boy giggled, swatted him away. 

“You’re ridiculous”. 

“Why? Because I refuse to allow some random woman from my past to disrespect my lover?” Tony asked, raising a brow as he pulled Peter down the steps, took the keys from his valet. “Or because I would happily shout to the whole city that I love you? Because I’ll do it. Right now!” He announced, letting go of Peter to plant a foot on the bonnet of the car, pushing himself up. 

Peter gaped, flailing his arms. “Tony! What are you doing? Christ, get down. Tony!” Except he’s grinning, broad and dopey and Tony knows he doesn’t really care. He moved closer, reaching to grasp Tony’s trousers. So he hopped up onto the roof, cupped his hands over his mouth. 

“My name is Tony Stark and I’m in love with Peter Parker!” He shouted, voice whipped by the wind but still loud, still clear. Below him, Peter was a laughing mess, scrabbling to try and pull him down. “This idiot right here is my idiot and I am hopelessly in love with him!” He shouted again, laughing as Peter grasped pant leg, tugged him a little off balance. He ducked, grasped Peter’s arms and hauled the squealing boy up onto the roof besides him, tugged him close so Peter was on his tip-toes, cheeks dark and eyes wild. 

“I will give you the world, Peter Parker. If you’d let me” he murmured, still smiling foolishly as Peter reached up, grasped the collar of his coat and pulled him down into a breathless kiss. 

Yes. Tony would give him the world. A world that knew he was utterly and irreversibly in love with him. 

[dragonhrte]

“Αγάπη” (Agapé) 1st Petal

Summary: Pallas is a life coach and matchmaker who spends her days helping other people find their happiness in life, having forgotten to search for her own. Her business running smoothly and with little to no hiccups until one phone call upsets her whole world. Bakugou Katsuki, a handsome and famous confirmed bachelor, has found himself longing for something unusual, a relationship with substance. Swallowing his pride he calls Pallas initiating an interaction that will change their lives for the foreseeable future. Will the matchmaker make a match or get matched?

Chapter Length: 10k words

Beta-readers: @samanthaa-leanne​, @honeytama​, Thank you @pixxiesdust​ for beta reading before it was considered nsfw​, @natsuosfairy​

Tags: @bnhabookclub​

Warnings: Cussing/ Cursing/ Mature Language, Suggestive Content, Physical Assault

Bakugou’s P.O.V.

I put in the combination to my lock, deftly maneuvering the dial in a series of fluid motions, easily popping it open after years of repetition. My body moves of its own accord, the process of getting suited up being muscle memory at this point.

Some other hero in the locker room clears his throat before saying, “Hey Bakugou, it’s been a hot minute since we last saw each other huh?”

I merely grunt in response, placing my civilian clothes on the shelf after folding them, and continue suiting up for my shift.

“As talkative as ever I see. Anyways, you seem a bit down. I know I’m not Kirishima, and we’re not as close, but I thought I’d give you a quick piece of advice. Getting out of a relationship sucks, but you can’t let it get you down for too long.”

He pauses and waits for a response from me. When there is none he continues, but not before I hear a small comment to himself, “It’s like talking to a wall.”

My left eye twitches at the remark. I don’t even spare him a glance as I finish up with the final pieces of my hero costume. I shut my locker door with more force than necessary then lock it, swiftly turning around and leaving the locker room to head out for my shift. I glance at the clock briefly, making a mental note of the time as I stamp my time card. ‘The reason why you felt like you were talking to a wall is because you couldn’t take the hint that I don’t want any interaction, despite that hint being practically written in bold red letters across my forehead.’

“I’m fucking Katsuki Bakugou, Pro Hero, top in the nation. I don’t need nor do I want your opinion. Tch.” I say to myself, the words ringing through my head as I push open the heavy door and step out of the building to start my patrol.

⇜↭⇝

I lean back in my desk chair, and stretch. The reports for the day are all filled out and ready to be handed in. I take my phone off my desk and check the time. ‘2:58 am, I should put these papers on the admin. assistant’s desk, after I log off, then I’ll go punch out.’ I log off my computer before picking up the stack of reports and head over to the assistant’s desk, and placing it on the only free and available space. I pick up a sticky note from off her desk and write today’s date, then grab a rubber band from the jar on her desk and secure it around the stack of papers. ‘I swear I don’t know how she’s managed up until now, her desk is never organized. It’s a miracle we’re not backed up at the moment with the state her desk is in being in constant disarray.’ Turning away from her desk I walk towards the locker room to change and clock out. ‘Damn, I did not distract myself nearly as much as I would have liked to today. I think I know what...’ Pulling out my phone I tap on the messaging app and open up the chat between myself and my best friend since high school. ‘A sparring session with a long-time friend might just do the trick.’

Bakugou: Spar tomorrow morning?

Kirishima: Sure, np!

I finish taking the rest of my suit off and get lost in the motions of putting my civilian clothes back on, my mind returning to my recent break up. ‘I knew that woman was dating me partly based on me being a hero, but damn, to have her shove it in my face that it was the only reason she was dating me to begin with, packs a bigger punch than I thought possible.’ I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets while reflecting on the events of my most recent shift, and then heave out a sigh, “Could just go out for one or two beers,” I mumble to myself, taking a quick glimpse behind my shoulder.

⇜↭⇝

*Phone ringing*

The sound coming from my phone sets off a piercing wave of pain through my brain. ‘God damn, who the fuck is calling me this early in the morning?’ I swipe my finger across the screen stalling for a moment to allow the phone to recognize my fingerprint, and then press my phone against my ear. I throw my arm across my face to block the stinging sliver of light from shining into my eyes through the slit in the curtains.

“What’s up?” my voice comes out, raspy and barely above a whisper, but it still sounds like it’s echoing through my head.

“Hey, Bakubro, why aren’t you here yet?” I let out a low growl at the cheery tone on the other end, and wince at the old nickname, a teasing endearment made years ago, that just kind of stuck.

“What do you mean?”

“Dude it’s 9:45 right now, you’re late.”

I jolt up, and throw my covers off of myself and recoil slightly from the blinding pain the light brings on, before haphazardly scooping up my open gym bag. I rush toward the door, staggering a bit as I stuff my feet into my shoes. Nearly toppling over as I miss the wall I intended to use for support.

I do a quick pat down of myself, “Phone, wallet...” I look around frantically, the knowledge that Kirishima will not let go of something like this for the next week, no at least a month or so, is like being doused with a bucket of ice cold water. I can hear his smug tone already, putting a hand against my head and reeling out the door. ‘The gym is roughly a five minute run away. I’m not running that feeling like this, I’ll just walk it instead.’ I head for the stairs and open the door, someone has just slammed the door closed on a different floor, which has me seeing stars from the echoing in the stairwell. ‘No way in hell, am I going to suffer through shaking my brain around as I speed run down the stairs. Fuck that.’ I turn on my heel and head for the elevator, letting out a sigh of relief at the quick service and the gentle music, the lights, however, feel like they’re piercing straight through my skull and out the other side. The small jostling motion from arriving at the base floor sends a wave of nausea through me, one I haven’t felt in years, not since I was younger and less experienced with my tolerance levels for alcohol.

“Shit,” the familiar swear coming easily to me as I all but throw myself out of the elevator, muttering, “For fucks sake, pull yourself together.” as I leave the apartment complex.

⇜↭⇝

As I walk up to the gym, Kirishima spots me from his place leaning against the wall outside.

“Look who finally decided to show up!” Kirishima says joyfully, clapping as if congratulating me on my appearance. I respond by flipping him the bird.

As we enter the locker room, I open the side pocket of my gym bag and grab a bottle full of pain killers, pop two in my mouth and swallow them dry.

“Kirishima, could you keep it down I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“Oh, did someone have a bit of fun last night?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean if you’re into that kind of thing, I won’t judge. You know I’ll support you now matter what, right? It’s what friends are for!”

“What are you going on about?” I ask while leaning my head against the cool locker, the chill giving a small reprieve from the now constant pulsing throughout my skull.

“Dude.”

I look at Kirishima, my aggravation settling into my features as I turn to address him directly. Kirishima points down at the floor directing my attention to a certain article of clothing, my eyes widen in shock. The garment in question is sitting on the floor betraying my activities from the night before.The bra itself is pretty bold, it’s bright red and lacy with highlighter orange accents.

“What the fuck?”

“It dropped out of YOUR gym bag.” Kirishima’s face lights up in delight.

I let out a small, “Tsk.” and snatch up the garment, shoving it into my gym bag. I take out the lock from my bag and toss the bag into the locker, closing and locking it afterwards. I glance over at Kirishima, whose face is bright red from attempting to suppress his laughter, finally he breaks down in a fit of giggles.

The absurd situation brings a reluctant smile to my face, and a small chuckle escapes my lips. I shake my head and nudge Kirishima with my elbow. He is currently buckled over, barely maintaining an upright position holds up his pointer finger, signalling for me to wait.

“Give...me... a minute.” Kirishima manages to breathe out in between fits of laughter.

I roll my eyes in annoyance at Kirishima’s discomposure, ‘It’s not like it was even that funny...’

“You know, I’m gonna pay you back for laughing at me right?”

Kirishima manages to nod his head yes as he takes in some deep breaths of air, to calm himself down. We head out of the locker room together and make a beeline for the open mat area.

“It’ll be worth the pain, because the look on your face was priceless bro.”

I pound my fists together in imitation of Kirishima’s signature move, signalling to him that I’m ready.

“Hey man, don’t you want to get warmed up or something before heading straight into it?”

I shake my head, “Nah. No need.”

Kirishima shrugs and settles into a starting position. We lock eyes and we both nod, we circle around each other for a few moments, an air of seriousness about us. Then, I lunge at Kirishima, my right arm outstretched, he quickly dodges my maneuver. He steps towards me and sweeps his foot under my leg, I drop to the floor immediately and he follows my descent. Quickly wrapping his arms around me, hooking his feet around my legs and letting his weight pin me to the floor.

He chuckles darkly in my ear, “Hehe, that was an unusually easy take down. Guess I’m getting stronger than you.”

I frown and put my hands down on the floor underneath me and push upwards. I pause after reaching full extension for just an instant, and then I suddenly drop down slamming our bodies down onto Kirishima’s hands and crushing them under our weight before Kirishima has the chance to activate his quirk.

Kirishima hisses out in pain, “Ow, you fucker...”

I push off the ground with one arm, shifting my weight and his by twisting my body quickly, so that I am facing him. I push my hands to the front of my chest and push upwards so that my hands are together and my elbows are pressing against his inner elbows. I then use my quirk setting off a small explosion, adding a boost to my arms pushing out straight. This breaks his strong lock-like hold and allows me to reach up and grab Kirishima by the ears. I pull myself up and pull his head down, bashing my head into his. Kirishima, however, activates his hardening quirk, so the action sends a new shock wave of pain through my brain stunning me and leaving me laying flat on the mat. The once dull pulsing has now been brought to the forefront of my attention. Kirishima hops up to his feet smirking down at me as I lay face up beneath him. I offer my hand and he takes it, pulling me to my feet. We go for a few more rounds, only using our quirks once in a while. The point of this sparring session is for me to get out as much energy and aggression with as little damage to the surrounding area as possible. I’m now drenched in sweat, the bleary-eyed mess from this morning is long gone. I bring my shirt up to my forehead to wipe away the sweat that’s accumulated there.

“Where’d you get those bruises from?”

“Huh?”

“Right there, did you get cupping done. Y’know, muscle therapy?” Kirishima motions towards a particularly nasty looking mark on my side.

I walk up to the wall length mirror of the gym to examine it at a better angle. Upon closer inspection, I notice what are clearly tooth impressions?

“Are you fucking kidding me...” I grumble under my breath, “the bitch marked me!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose trying to stave off the inevitable headache leering its ugly head up, caused by yet another poor life decision. ‘My usual no marking policy when dealing with temporary guests either went completely ignored or I was so far gone last night that I completely forgot.’ I hastily drop my shirt back down hoping that no one saw the wince-inducing bruises scattered along my side. If the press gets a hold of a picture of me like that they’ll have a field day. The fling will turn into a week to month long ordeal to have to deal with. I shake my head attempting to clear my thoughts and turn back to Kirishima, who is staring at me with a look of concern.

“Hey I think I’m good for the day, what about you?” Kirishima just silently accepts that if I wanted to talk about it I would. Which is one of the main reasons why we’ve remained friends since high school. He is one of the few people who I can count on to leave me alone and give me my space while also calling me out on my bullshit when the situation calls for it. I simply nod my head in response, and we head back into the locker rooms to gather our things and leave.

⇜↭⇝

I grab my keys out of my jacket pocket and turn the key in the lock, only to notice the absence of the sound of the pins catching on the key as I turn it. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, someone is inside my apartment. Raising up my hand, a few pops resound from my sweaty palms as I ready myself for whatever lay in wait beyond the door to my apartment. I turn the handle and kick the door open, both hands raised in defense of myself, the sound of a few explosions reverberating throughout the almost empty living space. I am greeted by the sight of some woman sitting on my couch in my living room. She doesn’t even look up from her bowl of cereal and the current show streaming on the television.

“What the actual fuck?” I exclaim.

The woman continues ignoring me as I take a few more steps into the apartment, her face bringing back blurry memories of the previous night. I am filled with disgust at the fact that I stooped so low as to pick up some floozy of a woman in my time of distress. ‘Why the fuck hasn’t she gone home yet?’ the question blinking back at me in neon lights. I approach the armrest of the couch that she’s currently sitting on and tap her on the shoulder.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing her?” I ask, I can feel my emotions bubbling to the surface on the verge of boiling over.

She takes a quick look in my direction and says, “Hey, good thing you’re here, I thought you should know you’re out of milk.”

A few moments of absolute silence pass by as I am completely dumbfounded by her nonchalant attitude. Narrowing my eyes I stare at the side of her head hoping for at least some respect, given the very prominent issue at hand. My brows knit tightly together, ‘Is she dumb? Is she for real?’ instead of speaking my thoughts aloud I say, “Thanks for the heads up, now leave.”

She puts the bowl she has down on the coffee table and stands up huffing as she does so, “But I didn’t even finish my show or my cereal.”

I sneer, “That’s MY cereal you’re eating.”

She crosses her arms and stamps her feet at me like an insolent child throwing a tempter tantrum, “No. I am going to finish eating, and then YOU owe ME a ride home.”

Pulling out my phone I swipe through my contacts until I get to the J section, calling up a friend of mine from the force. While the phone is dialing out the woman sits back down and picks up “her” bowl of cereal and continues eating.

“Hey Bakugou, what can I do for you?”

“Hey Joe, I’ve got a situation. I had someone over last night and she’s now refusing to leave.”

“Okay, I’ll send my people right over.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“No problem man.”

⇜↭⇝

There’s a knocking at the door, and I walk over and open it, two officers are standing in the doorway awaiting entry, I sidestep out of the way and motion for them to come in.

“Hello officers-”

“Are you fucking kidding me!”

The woman who had been peacefully sitting on the couch watching whatever garbage was now on the television shoots to her feet.

“This is fucking ridiculous, I’m sitting here calmly minding my own business and you call the cops on me!?”

She storms off in the direction of my bedroom stomping her feet along the way. The officers move forward to prevent her from going further into the apartment, but I hold my hand up for them to remain where they are. Her voice carries through the apartment, mouthing off about the unfairness of the whole situation and the audacity I have for kicking her out, her complaints strewn with curses. Completely ignoring the fact that she is currently in MY apartment. Her voice stopping only to take a quick breath of air in and then continuing her ranting. ‘Of all the people...’ I sigh to myself as she comes hauling herself and her belongings through the hallway towards us. Reaching into my bag I procure the garment that had mislaid itself, holding it out to her with my fingers. The strap of the bra balancing precariously as she huffs by. She flounces a bit as she approaches the door, turning her head to address me to land one last remark, when she notices her bra.

I walk towards her and say, “I believe this is yours.”

Her face erupts into a brilliant shade of red, she squeals in outrage snatching the garment up and slamming the door behind her.

“Damn...”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em Bakugou.”

I glare in their direction and walk up to the door and open it, “Thank you officers, I appreciate you coming down here. Have a great day.”

They look at each other and then file out the door, after they leave I close the door behind them thankful to the quiet that follows.

Pallas’ P.O.V.

I walk into the coffee shop, the familiar tinkling of bells on the door and the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans bring a feeling of warm comfort. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over the initial nervousness I get when I do an intake for a client.’ I mull this over while listening to the soft, mellow music playing from the various speakers strewn about the shop. While waiting in line, I pass the time by scrolling through my social media feed. The fake smiles and duck-faced selfies never-ending. It’s not long before it’s my turn to order, when I look up and approach the counter I’m greeted by an unfamiliar face ‘Oh, he must be new.’ the thought whisks through my mind as I take in the man standing in front of me. He’s got a soft attractiveness about him, and is obviously nervous give his frantic glancing around. His ocean blue eyes finally settling on me and he’s practically sweating bullets. I pick up on the tremor of his lip when he forces a smile waiting patiently for my order. ‘Given the fact that it’s about mid-day and I’ll be meeting with a new client I think I’m going to opt for my go-to comfort beverage.’

“Good morn- Er. Afternoon, what can I get for you today?” The barista asks, his face flushing in embarrassment at his small slip-up.

‘I’m sure he’s had plenty of those minor mistakes today, the first day jitters are definitely getting the better of him. I can imagine it’s probably been non-stop for him, one order after the next in quick succession. Forcing him into this wreck of nerves at the fast-paced environment.’

Standing there for a moment more, I try to show a bit of compassion, my eyes flick down to the name pin fastened to his black apron then back up to his face and say, “Hello Reggie, I think I’ll have a medium hot chocolate, with some extra whipped cream please!”

I flash him what I hope comes across as an encouraging smile, and opt to keep words of encouragement to myself, ‘He’s high-strung as is, there’s no need to make him feel worse by having a random stranger notice how much he’s floundering around and comment on it.’ Instead I reach into my wallet and grab some extra cash in addition to the money I owe for the hot chocolate. I hand the money for the drink to Reggie and drop the extra cash into the tip jar on the counter.

“Thank you, and here’s your change. Your order will be right up.”

I cup my hand so the barista can simply drop the small coins into my outstretched hand instead of having an awkward exchange of trying to pry them out of his palm.

“Have a great day.” We happen to say at the same time to each other.

Stepping to the side I look over and survey the seating area. There are booths and tables with single chairs available, which I would usually have no problem taking, however, I am meeting with a client so I need something more. My eyes land on my usual spot for when I meet clients and I am pleasantly surprised to find it empty. It’s the perfect placement, not too close to the door, where people coming in might interrupt and not tucked away in the corner where nobody will notice me. ‘The client should be able to notice me immediately after receiving her order.’ After setting my bag down I bring out my tablet and unlock it, and start going through the various documentation required if the client does decide to book more sessions. I’m interrupted from my review by the sound of my order being called out, I look up and see one of the baristas I am familiar with holding my hot chocolate, we lock eyes for the briefest of moments before they place it down on the counter. I stand up and walk over to the counter and gingerly pick up my order, and head straight for the little island in the middle of the shop with the extra creamer and sugar packets on it. After picking up one of the paper coffee sleeves and carefully sliding it onto my drink, twisting it around to get the proper snug fit. I walk back to the booth, slide onto the seat, and resume reviewing the prepared documents on my tablet.

I let myself relax, the lull of conversation around me creating a calm atmosphere. There’s some chatter behind me, some girls are discussing a recent rumor going around about the Pro-Hero, Ground Zero. I dismiss their chatter immediately, ‘It’s just gossip, so who cares.’ Despite the lack of basis for the rumor to stand on, the women behind me continue speculating. I finish reviewing my documents then pull out my phone to check the time. ‘My client should be here any minute now.’ Scrolling through my social media feed once more I notice the rumor the women behind me were discussing has spread like wildfire. I try to ignore it to the best of my ability, ‘It’s not my business to judge other people’s life choices.’ I pause for a moment, ‘Well, it is my business as long as they are a client that is...’ I’m broken out of my train of thought by a commotion coming from the pick-up counter. Some woman is yelling at poor Reggie, something about how he got the order wrong, insisting that she talk to the manager. I turn my head and see the back of hers, Reggie is visibly shaken by the confrontation.

The woman turns around and my eyes widen momentarily in shock, ‘That’s my new client.’ I groan internally then put on my brightest smile, and stand up.

I hold my right hand out in greeting, “Hello Sandra is it, I’m Pallas we spoke on the phone a couple days ago.”

It’s like a switch flipped within the other woman’s face. Her lips that were just pursed in a thin disgruntled line, spread into a wide smile.

“Hi, hello. Sorry about the delay, the employee got my order wrong.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that, why don’t we get right into things? Is there anything in particular you are looking to get out of my services?”

“Well, everything in my life seems to be a hot mess, I just want to get back on track.”

“That seems reasonable enough. How about we take a seat and go over your intake paperwork?”

We then spent the next hour talking about the various terms and conditions that come along with the contract. Sandra keeps complaining about every other word claiming that the contract is “too opaque and vague.”

“Why can’t you just fix my problems now, why do we even need a contract?” Sandra asks, her tone changing from calm to aggravated rapidly.

“The contract is here to protect both of our interests. Without it, I will be severely restricted in the extent to which I can help you.” I try my best to explain this to her as calmly as possible.

Sandra pushes several more times to do away with the contract, at this point I am considering excusing myself for the bathroom to scream out in frustration at least three times. Each time the urge comes over me, I simply look down at the small watch on my wrist instead, remembering the seemingly everlasting patience of my late grandmother. When we finish reviewing the documents I stand up, pick up my tablet and grab my bag in preparation to leave.

I say, “After speaking with you, I’m sorry to inform you that I don’t think that I will be able to provide you with the services you are looking for.”

“What?!” Sandra exclaims, shooting up from her seated position, her sweet demeanor gone in an instant and is replaced by a look of outrage, “You had me fill out all that ridiculous paperwork, forced me to pay you for this meeting, and you’re not even competent enough to take me on as a client!”

By now the entire coffee shop has gone silent at her outburst, in this moment I can’t manage to think of anything to de-escalate the situation, all I can think about is maintaining my composure and professionalism in the face of Sandra’s harsh comments.

I muster up enough restraint and force a smile, “I’m sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you.” I bow my head in apology.

“Oh, I’ll show you inconvenience!” Sandra shouts and then knocks my tablet out of my hands. I’m frozen in shock at her actions, my face stricken with horror as the tablet appear to drop in slow motion. It clangs against the corner of the table before hitting the ground. A crunch resounds through the deathly quiet coffee shop, my stomach clenches in reaction.

A softly whispered, “Oh shit” comes from the booth with the gossiping women. I look up to see the manager approaching us, sympathy for me written all over her face, but a quiet anger-filled aura surrounds her.

She clasps her hands together and addresses Sandra, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’ve disrupted my place of business not once, but twice now. You have also managed to assault one of my customers as well. I suggest you leave now, I have already called the authorities.”

“I can’t believe you called the cops on me! I’d like to speak to your manager. This is horrible customer service!”

“Ma’am I am the manager. Now would you please come with me.” The manager wraps her arm around Sandra’s shoulder and escorts her out, the jingle of the bells signalling that they have exited the building.

I take a deep breath in and bend down, picking up my tablet to assess the damage. Pressing the power button does absolutely nothing the first time, the lock screen doesn’t come into view or anything, so I hold the power button down and the start up sound comes from the tablet but the visual that accompanies it is absent. I try turning it off and on again one more time, after a drop like that even with the case on, there’s no way I’d expect it to still be functioning.

Unfortunately, my expectations are fulfilled, my tablet is officially out of commission. I drop it into my bag and lean against the table, waiting for the cops to show up. After a few minutes I think to myself, ‘I hope people just leave me alone right now, I am so not in the mood for some stranger to have pity on me at the moment.’ I clench and unclench my jaw a few times to try and relieve some of the tension in my body, and the I feel a gentle, hesitant tap on my shoulder. Turning my head slightly to see the new barista, Reggie looking at me apprehensively, he opens his mouth and closes it several times before I see his lips move, but I can’t find it in me to focus on what he’s saying. All I can hear is a rushing sound filling my ears... Reggie moves forward and grabs my shoulders, shaking me lightly, “-you okay?”

I nod my head and croak out, “Yes.”

“Are you sure? You’ve got quite the grip on that table there.”

Looking down I notice exactly what he’s talking about. My knuckles appear to be bleached white, my hands are holding the table in a death grip. I manage to pull my hands away then open and close them to work the blood flow back into them. I turn around and lean against the table and let out a nervous laugh.

My heart is hammering against my chest, the roaring sound in my ears has died down enough to the point where I can hear myself say, “I’m a bit taken aback is all. I mean I was expecting some reaction from her, but not that one...” I trail off and glance behind me briefly and catch a glimpse of Sandra talking to an officer, it’s then that I hear the bells chime and the other officer walks in. He strides over to where Reggie and I are standing after scanning the room of patrons for a moment.

“Hello ma’am my name is Officer Schmoe. I need to ask you some questions. May I see your ID so I can get your name down correctly?”

“No problem, here you go.” I say after reaching into my bag and retrieving my ID out of my wallet, and handing it to him.

“Here you go.” he says after jotting down my name then handing it back to me. I quickly put it back in its designated slot in my wallet and then turn back to the officer.

Officer Schmoe takes out a notepad from his shoulder pocket then asks, “What happened?”

“Well, Ms. Sandra Bonde and I were having a meeting here and after reviewing some documents and speaking with Ms. Bonde I informed her that I would not be able to provide my services to her.”

“What is it that you were not going to do for Ms. Bonde?”

“I am a life coach, and after speaking with her I determined that the problem was beyond my ability to assist her.”

“Okay, then what happened?”

“Well, I was standing up getting ready to leave when I told Ms. Bonde this, she stood up and said something of how it was unfair that I forced her to pay for an initial intake when I now plan on not taking her on as a client. I responded by saying I was sorry for any inconvenience I had caused her. She then said something along the lines of I’ll show you inconvenience, and smacked the tablet that I have for business out of my hand and it dropped to the floor after hitting the corner of the table. The manager came over and asked her to leave, I tried turning the tablet on afterwards and it is no longer functional. I will either have to get it fixed or replace it.”

“Can I see the tablet in question?”

“Sure.” I grab the tablet and hand it over to him.

He looks at it and turns it over in his hands, examining it from different angles, “Would you like to file charges against Ms. Bonde?”

I freeze at the question, ‘I mean I could, and I would most likely win, and that would all be fine and dandy. However, I would probably be forced to interact with that woman a dozen or so more times before the case was over. I do not feel like putting myself through that kind of torture.’

“No, I would not.”

He tries the power button the same as I did and gets the same results, absolutely nothing, “Okay, ma’am, here you go.” He hands the busted tablet back to me and I take it from him, then place it behind me on the table.

“Could I have your contact information in case we need to ask some follow up questions later on?”

“Will a business card be okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

I root around in my bag for a moment until I find my cards, they’re still in the envelope they came in when I first ordered them. “Here.”

Officer Schmoe takes the card and places it in his shoulder pocket along with his notepad, “Thank you for your time ma’am and have a good rest of your day.”

I nod at the officer and smile as he turns on his heel and leaves the store, I pull out my phone and check the time, this whole encounter has put me at least two hours behind schedule, ‘I’ll just have to work a bit later in the office ton-’

There’s a resounding CRACK from outside, it’s sudden and pulls my attention immediately to look out the window. My eyes meet Officer Schmoe’s as his head is whipped sideways, I look past him to see his partner putting cuffs on a struggling Sandra. His partner looks pissed, ‘I would be pissed too if I had her screeching at me for the past half hour or so, and to top it all off, her smacking your partner in the face.Oof.’ I turn back around and put my belongings back into my bag. The bells jingle and the manager walks over to me with the sweetest smile, her demeanor putting me at ease. “I’m sorry you had to got through all that. Pick something to drink, my treat.”

“I’d like a hot chocolate please.”

The manager turns to Reggie and says, “Think you can manage a hot chocolate on your own?”

He nods and scurries around behind the counter to make the drink.

⇜↭⇝

Fidgeting with my keys, trying to get the key to my office open with my mostly empty drink in one hand and my bag in the other is probably entertaining to any onlookers, amused by my struggle and lack of forethought. I finally manage to find the right key and slide it home into the lock, I turn it and push to let myself in. Flicking the lights on as I enter, closing the door behind me before walking over to the thermostat, unfortunately I ended up staying out longer than expected so it will have a small effect on my bills. Yet another thing to add onto the growing list of unfortunate events for today. The chill of December has settled in my bones and I need to change that, fast. The free hot chocolate definitely helped me stave off the cold while I was on the bus, but the walk to the office didn’t help me feel any warmer that’s for sure.

I walk through the office space all but dragging my feet before I plop down into the chair at my desk and turn on my laptop. ‘I’m going to waste so much paper. There’s a reason why I switched things over to digital...’ The login screen comes up and I type in my password, the work that I had open from before is still open, ‘Good, that makes things a little easier.’ I pull up my email and write up a quick memo to the clients I’m supposed to see over the next week informing them of the slight adjustment given an unfortunate occurrence. Clicking off my email I review the file for the client I am meeting with tomorrow, and make sure I have everything I need compiled and print off some notes that I made on potential goals they need to set. I get a few emails back, responding quickly with their understanding. Some other people are slow to respond. I even have one person say that they aren’t going to pay me more just because I broke something. I immediately saved that to respond to at a different time, being in no state of mind to do so now and think to myself, ‘I know I said I was going to work late tonight to make up for lost time, but it just isn’t happening. I am officially done for the day.’

I put alligator clips on the notes separating each client. After putting all the notes in my bag next to the tablet, I grab a pen from off my desk as well as a sticky-note. Writing out a reminder to call up tech support and find out a quote, I take the sticky-note off of the stack and place it on the brim of the laptop and shut everything down. Returning to the office entrance I slide the deadbolt into place, and give the doorknob a quick tug making sure my office is secure. I turn around and grab my phone and keys from out of my bag and head to the stairs leading up to my apartment. Rustling the keys around until I find the right one, and then unlocking the door, “Hey, sorry I’m late, I’ll throw something together real quick!”

I turn around and lock the door behind me then place my keys on the hook beside the door. Walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge I think about what I can make for dinner. After staring blankly at the contents with nothing coming to mind I come to a decision. “You know what, how’s frozen pizza sound to you?”

I crane my neck to the side listening in for a response and I hear an affirmative noise over the sound of the television playing in the living room. I close the fridge, open up the freezer and take out the frozen pizza, wiggling the box a bit to try and slide it out from under the other frozen goods without taking everything out. ‘Success!’ I think to myself once I’ve pried it out of its spot without the entire freezer falling out onto my feet. Quickly setting the oven to the right temperature and then I rip the box open and put the pizza on a pan to cook on. While I wait for the oven to heat up I start talking to Neville in the other room, “So remember how I was saying just yesterday that work has been pretty slow lately. Well, remind me to watch what I ask for next time because I had quite the interesting client today.”

I hear an inquisitive noise from the other room, “Yes, I am aware you can’t hear me very well, I’ll be there in just a minute, give me a moment to put in the pizza.”

The oven beeps signalling that it has finished the heating process. I slide the pan into the oven, set the timer on the stove and walk into the living room joining Neville on the couch. He slides over and rests his head on my lap, he looks up at me expectantly and I chuckle a bit. I reach down and massage his head, his hair soft and velvety to the touch, the repetitive motion eliciting a content sigh from him and I continue telling him the events of my day. From the initial conversation between me and Sandra to her outburst, and finally the image of seeing Officer Schmoe reeling back from Sandra’s assault, her being put in handcuffs and hauled away. Throughout my retelling, Neville sat patiently listening to everything I had to say, making small noises here and there indicating how he felt exactly in regards to what was being said. It’s moments like these that I appreciate him the most. He’s not very vocal, but he is an extremely good listener and just that alone helps ease my stress on a hectic day like today. The timer on the stove beeps and Neville moves, letting me get up and go back into the kitchen. I put on an oven mitt from inside the drawer beside the oven and I hear Neville pad into the kitchen. After taking the pizza out of the oven, and placing it on the stove top I look over at Neville  who is licking his lips in anticipation.

“No, absolutely not. You know what dairy does to you. I am not dealing with your flatulence and explosive diarrhea for the next three days.”

He huffs at me and saunters over to his food bowl full of dry food, and eats a few bites before deciding he’s over it and leaving the kitchen. A definitive meow can be heard from the other room, and I sigh after grabbing myself a plate and putting a slice onto the plate.

“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s not like I wouldn’t mind giving you some it’s just your lactose intolerance is no joke my dude.” I say as I walk into the living room and switch through the channels idly.

Bakugou’s P.O.V.

“In local news this evening, a woman was arrested just this afternoon at a local coffee shop for assaulting an officer. The alleged assailant, a 31-year-old female, supposedly assaulted an officer after being informed that she would be taken down to the station for disturbing the peace among various other charges. We spoke with the manager of the coffee shop where the incident occurred and she claimed that the woman not only assaulted an officer but also assaulted a frequent patron of hers prior to the police becoming involved. We have not received any further information regarding the other party, and the manager has chosen to remain silent as to their identity.”

I watch the clip of the woman slapping the officer in question and recognize Joe clicking my tongue and turn off the television shaking my head. ‘Poor Joe, and I had just spoken to him earlier this morning. I guess I’m not the only one who’s had a shitty day then huh?’ I quickly grab a plain, black, hooded sweatshirt from the drawer in my room and pull it over my head. Looking around the room I am a bit surprised that the incident from earlier this morning did not leave my room in disarray. ‘Calling him was definitely for the best. If  her reaction was anything to go off of, without the cops she would’ve definitely trashed the place.’ I close and lock the door to my apartment. The stairs no longer a problem because the hangover from earlier is a distant memory. The familiar stairway down to the parking garage calmed me, the echoing and clanging of my feet against the stairs blocking out my thoughts. I push open the door and take in a sharp breath of air, the sharp chill invading my lungs. Even though I was expecting the chill given the time of year, it still caught me a bit off guard with exactly how cold it has gotten as the sun goes down.

Walking over to my assigned space and unlocking my car takes a matter of moments. The leather seats make my butt clench as it makes contact with the chilly surface. I turn the keys in the ignition and it starts up with a roar. Pulling out of the parking space is a quick maneuver of the steering wheel and then I’m on my way. Weaving in and out of traffic on my way to work, my head nodding to the music, I come to a stop at a red light and tap my thumbs against the wheel in time to the beat. It’s only a matter of minutes before I pull into the parking garage of the hero agency, stopping briefly to scan my ID card in front of the sensor. The machine beeps at me and then the automated gate bar lifts up and grants me access to the garage. I turn my head and wave at the guard sitting in the booth before driving to the second level and pulling into my space. I turn the car off and grab my ID and close the door, locking the car as I head into the stairwell.

When I step out onto my floor, the admin. assistant rushes over to me, she seems a bit frazzled, but not more so than usual and she says, “Bakugou, the boss would like to see you now. Before you get changed or anything.”

She scuttles off, probably to carry out some other task assigned to her by the boss. ‘What could he want, it’s not like I’ve gotten into any real trouble recently...’ The speculations are endless as I approach his office, the door slightly ajar. I knock on the side of the door frame anyway to announce my presence.

A booming voice urges me in, “Come in Bakugou, have a seat.”

I open the door and close it gently behind me, and then take a seat in one of the red cushioned arm chairs in front of his large desk. The boss’ presence is a bit intimidating as he looks up from a folder on his desk. He nods to acknowledge my presence, and then peruses the paperwork in front of him for another moment before closing the cover and meeting my eyes.

He stares at me for a moment before speaking, “I got a call this afternoon, there was an issue of sorts at your apartment this morning and the police had to get involved. When Kirishima came in for his shift earlier today I called him into the office and he was a bit concerned. I asked him what was going on with you and he mentioned that you haven’t been acting like your usual self. Now, you may not like it, but it is my job to pry. If you are not in the right mental state to do this job I need to bench you, even if it’s just temporarily.”

He stops speaking but continues to look into my eyes gauging my reaction, I don’t say anything in response to his words. I try and maintain a neutral expression, but the boss seems to see through it and says, “See that expression tells me that benching you might be the right call.”

The sides of my mouth turn downward into a frown, the thought of being assigned to desk work for an undefined amount of time does not appeal to me in the slightest.

“I am mandating you see the department therapist.”

I shoot up out of the chair, clenching my fists at my sides. A familiar scowl on my face as I exclaim, “I’m not crazy, why do I need to see a shrink?!”

The boss furrows his brows and says, “I know you’re not crazy, there are other reasons for needing to see a therapist through. If you want to stay an active Pro Hero you WILL see a shrink as you called it.”

“This is bullshit! Sorry. This is bullshit sir!”

The boss chuckles at that, then says, “I understand you’re upset but this is non-negotiable.”

“I go out for one night on the town-”

“It’s no about that. It’s not about the woman you brought home. It’s not about the police getting called. It’s a combination of all these things and I can tell from the way you’re responding right now it’s the right call.”

“But-”

“This conversation is over.”

I simply bow my head and say, “Yes sir.” and head back to my desk. I sit there for a few moments and contemplate a week or more of tedium chained to a desk and unable to do my actual job just stuck doing paperwork and watching the walls. ‘The boss never said that I wasn’t allowed to go on patrol today explicitly.’ I hop out of my chair and head over to the locker room, I get no more than two steps in that direction when I hear the admin. assistant day to me, “You know if you do that, the boss will know before you even finish getting changed.”

I huff in exasperation and annoyance then sit back down at my desk. I put my head in my hands with my elbows propped up on my desk, ‘I said it before and I’ll say it again. This is utter bullshit.’

⇜↭⇝

The bright fluorescent lights of the office have burned a circle in my retina, ‘I’ve been spinning around in this chair for about thirty minutes, if I don’t do something I’m going to lose my damn mind.’ I look over at the admin. assistant. She’s busy at work at least that’s what I think is happening, all I can see is the top tuft of hair peeking over the monitor to her computer, as she is otherwise surrounded by paperwork. Bringing forth the silent question as to how in the hell she saw me despite being barricaded behind stacks of papers. I stand up and walk over to her, tapping on the desk to catch her attention.

“Hey, I’m not going on patrol, but I am going to head over to the police department to see if they need anything.”

The clacking of her nails against the keys doesn’t stop even after I say something to her, but her tuft of hair bobs so I just leave, taking my badge from off my desk and my phone heading out the door of the main entrance. The cold filling my lungs with crisp air, it’s refreshing after being in the stuffy office for a few hours. The walk to the police station is short but the entire time there is a constant stream of thoughts going through my mind. ‘The past few weeks haven’t seemed especially different from any other. It’s been nothing but routine for me in terms of getting through work and getting over my ex. I didn’t think that my behavior had been too out of the ordinary.’ The sidewalks are still pretty busy at this time of night and I have plenty of company on my stroll to the police station. ‘Even so, I still don’t want to go to a therapist.’ The thought crosses my mind as I walk up the steps into the police station. The air in the police station is just as stuffy if not stuffier than that of the agency. Looking around I see the usual crowd, some new faces here and there but most of the personnel are the same. Then the person I least expected to still be at work comes sidling up beside me patting my shoulder, “Hey there Bakugou, it’s not your first day here so why’re you gawking around like you don’t know what to do with yourself?”

“Hey Joe, why’re you still here? Your shift was over hours ago right?”

“Well, yeah, but they forced me to get checked out by the doc just in case before I headed home.” he says pointing at the lurid bruise covering most of his left cheek, continuing “I was just picking up my stuff, on my way out the door.”

“From that woman earlier right? I saw that on the news right before I came in today.”

“Yep, and boy was she a piece of work, that one. Anyway, what brings you here?”

“Boss told me I was on desk duty, I figured I’d pop by and see if you guys needed anything. I am glad I ran into you though.”

“Is that so?” He looks at me with a questioning look on his face.

“Yes, maybe you can answer a question I have. Other than a therapist, who would someone go to for help, asking for a friend you understand.”

“Well, if it isn’t an actual mental health issue but more needing assistance with getting their life on track they could try a life coach.”

“Uh, huh.” I nod my head slowly at his statement.

“Not to say that a life coach and therapist are on the same level of course. However, the thing that they do have in common is that they help people who may be a bit lost in the weeds and not able to see a way forward.” Someone approaches the doorway and we move off to the side to avoid being in anyone’s way.

“I actually have a business card right here.”

Joe pulls the card out of his shoulder pocket and hands it to me, I take it and put it in my jacket for later. We talk for a few more minutes, Joe complaining mainly about how much paperwork he’s going to have to deal with now that the woman who I have learned is Ms. Sandra Bonde is in custody. We laugh a bit at the comment, knowing full well the only reason we do any paperwork is because of our jobs. Paperwork takes up so much of my time, I’d rather be out on patrol than sitting down at my desk doing mindless busy work, filling out forms and whatnot. The idle thought causes my eye to twitch in annoyance, reminding myself of my mandatory desk duty, I don’t know how I’ll survive.

We part ways as he heads to the direction of the subway and I stay put. After conversing with the officer at the front desk I wait a few minutes for some files on small time villains they were going to send over later, and with those in hand I walk back. Even though the whole point of me going to the police station was just a ploy to get out of the office I feel glad that I could accomplish something even if it is as mundane as carrying files back and forth. I pause for a moment, I did accomplish something else as well, I have the business card of the life coach that Joe gave me.

I am greeted by the stale hot air of the office and the sound of keys tapping away at the keyboard, coming from the admin. assistant’s desk who is as always surrounded by mountains of paperwork. I almost feel bad as I walk up to her and say, “Here’s what they had for us at the station.”

She simply looks up at me and says, “Just add it to a stack and I’ll get to it.”

After placing the papers onto one of the smaller stacks I head back to my desk. Dropping down into my chair and looking at the bare desk in front of my. I lean back in my chair and look up at the tiled ceiling pockmarked with holes. The standard soundboard material is a soulless institutional white-grey and lacking anything better to do, I start counting the holes, ‘This’ll be better than staring at the lights. At least I won’t blind myself out of boredom.’

⇜↭⇝

“4,262... 4,263-”

“Hey Bakugou, I’m heading out,” says the admin. assistant, “Thank you for picking up the paperwork this evening. It did make things a bit easier. Oh, and the therapist should be calling you sometime tomorrow to schedule an appointment.”

She gives me a small wave and then walks away, a minute later I hear the door close and am alone in the empty office, all the other heroes for this shift are out on patrol. ‘Lucky bastards.’ I lean back in my chair once more and try to find the spot where I had left off but I had lost track. I click my tongue, although the task was pointless, at least it gave me something to do. I stand up and head over to the vending machines, a quick snack doesn’t sound too bad.

The selection is limited and most of the bags are probably filled with stale chips anyways. After a few moments I reach into my back pocket to grab my wallet after deciding on a bag of pretzels. My wallet is not there, I furrow my brows in confusion, maybe I left it at my desk? No, when I get back there it’s empty. I pat myself down, and the only things on me are my phone, hero ID, and keys. Wait, maybe I left it in the car? A sinking feeling in my stomach tells me otherwise, but I figure it’s worth a quick peek anyways.

Ten minutes later it is clear that it’s not here. I’ve checked under the seats, in between the console and the seats, and in the glove box. I even checked in between the seats and the side panel of the car by where the seat adjuster are, nothing. I huff out in annoyance at my fruitless search and resist the urge to slam the door to my car, closing it behind me and lock it before heading back inside ‘Great if it isn’t at the house I will have to call around and cancel all my cards, just what I need.’

⇜↭⇝

I have managed to accomplish nothing in the four hours after getting back from the police department other than count the divots in the ceiling and down eight cups of coffee, I have never had that much coffee in one shift before. I spent hours literally staring at the ceiling, hopefully this desk duty nonsense will be over soon. I can’t sit at a desk all day, my brain will atrophy. Maybe I won’t even need to talk to the shrink more than once, I’ll contact the life coach, set up an appointment and then I’ll be out on patrol in no time. The boss is just giving me a nudge, he’s not holding my hand on the issue.

I drive back to my apartment a bit slower than usual, lost in thought. Considering what I should say to the therapist and life coach that will finish up this whole scenario as quickly as possible. My train of thought lasts until I get to the parking garage of my apartment complex. The dim lights of the garage a bilious yellow hue against the stark night.

I unlock the door to my apartment, take off my shoes and walk inside, “Okay, now where the hell is my wallet?” I say to myself as I lock the door behind me.

I spend the next few minutes walking around the house wandering about, and have made a full circle in my search for my wallet. I sigh and take off my jacket, walking over to the coat hanger shelf by the door, I notice my wallet placed on the shelf. I take in a deep steadying breath, ‘It’s been here the whole time. At least I don’t have to cancel all my cards now.’  I rest my keys on the shelf next to it and take out the business card from Joe out of my jacket.

Padding into my room, the floor is chilly despite the socks on my feet. My thumb runs over the surface of the card. It’s smooth and warm to the touch after being in my jacket pocket for so long. I set it down on my bedside table and quickly undress, putting on my pajamas, readying myself for bed. After pulling my shirt over my head I pick up the card and walk over to my desk, sitting down in the chair and opening the laptop. While waiting for the login screen I look down at the card in my hands. It has a matte finish, and is heather gray in color, the black lettering standing out from the soft tone of the card stock. I flip the card over in my hand and see that it’s one sided. The small chime of the laptop lets me know that the startup screen is on display and I can log in. My fingers tap lightly at the keys, pausing every so often to glance at the card for reference. After typing the website into the url bar at the top of the browser the page loads up instantly. The platform is simple and easy to navigate, I find the application for the intake immediately. Looking over the requested information I scroll to the bottom of the page and come to a decision. ‘There’s no way I’m filling all of this out. I’ll just call them when I wake up.’

[inforapound]

Ease The Dawn  P.2  Ch.9

A/N - Thank you so much for reading and thank you for your likes and comments. Its really been motivating so thanks. 

Pairing - Ivar and Aethelswith   Words - 2,500        

Warnings - Historically inaccurate language, Canadian spelling, bratty Ivar

The sounds of etching on paper tricked his mind into feeling as if he had lived that very moment before. There was something in the way those scratches on her smooth paper warmed his senses, tugging at something deep in his stomach. Perhaps, his body without the influence of his mind was recalling a time in his life when he was most content. Without a city to govern with the backdrop of retaliation, no religion or struggles for power, no toils to be heard, only the comforting, addictive experience of being alone with his Aethelswith.

It left him to wonder if their love, at the beginning, was what kept them together now or would it be their love at the end that would define their lives. That is what he chose to believe regardless of their current trials. Their strength to endure each other's impediments is what set them apart as if they had walked this same soil but in another life, side by side, in another time. Only the Gods held the wisdom to explain the truth but when it came to their destinies being tied, he knew in his bones he was right.

Studying her now, with her eyes down, the thin wisps of black in her drawing beginning to take shape, he watched the way her tongue slid out of her mouth, running back and forth over her lip. A sign of her most poised concentration as her hands created the image already complete in her imagination. She, herself, was a work of art. Perfectly carved. Each feature of her face exquisitely created. If he had sat down with Frigg herself and explained every detail he desired in the appearance of his one-day true love, Aethelswith was truly the result.

Something in the way her body held still, her mind utterly focussed on her drawing that made him want to throw his cup of ale onto the sketch of the vase of flowers. Spoil it all and draw her attention back to him. Attention he was so desperately craving. She was a cruel little thing, he thought, as his eyes roamed over her body.

If it had been his decision their union would have been blessed upon arriving home from England. So, on slow afternoons like the current one, they could be spending their time on more meaningful endeavors. The one he had on his mind, at the moment, involved her sitting on his face. Yes, that would be nice, he sighed with a groan, his eyes tracing the line of her silhouette, savouring how each time she leaned forward, he could spy down the front of her dress.

Do not start, he silently scolded himself, sidelining the thought, knowing the slip up the previous week when he succumbed to her tricks only undermined him. He may be mightier than most warriors, possess transcendent qualities, Gods-like even, but he was still a man with a very lonely prick with a beautiful queen with a beautiful cunt. GODS, he thought to himself, grumbling under his breath, adjusting his cock straining in his leathers. As his woman, he knew she understood the two urges that drove him, fucking and killing and the latter, these days, was providing him no thrill at all.

Clearing his throat, he watched her, waiting for her to glance up. Grunting through his nose when she didn't.

"If you were wondering... I am still suffering," he cleared his throat again, "touching you that once provided no relief."

"None?" she asked, her lips pressed together, her soft blue eyes staying fixed on the striations forming the feathers of a bird's wing.

Dropping his head to one side, his eyes bore into her, feeling impatient. She had a lot of nerve to answer with levity, following such a sincere admission. Looking over to the crackling fire, he snapped his gaze back, glaring in a way that would make a blind man uncomfortable. Sulking down further into his chair, he lowered his chin still observing her.

"This is worse than before.... Before...you know. I should know better but I am a loving, passionate person, after all, so it is your fault Aethelswith. You would think that I would be used to you disappointing me by now. But here we are."

Scoffing under her breath, she blinked up to him, her eyes providing not a shred of sympathy. What a feisty, fierce woman, he thought, fit inside a miniature, enticing body. Disregarding her unimpressed gaze, he wet his lips, shrugging his shoulders as if her attitude was to be expected.

"But I will say, Aethelswith, that if you carry on to much longer, clutching your hollow values as you do, I might have to start jerking off in front of one of those ambitious slaves."

"That would be Freydis."

Scrunching his nose in disgust, he twisted his lips up. "My high standards would not allow for that."

"Only royalty for the king?"

"Only you for the king," he clucked his tongue and winked.

Biting her lip between her teeth, she stared out from between her long, blonde lashes. He could see she was fighting the urge to laugh.

"If you were wondering...." Tipping her head, she shot him a coy smile, "You, Ivar Ragnarsson, are a shit."

"Nice language, Aethelswith!" he scolded with a grin. "You talk to your god with that mouth?"

Smirking to herself, he could tell that she was holding back some perverse, witty comment. Instead, she looked back to her drawing, her hand resuming the soft scores across the parchment.

Huffing at her lack of response, his smile faded and his eyes roamed the room before settling back on her, still, in his opinion, ignoring him and being rude.

"Aethelswith?"

Looking up, she lifted her brows.

"It hurts me that you drive me to say such awful things to you. I hope you realize this entire rift is your doing. Because of your God."

"Ivar, this is such a lovely quiet day. Can we please leave God out of the conversation?"

"No!" he exploded, slamming the palm of his hand down on the desk.

Startling, she dropped her charcoal, bringing her hand to her chest as if to calm her racing heart. Both of their eyes followed the cylinder of coal rolling toward the edge of the table before it tipped over and shattered on the floor.

Leaning forward, his cutting eyes flicked back to her. "Me or your god, Aethelswith? Choose."

"You are asking me a question there is no answer to," she replied in a steady voice, her eyes showing compassion.

Flopping back in his chair, he lifted one of his unbound legs, shifting it to stretch out below the table.

"Maybe I will rethink my hatred of Freydis."

Sighing, she rolled her eyes. "Ivar, perhaps try your own hand with my charcoals. Your mind is restless and you are trying to provoke me."

"I am proficient at anything I try, Aethelswith. I would not want to create a masterpiece on my first attempt and undermine your already flimsy confidence."

Scrunching her brow, she studied him again. "How selfless of you. Always putting my feelings ahead of your own."

Pushing her seat back, she stood, grabbing a cloth from the table and wiped the sooty smudges from her fingers.

"You are going out?" He straightened, unable to mask his disappointment.

"Yes, you know that I am."

"Hmm," he mumbled under his breath, watching her, waiting, hoping she would ask if it was still alright. She asked nothing.

"Aethelswith?"

"Yes, my love."

"Do I not provide for you?"

Glancing over at him, she looked both unimpressed and suspicious.

"Do I not see that you have everything you need?" his voice shot up to a higher pitch as it did when he was being his most dramatic. "Are you unhappy with the level of comfort we enjoy as King and... whatever you are?" he flipped his hand dismissively.

"Ivar, you are looking for a fight. Stop."

With a smug expression, he continued on adding even more flair to the tone of his voice. "I am simply wondering why you feel the need to look for work. Hmm? Really Aethelswith, you want to be a wet nurse? A milkmaid to the young?"

"I beg your pardon?" She narrowed her eyes, confused as to where he was leading.

"Your breasts, Aethelswith. They are on display! You are advertising for work by wearing that dress, no? Am, I wrong?" His eyebrows shot so high on his face, she nearly laughed.

"For the love of God," she groaned, rolling her eyes and snorting at his absurdity. "You are ridiculous, Ivar. They are not."

"Look at that neckline, Aethelswith! How hypocritical. Do you not agree? Christian," he sneered.

"Is that supposed to be an insult? Calling me a Christian?" she smiled. "As far as looking for work, my customers would be disappointed when their babies go hungry from my lack of milk. Would you care to try?"

"Try what?"

"Breastfeeding." She glanced down at her cleavage.

"Aethelswith!" he objected as if offended. "You are not funny."

"Actually, I am."

"No, you are obviously oblivious to the number of times in a day I try NOT to imagine your tits in my face."

Walking around the table to her dressing area, she turned her back to him and began fixing her hair, pinning up the loose strands around her face.

"Ivar, my beloved, you are going to brood yourself to death. I am going to Gussr and Nanna's for supper with Brana and Loni. If you recall," she turned, looking at him with stern eyes, "I invited you and you declined so... I will see you later tonight."

With one last flick at her hair to cover the thin red line where her stitches had been removed, she turned and walked past him toward the door.

"Send my regards to your real family," he jabbed sliding even further down into his chair. His eyes roamed the room looking for anything to distract her with and keep her from leaving.

"Thank you, I will," she replied in an unruffled voice. "In the meantime, I will leave you alone to think on this delightful exchange as I know there is no better punishment for you than to sit alone with your thoughts. I will see you this evening."

"Kiss!" he shouted up into the air.

Turning, she walked back to him, stopping behind his chair and rose onto her tippy toes to kiss his waiting lips, on his bent back face. "I love you," she whispered before turning and heading again toward the door.

"Then wear a fucking shall!" he barked over his shoulder as she opened and closed the door behind.

Typical defiance, he thought, shaking his head as he straightened and turned in his chair to listen. Once he detected the faint jostle of blades and heavy footsteps of his men following her down the corridor, he relaxed and turned in his seat, slumping again and resuming his miserable mood.

—

Sitting in silence, he stared at the small, etched bird with a long beak, sipping nectar from the blossom of a flower on the parchment left on the table. Not his favourite but the likeness was fair. Sighing out loud, he pulled his legs upright from under the desk, frustration, horniness but mostly rejection still festering within. How can she be so unsympathetic, he asked himself, adjusting in his chair, getting ready to stand.

It was only mid-afternoon and he was bored. A thought struck that it had been months since he last practiced archery up at the grounds. Always, instead, grabbing his ax or a blade, some weapon that felt violent. There was nothing quite like the feel of his bow in the palm of his hand, lining up the tip of the arrow and slowly exhaling to quiet his thoughts. Distract him from the almost painful need to rub one out. Scoffing, he looked up to the ceiling and nearly laughed. He loved her so much, he could not even accomplish that without the help of her small hands.

The door opened and closed behind him and he tilted his head toward her, waiting. When she said nothing he broke the silence. "Come to your senses and see that I was right about your dress?"

"It is me, my King," a small voice replied.

Pushing on the table, he slid his chair around to see Freydis standing a few paces away. Much closer than he expected, not having heard her cross the room.

"The queen is not here."

"Yes, I know," she smiled faintly but her nerves still showed.

"Then, why are you here?" he asked, his tone aggressive.

"Her grace has gone to visit her friend and his wife in town."

Ivar's nostrils flared with annoyance. "I did not ask you where she had gone. I know the whereabouts of my woman. Why are you here?"

"I just heard.."

"Heard what?" he cut her off.

Widening her eyes, she continued, almost bashfully, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"What!" Ivar glared at her, squinting his eyes. This girl was either too stupid to sense the danger she was in or too ambitious to care.

"I have been the companion to men that I have served in the past. I was wondering..."

Holding up his hand, he motioned for her to stop speaking. Dropping his chin, he looked at her. Truly looked at her.

"Step closer," he commanded.

Following his instruction, she took two steps forward, her arms hanging at her sides.

"Take off your apron," he ordered.

Stifling a pinched smile, she untied the back of her apron and dipped her head forward sliding the loop off her neck, dropping it to the floor beside.

Staring, his eyes roamed her plain beige dress that showed little flesh as she subtly inhaled filling her lungs with air. Her breasts below the thick fabric pushed forward, looking more pronounced.

"Lift her chin, he quipped. "I want to see your skin."

Lifting her chin, she let her lips fall open. Her eyes never leaving his scrutinizing stare.

"Do you like what you see, my king?"

"Do you know what I see?"

She smiled, straightening, not answering his question, looking rather pleased.

"I see where your pulse is on your throat. I see where the large vein that carries your blood runs down your neck. The very place I will cut into with my ax IF YOU EVER COME INTO THIS CHAMBRE WITHOUT MY WIFE AGAIN," he boomed. "Do not think, for a second, that because you were the whore to some lord that I will take interest. I will NEVER take interest in anyone but my queen," he spat viciously. Leaning forward, he pointed his figure, dropping the volume of his voice to a threatening whisper, "and remember that she is much kinder and more trusting than me. She is also intelligent, so she will tire of you soon despite you speaking her tongue. And, when she does, you will get what you deserve. Now," he shook his finger at her again, "If you EVER," he shouted again, "enter our bedroom while not in her company, I will cut that insipid smile right off your face before I cut off your fucking head. GET OUT!"

Shaking, with tears in her large eyes, she began to shuffle backward, "Y'Yes, my king," she stuttered. "My apologies, my king," she cried, before turning and rushing out of the room, forgetting her apron on the floor.

Wincing from the pain in his legs and his now worse state of mind, he pushed himself to stand and grabbed his crutch. Making his way over to where she had stood, he bent down and snatched the garment off the floor. Walking to the hearth he threw the apron into the fire, never taking his eyes off the flames until there was nothing left.

.

@youbloodymadgenius​​ @naaladareia​​ @whenimaunicorn​​ @lol-haha-joke​​ @ceridwenofwales​​  @jaydelesley4​​  @sweeneythots​​ @funmadnessandbadassvikings​​ @fangirl-nonsense​​ @thiahilmarsdottir​​ @redama​​ @mdredwine​​ @didiintheblog​​ @yourpurplequeen​​ @justanothershelby​​ @londongal2810​​ @fields-and-fields-of-poppies​​ @readsalot73​​ @hexqueensupreme​​ @silly-bullshit-collector​​ @littlecarolina94​​ @oddsnendsfanfics​​  @youbelongeverywhere @blonddnamedhandz​ 

[pbiskillingmehere]

NSFW Alphabet: Antony x Maeve

Authors Note: Oh my GOD this took longer than I expected it to. There were a lot of surprises with this one, actually.  

Tag List: @claudevonstruke @bacchantony @choicesarehard @give-me-ernest-sinclaire @regina-and-happiness  @simsvetements  @thechoicesvita 

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Sex doesn’t end when they both come. Sex ends when they’re both so spent they can’t possibly go at it one more time. After hours of rolling over and switching positions and changing rooms, they usually just fall into bed, breathing heavy, and pass the fuck out. Then when they wake up, they take a bath so long and languid they practically prune themselves.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Maeve wouldn’t tell a soul, but her favorite spot on her own body is where her tattoo is inked. It’s been the only constant in her life and a way to connect to her past even in the smallest way.

On Anthony though, she loves his shoulders. Gods, she loves his shoulders. Whenever he gets out of bed and stretches his arms above his head, muscles rippling and scars stretching, she practically purrs and bites her lip.

And every time, without turning around he says, “You had better get that lusty look out of your eye, darling, or a man might do something about it.”

She would do no such thing.

For Antony, he thinks his legs are his best feature, and shows them off often, much to Maeve’s delight. Years of training and battle made them powerful and toned, and he was proud of it.

Curves were common enough on any woman, but if Antony was a more prolific man he could write poetry about her hips. The curve of them fit perfectly in his hand, and he loved nothing more than sucking bruises into the dip of skin next to her hipbone. And when she moved them? It undid him like nothing else.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically…)

Antony tries to get Maeve to come in his box at the arena. Often. The crowd can only see the top half of their bodies when they’re seated so Antony can have his hand under her skirt as much as he wants. As soon as he would touch her knee, Maeve would shoot him a dirty look, mouthing, Don’t.

Antony would raise his eyebrows in mock innocence, hand sliding higher under silken fabric. It irked her that this was a game they both knew she was going to lose, and Antony reveled in it. He liked winning nearly as much as she hated losing.

Antony wasted no time in plunging his fingers into her, the penetration so quick that it made Maeve cough out a breath and clutch her seat as she jerked. He would spend the next few minutes watching her squirm and try to regulate her breathing as he plunged is his fingers into her and pressing lightly in just the right place. 

When she came--and she always did--she would look to the sky, mouth slightly agape as she let out a long unsteady breath. Her small victory would be that she never cried out when he made her come at their seats, maintaining at least some level of secrecy of what they were doing. 

This, however, was nothing compared to what Maeve would do to him in the litter on the way home. 

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Maeve once almost knocked him out.

Antony was this close to dismissing a poor unsuspecting servant just so there wouldn’t be any witnesses, but Maeve gently reminded him that turning him out wouldn’t make him unsee the ordeal.

It was midday and Antony was picking up speed in his movements, hitting deep and barely pulling out of her before thrusting back in. He pulled one of her legs over his shoulder, biting the skin above her knee, and Maeve threw her head back in a desperate pant. They were both shining with sweat and getting lost in the crescendo of the moment. 

They were both supposed to be out attending to the upcoming celebrations, but Maeve seemed to have other plans when she took him into his mouth and drove him so insane he almost had no choice but to throw her on the bed and have his way with her. 

They were both so close. Maeve grabbed his hands and pressed it to her bundle of nerves in a silent command, roughly biting his shoulder as she did so. She was about to cry out her pleasure when the servant walked in, likely to attend his duties in Antony’s chamber. 

In an instant, Maeve’s leg dropped from Antony’s shoulder as she bolted up in surprised, her forehead catching the sensitive underside of his jaw.

Antony’s shout of pain combined with the horrible realization at what was going on had the servant stuttering apologies and fleeing the room. 

No longer inside her, but on his back on the opposite end of the bed, Antony had his arm thrown over his eyes, his muscles tight in the manner when one was in a tremendous amount of pain but didn’t want to show it. She had hit enough men in that particular spot to know that it usually knocked them unconscious and that Antony was lucky that the same didn’t happen to him.

Maeve rubbed her forehead, breathing heavily as she finally processed what had just happened, then she laughed. Loudly. 

Antony looked over at her to find her bent in hysterics, one hand muffling her laughter, the other clutching her side. Before he could ask why in all the gods’ names was she giggling, she wheezed, “All of your battles and victories, and you almost get taken out by a blow in the middle of fucking,” and she fell to her side shaking.

He wanted to be angry, or at least vaguely annoyed, but he found himself chuckling, then laughing just as uncontrollably as she was at the absurdity of it all. 

As she finally caught a few deep breaths, she crawled over to him and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his face, stroking the spot where she struck as she murmured apologies. 

As amusing as they found it, and with the mood sufficiently ruined, they agreed they would not be bringing it up again, especially when some discoloration appeared there a few hours later. 

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Obviously, neither of them are blushing virgins. Between Antony being, well, Antony, and Maeve being taught the ways of the bedroom for eight years, they are both quite experienced, and enjoy reaping the benefits of it.

Many of the less experienced women Antony had been with had been taught a man’s pleasure was the priority, not hers, and he loved taking the time showing them the contrary. However, that is not the case with Maeve.

One of Antony’s favorite things about her is how confident she is in taking her own pleasure, telling him exactly what she wants and how she wants it. When she gets especially impatient, she would just grab his hand and put on her breast or clit or wherever it was she needed him most. Luckily for her, he didn’t usually need too much direction. 

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying)

It honestly depends. A lot of the time, Antony enjoys taking her against walls or on top of tables and pretty much any other inappropriate place, but when they’re in a proper bed, that’s a completely different story. 

He likes to be on his knees, Maeve’s pelvis lifted as he drives into her, thrusting hard and deep and he grabs her breasts. And based on the sounds she makes, she likes this position as well. 

However, there are times where she pushes him back on to the bed and growls at him and rides him without abandon, and it's hard and fast and so hot for both of them. 

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Post-coital is when they’re the silliest, laying in bed, catching their breath and smiling like fools. There’s a lot of play fighting actually. He’ll feel particularly annoying and will try to tickle her or push her buttons, and she’ll try to shove him off the bed and then they’re rolling around the bed in laughter rather than lust. This, of course, is quickly followed by playful bites which lead to less than playful touches, which leads to them fucking again. It’s a cycle they’re content with.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

They both keep it neat. Sometimes Maeve will pull back on the meticulous courtesan grooming routines she usually does to see how he’ll react, and she’ll get little more than a raised eyebrow from him and receive no less passion. 

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

They think they’re careful with not getting too romantic with each other, but they fail really spectacularly. There are too many things they respect and adore about each other.

She’s not proud of it, but sometimes Maeve would use sex as an excuse to get out of talking intimately or romantically with one another. She was scared, so she retreated into something that she could handle. However, she’s quickly realizing that knowing him and being with him is already so far beyond what she vowed to protect herself from.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Before they finally came together, they had both spent many nights thinking about one another, and thinking led to other things.

Sometimes, Maeve will get things started when she knows he’s on his way back to his villa, and he’ll walk in to find her naked on the bed, legs spread and fingers working inside her. He makes a sound so guttural that she almost stops, but she just says, “Are you going to help me finish or not?”

Sometimes he’ll just stay where he is, perfectly content with the sweet pleasure of watching her, but other days his impatience to be inside her wins out and he barely strips before climbing on top of her and sliding into her heat. On those days he always takes her hard and fast, driven made by the obscene image of her in his bed pleasuring herself.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Okay so they’re not into choking or breathplay per se, but one time when Maeve was on top, dizzy with lust, she thoughtlessly put her hand on his throat, and the whole world seemed to freeze crystal clear.

She was about to pull her hand away and apologize, but he caught her wrist. She met his gaze, and his eyes were nearly black with lust.

Keeping his gaze, she kept riding him, leaving her fingers at his neck, her pace a little slower, a little more deliberate. She didn’t tighten her grip in the slightest, traversing uncharted territory. 

His trust hit her like a blow, crackling through her body and igniting her. She moved her forefinger across his pulse, feeling the rapid beat of his life under her hand. The movements of his hips became more rapid and slopier as he whispered filthy things to her. She came hard and suddenly, nearly falling on top of him. She met his eyes, seeing the mix of desire and raw affection there. He smiled. Breathing heavy, she removed her hand from his throat and entwined her fingers with his.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

If it’s frequented by the Roman elite, they like fucking there, particularly the Basilica. They both enjoy their personal brand of a ‘Fuck You’ to the rich bastards they hate. And if they happen to get a little carried away and happen to break some things, that only sweetens the deal. And despite his proclamation that they’re both meant for better things, Maeve has gotten Antony to roll around in the dirt with her more than once.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Whenever Maeve does something clever, Antony feels his desire for her hit him like a bolt, so he wants her often to say the least. They both get especially turned on when they’re working together to do something especially devious. They may joke with one another in the moment, mocking the Senate or whatever senator is their latest target, but as soon as their alone they barely give themselves the time to push clothes out of the way to get to one another.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Full stop, Maeve will not do bondage. Even if she trusts Antony, even if its for the sake of pleasure. Her whole body outright rejects the concept of being bound again. 

Luckily, Antony is keen enough to avoid even suggesting it. It’s not really a preference of his anyway. Every couple has boundaries. Including them.  

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

In the past, if Antony heard a man does not give oral, he would straight up tell them that they are bad and sex and when their wives leave them for his bed don’t blame him. 

Then he met Maeve. 

Nowadays he just stops at telling them they’re bad in bed and their wives and mistresses probably hate them. 

Maeve thinks this is hilarious and refrains from commenting if she happens to be in the room for this.

She gets a perverse sort of pleasure out of getting the great and powerful Marc Antony on his knees solely for her wants and pleasure. Sometimes she’ll stare at him a moment too long and he’ll understand this immediately.

“I think you’re confused as to who is at whose mercy here, lovely,” was one of his many coy comments.

Without missing a beat she said, “That remains to be seen.”

Then he smiled her and went down on her with renewed enthusiasm, pressing his hand into her stomach and nibbling and sucking everywhere but where she wanted him the most. 

She stayed quiet in these moments, unwilling to let him hear her whine or pant despite the snake of fire coiling and hissing in her abdomen. 

“You’re awfully quiet, Maeve. I suppose I just have to devote more time to foreplay.” Then he kissed her hipbone. 

Her nails scraped his scalp in protest. 

“Words, Maeve,” he teased, running a hand up her calf. “Pretty one preferably.”

“I want. Your mouth. On me,” she said with as much control as she could muster. 

He leaned back, raising a brow.

“Please,” she ground out, willing to sacrifice some degree of her pride to just come already.

“Good girl.”

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Like the position they're in, it depends on the context. Sometimes they’ll cycle through quick and rough, lazy and fun, and tortuously slow in a single evening.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Quickies are a necessity of fucking in public spaces as often as they do. However, Antony is known to get grumpy if he doesn’t get a full look at her naked form under him and to take his sweet time in private on a regular basis. Sometimes when responsibilities only leave room for stolen moments, Antony’s need to act recklessly flares. This has led to an argument or two. 

“You can’t just abandon everything because you’d rather spend the day in bed, Antony,” she said to him one day. She was dressing and he was still naked in his bed, trying and failing to convince her to spend the day between the sheets. She had his schedule memorized at that point and knew that it was unwise decision to neglect his duties that day.

He stared at the ceiling, bare limbs akimbo.“What is the point of having the power that I do if I can’t decide what to do with my time?” he replied petulantly. 

She came to the foot of the bed and crossed her arms.“You’re right; you can do whatever you want with your power. Like throwing it all away for your whims.” 

“And here I thought you liked my whims,” he said, sliding to the end of the bed and taking her hips in his hands. 

She gave him a chaste kiss. “I like your whims when you don’t have both Caesar and Cassius breathing down your neck. I’d take on some of the burden myself if it was acceptable--And don’t give me that look. You and I both know that just because you can make it acceptable doesn’t change that Caesar would not have it. Especially if we are to go along with this plan of you ‘gifting’ me to him.”

He pressed his forehead to her stomach. “Don’t remind me,” he grumbled.

“I supposed that young man who ran wild never thought of the weight of everything he wanted,” she said gently, stroking his head.

He pulled her down for another kiss, this one longer and slower. “No, I supposed he didn’t.” Then he looked up at her with a smile. “I’ll be myself again in a few days’ time.” Then he rolled her around back into the bed. “After I fuck you good and proper,” he said, crawling up her body.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Maeve favors calculated risks. Antony can afford to be a little more reckless because he has more secured power. However, she likes to play a game where she wears something especially scandalous--like when she was trying to seduce him--when they’re out at public functions, and she stays on the opposite side of the room for as long as she can, indulging men who drooled over her and panted for the scarcest interaction. 

Penetrating couldn’t begin to describe Antony’s gaze, boring into her as she plays with the jewelry at her throat and breasts, drawing attention to the generous amount of chest and stomach she has on display. Every muscle in his body is tense, both of his fists pressed into strong biceps as his eyes burned through her over a senator's shoulder.

He tries to call her over to his side a few times, but she always manages to slip away, only incensing him further, maybe brushing a man’s shoulder as she went.

Once he gets her alone, he presses her flush against the nearest wall and growls. “You are playing a very dangerous game, Maeve.”

Her smile is absolutely wicked. “Are you going to punish me?”

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

 Yo if they didn’t have shit to do they would test exactly how long they can go without stopping for breaks, but the estimate is a while. Antony didn’t get his reputation as the biggest slut in the Roman Empire by being a minute man. And Maeve is a warrior and a courtesan. Enough said. Like Messalina who? (If you don’t know who she is, look her up you will not regret it).

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Sorry folks, I am not putting “ancient Roman sex toys” in my browser. I love ya’ll, but there are some things my FBI agent can’t take. 

Nevertheless, Antony’s take on sex toys would be “the day I need help pleasuring Maeve is the day I no longer deserve to be in her bed,” which is dramatic to say the least but this is Antony we’re talking about.

As for Maeve, maybe if she was more inclined to masturbate she would be down with using them, but she’s pretty occupied with Antony.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

No one likes teasing the way Antony and Maeve do. It’s as routine to foreplay as kissing is. They're both used to being the seducer, so it becomes a battle of the wills sometimes, but they wouldn’t have it any other way. Teasing doesn’t usually end in begging (most of the time) but the opposite. She might shove him up against a wall and put her tongue down his throat, or he might grab her roughly and bend her over the nearest surface. The delayed gratification of it all made fucking hurried and passionate and heady. 

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

After the whole fiasco with the servant, Antony uses it as a convenient excuse to justify them being as loud as possible.

“Just so no one around here is confused as to what they may or may not be interrupting,” Antony said breathlessly when Maeve noticed how vocal he was becoming--and how vocal he was trying to get her to be for that matter.

Despite her training as a courtesan, Maeve wasn’t overly fond of making too many noises, but with Antony, he makes that nearly impossible sometimes. If he bit or sucked the right spot, catch the right angle as he plunged into her, she would let out a breathy cry or moan. Antony considered each sound that made it past her lips to be a lover’s victory. 

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Maeve really wants to see Antony fight, fantasizes about it. Not in battle necessarily, but regular training exercises would satisfy her. She didn’t go to the barracks or training area very much; she had no valid reason to be there, so she had never seen him wield a sword or javelin or any other weapon for that matter. She had seen his muscles work and his skin sweat when he fucked her, but some carnal part of her wanted to see the careful power that was required of fighting. To see actually labor over something, and in own dominate way, brought obscene images of stripping off his armor and fucking him on the ground of the practice ring to her mind.

She would never tell Antony that thought, of course. 

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

Antony is pretty damn big. LIke he can put his money where his mouth is with all of the big dick energy he throws out there. 

Maeve has no complaints. 

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

I mean...if I haven’t answered this question already then I really haven’t done my job, have I?

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

Most of the time they have sex until they pass out, usually at the same time. But sometimes, when one of them has a lot on their mind, something they can’t shake, they stay up a bit longer. Usually, its Maeve, as she’s typically the more anxious of the two. She doesn’t seem that way but she’s good at hiding it. Her body will be exhausted but her mind whirs. There are some days where she wonders how long she’ll last before she runs out of borrowed time. Then she might plot and little more and maybe if she--

Then an arm would wrap around her middle, and Antony would pull her to his chest, the warmth of his body seeping into her. Suddenly, the fear and intrusive thoughts would subside, and not long after she would snuggle closer and slowly drift off.

[two-of-swords-621]

Dream Things

This is my @trc-exchange gift for @quietrook for the prompt “other Gangsey members spending time with Opal”. I hope you like it! it was fun to write. Enjoy!

AO3

Today was the day: the start of the #GreatAmericanRoadTrip extravaganza. It was warm and sunny and the day felt endless. Except the day wasn’t really endless and it was already well after noon and they hadn’t left yet. They were way behind schedule and Blue Sargent couldn’t deal. Henry was surprised she was the one who was worked up about it and not Gansey, but Gansey had been different since, well, you know. He just couldn’t be bothered to let most things bother him anymore.

They were gathered at the curb in front of 300 Fox Way, loading their bags into the Green Pig. “Ganseeeeyyyy,” Blue whined, digging through a massive duffle that she could have easily fit inside. “Where are my blah blah blah…” Henry couldn’t make out the rest of what she said, since she had now climbed into the trunk in pursuit of the missing object. He looked at Gansey, who shrugged.

“Jane, I can’t understand you when you’re half buried in the trunk like that,” Gansey said.

Blue jumped out and glared at him. “My purple leggings. I can’t find them.”

Gansey laughed, which only infuriated Blue more.

“Jesus, Sargent, there are like fifty pairs of leggings in here. How do you even know a pair is missing?” Ronan asked, leaning over the trunk to poke through the bag.

Blue smacked his hand. Hard, too, by the sound of it. “Trust me. I know.”

“Ow,” Ronan whimpered. He held his wounded hand out to Adam, who rolled his eyes playfully, before grabbing it and kissing it gently.

Henry was unaffected by the public display of affection, but Blue teased, “God, you two are disgusting.”

“Disgustingly beautiful,” Gansey gushed.

“I can’t wait for you to leave,” Ronan retorted.

“Oh shut up, Lynch. You know you’re going to be blowing kisses at us as we drive off into the sunset.”

“SUNSET?!?!” Blue cried, as Ronan said, “That was one fucking time, man.”

“Well, there was another…” Adam started to say, but Ronan quickly covered his mouth with his hand, which Adam promptly licked.

“Stop trying to ruin my reputation, Parrish,” Ronan said, wiping his hand off on Adam’s sleeve.

“Too late for that, Lynch,” Henry added.

Blue grabbed Gansey’s arm and twisted it so she could look at his watch. “Oh my God, we were supposed to be long gone by now,” she said, exasperated, pulling at some of the shorter tufts of her hair, making them stand on end. Henry thought she looked adorable when she was stressed.

She ticked off her mental to-do list on her fingers. “I still need to pack the snacks in the kitchen, and then Jimi wants to smudge the car before we go and I have to find my leggings. Urgh.”

“Smudge the car?” Henry asked.

“You know, clear the bad energy.”

“Hey! That car has great energy,” Ronan protested. They all looked at him funny.  “Whatever,” he waved them off.

“Jane, relax. We have all the time in the world,” Gansey said, attempting to gather her in his arms.

She pushed him away. “Not if we want to make it to the Smoky Mountains and set up camp before it gets dark.”

“Ok, let’s figure this out then. You go look for your leggings,” Gansey told Blue. “I’ll go get Jimi. Adam can help her clear the car’s energy. Henry can pack the snacks. You,” he gestured to Ronan, “should probably go find Opal. I haven’t seen her in awhile.”

“Shit,” Ronan said, taking off for the backyard.

Henry was glad to see Gansey take the lead. It felt natural and right. He thought Gansey looked adorable when he was telling people what to do.

Henry headed towards the house, expecting the others to follow, but when he looked back, Adam was directing Blue and Gansey on how to rearrange the bags in the overstuffed trunk. Knowing Adam, it was probably so the bad energy could escape more easily during the smudging, or something.

And Henry did know Adam now. Just like he knew Gansey and Blue and Ronan. They were his friends. No, they were more than that now. They were his family. He smiled at them and then turned back to the house.

Inside, he found Maura and Calla in the reading room, bent over a spread of tarot cards.

“What’s the good word?” He asked, stopping in the doorway.

They both looked up at him. Maura frowned. Calla smirked. “I just can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t go,” Maura sighed.

“Told you,” Calla said.

“That should make you happy, right?” Henry asked Maura. “And yet, you are sad.”

“She’ll get over it,” Calla answered for Maura. “The chick’s gotta leave the nest at some point.”

“I think Blue would take offense to being called a chick,” Henry pointed out.

“Blue takes offense to everything these days,” Calla said.

This made Henry laugh for longer than it should have. Finally, he asked, “I’m supposed to pack the snacks?”

“Oh, I set everything out on the table in the kitchen. It’s all ready to go,” Maura instructed, still shifting around some cards.

“Thanks,” Henry said. “I’ll bring them out to the car then.” He followed the hallway the rest of the way to the kitchen, dodging a cat that tried to weave between his legs. He spotted the reusable tote bags and small cooler on the kitchen table and was about to grab them when he heard a rustling sound coming from under the table. He peered below and saw Lynch’s dream child struggling to open a bag of Tootsie Pops.

“Hey, Opal,” Henry said, crouching down. “Ronan is looking for you.”

She didn’t say anything, but she dropped the Tootsie Pops and held out her finger for Henry to inspect. He could see that she had a thin cut on the grubby pad of her index finger.

“What did you do? Get a paper cut?”

She mumbled something in Latin, maybe, while still holding her finger out to Henry.

“No, I’m not one of your dads. I can’t understand you. Can you say it in English?”

Opal shrugged and kissed her own wound lightly before picking up the bag of candy again.

Understanding dawned on Henry. This was something Ronan and Adam must do for her when she gets hurt. Which means it was likely something Ronan’s mother used to do for him. Which explains why Ronan held out his own hand to Adam earlier. It was the world’s most precious inside joke. Henry thought he might die from too much cute. Ronan Lynch thought he was such a badass punk. I’ve got your number, Henry thought with a smile.

“You want one of those?” Henry asked, pointing to the Tootsie Pops. Opal nodded and handed him the bag. Her refusal to use words to communicate in that moment was all too familiar to Henry. He had struggled with words too when he was younger. Was she young though? Henry wasn’t sure. She looked like a child, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had a child’s brain. Did she even have a brain? Henry shook off the thoughts. There were too many possibilities to consider and he didn’t think even Ronan fully understood what she truly was. Right now, she was a kid who had a craving for sugar. That was easy enough to understand.

Henry tore open the bag and handed Opal a Tootsie Pop without thinking. She shoved the whole thing in her mouth, stick, wrapper and all, crunching loudly until it was gone a couple of seconds later. All he could do was gawk at her stupidly. She held out her hand for another. Henry unwrapped this one for her and told her not to eat the stick, but she did it anyway. It was only after the third one, that he thought this might be a bad idea. Would she get high off the sugar and then crash dramatically like his little sister used to? Lynch would have to deal with it later and Henry would be miles away by then. He grinned evilly and gave her a couple more suckers.

Henry stood up and put the remaining candy in one of the tote bags with the other food.  Through the open window, he could hear Ronan outside calling for Opal. He looked back down at her under the table and she stared back at him with her big, black eyes. Henry had a thought. If a dream object had helped him communicate, maybe something similar could help her as well. He held out his hand to her and she let him pull her up from beneath the table. Her hooves slipped clumsily on the slick floor of the Fox Way kitchen at first, but she got her bearings and steadied herself.

“I want to show you something, Opal,” Henry said. He reached into his pocket and clutched RoboBee in his hand. He sat down on one of the mismatched chairs so he could be at her level and opened his palm. He briefly worried that she might try to eat RoboBee too, but she just stared at it in wonder. Maybe dream things recognized other dream things - like they had a special kind of kinship with each other. Then he had the absurd thought that Opal was RoboBee’s niece if that was true. Now he was just making it weird.

“What is it?” Opal asked.

“I speak multiple languages too, just like you. Sometimes my brain has a hard time translating my thoughts into words. RoboBee helps me communicate by turning my thoughts into actions,” Henry explained. Opal watched in amazement as RoboBee stirred to life, wings whirring, and lifted off Henry’s palm, hovering between them. She tentatively reached out with her paper cut finger and RoboBee landed gently on it. She squealed with delight, which turned into hysterical laughter. There’s the sugar, Henry thought, but her laughter was so pure that he couldn’t help but laugh along with her. If it weren’t for the hooves and magic, he would record a video of it and post it on YouTube. It would go viral for sure.

“What languages do you speak?” Opal asked when she finally settled down.

“Korean, Cantonese and English,” Henry said. He hadn’t taken Latin at Aglionby like the nerds outside. He considered himself lucky though since Aglionby only seemed to hire murderers to teach Latin.

“I don’t speak any of those, except for English sometimes,” Opal explained.

“I know,” Henry said. RoboBee lifted off her finger and rose high into the air. She looked up with longing, but didn’t ask to keep RoboBee or throw a tantrum like a normal child might.

“Maybe Ronan can make one for you, like his dad made this one for me.”

Her face scrunched up like she was thinking hard about it. “I don’t think it would work for me.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the only one,” She grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight.

Henry choked up a little. He couldn’t help it. It was overwhelming at times to feel so known, so accepted, by all of them. Even by Opal. He composed himself quickly and stood up. “We should go outside. I have to take these bags to the car.”

“I will help you,” Opal insisted. He gave her the lightest bag and it was still too big for her, but she was stubborn, so he let her struggle with it. She reminded him a bit of Blue in that moment. They made their way outside into the bright summer sunshine with RoboBee trailing behind them.

“Don’t tell Ronan how much candy I let you have, ok?” Henry said, as an afterthought when they reached the car. Adam watched as Jimi finished up the smudging, but the others were missing in action.

“Okay,” Opal agreed, handing her bag to Adam.

“What did you do?” Adam asked, warily.

“Nothing,” Opal and Henry said in unison. Henry gave her a thumbs up.

She beamed at him, but then the look on her face quickly turned to one of horror as she pointed and shrieked, “Kerah!”

Jimi screamed and clutched her chest. “Heavens, child,” she said, fanning herself.

Adam had just enough time to snatch RoboBee out of the air before Chainsaw dove for it, beak and talons bared. She wheeled in mid air before regaining her balance and landing gracefully on Adam’s shoulder. She hobbled down Adam’s arm and pecked at his hand, knowing that he held what she wanted in his closed fist.

“Holy shit,” Henry said, breathing a sigh of relief as they carefully exchanged the endangered cargo between their hands, so Chainsaw couldn’t see. So much for that idea about kinship among dream things. “Nice reflexes, Parrish. I forgot about the other niece.”

“The other niece?” Adam asked, confused.

“Oh, nothing, forget it,” Henry said, waving him off as he stowed RoboBee safely away in his pocket.

Adam laughed. “You should have known better than to let it loose like that around her.” Chainsaw glared at Henry from her perch on Adam’s shoulder.

“Devil bird,” Henry said, glaring right back.

“There you are, brats,” Ronan called, as he walked across the front lawn. “What was she shrieking about?”

“Chainsaw almost ate RoboBee,” Adam explained.

“What a tragedy,” Ronan said. “The world could have used one less creepy spy bot observing our every move.”

“Hey, don’t reduce my very specific magical ability to one of your anti-government conspiracy theories, Lynch,” Henry retorted. Adam snorted with laughter.

“I’m going to miss you, Cheng,” Ronan said, an evil grin spreading across his face, as Opal ran circles around him. “Jesus Christ, what has gotten into you?” he asked her.

Payback, Henry thought. “She may have had some of the candy we packed. I tried to stop her.”

“Liar!” Opal cried.

“I’m sure you tried really hard.”

“That’s the beauty of being the uncle. I let her do what she wants then I give her back to you to deal with the consequences,” Henry said.

“Speaking of consequences, there are going to be severe ones if we don’t get on the road now,” Blue demanded, strolling up to the car from the house, clutching a pair of purple leggings in her hand. Gansey was close behind, along with the rest of the Fox Way contingent.

The remaining bags were loaded into the car and group pictures were taken for Henry’s Instagram account. Fists were bumped and hugs dispersed. Henry settled in the back seat for the first leg of their journey, while Blue curled up in the front and Gansey slid behind the wheel. He started the Camaro and the loud rumbling of the non-existent engine fueled their growing excitement. As Gansey pulled away from the curb, Henry turned to look out the rear window just in time to see Ronan blowing them a kiss. Gansey and Blue must have seen it in the mirrors too, because they turned and looked at each other and laughed. They rolled down their windows and stuck their arms out into the warm summer air, waving and whooping with glee, while Henry pounded on the ceiling. It was finally starting. This was going to be a great trip.

[still-finding-our-way]

W11, W12, W13

30/12/2020

Waking the dead, life, love and gossip

Flakey, flake, flake flake. I admit it, I let myself down and my nearest and dearest. Oh, the fucking self pity. Despite the ever changing rules and regulations over lockdown, we had planned to get out and walk with our respective menfolk during Christmas and New Year. We set a date and located a route. The forecast looked splendid—crisp and clear—it was going to be amazing. The day came round. I got up late, too late for my early morning climbing session with my daughter. I got dressed in my walking gear, and half an hour before leaving I couldn’t do it. I just could not walk out the door. So I cancelled and went back to bed. Yup, the diary of a depressive. Jen was her usual sage self and pointed out it was ‘twixmas’ and everyone was feeling shit, upside down and the wrong way round, and I should stop beating myself up about it. As Jen and A were already on route they continued on and later sent a breathtaking photograph of the high moor with the sun setting in one direction and the moon rising in the other. Studying the image on my phone in bed, I might have been peering into another world—a martian landscape, the light from the setting sun scattering a Persimmon glow across the moor grass—bronze and gold, molten lava, heat and searing passion. Dear Persephone, Queen of the underworld, you should eat all the seeds. These are winters treasures. Am I looking at a take from an African plain or perhaps a still from the film Dune? No, this is Dartmoor in searing clarity. The sky divided, storm grey cloud drawn low on the horizon and above an endless cyan—a blue to swim in. I could breath the freshness, feel the cold stinging my skin. Oh, the guilt and longing. So, I went out for a run to try and temper the physical yearning, and the next day messaged Jen to see if she could squeeze in another Dartmoor visit, with the promise that I wouldn’t bail this time. Two seconds later—a ping back with ‘Hell yes’. 

This time we kept our sights local, and though not a long walk we were going to colour in three whole squares on the 365 map: W11, W12 and W13. It felt like an accomplishment, nearly a full house—a line of colour beginning to emerge on the southernmost part of the map. The proposed route bypassed our previous walk to Western Beacon and headed for Ugborough Tor. The day arrived and clearly Santa Claus had been kind to Jennie. She cut quite a dash in her new walking gear, all booted and suited with military style walking shoes and thermal clothing. We exchanged gifts. From me to her a pair of essential gaiters—or ‘garters’ as Jennie likes to call them, and from her to me, some stylish ultra retro sunglasses. We agreed walking on the moor does not mean having to leave aside fashion. We parked up in the tiny hamlet of Harford and headed straight for St Petroc’s church, a Grade 1 listed building dated to the late 15th / early 16th century.

On this grey mizzly day at the very end of the year, the church looked bleak and unwelcoming. It wasn’t helped by the metal grill shuttered across the porch with a blunt no entry notice. We mooched around the graveyard at the rear of the church. Neglected and overgrown, it had a definite gothic air. We read the gravestones and pondered over the groupings of names and families. New to the term, I find out we are quickly becoming ‘tapophile’s’ or ‘grave stone tourists’—a person whose hobby or pastime is visiting cemeteries, graves and epitaphs; not to be confused with ‘necrophile’ and the perversion of showing a sexual or physical interest in the dead!  Not so much a morbid past-time, but one that is curious about past lives. Anyway we are apparently in good company as Shakespeare was supposed to have been a ‘tapophile’, and the related study of ‘taphonomy’ investigating processes of decay in archeology sounds fascinating and important. The hierarchal order of a graveyard is telling. Usually the bigger the slab the more powerful, influential and wealthy the incumbent, closely followed by the decorated memorials of war heroes protecting the former, whilst the women and children and those that had to live out the consequences of the deeds of the big slabs are marked by simple headstones. With this in mind when we came across a large plot encircled by low iron railings, containing a headstone marked John Jeffrey Dixon, 1756-1828, and surrounded by several smaller plaques, engraved with initials and the year of death all listed as 1855, we were intrigued. What could have happened? Were these children? A family tragedy, disease or perhaps a virus or infection?

I should not be surprised to discover that I have leaning towards taphophilia. Death came a blunder-bussing down my family’s own door a few autumns ago bringing with it a tsunami of destruction that took away three loved ones in a matter of weeks. In our highly polished antiseptic 21st century lives, tragedy is supposed to happen elsewhere, on the telly or as macabre titillation on news feeds. Having seen the havoc caused by the sweep of death at such close quarters, I seem to have developed an ear for the hidden tragedy that lies behind the bureaucratic recording of birth and death dates. One such story came with the accommodation that Al rented in the early days of our relationship. He lived in what was part of a 15th century manor house, in the quarter that would have housed cattle whilst the servants lived above. It was basic and cold—think rickety immersion heaters, cranky plumbing and layering up to go to bed—it was also delightfully romantic and we found our own ways to keep warm. Sometime in the mid 19th century the resident family, farm-workers, lost all 9 children in a matter of months to either cholera or diphtheria, the parents surviving probably because they drank mead and not the contaminated water. Some of our friends said they picked up prickly vibes in one room, but we never did, though there was the one time when I woke up in the night to someone blowing gently on my leg dangling out of bed. It was so focused, like someone blowing through a pea-shooter on skin, and then it was gone. It definitely wasn’t Alex, he was snoring contentedly next to me, nor were there any drafts in that particular area, and so overcome was I by my  primordial nighttime terror that I dare not look under the bed. I could never find a rational explanation for it, other than a waking dream, perhaps? I like to think that if there is any paranormal phenomena out there, spirits or otherwise, they would be up for having a laugh and hiding under the bed playing ghoulish peek-a-boo. Never mind wailing ghosts and ghouls, the universe seems set up for tragedy and comedy, see-sawing together, tempered with a dose of absurdity to keep the balance.

But how to imagine the desperation and hopelessness of loosing all your children, of not being able to do anything—no mercy forthcoming, from god or layman, through prayer or witchery. Heart wrenching, gut wrenching, unrelenting grief. The stuff of nightmares and surreal in the telling. A tragedy, they say. Indeed, a tragedy that reveals the limits of knowledge, failing systems and medical bungles. Death can tell so much about a time, and I needed to find out what had happened to this family in 1855. 

I found limited information online so I contacted the church secretary and swiftly received a response that explained that a memorial existed inside the church to the Dixon family. The Dixon’s had been a local family, the father John Jeffrey Dixon dying in 1828 leaving behind a family of six daughters and one son. The daughters never married or had children and continued to live with their mother Mary Romeril Dixon. The son married and moved away. The eldest daughter Sophie Dixon (1799-1855) was a poet, of the Romantic tradition, and had had some of her work published. Maintaining a household of seven women and living the life of a published female poet in the early 19th century suggests a level of education, cultural knowledge and financial comfortability, however I could find no further detail on the fathers preoccupation. Instead I was delighted to find copies of Castalian Hours. Poems by Sophie Dixon (1829) online, alongside two travelogues she had written about walking on Dartmoor: A Journal of Ten Days Excursion on the Western and Northern Borders of Dartmoor (1830) and A Journal of Eighteen Days Excursion on the eastern and Southern Borders of Dartmoor (1830). 

I find an online copy of the two journals bound together with an unauthored handwritten note that describes how the ‘two journals are seldom found together, and in this state are exceedingly rare’. The unauthored note instructs the reader not ‘to despise the untutored writing’ instead recognise that Dixon recorded what she actually saw, and ‘that she really saw a great deal more than most people’. Written nearly 200 years ago, the journals read anything but ‘untutored’ instead they present a style ahead of their time, combining acute observation with opinion that covers a range of subjects from education, poverty and religion that would not be out of place amongst the current plethora of travelogues and writings about place today. Nor was Dixon a faint heart—she was an endurance walker, with Donna Landry writing in The Invention of the Countryside how Dixon was not averse to enduring ‘incredible discomfort and fatigue’ walking up to 28 or 30 miles a day, and that she wrote to ‘expend feeling as much to capture or contain it’ (2001: 239). This is an impulse I can relate too. She was 30 years old when these works were published and was writing at a time that saw the countryside shift from being seen, at least by the middle classes, as a dangerous and impoverished place, to becoming appreciated for its leisure and therapeutic value. Despite Sophie’s passion for Dartmoor and poetry, little is recorded of her life unlike her male contempories—the walking poets—Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth, nor are her writings given due acknowledgment in the round up of important historic literature about Dartmoor. A woman writing about walking across Dartmoor—a harsh and unforgiving landscape at the best of times—and being published at a time when women weren’t allowed to go to university is no mean feat. Sophie’s poetry and writing reveal a sensitivity, of trying to capture the immensity and rich diversity of the moor; an artist, creating through doing, striding out in all weathers, feeling the raw elements, being buffeted by the wind on the high tor’s. And all in Georgian attire, heavy skirted, possibly with pantaloons and with no GORE-TEX or triple layered waterproof performance technology in sight. Despite her absence in the text books Landry observes that ‘the slightness of Dixon’s oeuvre is no measure of the significance of her achievement’ (239). My impression after reading her works, is a writer who is capable, forward thinking, engaged in current affairs and confident in communicating her thoughts, yet I have so many remaining questions about Sophie that perhaps a historian will give the time to uncover. She deserves to be more than just an initial or a footnote in history.

But what of her death and her family? In her preface to Castalian Hours Sophie writes about the loss of her father and subsequent grief and illness effecting her writing, however further tragedy was to come. According to the GRO death certificate her mother died of heart disease on the 14th December, 1855 aged 80. Three days later her younger sister, Emma Romeril, died of Peritonitis, and ten days after that, on 27th December, Sophie herself died from what is recorded as Typhus at the age of 56. The two other sisters, Cora and Lucy, who are listed on the church memorial and on the grave stones as dying in 1855, actually died two weeks apart in 1876 at the age of 69 and 70 respectively of Bronchitis and exhaustion, a contagious illness undoubtedly spread through close contact. How they all came to be listed as dying in 1855 is a mystery, with the assumption given that the memorial was erected when the brother Clemsen Romeril died in 1893, and that somehow the dates were conflated or misremembered. 

***

Wide, open moorland, away from the clutter and noise of modern life where we are constantly ‘ON’, hyper-stimulated, reading the codes, the signs, the subtext. Classification and analysis, polish the mask and smile ‘ta da', who do you want me to be today? It is exhausting. From my studio, I used to watch my chickens scratching and busying—pre bird flu lockdown—and envied their freedom, whilst I was penned in, tied to a screen and working 10/12 hours a day. Sometimes I forgot to move, going hours without drinking or eating. I had become a battery hen and no matter how many golden eggs I laid it was never enough. Putting in numbers and words that churned out more numbers and words until one day the machine broke. Now I have become frozen, a glitch in the matrix, stuttering and locked in. I have to rebuild, start again, set a new framework but to do that I have to first find a way to reboot the frozen system.

We marched up the hill chattering eagerly, airing and giggling over the silliness of families and Christmas frivolities. Despite the chill in the air we warmed up quickly and had to stop to strip off layers, breathing heavily and taking in the sweeping view. It stopped us in our tracks, the vastness of the rolling landscape calming us down, bringing us back to rights. Body and earth, right here, right now. We were heading for Spurrell’s Cross, a medieval stone cross that marks the crossing of two old tracks, one running from Plympton Priory to Buckfast Abbey and the other from Wrangaton to Erme Pound, but we had been too cocksure on setting off, wrongly assuming we were on familiar ground. As a result of our cocksurety we had missed the path and, as is becoming routine on our walks, we once again found ourselves stomping over tussocky ground. The lesson learnt from this walk is that perspective changes everything—so obvious in hindsight but familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt, which in our case was for the map. We were walking on the east side of Western Beacon and though only a few miles into our walk we had quickly become disorientated. The ground undulated unexpectedly hiding the tors previously used as landmarks and we realised that we hadn’t quite got to grips with distance on the map, and as a result could not work out whether we were too far north or south? Scanning across the moor, and with better long distance eyesight than I, Jen spotted a shape partially camouflaged against the moor grassland. With nothing to lose, except our bearings, we ploughed ahead and thankfully hit base, laying hands on the cold stone of the old cross in gratitude. Back on track, we were able to stroll comfortably up to Ugborough Tor.

A space to decant—we talk about all sorts, everything and nothing, from work to children, to ageing and sex; to clothes, cooking, cars, consciousness and ex's—the ex's are most fascinating, the other women, they are set up as the opposition that we share so much in common with and who you can never, ever, know too much—to fungi, lovers, philosophy and death. It is not so much Sex and the City but Sex and the Moor. Everything gets emptied out and overturned. Nothing is trivialised, it all has its place—the worries, the niggling anxieties, superstitions; the casting thoughts that might dissolve into nothing or rankle away and fester without the ear of a trusted confident. Our grandmothers were right all along, a good airing, whether clothes, houses, babies, people or thoughts, makes everything feel better. Men and children so often fascinated by what women talk about… and no wonder, women talk about the under belly of life, paring back the fat and gristle, sifting the wheat from chaff. The talk that unites, strengthens social bonds and builds trust—what social psychologists refer to as cultural learning. In the stone age, this chatter was crucial for sharing information that would enhance survival, and whilst we no longer have wild animals to fear, sense checking about who’s who and what’s what remains essential for our well being. 

As children, Jen and I used to be fascinated by our mothers afternoon chats, tongues loosened by a dab or two of sherry. We’d quietly linger in the kitchen, turning the tap ever so softly to get a glass of water, or sit on the stairs ostensibly playing, all the while zoning in on the hushed tones, regularly punctuated by raucous laughter, our eyes widening at what we heard. Rogue men and wildish women, the drawn out agony of someones death, money—the lack there-of; clothes and weight gain, diets, boobs, hot flushes and farting. When they caught us listening they’d call us elephant ears and the conversation would drift to more mundane matters. On occasion the conversation would lower to a whisper, to more darker talk. We’d strain hard, catching snippets of a violent man and a vulnerable child. The school bully, the blond and pretty girl, always with shiny new things turned out had a not so happy home. This was a grown-up world that was somewhere else, far more entertaining and scandalous than watching an illicit late night episode of Dallas or Dynasty huddled together under the bed clothes.

Today out on the moor we find ourselves talking, amongst other things, about the origins of cellular life—as you do. Where once life was understood to have started at a particular point in time and from there on in evolution began spiralling outwards in a chronological timeline from A to Z. We’ve all seen the poster, some of us have the T-shirt—cell blob, lizard, monkey, ape-man, human, Trump. Then some clever spark asked the question, if life started at A—assuming it was down to 'abiogenesis'—where life emerges from non-living matter through natural processes as opposed to counter theories that posit life came from outer space, then surely life must have emerged previously, and continues to appear at point B and C, and so on and so on? Between huffing and puffing up the hill, it is not so much the biology but the shift in the question that fascinates us—alter the boundaries and framework of the question and a whole different perspective opens up, revealing the wood and not just the trees; the whole picture and not just the jigsaw piece. No surprise that Jen and I have dabbled in statistics—she in teaching the subject and I by presenting different sets of data, coloured pie-charts illustrating how the Arts can change lives, which is very difficult to prove in evidential terms but ask a slightly different question and the coloured pie-charts will look ever so pretty, so give us some money, please. It is all about the questions, the scientists and statisticians cry. If only we could step outside of ourselves we might understand so much more. But it is hard to shake off our human skins. 

Keep turning the stone over and take a walk around the hill. Anything and nothing. Our conversation continues to spiral upwards and outwards. We bat around ideas, snippets of information snatched from radio, social media, books, conversation—finding relevancy, knitting them together. It feels like moulding and sculpting, work in the studio with most falling to the floor as detritus. The artist Paul Klee said drawing was like ‘taking a line for a walk’, and so it is with conversation—take it for a walk and give it a good airing. Walking in the time of viral contamination is vital. It has become the new 18th century coffee-house, the place renowned for scintillating conversation (if you were a man of course); it is George Seurat’s glistening Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, minus the fancy pants and with walking boots, purpose and pace. It is the city flaneur but without the pomp or privilege. It is Piet Mondrian's Broadway Boogie Woogie, but without the boulevards and pulsating lights. It is our mother’s sherry and Sophie’s journals. Hitch up your skirts and put on your garters and take a walk on the Wild Side. A walk in the park. An escape. Let the words wander or wonder, drawing shapes, hitting dead-ends and taking u-turns.

From the origins of life, depression and death our drawing circles around to the language of love, with Jen telling me how the ancient Greeks had several words for different kinds of love: love for children, love for god, sexual love, self love, whereas in the English language ‘love’ is pinned to its romantic roots—the all or nothing kind, of passion and intensity, valentines cards, red roses and the impossible happy ever after. We find ourselves wondering what is the word to describe the love between old friends? 

We reach Ugborough Tor, the temperature has dropped and we think it might snow. In truth, this is the southernmost tor as Western Beacon is not classified as a tor. There are four rocky outcrops: Creber’s Rock, Eastern Beacon, Beacon Rock and Ugborough Beacon; several cairns and a tumulus—an ancient earth burial mound. The view to the East is striking, what is known as Beacon plain slopes gently away then suddenly descends steeply into a valley, so abrupt is the descent that we can’t see the bottom from our vantage point on the tor. The effect is dizzying; the fields and houses rising upwards on the yonder side of the valley look like play mobile houses. We are 378 metres high (1240 feet) above sea level and can see the A38, or the Devon Expressway, snaking northwards. Jennie points out a prominent landscape feature, what looks like a Drumlin, a large teardrop shaped hill probably caused by the receding ice flow of the last ice age some 11,700 years ago. It was previously understood that Dartmoor lay beyond the ‘Quaternary glaciations’ however recent research of the landscape has challenged this notion. We amble our way back and it starts to snow; big heavy flakes, some the size of coins come down thick and fast. We are alone in this vast landscape and run and whoop like children. Back at our cars, as we turn to say good bye, we shout ‘I love you’ to each other. I think we might have always said this, but now we know somewhere it has a name.

Later, I look up Aristotle’s definitions of ‘love’, in particular ‘philia’ which is usually translated as friendship love, or ‘brotherly love’, denoting an altruistic loyalty between equals. This research takes me on a journey that considers what Aristotle defined as ‘good’, and ‘diakaios’, meaning what is ‘fair’, ‘just’ and ‘right’ in accordance to the laws of the universe—laws that draw on the ancient Greek idea that there exists within the universe an order. According to Simon May in ‘Love: A History’, Aristotle elevates ‘philia’ above all other forms, including romantic love and the virtuous love of god. May then goes on to explain how self-knowledge, a virtue much prized by the Greeks, is essential to becoming a well-balanced human being, yet Aristotle understood that ‘it is hard to know ourselves’, we are masters of our own deceit and that we need the aid of a ‘second self’, a person who holds similar values but serves as a mirror reflecting back to us who we are. May goes on to explain that it is not so much that our second self tells us who we are, but that we see in them a part of ourselves, quoting Aristotle directly ‘… with us [humans] welfare involves a something beyond us, but the deity is his own well-being.’ Of course, for this to work the second person has to be the right person—a person who has similar virtues, or values, as ourselves, then ‘philia’ becomes ‘diakaios’—‘when it is in accordance with the laws of the other person’ nature … If love isn’t in such accordance it is inauthentic and hollow’. (67)

How does this analysis of love, nearly 2400 years old, relate to my life long friendship with Jennie? Without a doubt Jennie is suitably different in character to myself—more gregarious and outgoing, her humour is deliciously wry and observant; she is clever, astute and canny, her readings of people and situations are always spot on and she is open-minded whilst still being firmly rooted in reality (the latter being a virtue that I cannot always say about myself); she is a fierce and protective mother, committed to family; ambitious and tenacious. Equally, she is interested in ‘self-knowledge’, if not ‘self-love’, which our deferent Englishness finds a little too gushing, however, she has never been afraid to look in the mirror and face her demons, to own up, reflect and rebuild. Her honesty about our lived contradictions—how we say one thing and do another, that we self sabotage to avoid shattering our fragile self-image and so on—is so refreshing in a time when you might be socially hung drawn and quartered for taking thoughts and words for a walk that do not directly fit the current view. Some of these characteristics I share, others extend my world view. If she serves as a second self, then hell, I need to learn to love thyself! I can count on three fingers the friends I share this type of relationship with, though I’d argue that we are constantly shaping ourselves against our interactions with others—whether children, parents, the shop-assistant, the teacher or colleague. Perhaps I need to be more discerning in my choice of lovers and husbands, as when it comes to the language of love I am clearly better at ‘philia’ than the ‘eros’ kind. In the meantime I’m going for a walk.

SC

Reading

Crossing, William. (1888) Amid Devonia’s Alps; or, Wanderings & Adventures on Dartmoor Plymouth: Simpkin, Marshall & Co. Online, 05, January, 2021: https://www.google.co.uk/books/edition/Amid_Devonia_s_Alps/lfoVAAAAYAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1

Dixon, Sophie. (1829) Castalian Hours. Poems. London: Longman, Orme, Hurst, Brown, and Green, Print.

Dixon, Sophie. (1830) A Journal of Eighteen Days Excursion and Dixon, S.(1830) A Journal of Ten Days Excursion on the Western and Northern Borders of Dartmoor. Online, 05, January, 2021:https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=d_4GAAAAQAAJ&hl=en_GB&pg=GBS.PA2

Evans, D.J.A. and Harrison, S. and Vieli, A. and Anderson, E. (2012) 'The glaciation of Dartmoor : the southernmost independent Pleistocene icecap in the British Isles.', Quaternary Science Reviews., 45 . pp. 31-53.

Landry, Donna. (2001) The Invention of the Countryside: Hunting, Walking and ecology in English Literature, 1671-1831. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.

May, Simon. (2011) Love: A History. London: Yale University Press.

Sampson, J. ‘Women Writing on the Devon Land: The Lost Story of Devon Women Authors up to circa 1965’. August 13, 2018. Online, 05, January 2021: https://newdevonbookfindsaway.blogspot.com/2018/08/on-ways-to-old-literary-roads-around.html

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 14/11/2020 (Ariana Grande, Little Mix)

We’re in a similar situation to last week where despite two massive albums – Little Mix’s Confetti even debuting at #2 on the album chart behind Kylie Minogue’s Disco (which was unprecedented but completely understandable since Kylie is massive here) – are both released, but there’s a very muted impact on the chart, mostly because of silly UK Singles Chart rules. In fact, you could argue there’s more impact from smaller releases from Giggs and The Kid LAROI, but that’s just how streaming goes. Since this chart doesn’t include radio, hip-hop has more of a chance in many ways to debut on the chart than the type of pop Kylie makes but its longevity is seriously impaired. Also, ageism doesn’t exist on the albums chart but on here it is in full effect. Regardless, we have 12 new arrivals, mostly from the aforementioned artists, so let’s start. Ariana Grande’s “positions” is still #1 – you can chalk that up to lack of competition – and welcome to REVIEWING THE CHARTS.

Dropouts & Returning Entries

Before we get to the songs debuting on the UK Top 75 proper this week, let’s have our brief little musical rundown, starting with the drop-outs as there were a fair few, namely “Go Crazy” by Chris Brown and Young Thug (a pretty damn big hit for the both of them), “West Ten” by AJ Tracey and Mabel (again, a very big hit, one of the biggest of the year making its exit), “Only You Freestyle” by Headie One and Drake lasting longer than I expected or it probably should have, “Loose” by S1mba and KSI leaving perhaps prematurely, “808” by Da Beatfreakz, Dutchavelli, DigDat and B Young, “5AM” by M Huncho and Nafe Smallz (Thank God) and a couple of our high debuts and returns from last week, like “motive” by Ariana Grande featuring Doja Cat – but we will see more of Ariana today – and the charity single “Four Notes – Paul’s Tune” by Paul Harvey and the BBC Philharmonic, as well as all three of the returning Halloween tracks, including “Thriller” by Michael Jackson. Oh, yeah, and as anyone could safely predict, all of the Bring Me the Horizon songs are gone, even “Teardrops”, which means we officially have 100% less metalcore on the chart, and I’m surprised to say I’m genuinely disappointed. In terms of returning entries, we have “Before You Go” by Lewis Capaldi making a return to #71, “All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey re-appearing for the first time this year and remarkably early to #60 and some returns from album boosts, those being “Magic” by Kylie Minogue peaking at #53 and “Happiness” by Little Mix doing the same at #43. The biggest fall this week was “Ain’t it Different” by Headie One featuring AJ Tracey and Stormzy dropping out of the top 10 to #31, probably because it had its streaming numbers cut as many songs do after they’ve reached more than 10 weeks in the top 40. The biggest gain however was for “SO DONE” by The Kid LAROI just missing out on the top 40 at #44. I can honestly see this becoming huge. Oh, and “Whoopty” by CJ is now in the top 40 at #39. Joy... Let’s just get straight to these new songs.

NEW ARRIVALS

#75 – “WITHOUT YOU” – The Kid LAROI

Produced by Blake Slatkin and Omar Fedi

So this kid LAROI released an EP that attaches to a mixtape he released earlier this year, Frick Love, which has been reissued as a sort of deluxe edition, without there even being a debut studio album to reissue, just a mixtape. Either way, this new hybrid deluxe version, repackaged as Frick Love (Savage), has been considerably more successful than the original mixtape so far, probably off of the back of that “SO DONE” single. Awful cover art aside; I did not listen to this project because I am not interested at all in some Australian emo-rapper’s EP, especially if it’s going to Marshmello, Machine Gun Kelly and YoungBoy Never Broke Again on it. This kid LAROI said that this is his favourite song off of the release because, and I quote verbatim: “I just like it, I don’t know, it’s kind of, dude, I don’t know, it’s a little different, it’s like a little, uh, acoustic vibe, uh, I just like it.” It’s nice to see this new generation of musicians be so articulate. Well, this is a pretty trite song with rote acoustic guitar strumming that is pretty conventional of softer emo-pop, but this song doesn’t come with infectious choruses, emotional bloodletting or even more than a single verse. Instead, it’s just absolute garbage with a guitar riff I swear I’ve heard before. There’s no development to this increasingly exhausting ballad other than this kid LAROI crooning and moaning in a pathetic Auto-Tune falsetto some clearly misogynist lyrics that he only picked up from Juice and other rappers. This kid shouldn’t care about making wives out of hoes, he should be studying. I’m almost offended by this on a personal level, or at least the principle that this kid at seventeen years old could go on about heartbreak that probably didn’t happen and use it to excuse and disguise clearly lazy, sexist lyrics. At least with other emo-rap it feels genuine and angsty. This is just disposable garbage that his audience will eat up like fast food, and it comes from such an insincere place that I can’t excuse it.

#66 – “ALWAYS DO” – The Kid LAROI

Produced by Omar Fedi, Khaled Rohaim, Donn Robb and Haan

Just like that, he’s back, folks. Okay, well, he starts off this song by saying he’s drinking again, which he can’t do for another year according to Australian law. I’ll take that as a complete lie he’s hogged from his mentor Juice WRLD and clearly not understood why that led to his downfall and death; the glamorisation of drugs in Juice’s music was unintentional and misconstrued that way by record label yes-men and some of his fans, who ate up the music and maybe didn’t grasp the message Juice was clearly advocating for. So, you’re just going to blindly lie to your fans – ALL of which are children – about substance abuse with very little commentary around it other than how it affects this fake relationship for the sake of making “relatable” hits that ultimately go against everything Juice would have wanted? Delightful. When other rappers talk about a bitch, they have a casual, disposable tone that suggests they’re groupies and whilst this is such an accepted form of misogyny in music, which also annoys me for the record even if music I adore expresses as such, it at least shows that the rappers don’t care or use the women as a line-filler or flex. When this douche says the word “bitch”, he means it. It comes with such vile, toxic bitterness that I’m convinced the Kid LAROI just hates women. Not even specific women, just the concept of “woman”. Sigh... can someone take this disrespectful toad off the charts – and quick?

#64 – “Buff Baddies” – Giggs

Produced by Trooh Hippi

Speaking on not respecting women, British rapper Giggs is here with his second mixtape. He’s got a couple more tracks on the chart, this is the first and it’s all about “buff baddies”. “WAP” has led to men thinking they can be extra horny as well and I’m not going to shame any kind of sex positivity but when Giggs talks almost exclusively what the women are doing for him and doesn’t have a lick of personality to it, it feels less absurd and over-the-top than it does just gross. It doesn’t help that his delivery is almost comically blunt and completely charmless over this non-existent cloudy trap beat, and there’s no hook or chorus to speak of, so this is just completely worthless. This reminds me of Dean Blunt’s Babyfather projects, you know, the mixtapes where he actively makes fun of this type of rap and even then is miles more interesting and charismatic? God, what an awful track.

#63 – “I’ll Call You Back” – dutchavelli

Produced by Big Zeeko

Oh, and dutchavelli released an album too called Dutch from the 5th, so we have more to come from him as well. Look, I’m tired, I’m fed up, I just want this episode to be done with and maybe I’m not in the right mood to listen to snooze-worthy generic hacks in modern hip hop all have their own mini-album bombs. Just maybe. I’m not sure if that excuses the clear lack of quality and effort in any of this, or the fact that the billion-dollar company I use to listen to the product of billion-dollar companies apparently can’t have an app that works and allows me to listen to said product. To be fair to dutch, this is a more introspective track with melancholy piano loops and pretty basic trap-drill percussion, but I do like some of the lyrical content here, where he talks about how even though he feels distant from his loved ones as a big star, he really wants to keep in contact and he details some of his struggles in a really heartfelt way. His delivery is emotive and even when it’s heavily Auto-Tuned, you can tell he’s pretty frustrated with the conflict between his newfound popularity and keeping up to standards with his personal relationships. He’s not always perfectly on beat and honestly the song kind of goes nowhere, but I like the lyrics about his childhood and his mother, and I especially think his breathless, stiff cadence when he pleads with his girlfriend is pretty effective. As a song though, I don’t think I’ll be going back to this at all, which is a shame.

#59 – “Get Out My Head” – Shane Codd

Produced by Shane Codd

Shane Codd is an Irish producer, singer and DJ from Dublin who amassed a following from his playlist showcasing classic trance and house hits from the 1990s and 2000s, which he became infatuated with as a child, explaining why his first and only song is already on the chart, albeit just at #59. That “Trance Anthems 90s-00s” playlist does have some bangers (I’m not going to complain about Alice Deejay, Moby or Zombie Nation), so does Codd follow in the footsteps of these classic trance acts? Well, no. No, he doesn’t. This is a house-pop song if anything, but it’s not like I know all the ins and outs of this stuff. I have a friend that does know a lot about trance; I don’t even think she’d like this. It’s pretty lazy, bizarrely-mixed house with a lot of focus on those classic 90s pianos that do sound straight out of that diva house and Eurodance era (in fact, this is practically a Eurodance song), but without much character to speak of. For a first song, it is impressively professional but not to the extent that the percussion sounds any less cheap or tinny, or that the chopped-up vocals, from some generic female singer as always, are charming. This is exactly what I think would happen if you fed a robot tropical house music, a couple FL Studio plug-ins and a “Trance Anthems 90s-00s” playlist, and told it to produce some kind of cohesive result in return. It’s telling that this soulless dreck charted, but hey, if he’s got the following and any kind of budget, he could improve considerably and this isn’t that bad on principle. It’s just wearing influences not on the sleeve but as make-up, to cover up the lack of artistic dignity or progression the guy has, not that I expect him to (it is only his first song after all). Next.

#56 – “Say Something” – Kylie Minogue

Produced by Jon Green and Richard “Biff” Stannard

I'm not a big Kylie Minogue fan but I can admit like anyone who's not too far up their own ass that she has a lot of classics, a lot of bops and most importantly to this show in particular, a lot of bonafide smash hits to her belt. My personal favourite is "The Loco-Motion" but her 2014 album Kiss Me Once was a big factor into my appreciation of this type of inoffensive dance-pop (that indirectly made me eventually start this series), especially the lead single "Into the Blue". Speaking of lead singles, this was the lead for her 2020 effort, Disco, but it didn't actually chart until this week interestingly. Well, with that said, there must be a reason the big lead single from July didn’t chart until November, and the second single, “Magic”, did, so I’m not expecting prime Kylie here, and I’m not expecting myself to write positively about it either because I had to restart Spotify like five times before being able to actually play the song so I’m pretty annoyed with these billion-dollar companies right now... and, yeah, okay, with the synthesized choir and the staccato synth bass, I can understand how this feels less alive than other songs she’s made, particularly because this feels like a rather dumbed-down revision of 1980s pop with some really awkward vocal mixing and a chorus that never really hits. Kylie doesn’t sound great here at all either, and the guitars are just kind of garish, especially in the first verse. It doesn’t help that this is a messy song structure-wise, and that the title drop in the chorus is neither cathartic nor worth waiting for. There’s also a bridge-outro that never leads back into a chorus, so the song just floats away sadly into nowhere. Yeah, it’s safe to say this is a disappointment, especially from a lead single but it does make sense that at this point in her career Kylie and her team may be artistically stagnating. It’s been more than three decades; I’m just impressed she’s still putting out music.

#54 – “Plugged in Freestyle” – A92 and Fumez the Engineer

Produced by Charlie Mockler

It’s not often that the engineer gets lead billing, let alone an engineer whose stage name is entirely based on the fact that he is an engineer, and didn’t even produce the track. Anyway, it’s not actually unusual for YouTube and radio freestyles to chart, in fact the GRM Daily Duppy freestyles have charted before for both J Hus and Aitch. It is unusual for viral Irish drill tracks to chart however, but this did get traction as a viral video as well as the absurdity of Irish drill, which is now a rising phenomenon. A92 is an Irish drill group and all of the four members present here get three verses each, leading up to either 12 verses overall or just one big collaborative verse depending on how you count these things. You may notice at this point that I’m stalling, mostly because the Spotify app still refuses to function correctly once again. It’s not like I’m missing much in terms of unique bars or even cadence. I expected a delivery or flow that was more energetic from the Irish, just saying. There’s a lot of pointless censorship when it’s pretty clear what they’re saying, and the guys are obviously lipsyncing in the video so it’s not like this is some impressive off-the-cuff freestyle. I do like the incredibly deep voice Dbo has but it’s not interesting enough to carry his uninteresting flow and this really minimal, basic drill beat that works for its intended purpose to carry the bars but it does not make an impression further than that and by the end of the track, it’s just dull. I do admit to really liking the fourth guy Offica’s verses here because he has a lot more energy and intriguing flows than the rest of them; if any of this group get a solo career off the back of this I’d expect it to be him, or at least I’d hope so. Overall, though, I’m not a big fan although I don’t think this is bad, just unremarkable. If I thought it was bad, I think this episode would end up being posted posthumously anyway.

#52 – “Zero Zero” – dutchavelli

Produced by The Fanatix

Oh, hey, look! It’s more of the same. I imagine if you follow the US charts, you’d soon get tired of the trap garbage that somehow ends up on there in the lower reaches of the chart when it could be given to more promising mainstream-adjacent acts that end up just popping up on the Bubbling Under. Whilst I don’t really have the same problem with this chart, I am growing tired of UK drill music at this point and its indignant refusal to be interesting. It’s not like I have an issue with the music itself because I can usually ignore it, but does all of it really HAVE to chart? When it was new and relatively interesting I welcomed it but the sparse drum patterns, badly mixed 808s and “menacing” pianos are all very much getting on my nerves at this point in the year, especially when the chart is flooded with this stuff. For every weekly pathetic house-pop tune we get, we also get at least three drill “bangers”. Maybe the charts have just made me cynical. I should probably maybe rest before trying to continue this episode – I’ve given a notice on Twitter that grants me more time so I suppose I’ll get back to you when I’m not mindlessly ranting about drill music.

Alright, so I haven’t slept but Spotify has decided to function for now, and I guess I might as well use this opportunity to write about the last few arrivals. We all have our “off” days, and this was one of mine so I apologise if this episode isn’t up to scratch – even if admittedly, I’m telling myself that more than anyone else. Oh, and this song is actually kind of fun, with his really elegant strings that are backed up by some hard-hitting drill percussion that actually makes for a pretty hard beat here, especially with those extra sound effects. Seriously, props to the Fanatix for this, and dutchavelli actually brings a lot more energy than I expected, even on the ad-libs on the chorus, though of course, the content isn’t anything new. He is finding new and funny ways to talk about crack cocaine trafficking though, so I commend that. The skit is kind of pointless but I’m sure it makes sense in the album. That was quick! In fact, I’m going to try and be quick before I fall asleep.

#49 – “Spin this Coupe” – Abra Cadabra

Produced by H1K and Zenith

I’ve restarted Spotify so many times and I’ve restarted my computer at least thrice. This desktop app still refuses to function and this is a recent but bloody persistent problem. Maybe I should just re-download the Spotify app, but it does aggravate me that it does this when I’m supposed to be, you know, REVIEWING THE CHARTS. It’s not like it’s down for other people either, it just likes to freeze on me for no reason other than my own suffering. There’s a Dave song coming so I’ve kind of been raring to get to that but just to keep myself in check and on routine I suppose I need to listen to this garbage. I didn’t mind Abra Cadabra on the “BLM” song from a few weeks ago and I do like the semi-introspective tone he has lyrically here, showing some kind of self-awareness about the gang violence he discusses in his music. Lyrics like that are few and far between however and more often than not it’s just uninspired gunplay and some flexing over some drill type beat. I swear I’ve heard that exact same hi-hat sound and pattern so many times, and other than some overly-energetic ad-libs that make this shoddily-mixed track even uglier sounding, Abra Cadabra is not selling any of this, even when he does a more rapid-pace, energetic yelling flow. He’s not saying anything memorable and he’s only vaguely on beat. I mean, it’s fine but I’m sick of this already. There’s a preview of another song on the YouTube video for this song and I thought it was just another verse. Come on, lads, think of something else.

#35 – “Straight Murder (Giggs & David)” – Giggs featuring Dave

Produced by KeyzMusic

What an odd title. It’s like if I called this show REVIEWING THE CHARTS (Cactus), like we know your names, guys. Is this how they want to credit Dave as a co-lead artist or something? I’ve got no idea but this is our second and final track from Giggs’ Now or Never and thank God, it features Dave, a British rapper I really enjoy. His album PSYCHODRAMA was one of the best records I heard last year and I’ve consistently liked most of his stuff, specifically his brand of cool, relaxed flows and blunt, admittedly corny punchlines with a lot of conscious influence and cleverness that most of these drill guys wouldn’t dare to try and implement in their singles. He and J Hus form a crossroad between the mainstream British rap scene and more underground or alternative acts; he strikes me very much as a more accessible male Little Simz, a sharp lyricist with a lot of unique charm who knows how to have fun. In fact, the one thing I don’t think Dave can do convincingly is rap on a drill beat, or at least one like “Paper Cuts” where he just sounded sloppy. He also had a feature on a D-Block Europe song that was just comical, so I can’t say his recent efforts have been as good but that performance of “Black” at the BRITs really cemented him as one of the best British musicians in the charts right now for me and a lot of other people, so this acts as kind of a comeback single for him, even if it is just a throwaway feature track – there’s a reason this debuted so high. I do think this could stick around as well since Dave does have longevity. I still bump “Funky Friday” more than two years later, although to be fair that did hit #1. This won’t, but is it good? Yeah, this appeals to the part of me that just wants bars over a pretty solid, atmospheric trap beat, and Dave does sound checked-out at times but that’s always been a part of his casual, sliding delivery. There is a lot of empty space in his verse but it’s always played out for comedic effect I feel and while this is a flow he’s definitely used before, the sheer length of this verse means it would be difficult for him to have more hits and misses and yeah, his delivery makes nearly all of these lines hit. Compare the amount of Genius annotations on his verse to how many are on Giggs and you can see why I like this guy a lot more. He may be blunt but it has layers and layers of charm to it, and some of these bars are more than they look to be on the surface. Even his opening line about taking orders can be explained in various different ways: he knows about taking orders but he “doesn’t know” about taking orders, suggesting he doesn’t like taking orders, but what are these orders? They could be taking orders from a boss and now he’s a boss but they could also be about drug trafficking or sending out hits, and then he really “doesn’t know” about taking orders, if you catch my drift. Other than that, he uses his “Streatham” flow to mostly flex but there’s tons of wordplay and I appreciate that more than the boring matter-of-fact structure of verses that half of these other UK rappers have. He’s just effortlessly spitting here and I’ll take that any week but especially this week. Welcome back, Dave, I’m excited to see what you’ve got in store for your next album. Oh, and Giggs is here but who gives a –

#23 – “Confetti” – Little Mix

Produced by TM5

Surprisingly, no Little Mix songs penetrated the top 20, or at least no new ones. In fact, this is our only new song from the girls thanks to silly UK chart rules, and, really, it’s just here because it’s the title track. I can’t say much about Little Mix because I feel there’s nothing to discuss. The new album is something I have not bothered to listen to out of pure disinterest, and this title track... doesn’t seem like a title track. You’d think a title track would be a bit flashier than some dated DJ Mustard hyphy-like beat with pretty pitiful trap percussion and plastic vocal production that makes the girls sound admittedly less inhuman than usual. In fact, they sound more human here than ever, maybe because they’re surrounded by one of the stiffest R&B instrumentals I’ve ever heard, and partly because some of the background vocal melodies are actually pretty catchy, even if the chorus makes it clear that none of it matters since the non-existent pay-off is not worth any of the similarly void build-up. This is a fine, rather understated song where the girls mostly just flex – which is pretty unheard of for a dance-pop track – so I have no issue with it but this could have actually been good... and was once again watered down by manufactured factory-sealed production. Speaking of talented women being let down by production...

#22 – “pov” – Ariana Grande

Produced by Oliver Frid, TBHits and Mr. Franks

So we got the obviously planned pop smashes out of the way from Positions so now it’s time to see what the fans are really gravitating to and to my surprise, it’s the closer. This is the fan favourite from the record and is just now charting because “motive” dropped out and it’s clear why this one is the preferred track. It takes somewhat of an introspective outlook but very much through an immature, lovestruck tone running through the track and its really sweet lyrical content, where she just expresses how much her partner loves her to the point of her even feeling some bizarre envy in the chorus, as she wants to reach a level of self-love comparable to how her partner feels about her. She wants to see why her partner loves her this much despite what she perceives as tragic flaws. By the bridge, she reaches a conclusion that there isn’t any emotional baggage coming with this relationship anymore, a natural book-end to her “leaving her baggage at the door” in the opener of the album. I love the vocal melodies here, with her multi-tracked cooing really shining beautifully amongst the flourishes of strings and more subtle pianos, with trap-adjacent snapping percussion that is actually well implemented and adds a sense of casualness to the song that would otherwise perhaps seem too melodramatic for Ariana. Also, the last line in the chorus is admirable and it works as a perfect closer to the record.

Conclusion

So there is a single good song here, and that is “pov” by Ariana Grande which snags Best of the Week, and, sure, while I like Dave on “Straight Murder (Giggs & David)”, Giggs royally screws up so it can only get the Honourable Mention. For Worst of the Week it’s going to The Kid LAROI just in general for both “WITHOUT YOU” and “ALWAYS DO”, with the latter only being slightly more tolerable. I guess I can give the Dishonourable Mention to Giggs as well for whatever “Buff Baddies” is. Sigh... here’s this terrible week’s top 10.

Thank you for reading my uncharacteristically cynical and just mean ramblings on pop music this week. You can follow me @cactusinthebank on Twitter, I promise I’m not as angry on there. See you next week for hopefully something better than this.

[keyofjetwolf]

Jet Wolf Summarizes Act 45

The manga and I kind of hate each other. This is unfortunate, but still, I’m determined to come out of this with something. Rather than spend energy on a liveblog that’s increasingly negative, I’m reading each manga act (mostly) silently, and then writing up summaries at the end. I won’t pull my punches. There’s going to be criticism and snark about the manga, either wholesale or in details. If that isn’t a thing you feel like reading, please skip this post!

It’s not that I’m disappointed by how surprised I’m not by anything that happened here. It’s more like the resigned haze of going through a vaguely unpleasant experience. Like going to the dentist. You’ll never be happy to go, but you take a deep breath every six months and sit in the chair and get on with it.

Only this is weekly. And I can’t put it off for three years. ALSO I DON’T GET A LITTLE PLASTIC TOY AT THE END WHERE IS MY LITTLE PLASTIC TOY GOD DAMMIT

Anyway, I hate myself, SO IT’S MANGA TIME.

A brand new volume brings the same old shit, as we open with the Inners incapacitated and helpless. Remember how furious I was back in Crystal that I spent several hours combing through the fucking thing to calculate how much collective time the Inner Senshi spent knocked out or otherwise unable to fight? LITTLE DID I KNOW THAT WOULD BE THE MOST ACCURATE FUCKING PART OF THE WHOLE SERIES.

So the Outers burst in, all eyeless and mysterious. But not so mysterious that Haruka can’t be a fucking asshole to Michiru, who is also there. They transform in full view of the Quartet, which in no way seems contradictory to their vows to keep everyone safe. They free the Inners, who spend the next twenty pages or so simply saying the Outers’ names and otherwise doing nothing. Or so you’d think. Off-panel, the girls stand at their portable mini-bar and talk about their job search while CPR dummies in cheap store-bought Senshi costumes seamlessly replace them. After about fifteen minutes, Michiru has joined them. She didn’t bother with a stand-in. Nobody on-panel notices.

Artemis is a cat again. Minako picks up the vodka, pours a shot, and then drinks directly from the bottle.

At Usagi’s house, she’s suffering from Black Rose Syndrome. They still manage to work in Mamoru.

Back in the fight with the Quartet, Pluto lays down the most absurd fucking shit that I actually yelled when I read it.

THIS DOESN’T MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE

"We can’t avoid our destiny, which is protecting Usagi (and Mamoru too for no fucking good reason I guess), so we’ll do all we can to do the thing we are destined to do to overcome that destiny in order to make a new one which will be identical in all respects to the old one for the next thousand years, minimum.”

SAYING “FATE” AND “DESTINY” A LOT DOESN’T MEAN YOU’RE ACTUALLY DOING ANYTHING TO AFFECT IT PLUTO AND YOU OF ALL PEOPLE SHOULD GET THAT

This entire part makes me so fucking angry. If the manga has reinforced anything, it’s the idea of its characters having exactly no will or control over anything that happens do them. Their personalities are paper thin and their devotion never justified, so literally all that’s left is “because reasons”. And if you want that as a central point of your story, by all means. But you don’t ALSO then get to wave your hand and try to claim this dramatic push toward freedom and choices. IT’S NOT AN “IT’S COMPLICATED” RELATIONSHIP STATUS HERE YOU’VE NOT PUT IN THE WORK TO EARN THAT AND I RESENT YOU TRYING

Or put another way:

Anyway, through all of this, the Inners have been trying to reach Usagi, but she caught mono from Mamoru and it’s not working. So the Outers try, and THAT Usagi picks up. Off panel, Rei drains the last of her whiskey, throws the bottle into the wall, and storms out.

Usagi’s wide awake now and reduced to tears that the Outers showed back up again. I know I always feel the same level of emotion when thinking of a reunion with a small group of people I had five conversations with, only one of which was not directly threatening in some way. IT IS THE STUFF FEELINGS ARE MADE OF

Michiru’s mirror reappears, acknowledging her existence and thereby proving itself unique in all the Sailor Moon mangaverse.

Usagi runs outside, only to see Mamoru running to her. He heard her voice calling out to him. I can’t help but think that things would be a lot more bearable if earbuds had been invented.

You know, something I’ve had to deal with hearing a lot since starting this rewatch project is how the characters are so much smarter in the manga.

The time period between all the Inner Senshi entering that tend and the Outers arriving was, at absolute best, about ten minutes. The Inners were going to the exact same circus show every single day for like two weeks, and the bad guys were laying their global conquest plan WITH THEM RIGHT THERE, so effectively that they could spring it in less time than it takes to watch the average Steven Universe episode, and they still didn’t know what the fuck was going on until someone else told them. I’m not saying the anime had everyone operating at peak observational performance here, I’m just saying I don’t want to hear shit about comparative intelligence again. THE NARRATIVE MAKES CONVENIENT FOOLS OF ALL

Chibs runs through town, noticing how dark it’s getting and how generally shitty Juuban is. Usagi and Mamoru catch up to her, just in time to unite with the other Senshi for ~drama~. Zirconia and Nehellenia appear with my new favourite phrase.

USE IT AT YOUR LOCAL GROCERY STORE AND ENJOY THE REPERCUSSIONS

Immediately, Usagi coughs up blood and collapses. HARUKA IS ALARMED

Michiru finishes her wine and moves to the brandy.

Lots of things GLOW and Pegasus answers the call of “could this possibly be less interesting”. He appears out of nowhere and utilizes what is without question the creepiest fucking “good guy” power I have ever seen.

THE POWER TO MAKE PEOPLE EIGHT YEAR OLDS

GOD I AM SO UNSETTLED RIGHT NOW THAT PEGASUS CAN JUST DO THIS AT WILL

What purpose does this de-aging serve, you ask? WHO THE FUCK KNOWS THE STORY DOESN’T FEEL YOU NEED AN ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION

Then Pegasus fades, and so do Usagi and Mamoru, and the Senshi freak out as they realize that means they have to carry the story on their own. But the issue realizes what a terrible idea that is too, and it shifts to Chibs and Hotaru, who have run off alone to pursue Nehellenia. Why just them? FUCK YOU THAT’S WHY

They encounter the Quartet, and Hotaru spends a not inconsiderable amount of time trying to convince them that they’re really good. I would like to point out how this is the first time literally anyone in this story hasn’t killed a mini-boss on sight, and how nonsensical and contrived it feels because of that. ONCE AGAIN THIS WAS SO FUCKING EASY TO AVOID

Then shit kind of happens I guess, it’s hard to tell. There are orbs and mirrors and people sucked into both. Then I think they go to Nehellenia, or maybe she’s at a rummage sale and delighted by all the savings.

Next time:

MAMORU’S LONE DISTRESSING NIPPLE

[knoxxed]

what light tastes like

( Los Angeles is Jeremy Knox’s frown of concern whenever Jean pushes himself to the point of strain, the delighted grin when Jean surprises him. It’s cat fur being one more reason to stop wearing black. 

 Los Angeles is joining a starting line including but not limited to a kitchen witch, a seer, and a werewolf. It’s Jean never once being asked to confirm or deny who or what he is. 

 Los Angeles takes some getting used to.)

(Urban Fantasy!AU) for Lilly, @crazy-like-a-f0x (it’s not letting me tag you properly, i’m sorry!) for @aftgexchange‘s Summer Exchange 

It comes to Jean in flashes, after.

The realization–Kengo Moriyama is dead. Riko’s hands on his neck, slamming his face into the floor, again, again, again. The white hot bite of a knife. The way his fingers slip on the keys of his cellphone typing out a single message to Renee. Renee. Her face hovering over his, voice gentle, firm, impossible, as she hefts him to his feet.

What he remembers most clearly is the panic in his chest as she guided him outside into the night, into Minyard’s car. The way he protested, begged, half-conscious from pain.

They have it–I can’t–still in there, please–can’t leave, please, Renee–

Renee disappeared from his side for hours, for seconds. When she returned there was a birdcage with no door cradled in her arms; inside was a snow white dove.

Jean clutched it to his aching ribs and sobbed.

Two weeks after Jean flees the Nest, Kevin makes a deal with Jeremy Knox. Three weeks after Jean flees the Nest, Jean is recovering in his bed at Abby’s house. He watches the Trojans lose against the Ravens, watches Knox announce their treason on national television.

Knox says, I spoke to Jean earlier this week, says, He just won’t be back in black, says, I think we have a lot to learn from each other.

Knox says, Next year is going to be amazing, and the world believes him.

Jean sleeps, and he dreams of darkness.

He dreams of birds with burning wings, of glinting knives, of cages submerged in water.

Jean wakes up gasping. The dove at his bedside is thrashing in its cage.

He doesn’t go back to sleep.

Jeremy Knox picks him up from LAX at four in the morning on a Sunday, looking sleep heavy and bundled up in a USC sweatshirt that has seen better days. He’s holding two to-go mugs, the steam swirling in the morning air, and his face lights up when he sees Jean approaching.

“Jean Moreau,” Knox greets, sounding fond for reasons Jean can’t fathom. Jean is reminded of the times he’d had Knox as a mark–the way he was an absolute nightmare to defend against paired with the way he’d smile and seek Jean out at the end of each match. He’s never understood Jeremy Knox, and he doesn’t think that’ll change now that they’re on the same team.  

(Not for the first time Jean thinks he’s made a mistake in coming to LA, but there’s nothing to be done about it now.)

“Knox,” is all Jean says, and follows his new captain out of the terminal.

“It’s good to have you here,” Knox says as they walk through the parking lot; Jean can’t find it in him to agree with him. “I brought you a drink,” he continues, nonplused by Jean’s silence, offering out a cup. Jean takes it automatically, then eyes it warily.

“What is it?”

“Just try it,” Knox says instead of answering, smiling vaguely and rubbing sleep from his eyes, “I think you’ll like it.”

Jean concedes without argument, absurdly figuring Jeremy Knox is near the bottom of the list of people who would willingly poison him.

It’s black tea. Strong but slightly sweet, cut with milk. It’s good, but more than that it’s familiar. A memory is there, edging at the back of his brain–salty air, the smell of baking bread, the sound of his mother humming along to the radio.

Jean is jolted from the memory as they reach Knox’s parking spot. He drives a rusting pickup truck. This, in itself, isn’t out of the ordinary. What’s out of the ordinary is the small cat peering up at Jean from the passenger’s seat.

“Cleo,” Knox scolds as he stores Jean’s bags. He climbs into the truck and reaches across the bench seat to scoop the animal into his arms. “We talked about this,” he mutters exasperatedly into her fur before letting her squirm away into the center seat, curling up against Knox’s thigh. She’s a tiny thing, dusty brown and striped, with large yellow eyes that stare back at Jean with an unnerving intelligence.

“Jean, this is Cleo. Cleo, Jean,” Knox introduces cheerfully when they’re settled, pulling out onto the freeway before abruptly frowning. “Shit. I hope you don’t mind cats.”

Knox confirms Jean’s growing suspicions unprompted a few weeks later.

“She’s my familiar,” Knox says, running a hand through mussed hair that’d be the same color as Cleo’s fur if not lightened by the sun.  

They’re the only two members of the team occupying the USC dorms over the summer, so the weeks leading up to the admission have been filled with getting to know both L.A. and Jeremy Knox–whether Jean likes it to not. The captain’s optimism is almost as overwhelming as his work ethic, and Jean is beginning to understand that once Knox sets his mind to something he doesn’t give up. Jean doesn’t know if he’s relieved or annoyed that this seems to be applied to him as well; Knox hasn’t left him alone, or even seemed like he really wanted to.

“Familiars are more or less supposed to act as guide and protector,” Knox explains between bites of pancake. They’re at a small diner around the block from the dorms, grabbing an early breakfast after their morning run. Jean tends to startle awake from nightmares before the sun even rises these days, and Knox is a naturally early riser (“I grew up on a farm–can’t shake the habit,” he’d explained). This combination had led to an unexpected amount of diner breakfasts with his captain “She mostly just helps with my anxiety, though.”

They’d left Cleo behind, napping in a sunspot on the living room floor. She’d barely twitched her tail when Knox passed a soft hand over her spine in goodbye before they’d left.

“Have you always had her?” Jean finds himself asking, and Knox visibly perks up at his contribution.

“Nah, I wish. I was eleven, I think?” He hums thoughtfully into his cup of tea. “She was just a kitten back then. She found me when I needed her–that’s usually how it works.”

Jean thinks its a bit absurd that a stray cat wandering into his life could have offered Knox any sort of guidance–but he’s not about to tell him that.

To Jean’s surprise, it’s Alvarez who corrects him on his assumption.

“She’s not a cat,” Alvarez snorts into her water bottle when they’re both on the bench, throwing him a judging stare. Her and Laila had come up to L.A. for the weekend, and the four of them had found their way to the practice courts. Jean is still begrudgingly under no-contact restriction, but he’d gotten in a good workout nonetheless. “Seriously, Moreau, haven’t had much exposure to magic, huh?”

Jean levels her a blank stare before turning back to watch Laila and Jeremy where they’re locked in a stalemate of shots and saves across the court. “You could say that.”

Alvarez hums, consideringly. “Okay, let me amend my previous statement: she’s not just a cat. I think the best way to put it is that she’s an extension of Jeremy? Like picture the universe reaching inside of him and taking out a part of his soul–it’s that part that manifested as Cleo.”

Jean doesn’t know what kind of expression is on his face–blank shock? Terror? It must not be too bad because Alvarez just laughs with a levity Jean can’t mirror.

“I know, weird right?” she grins at him, rolling her eyes. “From what I understand, Cleo is basically our beloved captain–plus some wisdom from the universe.” She shrugs. “I’ve kind of just accepted it at this point.”  

The apartment he shares with Knox is covered in plants. They’re lined on every windowsill, clustered in corners on the floor and the table. Knox cares for them all meticulously, watering them each at different intervals with differing amounts, talking quietly all the while. They seem to bloom a little brighter once he’s spoken to them. Knox seems to glow a little brighter once he’s spoken to them.

“You have to give them enough attention,” Knox explains when he catches Jean staring at him over the top of his book. “If they don’t know you believe in them, how can you expect them to grow?”

Jean doesn’t know what he expected his move to the Trojans to be like, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t an apartment filled with plants and sunlight. It wasn’t cups upon cups of tea, each somehow (magically? Jean really doesn’t know) always whichever kind Jean hadn’t known he’d wanted, but did. It wasn’t becoming familiar with Jeremy Knox, with his kindness, or the way that he often laughs at nothing in particular at all–it just happens sometimes, like all the light inside him bubbles over.

Jean didn’t expect these things, but he refuses to dwell on them long enough to discover if he minds.

“He’s a kitchen witch,” Jean admits to Renee a few months later, a declaration that’s met first with silence on the other end of their routine Skype call, and then– “What!”

A muffled bark of laughter and a scramble of feet. Onscreen Renee sighs, but it sounds amused, and suddenly Allison Reynolds is budging into frame.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the dealer says, sounding anything but. The smile on her face is near-predatory. “Did you just say that Jeremy Knox, USC’s patented Sunshine Boy, is, in fact, a kitchen witch?”

His roommate had never come out and said as much, but Jean had put together the pieces. He quirks an eyebrow at Renee and nods in confirmation.

Reynolds practically cackles at that, whipping out her phone. “Oh my god, Kevin’s going to die. It’s all his domestic fantasies come to life.” She stands, typing furiously as she walks offscreen. Jean hears a door shut, laughter fading, and then he and Renee are alone.

“You know,” Renee says after a moment, circumventing the tension that Kevin’s name tends to bring, “I had thought he’d be a werewolf. The Trojans always seemed to run like pack.”

“It was… unexpected,” Jean concedes. “Alvarez is the actual werewolf. There are others on the team as well, but Jeremy is still their alpha.” He sounds confused even to this own ears. (To be fair, it was very nontraditional. Alvarez’s explanation to Jean on the matter when she and Laila were on campus in July had consisted of a brusque, “It doesn’t matter that he’s not a wolf, Moreau, he’s our chosen alpha. We’re living in progressive times here, please.”)

“So he’s Jeremy, now?”

Of course that’s what Renee chose to parse from that explanation. She’s smiling at him, far too knowing, and Jean huffs. “You’re reaching, Walker.”

Renee hums thoughtfully, and it’s something that Jean appreciates: she listens, and when she chooses to reply each word has been fully considered. When she finally speaks it’s with a genuine smile.

“Los Angeles sounds like a wonderful place.”

Los Angeles is many things. Jean has been here six months, and that’s about all he’s been able to solidly conclude.

Los Angeles is no-contact play until mid-July as prescribed by the team physician, months longer than would have been allowed at the Nest. It’s weekly appointments with his therapist stipulated in his contract.

Los Angeles is Jeremy Knox’s frown of concern whenever Jean pushes himself to the point of strain, the delighted grin when Jean surprises him. It’s a shared apartment on the eighth floor, one that’s lined with large windows and filled with plants. It’s cat fur being one more reason to stop wearing black.

Los Angeles is joining a starting line including but not limited to a kitchen witch, a seer, and a werewolf. It’s Jean never once being asked to confirm or deny who or what he is.

Los Angeles takes some getting used to.

Jeremy gives him a cactus for Halloween.

He leaves it on Jean’s side table for him to find when he wakes up from his post-class, pre-practice nap (Because that’s a thing he does now. Naps.). It’s a tiny thing, maybe an inch and a half across, in a blue painted pot. He put a bow on it and everything. Jean squints at it and goes to find his roommate.

Jeremy is entrenched in his thesis work, glasses on, chewing distractedly on a pen–he barely notices Jean approaching until Jean sticks the plant practically under his nose.

“What is this?”

Jeremy blinks up at him owlishly. “A… cactus?” the confusion clears and he frowns. “Wait, don’t you like it?”

Jean sighs and sits on the other end of the couch. “Yes, I–thank you. I meant, why?”

Jeremy just blinks again. “It’s Samhain,” he says, as if that should be obvious.

“It’s what?”

“It’s Halloween!” Jeremy chirps, smiling now.

Jean frowns; he doesn’t think Jeremy is understanding his point. “Yes, but… do people usually give each other gifts on Halloween?” Not that Jean’s celebrated it, but from the way Laila and Alvarez had talked, it seemed like a children’s holiday–or an excuse to dress up in costume and party.

Jeremy leans back on the couch and looks across at Jean. “Not everybody… but we do in my family,” he shrugs. “It’s a bigger deal for some of them, but it’s not like I can really drop by to celebrate so–I dunno. Thought it’d be nice to celebrate with you too.” He smiles at Jean, backlit by the setting sun coming through the window, and he–Jean could swear he was glowing, radiating light.

Jean shakes his head, looking at the cactus in his lap instead. He cups his hands carefully around the pot. “Thank you,” he says, and Jeremy hums happily, turning back to his work.

Jean manages to make it until January without anyone finding out about him, which, honestly, is better than he’d let himself hope. But better doesn’t stop the panic that rises when Jeremy (because yes, he’s Jeremy now) stumbles into their bedroom unawares, back early from errands, breaking off his rant about grocery lines mid-sentence as he notices Jean on the floor.

Cradling a birdcage.

“Jean?” Jeremy asks cautiously, head tipped to the side in curiosity. His eyes are locked on the cage. “Is that–a bird?”

Jean’s mouth is suddenly dry, and he finds himself floundering for words. His grip on the cage goes white-knuckled.

“It’s a dove,” he manages, finally. Obviously. He wants to run but he’s frozen.

“A dove,” Jeremy repeats, leaning against the doorframe to their bedroom. He looks a bit bewildered, considering; Jean finds himself distracted by how Jeremy hasn’t tried to come any closer after finding him. Suddenly Jeremy straightens, a small grin growing on his face.

“Jean Moreau, have you been hiding a familiar?”

It’s said innocently, half in jest. Jean thinks he could take it as an out, thinks that might have been Jeremy’s intention. Jean knows his roommate well enough now to know that if Jean wanted to keep this secret, he could.

Which is why it’s all the more strange and terrifying that he finds himself spilling the truth.  

What he was was human. A cloverhand with the ability to see the fae, to see magic. To his family, this made him valuable. It made him a bartering piece.

What he became was collateral. A prisoner to the game and to the Nest, kept pet to the self-proclaimed Raven King. He was both guard and whipping boy. They broke him, again, again, and still they demanded more. They tore the soul from his body, trapped it in a cage. To instill obedience, they said. Perfect loyalty in a perfect court.

What he is is a gallowglass. Soulless. Even freedom couldn’t change that.

It’s awkward afterward. Of course it is. Jeremy is frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed, hands clutched tight to his sleeves. Jean can’t blame him, because now Jeremy knows. Not everything, no details, but enough. He knows that Jean is soulless, because his soul is sitting in a cage on his lap in the middle of their bedroom.

“Okay,” Jeremy says finally, snapping out of his daze. “Okay.” Jean braces himself for judgement, and–

“This calls for tea.”

Jeremy flees the room for the kitchen, Cleo close on his heels. Jean blinks.

“What.”  

A result of living with a kitchen witch is the way the teakettle water seems to boil in no time at all as Jeremy flits around their small dining area, pulling herbs from various jars on various shelves, pinching and rolling them into two identical teabags.

“Do you want a cup?” Jeremy asks belatedly, distractedly when Jean stumbles into the kitchen after him. He doesn’t wait for Jean to answer before continuing, shaking his head. “No, of course I’ll make you a cup. Tea always makes things better.”

Jeremy doesn’t look at him until they’re seated across from each other at their tiny kitchen table,  knees almost knocking, their steaming, sweet-smelling mugs in hand.

“Okay,” Jeremy starts, taking a big breath. He holds it. Exhales. “Jean.”

Fuck, this is really happening. “Yes?”

“In the cage. That dove is your soul?”

Jean nods, staring down into his tea.

“Okay,” Jeremy repeats, then frowns. “Jean?”

“What?”

“Please don’t tell me you’ve been hiding your soul stuffed under your bed in some box.”

Jean opens his mouth to defend himself, then closes it again because that is exactly what he has been doing.

“Jean,” Jeremy cries, looking stricken. The teakettle begins to heat unbidden, sensing his distress. “The poor thing could’ve suffocated!”

Jean sighs. “It’s not a real bird, Jeremy, it doesn’t need–“

“Damn right it’s not a bird, Jean. That’s your soul! You’ve been keeping your soul stuffed under the bed!” Jeremy exclaims disbelievingly, surprisingly fierce.

Jean frowns. What is there to say? Once more, the perplexity of Jeremy Knox rears its head. It doesn’t take much to get him riled up–but it’s only ever defensive, on behalf of other people. He has no issue standing toe to toe with Jean, but only ever does it for the sake of protecting Jean from himself. So Jean just lowers his eyes and says nothing.

Seeing this, Jeremy deflates.

“Drink your tea, okay? It’ll get cold,” Jeremy says, voice gone gentle. His knee nudges Jean’s under the table.

Neither speaks again until their cups are near-empty.

“Why-” Jeremy starts, then snaps his mouth shut. He says instead, “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Jean is wary of what his question could be, but nods anyway.

“You said you got your soul back once Renee got you out of the Nest. You have it with you here, now. If that’s true, why haven’t you… put it back?” Jean is already shaking his head even as Jeremy continues, “I don’t really know how it works, but…”

“I can’t. I’ve tried,” Jean says.

The look on Jeremy’s face is all kinds of devastating, honestly, and Jean isn’t good with sympathy, never having been shown it; he looks away.

“There has to be a way,” Jeremy insists, but Jean just shakes his head again. He keeps his eyes on the row of succulents Jeremy has lined along the kitchen window instead of the kitchen witch himself.

“I’ve tried. Renee has tried,” Jean emphasizes, both of them knowing what a strong witch Renee Walker was known to be. He frowns, frustrated. “There are ways to make a gallowglass, but they can’t be unmade. It’s faerie magic–what’s done can’t simply be undone.”

“Faerie magic,” Jeremy mutters to himself, staring into his tea.

Jean waits for him to reach a verdict: at best, Jean is expecting to be asked to leave, to switch rooms. At worst, he’s expecting to be kicked off the team. The dread is just settling in his stomach when a fluffy bundle pounces into his lap. It turns in a neat circle once, curling up before settling in to nap.

“Cleo,” Jeremy scolds, but he’s half-hiding a smile behind the rim of his mug. The tension is broken and the dread lifts from Jean’s shoulders.

“It’s okay.” Jean surprises himself saying it, because it is. But then a thought strikes him. “Is-is it okay?”

Cleo is Jeremy’s familiar, an extension of himself. His mind makes the connections unbidden, the way it had all those month ago when Alvarez had spelled it out for him. Jeremy to Cleo to Jean to the dove. The cat is a part of Jeremy’s soul, warm and grounding and tucked against Jean’s stomach.

“Of course it’s okay,” Jeremy murmurs. “It’s you.” He’s looking at Jean with clear eyes, fiddling with a teaspoon. Something warm settles in Jean’s chest, a knot loosening as Jeremy smiles at him, gathering his mug and heading to the counter to fix another cup.

Of course, he says. It’s you.

As easy as that.

(“Don’t put it back in the dark,” Jeremy says that night, voice gentle as the touch at Jean’s elbow, anchoring him to their room, to this moment. Jean puts the cage on the dresser instead.

Much later, when nightmares more vicious than usual shatter him awake, Jean hears a dull thump and the patter of feet before Cleo is curling up on the bed next to him. She butts her head against his stomach, and Jean focuses on the way her tiny chest rises and falls with each breath as his shaking slowly subsides.

He lowers a hand to her head, gentles it down her back, and lets the quiet rumble of her purring piece him back to the present.)

Having his soul on display is… incredibly distracting. Which is to say that for the week following Jean can hardly keep his eyes off it when they’re in the same room. He’s self-conscious of it at first, before he notices Jeremy having a similar problem.

Cleo is the giveaway, of course. She’d been obviously curious the first couple days, but a few firm looks from Jeremy had kept her at a distance. Then Jean had come home from class on a Thursday to find Cleo on his dresser, budged right up to the cage and napping in the sunlight.

“She thinks it’s lovely,” Jeremy explains later when they’ve both settled into their beds. Tucked to Jeremy’s stomach, Cleo shifts in protest, letting out a soft chirping rumble. Jeremy rolls his eyes. “The loveliest thing,” he corrects. “I would say, ‘Her words, not mine,’ but I don’t think that excuse works in our case.”

Jeremy grins at him from across the space between their beds. The bedside lamp could be playing tricks on him, but Jean thinks he sees a flush dusting Jeremy’s cheeks.  

From the cage across the room there is a soft flutter of wings.

The thing is, Jeremy talks to the dove.

Jean doesn’t think he’s meant to find out, but he does. It’s an eerie reversal of the night Jeremy saw the dove, but this time it’s Jean almost walking into their room unannounced. He stops himself just in time when he hears Jeremy’s voice.

He’s sitting on the end of Jean’s bed, next to the birdcage… talking. Just talking, almost in the way he does with his plants.

He’s saying, I really want to win this season, for all of us, and I can’t imagine what this year would have been without him, you know?, and I wish you could tell me how to open this cage–I think that would make Jean very happy.

The moment feels soft. Fragile. Jean leaves quietly, before Jeremy can finish, and before he can hear any more.

They’re finishing some late night homework in the living room when Jeremy brings up the idea. Jean is laid across the couch with a lit reading, Cleo curled up by his knee, and Jeremy is sprawled across the floor surrounded by thesis work.

“Hey, what are you doing for Spring Break?” Jeremy asks out of the blue, and Jean cranes his head back to stare at him.

“You think I have plans?” Jean replies, turning back to his book. On the floor, Jeremy huffs a laugh, fidgets. Silence. Then–

“What if you visited Renee? I mentioned it to her, she’d love to see you.”

Jean files away those bits of information, that Jeremy and Renee talk, and that Jeremy and Renee talk about him.

“Okay,” is all he says, and Jeremy looks satisfied, turning back to his work. “I’ll text her.”

It’s no surprise to either of them when he’s on a flight to North Dakota two weeks later.

It’s a good week–Jean is surprised by how good. It’s relaxing, just Renee, Stephanie, and him. He gets daily updates from Laila and Alvarez on their trip to Arizona to see Laila’s family, and the Trojan group chat is as active as ever with everyone sharing whatever outlandish thing they’d done that week. The only oddity is Jeremy–or rather the lack of him.

It’s been complete radio silence from the captain since he’d said goodbye to Jean at the airport drop-off. At first Jean isn’t concerned; Jeremy hadn’t talked about his Spring Break plans, but Jean figures he’s plenty busy spending time with his family. But it’s still weird. Regardless of if Jean replies, Jeremy constantly blows up his phone with Snaps or texts or random links to pictures of cute dogs.

On Wednesday, Jean is watching a movie with Renee in the living room when he gets a text from Alvarez.

8:42 P.M.: have u talked to jer??? we havent heard from him all week

8:43 P.M.: and hes not answering his phone

8:43 P.M.: and like… now that im checking i cant feel him through the pack link?

8:44 P.M.: NOT IN A “HES DEAD” KINDA WAY

8:44 P.M: its just kinda fuzzy. like theres a blur where he should be

Jean feels cold all over, and then the dread start to pool disproportionately in the pit of his stomach. There’s no reason to be worried, Jean assures himself, Jeremy is just busy. And for some reason he’s blocking the pack link. It’s coincidence.

He pulls up Jeremy’s contact and presses call. Jean finds himself holding his breath, but the call doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to voicemail. Jeremy’s cheery answering recording chatters across the line, and Jean hangs up without leaving a message. There is a knot in his chest, tightening with each passing moment. His phone buzzes as Alvarez sends him another message.

8:45 P.M.: were lowkey freaking out jean

8:46 P.M.: jeremy doesnt do this kinda shit

“Jean?” Renee asks, and Jean jumps at her voice. From the open doorway to Jean’s guest room across the room the rattling of metal can be heard. The dove must be agitated, Jean observes absently.  “Jean, are you alright?”

“Alvarez texted,” he says, and a small part of him is surprised at how blank he sounds. “No one’s heard from Jeremy all break. His phone is dead, or off. They’re worried. She said–Alvarez can’t feel him over the pack bond.” His phone buzzes again.

8:49 P.M.: ANSWER YOUR PHONE MOREAU

8:51 P.M.: I haven’t heard from him. His phone went straight to voicemail.

When Jean looks up he expects worry from Renee–surprise, or words of assurance. She is fond of Jeremy Knox (who isn’t?). And when he looks over, the worry is there. But the surprise is suspiciously absent. The shock of that freezes him.

“What?” he chokes. “What do you know?”

Renee takes a deep breath and frowns, folding her hands in her lap as she turns to face Jean head on.

“He didn’t want you to find out,” she starts, and Jean stares at her.

“What did he do, Renee?” Jean repeats, a hollow desperation clawing at his insides like it hadn’t in months. “Where is he?”

“He didn’t say exactly where, but I assumed…”

“Renee.”

“If Alvarez can’t feel him, he’s probably in the Summer Court.”

The dread from before spills over; Jean’s world narrows to a point. He knows firsthand the cruelty of the faerie courts. Even the Summer Court, the most benevolent of them all, is the last place Jean would send Jeremy, and yet he’s gone, unasked, on Jean’s behalf. It’s suicide.

Renee is speaking to him again, but Jean can’t understand her. His phone is buzzing incessantly on his lap. Laila is calling him. He fumbles with it, but manages to answer.

“Jean! What the hell, where have you–“

“I know where he is.”

Staticky silence.

“Oh thank god, where is he?”    

Jean swallows and closes his eyes. “The Summer Court. He–planned it, or something. With Renee, I don’t know. He’s seeking audience with the Faerie Queen.” As soon as he says it he knows it’s true.

He hears Alvarez yelling over the line, and Laila is asking more questions Jean doesn’t know the answer to. As for one, as for why, well. There’s really only one reason it could be.

“He’s–so stupid.” Jean scrubs a hand over his eyes. He’s trembling. “He’s doing it for me, the fucking idiot, if I’d known I would have never…”

Never left California. Never let Jeremy risk this.

Beside him, Renee shifts and says softly, “Don’t you think that’s why he didn’t tell you?”

Jean digs his fingers into his thigh, grounding himself. “Stupid,” he repeats.

“Jeremy has the monopoly on stupidity, Jean,” Laila says, sounding calmer now despite her worry. “We knew that. He cares too much.”

Jean huffs a laugh, a slight choked thing.

“What do we do now?” he asks. Laila is quiet for a while.

“We trust that he knew what he was doing. We trust him. And we wait.”

Renee tells him that the conversation with Jeremy went something like this:

“Hey Renee–would it be okay if Jean came and stayed with you for Spring Break?”

“Of course, he’s always welcome. But, Jeremy–can I ask why you’re the one asking, not him? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry–didn’t mean to worry you. Jean’s doing really well actually. He seems… happier lately.”

“That’s good. Then why do you need to get him out of California?”

Of course Renee saw right through him. Jeremy was quiet for a long moment, then continued.

“There’s something I need to do. And I don’t think that Jean would approve of me doing it.”

“Will he be safe if you do it?”

“If I do it right, I think it’ll really help him. I just… need some answers.”

“And what about you?”

“Hm?”

“He won’t like it much if you get hurt, Jeremy.”

“Oh!” Jeremy had laughed. “Well I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Jean gets the call four days later.

It’s been six hours since he landed in L.A. It’s been forty-five minutes since a door appeared on the dove’s cage; Jean hasn’t been able to take his eyes off it. He hasn’t dared open it, merely brought it with him to the couch where they’ve been ever since.

The callerID flashes as his phone begins to buzz. Jean answers on the first ring.

“Knox,” Jean says, and he doesn’t want to imagine what he sounds like. Awed, angry, concerned, fond. Jeremy had done it. Somehow, he had.

“Jean,” Jeremy says, his voice warm, tired. Jean could collapse under the weight of it.

“You’re back then.” His fingers clutch at the phone, and he wills his voice to remain steady.

“I am.”

Jean wants to ask him, wants to say, What have you done? What did you give them? Nothing comes without a price. What comes out is: “Where are you?” Somehow that feels more important at the moment.

“Um… about an hour outside Fresno? I think. I’m looking for where I left the truck.”

Jean doesn’t reply, and the silence hangs on the line.

“Jean, I’m–“ Jeremy starts, and Jean cuts him off because he can’t hear apologies from Jeremy right now. Not about this.

“Is Cleo with you?” There’s a moment, and then Jeremy laughs. Jean can hear his exhaustion, but it still warms him to his core.

(He could have been dead, he could have been gone, but he’s here, he’s on the other end of the line– )

“Yeah, she’s here.” A soft of sort relief settles over Jean’s bones. “She’s missed you.”

There are many things that Jean wants to say in that moment.

(I missed her, too.

You’re such a fucking idiot.

Please tell me you’re alright.

I never expected anything like you.)

What he says is: “Come home.”

The first thing Jean does when Jeremy walks through the door is hand him a cup of tea. Jeremy blinks at him, then at the cup, eyes lidded with sleep. He takes it, smiling, and Jean can finally breathe again.

At his feet there is Cleo, rubbing up against his calf, butting her head against him, meowing impatiently until he picks her up. She settles instantly, tucked in the crook of his arm.

“What did you give them?” Jean asks, because in the end that’s what it comes down to. But Jeremy just shakes his head, dismissive.

“Did it work?” he counters, eyes wide, and Jean gestures to the living room.

“Go see for yourself.” Jeremy does.

“There’s a door,” he says, quietly, knelt in front of the cage. He looks up at Jean, elated. “There’s actually a door!”

“Did you think there wouldn’t be?” Jean asks, sitting on the couch; Cleo jumps out of his arms to curl up on a cushion. Jean knows if there was even a chance he hadn’t succeeded, Jeremy wouldn’t have come back.

Jeremy moves to sit next to him, the cage between them. “Well no, but… they weren’t very specific with the how of it. Just that it would.”

“Jeremy,” Jean says after a moment on silence. “Faeries only work in equal exchange. What did you give them?”

“Nothing.” Jeremy looks suddenly frustrated, shifting to face him. “Nothing, Jean, I didn’t give them anything because there was nothing to exchange. It’s your soul. It’s yours.” Jeremy breathes deeply to calm himself down, and slumps back against the couch. “I just reminded them who they were dealing with.”

Jean is still, blinking at Jeremy’s vehemence. Then the wording strikes him.

“Who–who they’re dealing with?” Jean looks at the boy next to him, eyes glinting, practically alight in his frustration, in the name of protecting Jean. “Who are they dealing with?”

Immediately Jeremy’s eyes widen and he looks away. “I…” He chews his lip then sighs a long breath, resigned. “I never really told you, did I…? What I am.”

“You’re a witch. A kitchen witch,” Jean says, but Jeremy is shaking his head. Jean frowns, not understanding. “But you have a familiar. And the tea, and your plants…” he trails off, watching Jeremy carefully.

“My gram,” Jeremy starts, staring resolutely across the room. “My great, great, great grandmother–was a cloverhand. Like you.” He pauses, lets that sink in. “She caught the eye of one of the daoine sídhe, the fae. He was disguised as human, under glamour probably, but she saw through him instantly. She chose to let him court her, met him every step of the way… and eventually she became one of them.

“He wasn’t the Summer King at the time, but… A couple hundred years later, and he was. And she is Queen. And all of this is to say,” Jeremy takes a deep breath, finally looking at Jean. “That I have faerie blood, and a claim to the Court if I ever wanted it.” Jean’s eyes widen at that, and Jeremy quickly continues, hands held placatingly. “I don’t! I don’t want that, I already have the Trojan Court.”

Jean is silent as his brain scrambles to process this new information. Jeremy isn’t a witch–he’d never been a witch, Jean had just assumed. Jeremy is part fae, with a claim to the Summer Court. He’d used that influence to give Jean a chance.

When Jean doesn’t say anything Jeremy begins to fidget nervously. “Look, you’re probably freaking out, or like–like reading too much into it? But honestly I didn’t do anything, I just told them what they should already fucking know, because it’s your soul, Jean, like what the fuck–“

“Jeremy,” Jean tries to interrupt before the other boy can get too worked up–he was well on his way already.

“Yeah?” Jeremy is looking at him, nervous, and Jean wants to ask him why. Jean wants a lot of things lately, more than he’d ever thought possible–he wonders when that happened.

“Thank you,” is what he says instead.

And Jeremy smiles.

Jean doesn’t open the cage that night, or the night after that, or anytime in the week following. When he finally does it feels almost… too normal. It’s after practice on a Friday; they have no game that weekend, so there’s two days free to themselves. It’s a novel concept, one he never could have foreseen a year ago.

Jeremy is napping on the couch, Cleo snoozing on his stomach. Jean had left them out there to do some work at his desk, but found himself too distracted to get much done. His eyes keep straying to the cage on his desk, on the door and the dove behind it.

Almost before he realizes it he’s crossed the room, fingers twisting the latch; the door springs free. The dove is watching him cautiously, wings fluttering. Jean reaches inside, his hands gently cupped around its wings as he pulls it from the cage. His heart is pounding in his ears. The dove is shaking in his hands, warm and vividly alive. He brings it to his chest and presses it close.

One moment the dove is there, the next Jean’s palms are pressed empty to his chest. He’s notices he’s gasping, knees trembling. It feels like the first breath of air you take when you step outside in winter, like falling back asleep in the morning when there’s nothing to call you out of bed. Jean feels overwhelmed, he feels light, he feels… happy.

“Jean?” he hears Jeremy call sleepily from the living room, and then padded footsteps approach. “I’m sorry,” Jeremy says, rubbing sleepily at his eyes, “I fell asleep in the middle of our conversation, didn’t I? Thesis is just kicking my ass, and with playoffs coming up…” he trails off, noticing the sight in front of him: Jean shaking, the cage open and empty in front of him.

“You did it,” Jeremy whispers, eyes wide. “You did it!” he cheers, rushing forward, throwing an arm across his shoulders, and then Jean is turning into him, hands gripping at his waist and they’re hugging, gripping each other tight. Jeremy is laughing in his ear, and Jean–

Jean holds on.

(on ao3 here)

[limpblotter]

I keep his smile in my life

a/n: @midnigtartist‘s vague reincarnation got me thinking how Thomas felt when Hamilton died. (of course this is not historically canon whatsoever) warning: ANGST & canon-era timeline w/c: 3006

The President’s House was a lovely piece of work. It was a shame Washington didn’t live long enough to see its creation. Though he favored his New York City mansion he was a Southern man through and through. No doubt he would have loved the empty acreage of wide open spaces. A Parthenon planted on American soil. A place fit for a king and yet… it felt too big for Thomas. Thomas Jefferson, who inherited the massive land of Monticello, all 11,000 feet of space from the main floor to the cellars and hidden rooms below for the rest of his ‘property’, felt the president home to be too big. Too many floors, too much negative space to fill for a single, widowed man. He longed for his home in Monticello, an estate so beautiful that it almost masked the countless losses Thomas accumulated over the years. The home was cursed perhaps or perhaps it was Thomas who was the cursed one. For it seemed the house to precious and lovely, nestled in the state he adored, in the country he admired, only saw the worse of him and his life. Still, Martha loved that home. Their home, if it wasn’t for her he wouldn’t have constructed something so bold.

 “Sir, Thomas” A beautiful black woman entered the main office of the Presidential Home. She kept her eyes to the ground as she spoke in soft, submissive tones colored with a rudimentary grasp of proper English. “Yer’ parcel from Mister Ceracchi has arrived sir, as promised, I got it for you right away.”  

 “Bring it here, made sure no one has seen it, right?”

 “No sir, paid off the good man at the docks to hand it off to yer’ friend back in Virginia and told one of my boys to bring it here himself. He can’t read, can’t tell a soul who it be from, sir.” Sally crossed the room and placed the large box on his desk with care. “Took extra care made sure no one saw him give it to me either, sir.”

 “Good…” Thomas ran his hand through his thick hair and eyed the box. He shot Sally a narrowed eyed look and motioned her to leave. “Make some tea and leave me be for bit, darling. I won’t be taking any guests.” Sally bowed and walked herself out of the office. Once the door came together with an audible lock, indicating the iron clasp was in place and Thomas was alone. The president got up from his chair and walked around his desk eyeing the piece with a smirk. A year ago he had enlisted and personally funded an Italian sculpture to finish a project for him. A private one, so private he used a friend’s alias to help with the funding. Thomas, to most, was not a man of boisterous grandiosity. He grew up a rather reserved and shy little Southern boy. However since the loss of his wife, his return from Paris, America brought out a new side of him. 

Rather a certain “American” brought out a side of him he detested. An aggression, a nasty need to slap his macho bravado and take loud stands against him. Oh how he hated feeling heated and yet, now with the election of 1800 over and done. He had his President House in the South like he wanted, the quiet returned and he had the power to keep it that way...he found himself unhappy. He was yearning for that fire in his stomach. Thomas couldn’t seem to find it anywhere else but in that man. His hands grabbed the top of the box and ripped the carton open. Slowly he started to peeled thick, packing cloths from the piece and slowly unmasked the sculpture.

 “Oh…” His lips twitched, his fingers grasped the top of his cane a bit tighter as he bent over meeting the sculpted face at eye level. It wasn’t exactly the same...but he had to admit the likeness was physically perfect. The artist caught the air of ignorance he wanted. The intelligent, determined set eyes, strong nose, that chin and even the lines that indicated the pathetic peach fuzz he maintained. Thomas reached out, his large hand cupping the smooth underside of the sculpture's polished face. The contrast between the pearly white marble and himself was opposite as the real thing. The marble was cold against his rough fingertips but that didn’t stop him from tracing along the curve of his jawline. His fingers fanned out around his chin and very delicately his bent index finger skimmed over the corner of the bust’s lips. Lips that were pressed together in a stern frown. Lips that to most anyone else were wide with a smile or a coy smirk, a cocky curve but when it was towards him there was nothing but a sarcastic scowl or a tightly framed frown. Thomas didn’t mind. 

He lived for that disgruntled expression. His finger lingered around the lips then paused at the middle of the frown. He could feel the small dip where both of his lips met. Thomas’s entire body went ice cold, a sharp memory reared it's ugly head back at him. A memory he pushed aside over and over again. It turned his loins into a quivering wallop of nerves.

 Thomas decided to treat himself in the moment. The president of the United States stared into the empty, marbled eyes of his endorser and fiendish rival. “Hamilton~” He purred, reliving the first time he saw the immigrant man.

“Jefferson.” Hamilton looked up his cut curt and sharp. He could have sliced through a glass sheet with the tone of his voice. He sized up the tall, big haired man that waltzed into his Manhattan office like he owned it. Thomas beamed at Alex and uncharacteristically of him, Alexander stayed seated. He picked up his quill, dunking it a few times into ink; he continued to write as though he was alone. “What do you want?” 

The cabinet battle had come to a close, Alexander was revisiting his debt plan editing out parts that may appeal to the votes he needed. “Hamilton, Hamilton…” Thomas smirked, walking into his office of Treasurer. They had duked it out over Hamilton’s absurd plan to clear up the war debts and establish his bank. Honestly, Hamilton made some promising points, all of which attacked Thomas’s moral character in front of their peers. But Alexander was far from the popular vote, if it wasn’t for Washington’s shining recommendation, Jefferson was sure a vermin like him would have wasted away wherever he came from. A shame really, he was smarter than he seemed. “Can’t we cabinet members take time to chit-chat once in awhile.” “Some of us have work.” Alexander spat back, keeping his eyes on his documents. “Some of us aren’t given the job upon arrival and prance in with no idea what this country needs.” “Oh I know what the country needs, I wrote it, this little thing called the -- “ “Declaration of Independence. Truly a masterpiece, your prime, your peak so you should stop while you were ahead.” He smiled, his face still casted down. Thomas’s nose flared up in annoyance. Kid was quick. Even out on the cabinet floor he rattled Thomas’s good nature. In truth Thomas wasn’t one for conflict, which was probably why leaving America and not joining in the fight suited in so. He was reserved, so why, oh why did this creature from god knows where had to rear his ugly little head and pull out the devil in Jefferson. “Unless you’re here to read my plan, which we both know you are not because it's too many pages for you to understand, you can see yourself out of my office.” “You’ve got some nerve, kid.” He crossed the office floor, his cane clacking with every step. He stood at the front of Hamilton’s desk, casting a shadow down on his work. “You better watch your goddamn mouth or you might find yourself out of a job real soon.” He watched but Alexander didn’t make a sound. He continued to pen down his thoughts on his paper, Jefferson watching, waiting. Of course he was annoyed at the immense disrespect Alexander had for him. At the same time a good portion of his mind was fixated on how fast he scripted down his words, how his penmanship was near flawless as it was quick. Those nimble fingers writing down the feverish thoughts of a malinformed young man. “This isn’t war, Alexander, no one cares about anything that happened on your field. It's over, forgotten, you’re on my battlefield now. So I suggest you watch yourself.” “Funny,  you’re talking about being on your field but last I checked the only time you’ve been on a field is when you’re tossing around the hay with Miss Hemmings.” Thomas’s spine stiffened.

 “At least I didn’t sodomize the men I fought with.” Jefferson’s voice was ice water being doused down Alex’s head. It stung and caused his entire body to jerk. Hamilton missed a loop in one of his words, the mistake did not go unnoticed. Jefferson had hit a nerve now he was going to massage it a bit more. “I wasn’t even there but (bold) my god, did I hear how close you were to Colonel Laurens” 

“Don’t you dare say his name!” Alexander shot up from his desk. Thomas took a step back there was a fire in Alexander’s eyes. The fight of a lion who wasn’t done with war just yet. Alexander sized him up, his body tense for a fight… but this wasn’t how things were done anymore. Thomas wasn’t an enemy with a gun, he was a rival with a pen. Alexander felt the anger rise and fall inside of him, leaving only the empty hate to fester in his stomach. “Are we done?”

 Thomas got the strangest sense of delight out of watching him, it was hard to put Alexander in his place when it came to politics but morale? Thomas Jefferson was liked, reserved, the enemies he made didn’t have much to go by. He didn’t prattle and yell and beg for attention like Alexander. Hamilton exposed his ideals with the utmost aggression but exposed the points that touched him the most. “Far from it.”

 “Did you come here to talk to me about my past? Are you curious about what I’ve done. I didn’t take you to be so bold, Mr. Secretary.” Alexander growled low, “then again, who knows who you /do/ in Monticello.”

 Defiant. Arrogant. Disrespectful. Annoying. Blatantly perverse. Thomas wanted to put him in his place. He wanted to own him and destroy him, make an example out of him. The silence was weighed down by a silent tension. One that churned Jefferson’s Southern aristocratic stomach and instead of bringing a rage or ruffled expression to his face it brought a wide, toothy smile. Thomas didn’t speak, he smiled, his white teeth perfectly sculpted, gleaming. The longer Alexander stared up at his smile the more confused he got. The heavier the silence got until Hamilton could stay silent no more. “I have a debt plan to revise, I don’t have time to play your game, Thomas.”

 He said his name. He said his name with so much disdain Thomas could taste the bitterness in his voice. He was far from done harassing Hamilton now. Thomas didn’t say a word, he gently placed his hand, holding his cane, behind him and reached out with his other hand. To both of their surprise, Alexander did not flinch nor move away. His face did darken a few shades, anger? Most likely. Jefferson’s large hand curled under Alex’s jaw, his finger bent gently tilting him up so their gazes were evenly met. Thomas’s black, cold look as he asserted his dominance the best way he knew how when it came to those he deemed lesser than regular men. Alexander matched him with fiery eyes framed around bags upon bags of sleepless nights and restless days. 

He was baffled how someone could sound and look so alive but look so tired.

It was borderline charming.

 Thomas’s thumb stroked over the peach fuzz stubble  right under Hamilton’s lower lip. His tense frown loosened only just for Alexander to get a breath out past the smallest gap between his lips. His face was tired. Beyond tired it was guarded. Whatever wall Hamilton put between himself and people was wearing down. 

Thomas’s thumb paused at his lower lip. Taking action wasn’t something he was known to do easily...even around Alexander he steadied himself, studied the situation. Jefferson’s temper never flared too much at any given moment. His eyes widened a bit when a hand grazed the side of his face. He met Alex’s eyes, the tired fire never dimmed, as he ran his hand with less reserve and care along Thomas’s facial hair.

 Thomas’s smile was wicked a small fire in him sparked up that left Alexander looking less and less like himself. Thomas didn’t think he’d find Hamilton looking so weakened and tired. The weight of his work was showing, there was no one to show off his bravado too. No crowd to yell at. No one to prove anything to. He was here, alone with Jefferson. A man he despised. “Alexander~” He purred trying to stir the tension even more.

 “What” Hamilton quipped. Even in the position he was in, his smaller frame pressed against his desk as he stood and the space between Thomas was shortening fast, he defied him.

“...you are a brilliant man you know that” Thomas spoke softly, pulling his hand away. His fingers felt numb, as if he roasted them by the fire and every single nerve ending was shot. Alexander arched his brow he wasn’t in shock, he was fully aware of his brilliance. What he didn’t know was why Thomas was telling him this now. “Half of your argument was almost believable.” “I would say the same for yours but it was clear you thought that speech up from the top of your head.” He rolled his eyes, then looked away. “What you did here and in France is greatly appreciated; but while you’re trying to make a country run a mile I’m going to make it run a lifetime.” Thomas wished he had half the fire Alexander had, even if that fire was fueling the wrong side of history. “Maybe if you come down to the South I can sway your mind.” His voice was dangerously low, a gravelly sound that scratched at the back of his throat when he spoke. Hamilton leaned forward a it, unafraid of Thomas which only made the grumble grow. “I’m sure I know how to sway your mind” “You won’t, but I’d love to see you try. That is if you, a god-fearing man, is willing to do what you’re implying, Jefferson?” He was helpless. Thomas never felt a fire like his. A bite that wasn’t fuelled solely on malicious greed. Alexander truly believed in all those wild thoughts that he was going to make history. He truly believed the hours of hand aching writing and planning, he was going to change the world. Thomas...almost believed him to. He wanted to be part of whatever Hamilton was inventing even if it meant being part of the side that would stop him. How far would he go? How hard would he push. The idea of having an equal to combat his views was exciting. “Well Thomas? Are you going to tell me what a man like yourself is going to do with a man like me down in Monticello?” Thomas’s hands blanketed Hamilton’s face, the coy smirk Hamilton sported softened knowing well what was coming. Jefferson didn’t speak, he leaned in and gave him the taste of Virginia’s finest. “Thomas” 

“...Thomas?” The door opened, a short man with his shoulders hunched slightly stumbled in. He had a handkerchief to his mouth as he wandered in all of the sudden. Thomas pulled his hand away from the bust and ran it over his hair instead. He steadied himself, pulling himself out of the heated memory and back to reality.

 “Jemmy, stormin’ in on the President? A little unprecedented.” He chuckled, making a note to remind Sally what he meant by wanting ‘alone’ time. “What’s wrong?”

 James face turned pale for a second…Thomas moved his body shielding the bust from him, hoping he couldn’t see through his nervous smile. However, what Madison told him shook Thomas. Shook him hard and made him reach for the side of his desk for support.

 “Alexander Hamilton has died.”

Thomas felt his hand slip away from the bust behind his back. It simply didn’t make sense. Only a week ago, Alexander penned him a letter in secret of his next trip to the South. Only a few seconds ago, the fire that was Alexander Hamilton roared brightly in the hearth of America. In the fireplace of Thomas’s stomach now...gone? No trails of smoke, no warning. Nothing but singed, blacken marks on cold tiles. Ashes and soot of where once stood something so temptable and grand, a power that threatened to consume Thomas whole was simply...gone. In a moment. That childish smirk. The ink stained palms that heatedly touched every inch of him. The long winding debates over leather bound books. The moment of peace, Alexander looking out Thomas’s home and in that moment of his profile Thomas wanted to preserve that pensive stare in a bust. “Thomas would you...like to release a statement? An address?” Madison pressed, the silence growing unbearable now. Jefferson’s frame shrunk a bit, deflated almost. He gathered the tearless loss in his stomach and forged his own fire. He had to know, there was no other flame to keep him going. “No...no...no address have someone handle that.” He shooed his closest friend away. Madison nodded once, closing the door behind him. Before the door clicked shut, Thomas fell to his knees by his desk. His large hands cupping the cold, marble face of what once was. Shakily tracing the line of his lips, carving out with his nails where the smirk might have fallen on his face. What an ugly burn Hamilton had left on this world. What an ugly scar he left on this tender heart.