#i feel like i need to print out the headlines from when a local right wing politician called my school a factory of communists

[garbagequeer]

today i understood a lot about my workplace when i realized i was like the only one on my team who didnt work yesterday bc of the strike. im surrounded by insane people

[pendragonsandbuckleys]

Long Lost Papa Bear. Summary: James MacGyver – Oversight to those within the Phoenix Foundation – left his son at the mere age of ten in a pragmatic attempt at protecting him from the growing list of enemies making their way to his door. But walking out and abandoning are two different things, and when his son goes from estranged family to current employee, his methods of keeping an eye on him are only made easier. - A look into James’ time as the boss of the Phoenix Foundation, knowing full well that his own son is working beneath him. Word Count: 4,903 [Also on AO3]

When I was first recruited, I thought I could keep family and work separate and for a while, I did. But the more I worked, the more enemies I racked up and I knew one day they’d come after me like Murdoc came after you. I’d already lost your mother and I wasn’t about to risk losing you. 

Your grandfather helped me keep tabs on you. I was never really gone, son. I mean, you think you ended up working for me by accident? I was always in the background, nudging you in the right direction.

— James MacGyver, Season 2 Episode 23.

FEBRUARY 2000

Teeth grinding together; a low hiss escaped past his tongue as he dabbed away the blood with a saline-soaked cotton ball. Of all the places his target had to get a hit in, of course it was right on his temple – not an easy spot to hide from an inquisitive nine-year-old.

He should be relived. A major terror attempt thwarted, the culprits locked up under high security, and – glancing at his watch – the promise of two uninterrupted days with his boy. So why was it the last thought, the thought of being close to his son, that left an uncomfortable pit in his stomach?

It amazed him how bright Angus was, always curious and eager to learn. So much like his mother—

His palms pressed into the cool ceramic of the sink; head bent low as he let out a long breath. He would have given anything for Ellen to see her son now. To see the intelligent little man he was growing into. But beautifully big-brained or not, Angus was still just a boy and he needed his father to protect him. And what better way to keep him safe than to draw the enemies away from his door.

The terrorists, the gunmen, the psychopaths intent on murder. Every day they drew nearer and eventually, whether he prepared for it or not, someone was going to infiltrate his defences and get too close to the thing he loved most in the world. 

So if staying away kept his son safe, then so be it.

OCTOBER 2001

Matilda Webber was a force of nature. Fierce and determined. With only seven years on the job under her belt her reputation preceded her, accomplishing twice as much as half of his agents and he wanted her on his team.

Her assignment was simple: investigate him.

Interrogation, surveillance, snooping though information she shouldn’t be privy to using methods she had spent years honing. 

Show him what all the hype was about.

Show him any flaws in his security that would need to be patched.

She was incredible, winning him over halfway through the first day, and by the end of the week he had made a firm decision: she would be his handler. She would keep him in check and help lead his team and

– when she found information on his son, his stomach dropped – 

she would help him hide deeper within this organisation where even his name would not see the light of day. 

MAY 2002

LOCAL TEEN CAUSES NUCLEAR MELTDOWN

…was the headline he had spent days waiting to see plastered across the front page each time he passed the newspaper stand.

Those bold black letters would never be printed of course. Regardless of his hand in the containment of the incident, his son was much too loved in that school for them to let him come into any harm over it. 

Only Angus.

And Wilt, he supposed. Though he had a feeling that his son’s best friend had been an innocent – if not eager – bystander as usual. What happened to the days of Angus being satisfied with dismantling a car or stripping a DVD player for parts?

He bet the teachers were wishing they had provided something a little more stimulating for the boy genius. If they had, the giant patch of charcoaled grass might still have a football field in its place. 

Then again, this was the same boy who had almost set his gym alight a few months prior with his homemade indoor lightning.

Yeah…there would have been no stopping this. He just hoped for their sake they had some good insurance in place.

For next time.

FEBRUARY 2007

His phone vibrated once against the desk as he was midway through a report. Fingers flying across the keys, he let himself finish his sentence before taking a look.

No words, just a photo.

He appreciated Harry’s lack of small talk but sometimes he did wonder if his father’s straight-to-the-point messages were born more out of annoyance than convenience. His father understood why he had to leave all those years ago, but it didn’t mean he agreed with it. 

He tapped on the photo, opening it to full screen.

Dear Angus, 

On behalf of the Admissions Committee, it is my pleasure to offer you admission to the MIT Class of 2008…

A warm feeling he probably didn’t deserve to be having suddenly crept into his chest. Seventeen years old no less and his son had been accepted into one of the most prestigious schools in the country.

The Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

He had dreamt of this day. His son’s excitement at reading those words aloud. His bittersweet sorrow as his son moved far away from home and into his dorm. His pride as Angus donned his graduation cap and gown after three hard years of work.

Only, in his dream, he had been there at his son’s side.

Without a word he closed the photo, returned his phone to the desk and continued with his report.

MARCH 2011

He smiled politely at the gaggle of agents as they passed him in the hallway after a meeting, recognising their faces even if some of their names escaped him. As Oversight, it was his duty to supervise the inner workings of his organisation and he’d grown very familiar with the different teams within DXS and the expertise that each operative brought to the table.

Rather basic as a code name, but conveniently self-explanatory he supposed. To oversee something. 

He was aware of all active missions, all new recruits, all ongoing disputes. And though it came with a heavy sense of responsibility, he happily carried it with both hands. DXS was his pride and joy, and he was privileged to be its commander. 

Which is why he felt it crucial to employ only the best.

Recruitment came from all over the country; individuals on their radar, fellow Intelligence agencies, his reach even went as far as the US military. Which is why he had been able to pull some strings to get his son paired together with a one Jack Dalton during their time in Afghanistan.

The partnership between scientists and soldiers in the field was something their organisation had been the first to introduce way back after the Second World War. Something he had thought beneficial to every team under his command. He had looked into several servicemen, but Sergeant Dalton – a former associate of Matilda Webber, no less – seemed the best counterbalance to Angus’ scientific prowess. On paper at least.

He had given them the push, but now it was up to them to form the bond that would be pivotal for their eventual enrolment into DXS.

SEPTEMBER 2016

A stolen bioweapon.

A failed mission.

A dead agent; two more injured.

Patricia Thornton’s carefully crafted team had been operating under him for a few years now. A world class computer analyst, a deadly skilled ex-Delta operative and an EOD tech come scientific genius. Far from the first mission they had ever faced, he had expected better from them during their time in Lake Como, Italy. They had been warned of the dangers of the device, the effects it could have on thousands of people if it ended up in the wrong hands.

And still, they let it slip through their grasp.

He paced his office as his eyes scanned the medical report that had worked its way up the chain to him.

DALTON, J.

Agent Dalton suffered a grade one concussion and scalp laceration following a blow to the occipital bone. Four stitches were required. No swelling of the brain identified and minimal blood loss occurred. 

Minor cuts and bruises to the face and scalp also identified, not requiring treatment.

Recovery time estimated at 7 days.

Not ideal, but not the end of the world. One week, maybe five days at a push, and he’d be back in the field.

MACGYVER, A.

Agent MacGyver suffered a GSW to the upper left thorax causing approx. 1.5 litre blood loss at scene. Surgery to remove bullet and close wound was successful. Further blood loss managed effectively. 

Intervention to reduce water in lungs also successful.

4 units blood transfusion in progress. Blood type: AB Negative.

Recovery time estimated at 4 weeks.

One month recovery time.

Also not ideal. But then, Angus wasn’t hired solely for his physical capability. Even while recovering at home, his brain could still be of use to them.

GSW to upper left thorax.

He let out a grunt as his hip connected with the corner of his desk, inattention to his surroundings prevalent as his eyes were drawn to that point over and over. The chest was a dangerous place for any injury with multiple vital organs and arteries at risk. 

He rubbed his thumb over the sore spot, releasing a long breath through his nose as he placed the report on the desk.

Not only was the bioweapon now firmly in the wind, they had also come this close to losing one of their top assets. And all because DXS had allowed two of their agents to cross the line of professionalism. 

Angus would never have lost focus and allowed the mission to fail so terribly if only they had reinforced the no-relationship-between-agents rule.

NOVEMBER 2016

Whilst most people would be spending their weekends navigating busy malls in an attempt to get their holiday shopping underway, he was fielding multiple calls from multiple divisions demanding to know what was happening in an embassy building 5.6 thousand miles from his office.

He was keeping up with it all, of course. All comms, all decisions being made, The team on the ground were more than capable of handling it but it was a delicate situation and he had to be ready to step in if needed.

He had just ended his latest call when the phone immediately chimed in his hand.

“Yes?” He greeted, no time for pleasantries. 

It was a swift conversation, barely move than five words needed from his end, as the agent provided an update.

Three hours.

He felt his stomach drop.

Three hours until exfil could reach the embassy. Three hours that the boots on the ground would need to hold the fort against the Dieva Roka and their barrage of gunfire. He couldn’t lose—

They couldn’t lose this embassy. It was too important to the inner workings of international relationships between multiple territories.

He was certain that the team would come up with a sure-fire way of keeping everyone safe until backup arrived, but in the meantime, he had a few more phone calls to make. 

JANUARY 2017

He had eyes and ears everywhere. He knew about the mole lurking within the US government, he knew they had been feeding information to an outside terror organisation, that they had even gone as far as ordering the deaths of innocents to keep their secret safe.

What he was ashamed to have not known was that the mole was an agent within his own establishment. Instead, the privilege of identifying them had fallen on his own son’s team no less.

Patricia Thornton had been the trusted Head of DXS for many years and the transformation into the Phoenix Foundation had seen her shift in roles to the Director of Operations. A role that, he now realised, suited her agenda perfectly.

How had he missed it? A mole so high up in their agency.

He would be running thorough checks on all of his employees over the next few days. And the new director? He knew exactly who to bring in for that role. Someone who had worked closely with him for several years. Someone he trusted exceedingly.

OCTOBER 2017

As the Head of the Phoenix Foundation, it was well within his right to delegate all missions to the various teams on the ground but where was the fun in that? He hadn’t spent all these years honing his skills as a covert operative just to sit in an office all day once he’d reached the top.

It was a juicy assignment. Reports of a cartel leader operating out of Pasadena had led to weeks of surveillance, days of planning and finally this morning, the successful detainment of said leader and seventeen members, effectively shutting down that chapter of the cartel for good.

A few hours with his operatives and those members would spill enough intel to have them taking down the entire operation. No casualties, 100% success – it felt good to end his morning on a high. And just in time for lunch at his favourite diner.

The drive back had been a breeze in the late-morning, low-level traffic and he had just navigated his car into one of many empty parking spots when his phone began to ring from where it was clipped to the dashboard. Only a select few people had his number, and they wouldn’t be calling unless it was urgent.

He wasn’t sure what to think when glanced down to see the screen lit with Director Webber’s name. As of this morning, she wasn’t scheduled to have sent her team out on any assignments. He answered the call swiftly and let her do most of the talking, grateful that she was as to-the-point as ever with her updates.

Murdoc had returned from whatever dark hole he had last crawled into.

Agent MacGyver had been kidnapped.

Agents Dalton, Cage and Bozer had followed the trail as far as possible before it had run too cold to be of any use.

As her words washed over him, leaving an uncomfortable chill in their wake, his eyes were drawn to a young boy exiting the diner with a man that he could only assume was his father. As the boy lifted his hand for his father to hold onto, he was reminded of the reason he had stayed hidden away from Angus for all of these years.

To stop this very thing from happening. To keep his family out of enemy crosshairs. He should have known that guiding Angus into the same profession would eventually have him racking up enemies of his own.

It sent a shiver down his spine; the known murderer breaking into his father’s old house. Phoenix’s previous dealings with Murdoc had been enough for them to get a clear idea of the man’s psychopathic tendencies and Angus had been in his clutches for a good few hours now if Matilda’s timeline was correct. 

Why his son hadn’t secured the house more thoroughly after Murdoc’s previous infiltration was a mystery to him. He thought he’d taught his son better than that.

Dalton, Cage and Bozer were returning to the Phoenix but he trusted that their search wouldn’t end there. And as the young boy and his father disappeared down the street, Director Webber finished her update with a promise to keep him notified as the situation progressed. He ended the call with a thanks and reversed out of the parking spot, heading straight for his office. He didn’t have much of an appetite anymore.

DECEMBER 2017

“Thank you, Director Webber.” He dismissed her succinctly.

Keeping his eyes locked on his computer screen, he could pretend that his Handler wasn’t lingering in his provisional, hesitating with only one foot out of his office door.

He’d been here before, the great mystery of Schrödinger’s scowl. If he didn’t look up, then maybe daggers weren’t really being glared in his direction. But if anyone was going to win a stubbornness contest…

“Was there something else, Director Webber?” He asked coolly, raising his head and accepting the harsh eye contact. 

Matilda lifted her chin defiantly, glower only deepening the longer the silence lingered between them. She rolled her eyes with a huff, stepping back into the room to close the door behind her.

“He’s only six floors down, you know. If you fancied checking in on him.”

He knew. Of course he knew. Where else would his son have been taken after being exposed to a lethal nerve gas if not the Phoenix Foundation’s impressive infirmary. The high tech, state of the art medical floor of their building was often overlooked on the day-to-day basis of many agents who successfully made it through missions with barely a scratch on them. But for the more dangerous endings to otherwise fruitful assignments; the gunshot wounds, the poisonings, the injuries that would raise all the wrong questions at a normal hospital; their infirmary was fully manned and copiously stocked for anything that came through their doors.

As head of the organisation, he had access to the running log of those being treated at any one time and often liked to check that his agents were recovering well. That report had been open on his screen for two hours today, only closing once Angus’ name had appeared at the top of the list.

Matilda crossed her arms with more flourish than was strictly necessary, head tilting perfectly to the side. He was obviously taking too long to reply.

“They’ve sedated him so he wouldn’t even have to know you were there.”

Sedated. Made sense. Nerve agents could cause havoc on the body; difficulty breathing, painful muscle spasms, severe headaches, coma, death—

He’d read the report. They’d gotten Angus back to the Phoenix before his condition had turned critical, administered the atropine and pralidoxime before anything irreversible played out. Several words had stood out from the page to leave an uneasiness sitting in his chest though – respiratory distress and seizure amongst them – but considering the devastation the VX gas could have caused to the entirety of New York had it been dropped into the water supply; they had gotten off lightly.

“Jim.”

“Matilda.”

Another roll of the eyes.

“You’re not going to be able to hide away forever.” She said sadly. Though he had a feeling that was more on his son’s behalf than anything else. “For the past few months that boy has spent every waking moment he has hunting for clues that could lead him to you.”

He pushed himself up from his chair as she spoke, moving to stand by the window. It was much easier to hear her words without the scrutinous stare that accompanied them. Even as a young boy, Angus was relentless when he put his mind to something, eager to solve every problem he came across. But this was different. This wasn’t some old television set that could be ripped apart and screwed back together, this was life or death. And he had been perfecting the art of hiding a lot longer than Angus had been alive. His son was going to have to admit defeat soon enough.

“I’m staying away for—”

“—for his own protection, yes, so you keep saying. But whether you like it or not, your son is far too clever not to succeed in this.”

The sun was setting now, long shadows being cast behind trees as the evening took hold. His window was open slightly and the eventide air seeping through was cool against his skin. Angus would be kept in for a few days, at least, medical staff checking in on him regularly to ensure his symptoms were under control and improving. The recovery statistics from such poisonings were typically very good when treated in time – which it had been – so he should be back to normal, and back to work, by the end of the week.

Wordlessly, Matilda moved back to the door, taking his reluctance to answer as her cue to leave and suddenly the question he’d been dying to ask forced its way out before he could think twice. He couldn’t hide behind the impersonal technical jargon of the report, he needed to hear it from the mouth of someone who had been there, on direct comms with the team.

“Was it bad?”

He watched as her faint window reflection paused, took a breath, and turned her head just enough to speak into the room.

“Yeah Jim. It was bad.”

She left the room this time, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving a sickly feeling settling in his stomach and his mind drifting downwards to six floors below. It wasn’t the first time Angus had found himself there and, in their line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last.

He just didn’t want to know how many more ways his son could think of to try and get himself killed.

JANUARY 2018 

Okay, Angus really needed to up his security system; or better yet, move out. He knew the appeal of a safe space – especially one with an already paid off mortgage – but if multiple criminals have been able to break in and threaten your life, maybe it was time to find somewhere new.

He was halfway through his prep for a meeting when his comms completely blew up (…possibly an inappropriate turn of phrase to use under the circumstances). He had already been dealing with two failed missions, three agents stranded on foreign soil without exfil, and an agent in the hospital after being shot by a psychopath that appeared to be haunting their organisation. And now, two of his men had found themselves trapped in their own house alongside a giant bomb.

Director Webber was on the ground liaising with LAPD and the FBI, and he was happy to stay in the shadows, watching from afar while she coordinated their movements. Agents Bozer and Davies were assisting, and he was grateful for their constant communications that he was able to listen in to over the radio.

The staticky chatter filled the room with background noise while he made some calls to keep TV crews and reporters away. The last thing they needed were swarms of nosy individuals crowding the area and putting themselves in danger. That, and the mass panic that would no doubt ensue if it was revealed that there was a bomb primed to explode in the centre of Los Angeles.

His forefinger tapped impatiently against the desk. There was nothing more maddening than someone taking their time to relay information to him when there was an ongoing crisis at hand. It was a tricky situation to navigate and time was ticking. There were a lot of variables to consider when dealing with a threat situation such as this and though his team on the ground were handling the investigation of the bomb with meticulousness, he still had his part to play.

Though if he stepped back and took in the whole picture, he’d be able to see that this bomb-maker, the Ghost, had already taken the hard choice out of their hands should the worst come to the worst. Phoenix had been made aware of the threat and had, so far, been able to clear the suspected blast vicinity, keeping potentially hundreds of innocents safe. Leaving only two to be affected.

The lives of the many, outweighed the lives of the few, but it was harder to be impartial when the few included someone very important – not just to him, but to the whole world. 

FEBRUARY 2018

If Director Webber were standing next to him, she would have zero reservations whatsoever about calling him a coward.

And maybe he was.

But if anything, it was her fault for putting the idea in his head. It really was easier to face someone if they didn’t know that you were there. If anything, this at least made him a better father than the man two months ago who had refused to step foot into the Phoenix infirmary for fear of…something. What exactly he hadn’t quite worked out. Being seen? Being recognised? Being forced to have an adult conversation with the son he left all those years ago?

So, now here he was, lingering in the long stretch of hallway, paying the medical staff no attention as they wandered past. He was stood close enough to Angus’ room to see in, but far enough away to keep it from being obvious why he was there.

The distance wasn’t necessary. Not anymore. Not after Angus’ list of enemies had long since outnumbered his own. But hiding was second nature to him now and it seemed not even his son could reverse the trait that had been so strongly ingrained into his very DNA.

Angus wasn’t alone in his room, accompanied only by his overwatch who, up until half an hour ago, had been pacing so restlessly he was sure the man would wear a hole into the polished floor. Now he was sitting in the single chair positioned next to the bed, hand periodically reaching up to run through his mess of hair or across the stubble of his chin. 

He could remember that feeling all too well. A mission gone bad. A partner injured in the field. The long night waiting for news. 

Angus was asleep in the bed, pale blue sheets pulled high up to his chest exposing a heavily bandaged shoulder. It was a successful surgery, he’d been informed. Bullet removed and skin stitched up with minimal issues. They would let him stay the night but by morning he’d be good to return home with an abundance of painkillers and the instruction to take it easy.

How was it that his son had been shot more times under his leadership than he ever had in an active war zone?

Though when he had hired Angus, he hadn’t expected a crazed admirer to quickly be included in the package. Murdoc had been popping up on his radar repeatedly since the Phoenix Foundation’s first encounter with him a year prior and his obsession with Agent MacGyver was concerning to say the least. They were lucky he had been feeling generous today, inflicting a non-fatal flesh wound with his bullet instead of anything more permanent.

And now to top it off, he’d received word that Murdoc had escaped from custody, again… 

Once Angus found out, that instruction to take it easy was going to need to be a strongly worded command from Director Webber for his son to even consider following it seriously. Though he was sure the team could handle the stubborn ways of their fellow agent.

Glancing through the window, he took one final look at the pair before wordlessly slipping away to get a head start on the search.

MAY 2018

He’d been imagining this day for years. 

He just didn’t know why Angus had to decide to quit on the one day he finally got the intel he had been waiting months for. Time sensitive intel too. He couldn’t waste this opportunity to take down Jonah Walsh just because Agent MacGyver had been having doubts about his place of work. 

When Director Webber had called to inform him, he’d told her to send Angus his way. Two birds, one stone and all that.

The large country house had been mostly empty when he’d arrived, only one gun-wielding thug who, after a bit of a tumble, had been easily incapacitated. He was having a nice nap in the pantry now, safely out of the way. 

It was a big, open house with high ceilings and polished furniture. Not exactly the backdrop he was expecting when notified of the cartel’s latest bolt hole. But honestly, he didn’t care if it was a 5-star hotel or an underground sewer, he wasn’t staying long. As soon as he cracked the safe and grabbed what was inside, he was gone.

Careful footsteps approached from behind and he couldn’t help but smile to himself. 

Just in time.

The dial clicked beneath his fingers and as he began rotating it to the left to continue the combination, it occurred to him that he hadn’t actually considered what his first words to his son would be after fifteen years.

“Wouldn’t take another step if I were you.” He said without thinking as Angus softly trod right on the loose board he’d noticed earlier. Good enough start as any he supposed. He never could do things normally. “That weak floorboard is actually a pressure plate attached to an IED.”

“…You’re lying.” Angus replied sceptically, which was…surprising. Not the tone of voice— no, Angus was far too smart to not see through that. But the words. Zero comment, zero recognition of his father’s voice. Maybe it had been too long.

“Maybe. Take another step and we’ll see.” The dial clicked again. “What do you want.”

“Director Webber sent me here to speak with Oversight.” Angus’ voice was steady, if not a little frustrated. Unfazed by the situation he had walked into. Unprepared for what he was about to discover.

“Oh, then you got him.” He turned around to look over at the man standing behind him.

Time for the moment of truth…

Thanks for reading! 🖤

[hotwings0203]

as ur irl bestie i am cashing in my favor and am asking- no begging for a dilf damon fic pls <3

😑fine fineee I guess I can take a quick break from writing BNHA stuff for you🙄

CW: NSFW, Damon Albarn being an a-hole, manipulation, gaslighting, language minor stuff like that

The studio itself was pretty spacious, you couldn't lie. As much as you loathed to give this cursed group any more credit, you were hard-pressed to remember the last time you´d been called into such a professional recording booth. You were used to dingy atmospheres, crumbling walls, stained carpet, and even cramped garages at times. It felt like your years of meticulously swaying your hand back and forth on the rosin and tuning your strings until they damn near popped were slowly going down the drain, lost in spaces of screaming adolescent boys and shady market agents. The streets of London were unforgiving for a young musician like you, no room to turn to since others were exactly in the same position as you.

 It was by pure coincidence that the day you had played for a local cafe for a small commission, Graham fucking Coxon was sitting in the back of the run-down joint, sipping a murky glass of Bourbon.

 You didn't notice him at first, of course. You had simply let the music in your mind travel from your head down to your arms, and allowed it to move through your fingertips to your bow. The serene melody that sang through the air had turned his head to face you, the shitty drink in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth. 

 Your solo was only a couple of minutes, but the second you were done and packing your bags to head out, the brunette made a beeline for you, blocking your exit.

 ¨Uh, can I help you?¨ You cock your head and shift your violin case.

 ¨Yes, you can actually. Listen, I know this is gonna sound a bit straightforward, but I really liked your piece. Did you compose it yourself?¨ He sounds quiet and sounds nervous, with him barely looking you in the eyes.

 ¨Yeah, I did!¨ You can´t help but beam-it took you several days just to perfect a few meager lines, but in the end you were content with the piece.

 ¨Wow...that's serious talent right there,¨ He opens the door for you, and you nod before you head out, him trailing behind you as he leaves with you.

 ¨You make a good amount of money doing small jobs like this?¨ His voice is nasally and low, but with a slightly higher pitch than your typical London accent.

 At this, you squint your eyes a bit and turn your head at him. It was nice of him to be interested in your work, but for someone you don't personally know, the idea of talking about your small gigs that merited little to no money was not something you were fond of.

 He senses your hesitancy and immediately withdraws. ¨I´m sorry, that was probably rude of me to be so blunt about it. Actually, I don´t think I´ve properly introduced myself.¨ He stops to face you, and you do the same.

 ¨I´m Graham Coxon. You may or may not have heard of me, but I can assure you that I too enjoy music, as an understatement.¨ He extends a calloused hand and smiles a little bit, adjusting the blocky glasses on his face.

 Graham...Coxon? Graham as in....oh, holy shit.

 ¨No way.¨

 ¨Er...unfortunately, yes way.¨ His soft voice lilts as he holds back a laugh, and you gape at him.

 ¨Oh my god!¨ You drop your violin case in the excitement of eagerly returning his handshake. ¨You-you're from Blur! I know you!¨

 ¨Was from Blur, and ´careful now, don´t wanna ruin your instrument. But listen, I´m kind of in a bind here so I´ll get to the chase. We´re working on a few chords here and there back at the studio, and I´ve been on the lookout for a while for someone who fits our tune. ´Thing is, the deadline for submitting our song is comin´ up fast, so we only have a couple weeks left.¨

 You raise your eyebrows, heart pounding in your chest as you listen to his proposition.

 ¨So I´m thinking, you sound pretty good, it's exactly what we need to fill in our bridge. I´d love it if you came in and played a tune for us. If we like you and you´re cool with it, you could feature on our song.¨

 It feels surreal. Were you hearing right? Graham Coxon from Blur asking you to play on his song? This had to be a prank.

 ¨Ẅait, but you've only heard me once, what if my sound doesn't match what you're actually looking for?¨ You stammer, palms clammy as you wipe them off on your trousers.

 ¨Well, that's what a rehearsal session is for, lovely,¨ He chuckles nervously and slides his slightly foggy glasses up his nose. ¨So, you wanna give it a go?¨

 You think for a moment, biting your lower lip. There wasn't exactly anything stopping you now, was there? I mean, sure, the prospect of playing in front of one of UK's most famous bands was daunting, but this was your chance to finally be recognized!

 Taking a deep breath, you pick up your fallen case and nod. ¨Alright, I´m in. When you do wanna meet up?¨

 Graham visibility deflates in relief, letting out a shaky exhale. ¨Great. I'll text you the time and place, yeah? The boys and I´ve gotta get a few more things set up, so we´ll be in contact soon.¨

You both exchange numbers, your phone tingling in your hand long after you bid farewell and drive home in a buzz.

 When you finally get home to your apartment, you throw your keys onto the counter and flop down onto the mattress. What a fucking day.

 So many thoughts bounce around in your addled head. You want to do well, but obviously you don't have their kind of experience in the industry. Should you play more in tune with their song, or continue with your own sound? An idea pops into your head amidst your lunch, a few hours later. Why not just do some more research on the band themselves? Then you'd know exactly what kind of music they're looking for.

 The boys and I´ve gotta get a few more things set up.

 Oh yeah, who else was in the band? It's not like you didn't know who Blur was at their peak, but you paid more attention to their music rather than their faces. Truthfully, you never really basked in tabloids and newspapers purring about the next big scandal, or the top dogs of Britain´s industry when that stuff was relevant.

 You abandon your pathetic sandwich and make your way to your laptop, sliding into a chair and getting down to business. After a few quick searches, you pull up a couple tabs around the name Blur.

 Graham Coxon- Recovering alcoholic. Big fight with Damon Albarn.

 Alex James- Cute boy turned conservative. Classic case.

 Dave Rowntree- Mainly untouched. Became a successful lawyer. Good for him.

 Damon Albarn- A fucking mess.

 Puffing up your cheeks and putting your hands behind your head, you lean back in your chair. Good god, this man is a wreck. Headlines from decades ago swim in and out of your eyes, loud, obnoxious neon prints of Justine and Damon broken up again? Suede claps back!, or Will the Blur Brothers ever come back to each other? Find out first-hand from Coxon himself!, and worst of all, Albarn relapses again, Damon Albarn from Blur goes head-to-head with Liam and Noel-news flash, the brothers win!

 You think you see something about him and a potential wife and child, and that's when you decide it's time to sleep.

 After all, there's no point in getting caught up in any of their backstories.You were just there to play a solo and get out. Nosing around in their lives was more trouble than what it was worth, anyways.

 Which is exactly what you kept trying to tell yourself as you walked into the modern studio two weeks later, its grey soundproof walls and white floor screaming fancy and rich to you. And fancy and rich didn't come without grit and experience, which you had none of. As if to emphasize your inexperience, you went into the wrong halls twice before you exasperatedly checked your messages with Graham and saw that no, it wasn´t room 311, it was room 113.

 Finally, finally, you came across your designated room. The mahogany door was closed, and you placed a hand on the silver knob. You could faintly hear the sounds of a guitar being played from the inside, and it was curiosity above everything else that compelled you to push it open.

 From behind the clear window that separated the booth from the recording area, you see them. Graham, Damon, and other men you don't recognize are all in the midst of the song, the same song Graham had texted you the PDF of for the violin notes. You sheepishly take a few steps forward and clear your throat to catch the attention of a bald man leaning back against his chair right in front of the glass. He turns around and you give a weak little wave, clutching your case in the other hand. 

 ¨Hey, I´m here for-¨

 ¨-Yeah, yeah, Graham told me all about you. Go on ahead and join in, they just started.¨ He pulls a toothpick out from between his lips and gestures to the door of the divider.

 You feel your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way through the second door, and the second you step inside meekly, Damon and Graham´s eyes are on you.

 Graham continues to play the guitar, only lighting up his eyes and giving you an encouraging nod when you step in, and the other two men on bass and saxophone also give a quick smile in greeting. And Damon…well.

 Damon barely acknowledges you.

 He continues to sing and stare straight ahead at the wall in front of him as if there's an interesting scene being played out on the grey paint.

 You´re unsure of whether to catch his attention and give a proper greeting, but you decide not to as it would interfere with the song. So instead, you quickly grab a nearby chair and stand and set up your rosin and papers.

 Your timing is perfect; the bridge is about to come up. Just to be certain, you look up from your poised position and catch the eyes of most everyone except for Damon´s. They all give you a quick thumbs up or an expectant look for your confirmation of playing.

 And then, it comes. Damon stops singing, and your cue to sweep your bow across the horse hairs of your strings comes.

 Melodious, whole, fulfilling, it was. Graham´s guitar chords harmonized with the tones of your violin, and music that you´ve never dreamed of creating was made by your hands exceptionally. 

 Everyone was in awe of your raw talent, from the way their gazes were rapt onto your bow, moving back and forth,staying still in some highs and whittling away at the lows. You even thought you saw the producer from inside the booth turn his head towards you from the corner of your eye, but you couldn´ be sure.

 Everyone except Damon Albarn.

 The song ended a minute later with the signal of a fading out bass, and then there was silence.

 ¨Right on with that tune.. ´Thought we'd be fucked ova´ if we didn't find someone to take that melody.¨ The bassist with long shaggy hair grinned and you returned one back.

 ¨Yeah, I was kind of hesitant when Graham ´ere told us he found one to take this position on, but I'm pleased.¨ The saxophone player scratched his chin and hummed his agreement. You felt relief.

 Until he spoke.

 ¨Is this your first time playing?¨

 You look incredulously over at him, looking straight on at his face. Sandy hair, lines on his cheeks, slight scruff around his chin, he looked older than his online pictures. 

 ¨Uhh, no?¨ You laugh a little, trying to keep the annoyance out of your voice. ¨If I was, I doubt Graham would think I´m good enough to play with you guys.¨

 ¨I don't think Graham is the only one who needs to think that.¨ Everyone shifts uncomfortably, looking nervously from Damon to you, and Graham tugs his collar as if the temperature had gone up.

 But nonetheless, you don't back down.

 ¨Oh yeah? How so?¨

¨You played the G-string too high,¨ He deadpans, looking utterly bored amidst oceanic hues.

 ¨What?¨ You flip your music pages a couple of times until you find the page where you played that part. ¨No I didn´t, I was right on tune-do you even know how to play the violin?¨

 ¨No,¨ he smirks, and with your blood boiling steadily you open your mouth to argue, but thankfully Graham butts in.

 ¨Damon, don´t be a prick, she played fine. Unlike you, who fucked up on the 5th verse.¨

 The man in question lazily stretches his arms above his head, causing his white tee to rise a few inches over his belly button. You can´t help but glance at the skin-it's smooth, cleanly chiseled with part of his v-line showing, a happy trail rising from the juncture.

 ¨Oi, sweetheart, eyes up here.¨

 You snap your gaze back to his smug face, cheeks burning.

 ¨I didn´t-¨

 ¨Sure you didn´t. Just like how I didn't mess up on the 5th verse, and how you didn't ruin the song with your shitty violin, yeah?¨ He simpers, and you almost rise out of your seat to snarl at him before Graham jumps in between you two, scolding a very inappropriately-grinning Damon.

 You get up out of your chair and huff, shoving your belongings back into your bag as everyone else packs up, the men bickering and playfully throwing shit at each other.

 The producer even congratulates you on your successful first day, and everyone cheers and pounds you on your back, your hair falling in your face and gracefully hiding your 120k watt smile.

 Damon shoulders right past you, knocking your case right out of your hands. You grapple with it for a second before it hits the ground, and when it does you whip around and shoot him an icy glare.

 He's not even looking at you, he's already out the door.

 It's quiet for a moment.

 ¨Well, there he goes again being a dickhead. Classic Damon, you got.¨ The saxophone player points to the leaving blond and grins sheepishly at you.

 ¨What's his problem?¨ You ask in disgust, shaking your head as you join the rest of the boys leaving.

¨Uh, well...¨ Graham scratches the back of his head and avoids looking at you. ¨He's always been kind of like that, y´know, so don't take it too personally, but between just us four, his wife´s been on his arse for a bit about um...some...domestic affairs.¨ He finishes lamely, and the other two men guffaw at your raised eyebrow.

 You don't have a chance to press further as to ask what domestic affairs, exactly because a loud clap of thunder shakes you all to your cores as you step outside.

 ¨Aw, come on!¨ You stamp your foot and hold out your hand for confirmation of the raindrops about to drop on you all. ¨I didn't know it was gonna rain today,¨ you grumble.

 Graham squints up at the sky and wipes some droplets off his blurred glasses, covering his head with his jacket hood as he begins walking to the parking garage. ¨I´ll see you lot in about a week, yeah? Just keep practicing, good rehearsal we had today!¨ He waves his hand and dashes off.

 ¨Good job on your first day, Y/N. Fancy the weather on your walk back for us!¨ The sax and bass player bid farewell and also do a sprint to their respective cars, splashing through the puddles and sending muddy water on your pants.

 ¨Urgh!¨ You raise your hands to try and protect your bottoms but to no avail- London's sewage strikes again.

 Sighing in defeat, you walk through the rain towards your car, succumbing to the grimy walk. Unfortunately you didn't think to use the parking garage due to high nerves when you first came in.

 You walk for about 5 minutes, the rain drenching your hair and clothes and chilling you to your bones.

 Could this day get any more annoying?

Oh, but you should´ve known that it could.

 Because right at that moment, a black limo swerves right next to you on the sidewalk, sending a massive wave of gutter water right your way.

 You swear loudly and jump back, barely managing to avoid the remnants of the sewage tsunami crossing your feet.

 Looking up wildly at the offensive vehicle, you make a fist and flip the window off, your lip curled up into a snarl.

 The obsidian glass rolls down.

 ¨Well that's not very nice, is it? Nasty weather we got going on right now, careful it doesn't get on your clothes.¨

 Oh.

 ¨It's you,¨ you monotone, less than pleased to see his salacious grin at your predicament-which was being soaked to your undergarments in brown muddy water, your hair clinging to your face and your violin case lugging down towards the ground, its weight proving mutiny against you today of all days.

 ¨In the flesh,¨ Damon beams, and you scowl at his cheery attitude.

 ¨You almost drowned me, asshole,¨ You turn your nose up in scorn, and he chuckles in his baritone voice.

 ¨Nah, cant´ve love, I can't drive,¨ he clicks his tongue and jerks his thumb to the seat in front of him, where you assume his chauffeur is.

 ¨Oh, so it was under your orders that your poor driver practically waterboarded me?¨ ¨Well, yeah, I mean what else do you expect me to do when I see a pretty lady walking so harmlessly in the rain?¨ Your voice catches in your throat for a second from his words and the way his glacial eyes twinkle for a moment, but then he erupts in dry chuckles at your demeanor and you throttle your hesitancy at speaking.

 ¨Shut up, you're absolutely vile, y´know that?¨ ¨So I´ve been told, but to be honest sweetheart, I´d rather hear that in bed, where I´m used to hearing it. Now are you going to get in or shall I talk about my sexual prowess with you the rest of the afternoon?¨ He opens his door from the inside and mockingly winks at you.

 You feign a gag, but still decide to jump in the spacious limo when a flash of lightning lights up the sky. 

 He scoots back to give you space to sit and adjust your violin case on the seats in front of you, but just as you´re about to close the door, he leans in right next to you and reaches behind you to pull it shut himself.

 You´re caught still as he draws close, you´re extended hand frozen in midair as his arm against your back flexes and stiffens with it pulling the door. You can feel his breath against your neck as he exhales, can feel some of his hair tickling against your ear and cheek. You hold your breath, not daring to move lest you accidentally brush up against his proximity.

 The loud slam of the door causes you to jump, and he laughs a little at that, signaling his driver to go.

 You don't quite face him, your gaze down in your lap as his entire body is facing you, still stuck in its position when he was closing the car door.

 ¨Not nervous, are you?¨ He murmurs in your ear, and you can´t help it when your whole body shivers at feeling the rumble in his gravelly voice.

 ¨N-no, I´m not. Do you have to be so close?¨ You stammer, barely giving him a sideways glance which eggs him on, much to your displeasure.

 ¨Not really. But if you´re not nervous, then it shouldn't be a problem, right?¨ He says quietly and leans around to catch your eye.

 Before you can lose your nerve and jump out of the car, you snap at him. ¨You just don´t quit, do you?¨ 

 He finally relents and the side of his pink lips lift lazily as he stretches his knees out and practically manspreads across the expanse of three seats. ¨Nope. Not that you really were against it though, ´could feel your heart pounding a mile a minute sweetheart. Trust me, I´m used to making girls nervous, I would know.¨

 You sneer at him. ¨Don´t call me sweetheart, and yeah, I was nervous about getting some disease-ridden prick like you getting close to me. God knows how many STD´s you've contracted from bedding some poor groupies.¨

¨Only one way to find out, right love?¨ He leans his head up to the car ceiling and lets his tousled golden hair flop back, his jawline accentuated by the cream-colored seats contrasting with his tan skin.

 You catch yourself staring, and shake your head quickly.

 ¨You must´ve been more hopped up on heroine than I thought if you think I´d ever fuck a self-absorbed, narcissitic bastard like you.¨

 The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, but once they do your eyes widen and you clap a hand over your mouth in horror.

 Damon lifts his head and slowly turns to face you, his mouth set in a thin line.

 ¨A self-absorbed, narcissistic bastard whose limo you're riding in, need I remind you, so I can´t be all that bad. ´Can't say I haven't heard any of that before love, but most girls who say that end up in my bed anyways.¨

 You open your mouth to argue but he cuts you off.

 ¨Although, ´hopped up on heroin´ is a new one. Just exactly how much research have you done about me so far?¨

 Your rebuttal dies in your throat. You were caught.

 Your ears burn and your face flushes as you bite your lip in embarrassment. Maybe you went too far, and on top of that you let it slip that you knew about him beforehand.

 But you refuse to kowtow in humiliation to this idiot, so you think quickly.

 ¨I doubt you´ve got your head that far up your ass to disregard how half the world was tuning into your personal life when Blur was big, Damon.¨

He looks unimpressed with your excuse, but before he can open his mouth to question you further, you hurry up with another save.

 ¨Also, where are we going? You never asked me where my car was.¨

Bingo His eyes brighten and he shouts at the driver, harping on about him being a brain-dead idiot for driving in circles the past 10 minutes.

 What a save.

 *******************

The moment you step into the booth next week, a drumstick is lobbed at you from seemingly nowhere. You yelp and hold your case up, blocking the weapon as it bounces off your makeshift shield. You bring the case down and shoot a glare towards the only man you know capable of acting so childishly at his grown age.

 But he´s already scrolling through his phone, looking for a measure to start from.

 ¨You´re late.¨

 ¨Hardly,¨ you mutter, glancing at the clock on the wall. Two minutes past shouldn´t be an excuse for having a drumstick pick out your eye.

 ¨Good to see you again, Y/N,¨ Graham pipes up softly, sending you an apologetic glance from Damon to you and you stick out your tongue in faux annoyance. 

 The other two members of your group greet you as well, and you all begin practice. Notes begin harmonizing together, voice and sound coinciding to make music you´ve swayed your hips and nodded your head to on blue nights.

 It´s a hot day, humidity clinging to your skin akin to the perspiration hanging off your forehead, and halfway through the song you decide to take off your sweater. You´re wearing a white tank top underneath, nothing too revealing save for the slight dip in the V-neck, but you couldn't care less about modesty at the moment when your fingers were literally slipping in their grasp on your sweat-slicked bow.

 During a quick break in your part of the song, you slip off your sweater and fan yourself out. It feels good, but you feel a pair of eyes staring at you. Following the laser gaze, you turn your head to face Damon, but he´s nose-deep in the lyrics sheet, warbling about a broken love or friendship. 

 Huh, must´ve been imagining it.

 Your solo comes up, and you prepare yourself for tackling the notes to your best ability, keeping up with Graham´s rapid guitar pace. Sweat continues to build on everyone´s vicinity when the rapid movement of arms waving around their own instrument causes more body heat to suffocate you all.

 Miraculously, the song finishes, and you collapse in your seat like the rest of the men, panting and wiping slick off your foreheads. You reach for a bottle of water on the floor and unscrew the lid, grimacing at its lukewarm temperature but drinking it nonetheless.

 For the second time, you have an unnerving feeling of being watched. This time, you whip your head to the side and catch him staring straight at you. 

 Damon´s face is flushed, his hair tousled, his rose colored glasses steamed up from the muggy aura in the room. His denim jacket is hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his torso covered with a sheer wife beater that accentuates his chiseled dad-body.

But he just stares you down, saying nothing. You frown at him a little bit and shift your body away from him, feeling vulnerable to his laser-gaze. His eyes darken, but Graham speaks, cutting him off from whatever he was about to say.

 ¨That was pretty good, you lot. Greg, Taz, hold off on the third beat of the fourth measure. We´ve gotta crescendo slightly-¨

 ¨Y/N, do you have a job?¨

 Damon's voice cuts off Graham, and everyone falters as they look at him and then you in surprise.

 ¨I don´t know what you mean,¨ you respond coolly, knowing that whatever he was about to say wasn't good.

 ¨I mean, do you have a job? Because as far as I know, most people who work don't dress like whores at their job.¨

 His eyes travel from your face down to your slight cleavage, and you sputter in rage as the rest of the boys shift uncomfortably.

 ¨Damon, for god's sake what´re you on about?¨ Graham asks wearily, taking his glasses off and rubbing his shiny neck.

 ¨I could ask you the same thing, actually. Because as far as I know, you've fucked enough women in your lifetime that one would think you could keep it in your pants for five minutes without acting like a twelve-year-old. Oh, but unless that´s too professional for you? I guess you´re not as serious about your work environment as you claim.¨ you laugh, and the sax player, Greg, snorts into his water bottle.

 Damon sneers, ¨How could I forget, you actually have done your research about my life and sexual endeavors, what a cute little fangirl you are. If you wanted an autograph, you could've just asked, sweetheart.¨

 ¨Go fuck yourself,¨ you snap. ¨You´re all wearing wife-beaters anyways, what's the difference?¨

 Damon starts again but Graham claps his hands loudly, startling you all.

 ¨Enough, both of you! What's gotten into you? Need I remind you that our song is due in less than two weeks? We need to finish this shit and get on with it. Stop acting like children.¨

 You mumble under your breath and Damon shoots a dark look to his childhood friend, but the brunette doesn't back down, and continues to give advice on how to improve their song. You don´t look at Damon the rest of the session out of pure spite, but that doesn't stop him from shamelessly staring straight at you, right until it's time to leave.

 The second Graham checks his watch and exclaims that it's a quarter past twelve already, you´re already bolting out of your seat and shoving your violin in its case, eager to get out of the disgustingly hot room.

 Fortunately, this time you had the right idea to park in the garage like everyone else to avoid any other unwanted encounters, but unfortunately while it was nice to not be waterboarded on your walk, it wasn´t enough to stop said unwanted encounters from occurring.

 Take right now, for instance.

 As you stumble to your car in the blistering weather, your energy depletes faster and faster, causing you to be light headed. Practice was already tough enough in the sweltering heat, but after Damon's little scene you don't have any energy to even walk.

 You crash blindly into your car, the metal of the doors burning your skin as you make contact with the handle. You hiss and jerk back, swaying slightly as your head fogs up. You can barely see, you feel like your clothes weigh a ton on you, so you slide down the vehicle and sit up against the tires, throwing your head back against the car and groaning. The idea of unlocking your doors and sitting in the seat where no doubt several temperatures higher will be settling on the dashboard and in the front row is nauseating.

 Weather-2

You-0

 You don't know the building well enough to know where a vending machine is, and even if you shot Graham a text, you don't have enough energy to wander around and scout for it.

 And lo and behold, from a distance, a figure approaches. You squint as it draws nearer, and let out a laugh as the features come into familiarity.

 The heat must be getting to you worse than you thought, because you´re certain you´re hallucinating Damon Albarn of all fucking people swaggering towards you, one hand holding his denim jacket over his shoulder, and a shit-eating grin on his face as he comes to stand in front of you.

 All you can do is pant like a dog, looking up at him with unimpressed eyes.

 ¨Oi, G-String. ´Brought you some water.¨ he holds out a hand, and you choose to ignore the offensive nickname, insead noticing the large bottle in it, cold condensation covering its expanse.

 Your eyes widen and you lick your lips unconsciously, holding your hands out for it.

 Damon watches your tongue poke out and loses focus before snapping back to reality and moving his arm above your head. You pout and try to reach for it again, but he laughs and holds it even higher.

 You glare and turn your head away from him, suddenly remembering how he embarrassed you earlier. 

 ¨Go away. I don't want it anymore. You´re an asshole.¨ you mumble, perspiration hanging off your lip as you lick the salty beads away once again.

 Damon´s eyes never leave your mouth as he listens to you and watches the pink appendage make its appearance again, and his mouth hangs open slightly unbeknownst to you for a second. You cross your arms and glare at the empty parking lot, silently willing him to go away.

 He snaps back into focus yet again and shakes his head at you. ¨Oh come on love, I´m just teasing. You look like you´re about to die anyways, might as well make this your last meal-er, drink I mean.¨

 ¨I´m not taking anything from a complete dickhead who enjoys harassing women about their clothes. You know, for such a womanizer, you act pretty clueless about how comments like that would make a girl feel. No one else but you had an issue with it, or rather, had the audacity to point it out.¨ You cough at the last word, your dry throat and heavy head making it harder to talk.

 He sighs and crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet. He pops open the cap and gently turns your chin towards his face, much to your surprise. You´re genuinely too weak to protest, but when you look at his concerned face, eyebrows scrunched up and accentuating the lines on his forehead, you don't think you'd want to turn away even if you could.

 He coaxes your agap mouth even more open by dragging a rough thumb down over your lips, and you obediently open your mouth, mesmerized by his eyes. His movements are soft and slow, as if you were a fidgety rabbit about to run off at the slightest touch. He scoots closer, right over in front of you as you simply gaze up at him, allowing him to pour cool water down your throat, quenching your bone-dry palate.

 For a couple of seconds, water floods your mouth but all you can do is stare up at him. The light rays are reflecting off his back, casting a yellow glow around his silhouette and he almost looks like an angel. His hair is mussed as if he'd spent the day running his hands through the golden locks, and the scruff on his face peeks through soft-looking skin.

 ¨Swallow, or I'll really waterboard you this time,¨ he says lowly, chuckling a bit as he catches you staring so adamantly right in his face. You jerk back to consciousness and swallow hastily, accidentally choking on the gulp in your rush.

 He laughs even more and lets go of your chin much to your disappointment as he adjusts himself to sit next to you, not seeming to mind the scorching car metal. The absence of his hand on your face leaves a cold, empty feeling in your heart despite the heated blush on your cheeks

 ¨You´ll burn yourself,¨ you mumble, lolling your head over to look at him.

 But he looks straight ahead and shrugs casually. ¨Not any more than you.¨ You both sit in silence for a few minutes, occasionally sipping from the bottle he passes towards you and watching cars go by.

 ¨You didn't answer my question. Why do you harp on me in the studio? You act like a normal human being here.¨

 Damon looks thoughtfully at a white sedan passing by, then speaks.

 ¨As I´m sure Graham has blabbed to you already, I´ve been having some...trouble with the missus, let's say.¨

 You say nothing and raise a questioning eyebrow.

 ¨For the shitty attitude,¨ he mutters and swipes the bottle from your hand, taking a large swig himself.

 ¨And, like you said earlier, I am an asshole. Of course I´ll enjoy harassing pretty women over their revealing clothes,¨ he smirks and gives you a once over.

 There it was again, pretty woman.

 You scowl and get up to leave, but what he says stops you in your tracks.

 ¨Taz was lookin´ at you,¨ he says quietly, suddenly very interested in the now-empty bottle. ¨´Didn't like it, but I couldn't say anything to him. Graham likes him too much.¨

 Huh. Maybe the pair of eyes you felt back in the room didn't only belong to Damon.

 He cracks a small smile and looks up at you, his face adorably innocent and wide as he sheepishly admits, ¨I´m used to butting heads with blokes like him for women.¨

 You jerk back up to your feet, brushing off any insinuation he was giving and pat his knee awkwardly, ignoring the fire now igniting once again in your chest.

 ¨Thanks for the water, I needed it. You might wanna move if you don't want to get run over by my car.¨ You reach down and pick up your case as Damon clambers to his feet.

 He looks amused as you fumble for your keys, nervously turning the lock and sitting in the hot car, obviously eager to get away from his intimidating gaze.

 ¨I´ll see you next week, yeah?¨ You laugh breathlessly and roll your window down to call out to him.

 He says nothing, but merely cocks his head at you, his eyes now obscured by the rose-colored glasses he puts over his eyes. He waves a little and watches as you drive away a little too fast.

 But as it turns out, you don't see him next week.

 ******

It was just your luck that one of the cutest guys from your work asked you out on the very same week you had practice with the boys. You contemplated moving the date to another time, but...you deserved to have some fun time off too, right? It's not like it would make too much of a difference in your skill, anyways, you´ve gotten all the strings down and such.

 So, you decide to go on this date. It goes well, the dude was cute, dorky, lacked a little pizzazz but nothing a bottle of fancy red wine and a night of movies couldn´t coax out of him. It honestly wasn't anything too big, you exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up again soon. After parting ways, you threw yourself back into the regular regime of practicing your violin and meticulously listening to the booth recording every night, just so you could perfect your part to a T.

 The day came where you had to go back to practice, and you were ready, veins pumping with determination to make these last few sessions the best you´ve played yet. You texted Graham that you´d be there soon, and he gave you a thumbs up in return. When you finally arrived in front of the room, you were 10 minutes late. The boys were already playing, by the sound of the percussion booming outside the door. You grimace and take a deep breath, turning the handle in and hurrying inside the booth.

 No one really spared a glance at you, so you assumed you were okay in terms of punctuality. You opened your case and started strumming your strings, counting the measures and beats until it was your turn. Damon´s voice rang out, melodious and airy as ever, dropping octaves and floating on soprano tones. Your bow moved across his words, accenting his tones and adding emphasis to his sorrowful song. And then, after a couple of minutes, it was done.

 ¨Alright you lot, pretty good for today. ´Specially you, Y/N, you caught up pretty quick, I expected you to slack behind but I'm actually impressed.¨ Graham flashed you a nervous grin and you beamed back at him in return.

 ¨Yeah, speaking of, why were you gone last week? I expected someone who makes below the poverty line would actually want to work for their money,¨ Damon chuckles a little meanly.

 You feel your smile drop a smidge.

 ¨Well actually Damon, not that it's any of your business, but I went on a date.¨ You smirk at him, enjoying the way his mouth opens slightly and moves silently.

 But he regroups quickly and glares at you. ¨None of my business? The deadline is only a few days away, and you´re whoring yourself out and going on dates? I guess you´re not as professional as Graham thought.¨

 Everyone shifts uncomfortably, and blood rushes to your face, anger clouding your mind. Why was he being like this? He was fine the last time you saw him, you actually thought maybe he was going to change the way he addressed you.

  Graham speaks up. ¨Damon. You´re overreacting man, I gave her the okay, and she played fine today. No harm done, seriously, there's no need for that kind of language towards her.¨

 ¨Actually, there absolutely is a need. If I knew you were going to invite a prostitute as our sub-in then I would´ve never agreed to have her here. Didn´t know you were so low on money Y/N, I would´ve spared you a couple pounds.¨ He sneers.

 ¨Damon!¨

 You laugh bitterly and rise to your feet. ¨Oh that's rich, coming from the man who fucked half the continent just because he couldn't get over one girl. No wonder every real woman in your life including your wife wants to leave, nothing is ever good enough for you. Except heroin maybe.¨

 The words leave your mouth before you can take them back, and there's a pin drop silence as if a bomb had been dropped. In a way, it kind of did.

 Damo glares at you. Everyone is holding your breath, including you.

 ¨Get out.¨

 ¨Hey,-¨ Taz tries to gently interject but Damon throws the mic at him. 

 ¨I said get the fuck out. You´re not practicing with us anymore, you can pack your shit and leave.¨

 Tears brim at the corners of your eyes, and you choke out a small ¨Fine.¨

 You hear Graham berating him behind you as you fly through the door, telling him that they need you, it's too late to change people, but the words jumble in your ears as the door slams shut. You don't hear what Damon says, if he even says anything, and you aren't interested in his comebacks right now.

 It's only when you leave the car, tears streaming down your face in rage and embarrassment that you groan to yourself, your hands reaching an empty seat with one foot out the door-

You forgot your violin case.

 ************

 It's nighttime.

 The crickets chirp as you creep silently through the parking garage, the soft thud of your shoes echoing a lot louder than you wanted in the empty lot. The studio itself wasn't closed, but you were sure Damon must have informed the manager there not to let an ex-musician like you back in there.

 Wearing a black hoodie and black pants was a smart move- you blended in with the shadows well. The doors weren't locked, and you hiss out a small ¨yesss¨ as you slip inside the mostly dark building. Needless to say, you were proud of yourself for navigating through the windings pitch-black hallways to your old booth.

 Testing the handle lightly, you sigh out in relief when that too gives way. Unfortunately though, the second the door shuts behind you, you immediately stumble forward and fall. 

 The room is dark, darker than the other hallways so you can barely see your hands. The only source of light you´re granted is the dim red bulb on top of the booth door. And speaking of, that's exactly where you need to go...which proves to be harder when you keep bumping into random shit and cursing when you feel potential bruises forming on your shins.

 Miraculously you stagger through the next door towards where you last sat, and blindly feel around the floor and chairs for your violin case. You feel nothing there, but panic starts settling in your heart when you can't find it.

 ¨Looking for something?¨

 You scream and lurch backwards, knocking your head into some kind of stand. Groaning, you rub your head and hold a hand on your racing heart as you squint into the dim red room, placing the voice to the person.

 ¨D-Damon?¨ 

 ¨In the flesh sweetheart. ´Knew you'd come back for this, s´just my luck I came back to get it tonight so I could give it to you personally in case you wanted to be stubborn. But this is even better than I could´ve hoped.¨

 You make out his silhouette in the obsidian abyss in front of you. He's sitting with knees spread on a chair, a few feet in front of you as he leans his head back on the wall. Your precious violin case is being held hostage in his arms, and it's the absolute love you have for the brittle instrument that propels you to your feet and moves you to get the hell out instead of interrogating him.

 ¨What, so you were just here the whole time listening to me falling around like an idiot?” You laugh incredulously, and you see the area of his shoulders move up and down.

 ¨Was pretty funny to watch, honestly. You sound cute when you curse.¨ He stands up to his fullest height now, the red light bouncing off his back, giving him a sort of demonic halo.

 You knew it was actually time to leave when you felt those stupid butterflies in your stomach rise up again.

¨Right, well, I´ll be on my way then. Good luck with your song and whatever, I´ll just take the case...¨ You trail off as your extended hand is left in midair, no violin case reaching it.

 He cocks his head at you. ¨Why are you in such a rush to leave?¨

 You can´t help the scoff that escapes you. 

 ¨Are you serious? You were such an absolute dickhead to me this afternoon, you said all sorts of horrible things to me, and you even fired me for Christ's sake! I want nothing to do with you, so could you please give me my case back so I can go?¨

 He's silent for a moment before answering. ¨Are you done yet?¨

 It isn´t just the light that's making you see red now.

 ¨Fuck you, honestly.¨ You whirl around and stomp towards where you guess the  door is, ignoring the clatter behind you and bingo you locate the handle, but as soon as you turn it-

 A hand reaches from behind you and pulls the ajar door shut.

 ¨Don´t go. I´m sorry.¨

 You´re absolutely still as you feel him towering over you, his arm dangerously close to your midriff as his hand remains on the knob.

 His voice is low, and you can feel him breathe against your neck, mere inches away. You can´t help the involuntary shiver that passes through you, and he feels it too, inhaling deeply when he gets close to your ear.

 ¨You smell so good.¨

 ¨Leave me alone, Damon,¨ you whisper, your voice catching in your throat from the overwhelming onslaught of emotions passing through you.

 He breaths in and slowly lets his hand rest on your side.

 ¨I can't do that. You know why. You have to have known by now.¨

 You tremble in his touch, yet allow his hands to wander down to your hip, the other coming around in a sort of hug to pull you closer to him.

 ¨We can´t.¨

 ¨Sure we can.¨

 You can feel his erection bumping against your ass.

 ¨You´re not worth this.¨

 ¨I´ll make myself worth it.¨

 And as soon as he latches onto the back of your neck, you´re like putty in his hands, a moaning mess as he sucks galaxy-colored hickies on your skin. You can feel yourself grow wetter as he shoves his hands up your shirt and teasingly pulls down the bridge of your bra, letting the weight of your tits fill up his hands appreciatively. He starts rolling your hardened buds in between his skilled calloused fingers, and you whine and throw your head back when you feel him rut against your ass, panting raggedly in your ear.

 You rub your thighs together, desperate for some form of friction as he squeezes your tits, and then letting one hand ghost across the expanse of your stomach, down to brush against the rim of your panties. Damon chuckles meanly in your ear when you buck against the stilled hand over your mound.

 ¨You want this?¨ He lightly nips your ear. He smells like old spice and sandalwood.

 You nod desperately, frustrated with him not giving you his thick fingers already.

 But it's not enough for him. ¨No no, pretty girl, use your words now. I´ve barely touched you yet and you´re already moaning like a wanton little slut for me? And here I was thinking you weren't that easy.¨

 You stop jerking your hips and blood rushes to your face at his insulting words. You try to move out of his grip, huffing and regretting the whole thing but he outright laughs now and spins you around, tugging you forward until your chest is slotted against his. You pout at him and look away, but he's quick to grasp your chin and pull you in for a rough yet sensual kiss.

Pushing you backwards against the wall, he deepens the lip-lock, tracing his tongue over your lips, nipping at the soft flesh and darkening his eyes when you whimper and look up at him.

 He knows what he´s fucking doing when he again drops his hand under your pants and over your panties, his other palm wound up firmly through your hair. He pulls your head back and lets you breathe for a second from his kiss of death before he speaks again.

 ¨I didn't hear an answer, slut. Do you want this?¨ He leans forward until his nose brushes against your neck, flicking his tongue out to taste your saccharine flesh.

 You tremble against his firm body when he pushes his pelvis against you, letting you feel how hard he is for you.

 It doesn't matter anymore. Maybe he was right, maybe you were just an easy slut putting up a facade for him, but when his clothes erection grinds up against your pussy you can't care less.

 ¨Y-yes, yes, ´want you, please,¨ you pant, frantically gripping the back of his cropped hair as his head descends to mark your neck again.

 ¨What a good girl,¨ he whispers, finally allowing his digits to oh-so-slowly trace over your mound, pressing down harder when you jerk against him. He finds your wet clit and flicks it a few times, snickering when you gasp and moan. Your body writhes in place but he holds you literally between a rock-or, wall- and a hard place, preventing you from scampering off.

 He drums his fingers against your folds, paying no attention to the way you grip his head tighter against you, silently begging him to go further.

 But he relents eventually and retires from just pushing and prodding your folds, allowing his slicked fingers to slowly dive into your drooling hole. You whimper and bite back a string of curses when you feel him fill you completely, scraping against your walls for that one special spot.

 His mouth moves off your neck and he rises to face you, a stupid smug grin on his wet lips, his eyelids lowered and trained on you. You flush at his lustful expression and gently push his head away, not wanting to accept his victory yet.

 ¨My fingers are literally fucking you right now, and you still won´t let me look at you? What, too embarrassed you couldn't continue being a stone-cold bitch for long?¨

 You open your mouth to snap back but right at that moment he curls his fingers and grazes your G-spot, simultaneously grounding his wet palm against your clit.

 With a loud gasp and the sluttiest moan you´ve ever made, you cum hard, your mouth open in a silent scream and your tongue hanging out like a bitch in heat as you do so. You fall forward against him.

 You don't even need to look up to know that he has a shit-eating grin on his face.

 ¨What was that sweetheart? Sorry, ´couldn't hear you over those slutty moans. I think even the pornstars I´ve been with would give you a standing ovation if they heard what you just sounded like.¨

 Your words are slurred as you curse nonsense at him, yet you´re still gripping his forearms to keep a hold on yourself. Your ears are ringing and you see spots as you come down from your climax, and surprisingly enough, Damon holds you close and doesn't let you slip down to the ground as you expected to when your knees start to give out.

 Instead, he lifts you up quite easily and carries you over to a table in the corner of the room. You don´t know how he even navigates his way through the dimly lit room, but you suppose after almost half a lifetime in studios he knows his way around.

 You offer no resistance as he sets you down gently and begins to lift your shirt off of your body. You manage to lift your arms weakly up in the air for easier access to stripping, but when he starts to kneel down to take your pants off you stop his hands at your knees and look at him with scrunched eyebrows.

 He stops and looks up at you. His eyes aren't so darkened anymore, they´re wide and imploring, probably noticing your hesitation.

 ¨Damon, I...¨ You trail off as he maintains eye contact with you and slowly lowers his pursed lips to your calf, lightly pecking his way up to your knees and ensuring that you´re watching his every move.

 Your breathing increases again as his pink appendage darts out, his saliva cooling on your exposed thighs. He sucks on the plush skin and turns his head upwards to face you.

 You want to run your hands through his hair.

 ¨You have a wife,¨ You breathe.

 ¨Not for tonight I don´t.¨

 Your voice gets caught in your throat at that. He positions his hands at the side of your knees, fingers curling around the hem of your pants in a second attempt.

 ¨Let me make you feel good, love.¨

His answer is in the form of your hand reaching for his collar and pulling him up into a standing position until he towers over your seated form, once again breath stolen in a heated kiss.

 Damon fumbles with his zipper as you shove your pants off, fully ready for him now, your dampened panties solid evidence of your need for him.

 He pulls his cock out and it bounces out, slapping up against his stomach.

 You do a double take. The tabloids were right. He was absolutely huge.

 It was disgusting almost, it was insulting really. How the fuck could he be that big? You lose count of how many inches he is when you start to get light headed, realizing with a jolt that he plans to put that monster inside you.

 And fuck, why did it have to be so pretty too? Normally you wouldn´t use the word pretty to describe a dick, but fuck, that´s the only appropriate word that came to mind as you admired the white flesh as it mixed in with a dull pink flush turning into an angry shade of red as your eyes progressed up to his tip...which was soaked with precum, mind you.

 He was neatly shaven everywhere, including his plush balls. No wonder he got to fuck half the continent.

 Damon notices your gawking and smiles lazily, taking a fist around his prick and stroking lethargically up and down.

 ¨You gonna just stare at it all day or are you going to spread those cute legs for me?¨

 Spoken like a true middle aged fuck-boyman.

 You look up at him beseechingly, thoroughly intimidated by his length. He merely scoffs, winking at you when he wrenches your tightly closed knees apart.

 It's almost like he falls into a trance when he presses his now-naked torso against your chest, when he slots himself between your legs and drags his tip through your sloppy folds and up onto your clit. His mouth falls open slightly and he moans when your juices coat his dick, making it slippery and easy to push the first few inches ever so slightly into your spasming cavern.

 He can't help but want more, need more as he practically smothers his weight onto you, forcing you to lie back on the table and letting your legs dangle off the edge. He hunches over you and thrusts minutely into your pulsing folds, groaning when you whine and lace your fingers around his neck and tangle your legs around his back, dragging him impossibly close into you.

 For a moment it´s just the sound of you two panting and moaning like inexperienced teenagers, and a zing of pride zips up your spine at the realization that Damon Albarn, one of the world's most renowned playboy is whining and humping against your pussy, reduced to nothing at your hands.

 He takes your hands from around his neck and grips your wrists, forcing them above your head on the table. He leans down and kisses you, hard. You give him back the same energy when your hips move up and down along his length, pushing your inviting hole towards his eager and jumping dick.

 ¨Pretty little girl,¨ he murmurs against your lips, and you nip his bottom lip playfully in retaliation. He slowly starts to sink himself into you, and you practically purr at the feeling of his veiny member dragging against your sensitive walls until he stops. 

 You look at him questioningly, and blanch when you see the mischievous glint in his cobalt eyes.

 ¨I want you to count for me.¨

¨Count…?¨ You shake your head in confusion and he pulls out, making you groan in annoyance.

 ¨I want you to count every inch I put inside you. Unless your slutty mouth can't even do that? I'd be surprised if you couldn´t, you usually have so much shit to say.¨ His voice is low yet teasing, and a shiver passes through you when the rumble of his chest vibrates against your nipples.

 ¨F-fine, I´ll count.¨

 He hums in approval and regroups, guiding his length into your awaiting pussy once again.

 It´s almsot torture how slow he goes, and your toes curl at how vivid the sensation is at this pace.

 You almost forget to do what he asks until he ducks his head down and teeths your bud.

 ¨Ah, fuck! One!¨ You yelp, writhing to get away from his lecherous gaze and hold on your poor tit.

 He tuts and licks the swollen area until the pain subsides a bit, and then he continues to push.

 ¨T-two,¨ you moan and let your head fall back. It's unfair how tightly he´s holding your reins-you want him to plow you down, not take his sweet time in this punishment.

 ¨Damon, can´t you go any faster? Please, I want y-¨

¨-I didn't take you for a masochist, Y/N, but I´m happy to play around with these cute tits if you want to bitch more.¨

Your scowl is cut off when he suddenly shoves two more inches into you, and you mewl loudly at being filled so much.

 ¨Three! Four! Fuck, oh god, please,¨ you babble nonsense as he curses above you, his form shaking in an effort not to push all the way in.

 ¨Doing so good sweetheart, you´re almost halfway,¨ he smirks and you gape at him in disbelief.

 Halfway?

 Five, six, seven, eight, and nine go painfully slow, and by the time he´s fully sheathed inside you, plush balls pressed against your ass, you´re an incoherent, drooling mess.

 Your hair is in your face, your cheeks are flushed, and your body bounces up and down as he begins to rock inside you, finally giving you what you want.

 His name is chanted like an obscene prayer from your mouth as he grunts and shakes the table. Your legs are wobbly and unable to do anything except press him tighter against you to the point where he can barely move back. The skin of his stomach slaps against yours, his balls slap against the crevice of your ass, and your pussy practically sloshes with every stroke in and out.

 He fists your hair with one hand and pulls your neck up to meet his searching lips, his other hand holds your wrists fast against the table. You want to touch him, you want to explore your body as he has conquered yours but he doesn't let you feel anything else apart from the rapid thrusts inside your battered body.

 Damon switches positions and lifts the back of your knees up and pushes them forwards until they meet your chest. He lets his body weight rest on the back of your thighs as he pulls out and pushes back impossibly close inside you, closer than he did in missionary. 

 You sob with need as he plunges into you and reaches a higher spot than before, his tip grazing your cervix. He pounds into you, and you thrust your hips up to fuck back into him, calling out his name as if he were your god.

 It´s a good thing the rooms are soundproof.

 You feel your second climax comes when he paves way through your tight walls and batters your uterus. It doesn´t hurt so much as feel intense, and your choked moans become panting gasps when he brings a hand down to swirl his thumb over your aching clit.

 ¨You´re not going to meet with that prick from your work again, yeah? Say it. Say it if you want me to let you cum.¨ He could have been speaking an alien language for all you knew. Your poor addled brain didn't pick up anything except for the word ¨cum¨, and you were a goner.

 ¨Yes, yes, anything you say, anything you want, just please let me-¨

And oh he does.

 It comes over you like a tidal wave, your mind going blank, your eyes seeing white as your legs shake from your earth-shattering orgasm. You feel like you´re going down a rollercoaster, and you never want to stop dropping.

 Distantly, you hear him groan and say your name. You can feel pulsing in your filled walls, with what you assume is his ropes of cum. It feels like when you came, it practically squeezed all his cum out with your clenching.

 He lets out a shaky breath and falls forward, his nose inches from yours, his breath puffing in your face.

 Your eyes are glazed over, but you´ve never seen anything more clearly before.

 Maybe Damon Albarn really was worth it.

[dazenightmare]

I am gonna stay a lot longer due to this became my safe haven and honestly i think you should make a seperate blog for it like. Dude this is so much potentials and it needed to be spread i been thinking of making an fanart for everyone on the Dream SMP Supermarket AU since i can draw just not digital mhh... What else oh right i felt this is gonna be a hilarious sitcom like The Office or something yeah i only knew The Office since i am not an American mhh... What else oh right what the Dream SMP Characters thoughts on other stores like Hermitcraft Store and others such It probably blown their mind once they entered it and organized like a library and decided to cuz a little mayhem which make them being Chased by Grian i think Grian is the only one i have seen name from the tags here on Tumblr I'll probably look into it. Oh right and the Helper War happened it probably catch the whiff of a reporter on nearby as he brusted into the doors wearing a Helmet and Bulletproof vest with a printed white text "MEDIA" and it have spoken "Breaking News, a helper war are currently occur into your one store in town where the employees have-" before being run over by Tubbo in high speed roller blades And being cut off during the live broadcast and later in the morning the headlines on local news papers in their small town.

"Cameraman and Reporter being knock out after rolled over by the famous roller boy of Dream SMP Supermarket during Helper War" read more into Page 3.

with a blurred photo of Tubbo attached to it.

I’m glad my blog could be a safe haven!

I mean, I could make a separate blog for this if people want? I feel like that would be handy for the followers who most certainly did not sign up for this sudden increase in popularity

The first time any of them visited the Hermits store, it was just Tommy and Wilbur needing to go grocery shopping and not being able to go to their own store because the next shipment of mac&cheese wasn’t due for a week. They just look at the pristine and peacefulness of the store in complete shock, before deciding it was too peaceful and causing chaos as if it were their own store. None of the Hermits were happy with this

When the Helper War went down, there most certainly was a news reporter. They manage to get through a summary of what the Helper War was before Tubbo just quickly rolls between them and the camera, and the news man is just like, “dude, wait, point the camera at him”

And it just picks up Tubbo managing to get to a phone through all the chaos and just going onto the intercom with, “HEY!” which made everything stop before he went, “Are you done with your pissing contest now? Everybody better clean up their messes and go back to their departments, or else I will hunt them for sport, okay? Deli department, I’ll be with you to discuss what will be happening shortly. I will be talking with Dream to get caught up on everything while you guys clean. Shoppers, I am so sorry this happened and to involve you in this mess which probably could’ve very easily been fixed. Again, sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you, and have a lovely rest of your day.”

And the local newspaper has a headline like, “AFTER DAYS, ROLLERBLADE-BOY TUBBO PUTS AN END TO THE HELPER WAR. SHOPPERS EXTREMELY GRATEFUL”

[aloysiavirgata]

Xenia

Title: Xenia By: Aloysia Virgata Rating: PG Category: MSR Timeline: X Cops Summary: Brunch in WIllow Park Notes: For @perplexistan​, who came up with this amazing idea.

***

He’s staring out the window into the grungy hotel courtyard when he hears the knock at the door. Mulder frowns and, against all recommendation, tucks his gun into the waistband of his boxers. He approaches the door as though it may be on fire. “Hello?” he calls.

“Mulder, it’s me.”

He puts his gun on top of the microwave, unfastens the three locks to admit Scully. “What’s up, buttercup?”

She’s snapping a pink card against her palm, scowling as she passes beneath his arm. “Brunch,” she says.

Mulder shuts the door before following her to the bed. She’s hunched there like a tiny storm cell, glowering, gathering steam. He decides against a romantic overture, though it’s been a week since she last spent the night and he wants to...to lick her.

“Brunch?” he repeats.

She holds the card out. “Sergeant Duthie has accepted an invitation on our behalf.”

Mulder, baffled, takes it from her. The card is flamingo pink, ornamented with two palm trees and two gold-rimmed champagne glasses. In careful gold calligraphy, it invites them to join Steve and Edy for BRUNCH AND BUBBLY! at 10:30.

His jaw drops. “You cannot possibly be serious.”

She snatches it back from him. “Serious as hantavirus. I hope you brought something in a nice madras.”

He sits next to her on the bed, stunned. “Why has Sergeant Duthie done this to us? We were helpful, Scully. You rendered medical aid. You did a late night autopsy out of the goodness of your heart.”

Scully, prim, tucks the card into her jacket pocket. “I did a late night autopsy because you’re bossy and demanding, but that isn’t the point.”

“Do we have to go?” he asks, like she’s his mother.

Scully glares at him. “’Do we have to go?’” she mimics in a falsetto. “Of course we have to go, we’ll look awful if we don’t. The tabloid headlines will practically write themselves. FBI SNUBS LOCAL NEIGHBORHOOD COUPLE. You wanted to go charging around on camera talking about fear monsters for the noble cause of cryptozoology and look where it got us.”

He sighs. “Well, of everyone we encountered on that little goose chase, they’re not awful. I wouldn’t want to have brunch at the crack house.”

She chews the inside of her cheek, stewing. “I can’t believe this.”

Mulder thumps her back in a comradely manner.  “The food will probably be decent, right? Probably good coffee, too. Not to mention the bubbly!”

Scully scrunches her nose, pressing her hand to her eyes. “Mulder, I swear to God…”

The event begins to take shape in his mind, Steve and Edy’s tidy home with little morsels on trays. He tries to remember the campy snacks his mother ordered for her bridge club. Lots of puff pastry and ornamental parsley.

Scully gets to her feet. “Well, shower and iron your seersucker suit,” she says gloomily. “I’ll call a cab.”

“It’ll be fun,” he says, excited as always by any novel experience. He considers too that Scully needs to be socialized more often, and it’s not like he takes her on real dates. This will be good for her. He will make her enjoy herself, he decides.

“Oh, I can’t wait for you to get halfway through your third mimosa and start dispensing relationship advice,” Scully says. “Between Edy and Hollman, maybe you should quit the FBI and start a romance column.”

“I get no kick from champaaaaaagne,” he croons.

“Mulder.”

“Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all…”

“MULDER.”

“So tell me why should it be true, that I get a kick out of you?”

His gun falls off the microwave when she slams the door.

***

The driver takes them to a decrepit looking stucco building to procure a hostess gift from what he assures them is the best bakery within 20 miles. Dubious, Mulder and Scully follow him inside. Behind the ancient formica counter, a withered old woman brandishing an immense wooden spoon speaks loudly with the cabbie for several moments in an unknown tongue. He points at his fares, gesturing broadly.

Mulder tries to look respectable, the kind of person who deserves only the finest. He nudges Scully, who offers a vague wave at the proprietress.

The old woman considers them for a moment, then chooses several items from her display case. She secures them in a tidy parcel, which she passes to Scully, who accepts it like an IED.

The woman beckons Mulder down to her and when he obliges, bent nearly double, she pinches his cheek and whacks his arm in a loving manner with the spoon.

Scully, delighted, pays and tips her generously before they get back on their way.

***

The cab stops in front of Steve and Edy’s house. Mulder, who feels this is all becoming a splendid adventure, praises the cabbie for his excellent service. He leaves an extra five on the front seat before they get out.

Scully holds the bakery box with a mournful air. “Well,” she says. “Here we are.”

Mulder opens the gate in the chain link fence, striding along the walkway to the house. He is already on the porch, examining the empty birdcage, when she trudges up.

He chucks her under the chin. “Smile pretty.”

Her nostrils flare, but there is no other response.

Mulder knocks at the door, and is greeted almost immediately by Edy. She is wearing tropical print harem pants, a purple tunic, and a white turban ornamented with a tremendous topaz brooch and a single peacock feather. She squeals delightedly and flings her arms around him.

“AY-gent Mulder,” Edy gushes. “Well don’t you look mighty handsome. And Agent Scully, child, you did NOT have to bring a GIFT.”

Mulder extricates himself from Edy’s grasp. “Thanks, uh, for having us. It wasn’t necessary.”

“No,” Scully pipes up. “It really wasn’t.”

Edy waves her elegant hand. “It is absolutely our pleasure. Now come on in.” She swans into the kitchen, leaving them stranded in the living room. The house smells gloriously of food.

Scully shuts the door with her hip. “Um,” she says.

Mulder directs his attention to a collection of ceramic animals on a shelf. A little seal balances a ball on its snout, so shiny it looks like hard candy.

Steve emerges from the hallway, dapper in a crisp button down. “I heard her fussing from the bathroom,” he says. “She changed her outfit five times.”

“Well, it’s certainly nice to feel wanted,” Mulder observes. He looks at the vase of flowers on the table, the bright cloth beneath it. The sweet domesticity tugs at him.

“We brought this,” Scully says, nearly shoving the box into Steve’s hands.

Steve takes it, smiling. “Well, isn’t that mighty nice of you? You went to Sofia, that place is real good. Bulgarian.” He places the box on the table. “Go on and take a seat, just going to help out in the kitchen.”

They sit across from one another at the table after he disappears from view. Mulder rubs his arm. “I think the bakery lady left a mark.”

“You’re probably betrothed now.” Scully toys with a crystal salt shaker. “Some old Bulgarian custom.”

“Jealous?”

She offers a moue of disdain.

Edy emerges from the kitchen with a bar cart. As predicted, there are flutes of mimosas on the top of it, and a whole pitcher besides. The rest is loaded with food. “TaDAAAAA!” Edy sings, with a grand flourish.

“Edy, this is too much,” Mulder says, rubbing his hands together. Even Scully looks impressed.

“She’s been busy all morning,” Steve says proudly, hands on her shoulders.

Edy beams, hands them each a plate of Eggs Benedict. “I make that Hollandaise myself,” she says, taking her seat as the peacock feather sways. “Grow the lemons out back, too. All this out back.” She surveys her table, a presiding empress. 

Steve unloads the rest of the cart, plates of fruit and tiny tomato sandwiches and cheese straws. A mound of home fries glossy with butter and fragrant with browned onions.

“Don’t forget the bubbly,” Edy says, scandalized. “We need a toast.”

Steve dutifully passes them each a mimosa before sitting down. 

Edy lifts her glass. “Well, I will just say thank you to our new friends from the FBI who are doing their best to keep us safe even with a bunch of skanky-ass crackheads running around, may they rest in peace. Amen.”

Scully is staring at the table, chewing hard on her bottom lip to keep from laughing.

Mulder doesn’t dare try to catch her eye. “Uh, amen,” he says, and takes a sip of his drink. He blinks; Edy has a heavy pour.

“I squeezed that juice myself too,” Edy says.

Steve rolls his eyes. “You sound like the Little Red Hen, you gonna let us eat or what?”

“I told you he disrespects me,” she mutters into her glass.

Scully has recovered herself and is cutting into her egg, which spills golden yolk onto her plate. She removes a wedge of the sandwich with surgical precision and puts it into her mouth, wary. Her face brightens as she chews. “Edy, this is delicious.”

Mulder is proud of Edy.

“My Granny Minerva taught me to cook,” she says. “I grew up with her mostly, in the Lowcountry.”

Mulder perks up. “Oh, did you? My grandparents had a place in Hilton Head.”

Edy snorts. “Mmmhmmm, I bet they did. I bet you’re a trust fund baby to the cradle, you have pretty hands.”

Scully laughs around a chunk of watermelon, sputters and coughs. She presses a cloth napkin to her mouth, blushing pink as the fruit.

“You okay?” Steve asks, his brow furrowed. “You need a drink?”

Scully, still magenta, shakes her head and gulps half of her mimosa. “I’m fine,” she manages. Mouths “pretty hands” to Mulder.

Mulder scowls at her. 

“ANNNyway,” Edy continues. “I lived with Granny and I learned all her secrets.” She gestures at the tomato sandwich on Mulder’s plate. “The trick is you pat the tomatoes dry first, did you know that, Hilton Head?”

Steve refills his glass. “She lived with Granny Minerva because her mama was a runaround.”

Edy whips her head around. “I have TOLD you not to disrespect my mama.”

Steve purses his lips but says no more. 

Mulder applies himself to his Eggs Benedict, which is rich and delicious and speaks highly of Granny Minerva. Scully is nibbling a cheese straw with interest.

Edy props her chin in her palm, tapping her cheek with her fingers. “The FBI, now what is that like to do? It seems real scary to me.” She looks at Mulder through her extravagant lashes.”Real daaaangerous,” she purrs.

Scully’s lower lip is back between her teeth.

Mulder chases a potato around his plate with his fork. “Well, uh, it depends, I guess. I mean sometimes, sure, it’s pretty dangerous I guess, depending, but we have a lot of training and all and there’s paperwork mostly too, which is only dangerous if you get the math wrong and there’s an audit, haha, so…” he trails off.

“Agent Mulder just doesn’t want you to feel concerned,” Scully interjects smoothly. “Situations like the one you experienced are exactly what we’ve been trained to do, so there’s no need to be worried. We go through a pretty extensive program in the Academy.” She spears a slice of kiwi and pops it into her mouth.

Mulder could kiss her, right in front of Steve and Edy and God and everybody. Haul the camera crew back for all he cares. But he knows better. She’ll get there on her own.

Edy fans herself. “I just can’t imagine.  We are too glad you were here.”

“Baby, they brought dessert from Sofia,” Steve says. “Wasn’t that nice?”

She claps her hands happily. “Ooohhh, that little old Bulgarian lady runs that place.”

“She hit me with a spoon,” Mulder says, pointing at his arm. “About took my cheek off too.”

“That means she likes you,” Steve tells him. 

“Giiirrrl, you better watch out,” Edy warns Scully, with a knowing expression. “She’ll snap him right up.”

Scully looks alarmed. “Pardon?”

Edy smirks. “You may have trained at the A-cad-emy, but I studied theater and I can read all kinds of things in people.”

Scully’s face has gone from alarm to panic, and Mulder knows she is trying to recall every word, every movement the cameramen may have captured.

“Theater?” he asks, to divert her. “You’re an actress, Edy?”

Steve puts his head in his hands. “Lord help us.”

She gets to her feet, arms held out like a goddess on a Grecian urn. “My sister Veronica and I did this double act and my husband, Charlie, traveled around with us. Now for the last number - “

“Chicago!” Mulder exclaims, then is embarrassed.

They all look at him in surprise. 

“You like musicals, Agent Mulder?” Edy asks, practically glowing. “What’s your favorite?”

“Yes, Agent Mulder, what’s your favorite?” Scully asks, eyes dancing.

He draws little squiggles in the remains of his Hollandaise sauce. “Oh, just, my mom used to take us to shows, you know, when I was a kid.”

“But your favorite,” Scully insists, because she is mean.

“Chicago’s good,” he mumbles. He will never tell her the real answer, which is My Fair Lady.

“Honey, Chicago is the BEST.” Edy goes to a bookshelf and removes a large album.

“Ohhhh, no!” Steve asserts. “Didn’t I already tell you nobody wants to see your ass? Now go on and put that back.”

Edy glides back haughtily, places the book on the table, oriented towards Mulder. She opens it to a page with a glossy 8x10 of her as Velma Kelly, in all her black sequined bodysuited glory.

“Wow,” Mulder says, feeling sympathetic pain as he looks at the bodysuit.

“Virgin Indian hair on that wig,” Edy says, tapping the photo. She stares at Scully.

Scully leans forward to examine the photo. “You look really nice.”

Edy turns a few pages to another picture. She is luxuriating in a claw foot tub, one leg draped over the edge. The bubbly water is at a strategic depth between her legs. Mulder feels as though he should avert his eyes, but gazes on.

“Now these,” Edy says, “are from some modeling I did for a boudoir photographer.”

Steve groans. “Baby, why?”

“It is called art,” she snaps. “Now Agent Scully, girl to girl, you understand this. Sometimes you just want a record of you at your best, you want to share that with your man.” 

Scully smiles blankly. “Mm.”

Mulder studies the picture with renewed interest. “A boudoir photographer?” he asks.

Edy favors Scully with a sly glance. “See that’s what I thought.  It’s very tasteful, isn’t it?” She turns the page, displaying herself in a ruffled white corset, heeled white ankle boots, and a lace parasol. “It’s very elegant.”

It is, strangely enough. Mulder assumes there must be boudoir photographers in DC. He can import one, if necessary. From the edge of his peripheral vision, he sees Scully studiously peeling a grape.

“I think it’s time for dessert,” Steve says. “Honey, go put those pictures back so they don’t get ruined.”

Edy, looking triumphant, gives Mulder a saucy wink before sashaying back to the bookshelf.

“Lord,” Steve mumbles. He opens the bakery box, then smiles. “You tell her you were coming here?” he asks. “You got all my favorites.”

“I think the cabbie must have,” Scully says, abandoning her grape. “They were talking for a bit, but we didn’t know what they were saying. We never even mentioned your names, I guess he knew the address.”

“Musta been Anzhelo,” Edy says, settling on Steve’s lap. “That’s her grandson, he helps me with my garden a little bit. That boy is always hustling.”

Steve puts a golden pastry oozing honey onto his plate. He cuts off a morsel with his fork and feeds it to his lady, who giggles. 

Mulder smiles at them. “This, uh, this has been really wonderful, but we have to go get our stuff together for the flight home.”

Edy pouts. “Well, that’s a shame. You oughtta stay another day or so, we could show you around town. We know everybody.”

Steve moves on to a dense wedge of chocolate cake. “Lots of walnuts in this, you got any allergies?”

Scully holds up a hand. “No, thank you, I’m qui-“

“She’s gotta keep her cute figure for that boudoir photographer,” Edy says. She licks honey off of her fingers.

“Can we help you tidy up?” Scully asks, as though Edy hasn’t spoken.

“I got it,” Steve says. “That’s our system. You go on back to your hotel, I’ll call Anzhelo.” He pats Edy on the side, and she gets up so he can head to the phone.

“Where’s the restroom, please?” Scully asks.

Steve sprawls on the red velvet sofa, pointing her down the hall. He picks up the receiver and starts dialing.

Mulder watches Scully disappear around the corner, wondering if he would like to thank Edy or strangle her.

“He'll be here in just a few,” Steve says from the couch. “I called him on his cell phone, how times change.”

“You tell her not to worry,” Edy says with a wink, resting her hand on Mulder’s shoulder. “The cameras don’t get everything.”

Mulder adopts what he hopes is a confused expression and shrugs. He busies himself stacking plates, pausing to take a swipe of chocolate frosting with his finger. He downs the rest of his second mimosa, considers a third.

Scully emerges then, her hair smoothed and her lipstick freshened. “Again, thank you both for the hospitality.”

“You better call us when you’re in town again,” Edy says, wagging a stern finger. “I will hold you to that, Agents.”

There is a honk outside. “Oh, that’s our cue,” Mulder says, rising. He reaches for the small of Scully’s back but it feels conspicuous now. He converts the motion to a wave.

Edy follows them to the door, blowing kisses all the way.

They climb into the waiting cab. “You like my grandmother's baking?” Anzhelo asks, peeling away from the curb.

“Phenomenal,” Scully says, because she is kind. “We’re stuffed.”

Anzhelo smiles proudly in the rear view.

Mulder slumps against the door. “I feel like one of those big snakes after it eats a whole wildebeest. I need to sleep off all that food.”

“I was a little ambitious myself,” Scully says. She sits up straighter, eyes wide. “Oh, Mulder. Oh shit. You know Bill watches Cops?”

Of course he does, of course. Mulder makes a noise of dismay, unable to address this news on so full a stomach and so heavy a head.

“Mulder, he’s going to see every terrible minute and just snap,” she moans. “Werewolves!”

Mulder, buzzy, imagines Bill and Tara on the couch, eating Corn Nuts, when his sister appears onscreen. He imagines Bill leaping to his feet in outrage, scattering a plate of Li’l Smokies cooked in grape jelly. He starts laughing.

Scully punches him in the arm. “It’s not funny, Mulder!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he pleads, holding up his hands in defense. He is still laughing.

“Oh my god, the Wasp Man! Mulder did you say anything awful when you were unattended?”

Tears are running down his face at this point. It’s all so ridiculous. Bill in his base housing, finding out that his sister was two hours away chasing invisible monsters and crackheads without even calling. Mulder thinks he may, if suitably provoked, let him know what else his sister has been doing.

He smiles darkly to himself.

Scully punches his arm again, harder, and he stops laughing. 

“Ow,” he says, sulky. “It’s nothing he doesn’t know.”

She hides her face in her hands. “I could just die.”

Mulder draws her onto her side, curled with her glossy head in his lap. He strokes her smooth pixie cap of hair, the color of autumn in New England.

“I hate you,” she mumbles into his thigh.

He traces her ear. “I know,” he soothes. 

“So much.”

“Yes.”

“And you can stop thinking about boudoir photographers, because it’s not happening.” She traces little shapes on his knees.

“Mmm,” he says, non-committal. Mulder pets her until they pull up at the hotel, and he has to get to his wallet. He pays Anzhelo and sends regards to his grandmother, to Steve and Edy.

They clamber out, Scully blinking in the vivid sunlight. Anzhelo waves from the window as he drives off.

“You ready to go home?” Mulder asks.

She looks up at him. “No photographer,” she says again. “But.”

He’s intrigued. “But?”

“My room has a corner tub. It’s not, uh, a claw foot or anything, but it’s pretty roomy.” Scully looks shy as she takes his hand. “This is still weird,” she confesses.

“Yeah. But it’s, I think it’s good weird, right?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, squeezes his fingers.

He kisses her in the bright LA sunshine, in front of the bellhop and the taxis and God and everybody. She doesn’t pull away, puts her arms around him in fact, and still the world turns and turns and turns.

[veryveryverytemporarily]

Perfect

Sort of a match for robron week 2020 day 1.  And chapter 1 of 2 chapters.

Ao3 link here.

There must have been a reason why Robert arrived at the age of twenty-one still a virgin; some half-formed idea that your first time was meant to mean something and then it had gone on longer than he ever intended.

Of course, the press had loved it; hanging onto the railings outside the TV set where the teen drama that made him famous was filmed. Cameras flashing with one single purpose; to catch a shot of the purity ring that he wore on the fourth finger of his left hand.

He slowed from a run to a walk and reached for the ring where it still hung on a chain around his neck, leaned against the sea wall that looked out over the bay.

There were seagulls. He watched them soar over waves whipped up by the east coast winds. They looked happy enough – happy and carefree.

There was a frantic whispering behind him. Automatically he pulled his hood up and hunched his shoulders, waiting until the sound of footsteps receded. A glimpse of ankle socks and black school shoes on the newly tarmacked promenade, followed by a shrill voice screaming, ‘It is him; I told you!’

Alone again he clasped his hands together. His palms were sweaty, and not from the run; it was a big day ahead.

‘It’s too much pressure. If anything, it encourages more focus on the physical side of things; not less,’ his mum, Sarah, had said once upon a time. She hadn’t known he was listening outside the door. She’d held up a tabloid which had his picture on the corner of the front page, caught in the garden messing about with a hose pipe, the water gushing over him. He could see the headline still: How long can teen heart-thRob keep himself cool as temperatures rise around him?

He was fifteen at the time.

‘He should be able to live like a normal kid!’

But what was normal? How was he supposed to know even?

His dad thought the ring protected him. And his agent had loved it, pointing out the positives of a wholesome public image.

And then anyway everything had changed. His Mum had died. He’d painted on a smile for the cameras while the blackest times played out behind the scenes. Then there were the fights, and well, he’d been suspended from the show age seventeen, and he’d never gone back.

For a while there’d been Katie, and even though he wasn’t sure why anymore, they’d both agreed to wait until the wedding, and he’d thought he’d been redeemed. Even got a role with the Shakespeare Youth Company, a chance to relaunch his career.

But the paparazzi had got a picture of him leaving a hotel with the older woman in the fur coat, and she’d lied, and said they’d gone the whole way. Andy was waiting to take Katie away, the distance with his Dad became a chasm. He stopped showing up for rehearsals.

And now, a couple of years on, here he was.

He followed the smooth inner circle of the ring with his finger tip, elbows still resting on the wall. The tide was in. Maybe today was the day, he thought: How easy it would be to just unfasten the chain and let it fall into the cold grey waves, and after, to just turn around and walk away.

 ***

 ‘Where did you say you were staying?’

‘Filey.’

’At this time of year? And you’re staying in a youth hostel, did you say? Is there even one in Filey?’

‘A hotel.’

‘Well, who’s paying for that, love?’

‘It’s a job, like you’ve been banging on about? A photoshoot; all expenses paid.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe Paddy should join you.’

‘Mum, I’m seventeen, not seven. I’m fine. A couple of days and I’ll be back.’

Ever since she’d seen the dating App on his phone, she’d been on his case, doing his head in. So, what if he wasn’t old enough; he’d downloaded it more out of curiosity than anything. And anyway, he’d only used it once or twice and then deactivated, not because she was right, but because he’d got tired of turning down weirdos and pervy older blokes.

He walked into the dining-room, cutlery and linen laid out for breakfast service, sat down at an empty table. He flinched at the rare sighting of morning sunshine streaming in through the windows from outside, where seagulls divebombed hapless walkers hoping for scraps.

‘…a flawless family hotel with a reputation for fine cuisine…’ Adam had read out loud on his phone as they waited to say goodbye at the coach station the afternoon before. He’d sucked his teeth. ‘Does that mean they have like really small portions?’

Aaron frowned over the breakfast menu, then asked for toast.

 The photographer, Marc, had already sent scouts over a week before on a location search; the remote outdoors he wanted, sand dunes and haram grass, most of all privacy. And yes, he did know this was Costa del Yorkshire, but the natural light and the ambience were perfect for what he had in mind.

Aaron had caught up with him yesterday when he arrived, but he hadn’t met the model yet.

He was examining his plate with something approaching alarm, when the blond came in through the garden door; freckles, long hair, long limbs in a blue tracksuit.

He turned back to his breakfast, prodded cautiously with his fork at something on his plate that looked suspiciously like black pudding.

‘Need to put a name to perfection? Allow me to introduce myself.’

His eyebrows shot up; the blond was attempting to chat up the waitress.

He turned his chin discreetly so he could listen in.

From the corner of his eyes he could see that he’d raised both arms, curling his wrists to show off his biceps which as far as Aaron could tell were nonexistent.

‘See those guns? Those are for the ladies,’ the blond said, leaning way back in his chair. And then he puckered his lips and planted a kiss on his sleeve. ‘So, if you’re a lady, you could be in luck.’

Aaron either coughed or choked.

When the blond looked round, he banged a fist against his chest, indicating his plate.

Good for the waitress that she seemed quite savvy. She spoke with an Eastern European accent, gesturing with her pen.

‘So, what’s under the table, then?’

‘Oh, that’s for a special occasion. But play your cards right, and your name might just get added to the guest list.’

‘Let me know the date of the occasion, and I’ll pack my magnifying glass,’ she answered.

Aaron snorted again, this time he didn’t try to disguise it.

Their eyes locked, the blond with steely accusation as Aaron turned down the corners of his mouth.

What a dick!

Arrogant - but not just that, the whole conversation had been a complete car crash.

But it was none of his business, he had more important things to think about. He inhaled a mouthful of tea, decided on one more piece of toast, and then checked his phone to see if Marc had sent a message about when they were due to start.

 ***

Back in his room, Aaron put on some black eye liner, picked up his key card and put it in his pocket, then pulled up the handle on his makeup case and wheeled it into the hall.

What he really wanted to do was work in the film industry; a chance to use his skills in silicone prosthetics.  

‘First, I’ll take a cast, and then make a replica, and then paint it,’ he’d explained to Adam that time he’d asked him to be a guinea pig.

‘A cast of what?’ Adam had asked nervously.

‘Well not that, obviously! Your arm will do, you numpty! It’s a project, right, for my portfolio? And even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t….’

He’d kind of blushed. It was a long couple of years ago now since there’d been that confusing time which had eventually led to him coming out. The time he’d tried to kiss Adam, which still made him cringe inside when he thought about it.

‘It’s alright, you idiot. I still love you, okay,’ Adam had said. ‘I think deep down I always knew even if you were in denial about it. And now you’ll be able to find a nice bloke, yeah?’

Which was easy enough to say; he’d waited while all the kids at school moved on from one crush to the next, and then started to date. Until he felt like he was the only one still wondering what it was all about.

Then when he’d started college, all at once a load of blokes started to hit on him, and he’d agreed to see the ones he liked, and started exploring and enjoying the physical side of things.

But he still hadn’t had an actual relationship.

‘Honestly bro! You’re so picky! No one’s perfect, you just need to give someone a chance, yeah?’ Adam had said.

But what if there was someone perfect? It was just a feeling; but what if somewhere there was someone meant just for him? Wasn’t that worth holding out for?

 He took the elevator up a couple of floors.

It had been his tutor’s gig, but then he’d got ill at the last minute and asked Aaron to go in his place. Male model, glamour, he’d said, then added hastily, not boudoir or anything like that, while Aaron felt his throat flush threatening to spread up to his face. ‘And it’ll be good to have something else to put in your portfolio with that…’ he’d hesitated as if he was searching for the right word; ‘…prosthetic. So, make the most of it.’

‘Bro! Is he gonna be ripped?’ Inevitably Adam had teased him about it. ‘What if it’s love at first sight?’

He’d ignored him, of course, but he couldn’t deny the slight fluttering in his stomach right now. He knocked on Marc’s door, waited until it was opened, then stepped inside.

A big double bed dominated the small room. There were prints scattered over it of local bays and coastal paths supplied by the scouts, and Marc’s laptop open with the fan blowing hard. Above the headboard there was a glowering seascape of a fishing boat in trouble over turbulent waters.  

There was an old-fashioned dressing table with a folding mirror opposite the bed, and on the upholstered stool in front of it, sitting the wrong way round with his elbows balanced behind him, was the blond from breakfast.

Aaron turned back to Marc.

Even before he’d got the question out, he knew the answer; but it was too late, and anyway, by then he’d decided to enjoy it.

‘Where’s your model, then?’ he asked, looking searchingly about the room.

He saw the blond half close his eyes.

  ***

‘You know that meme…the one that goes …oh hello it’s you… it’s going to be you…’ he said later, on the phone to Adam.

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, basically, it was that... only this was…goodbye, it’s not you…it’s not going to be you…’

‘Oh man! I suppose you could just come back.’

‘Nah, I’d better see it through.’

The thing was there was something he hadn’t told Adam, something he felt he shouldn’t tell because it wasn’t about him, and it wasn’t really his place. And a model and a makeup artist, well, before anything else there had to be trust.

  ***

Trust? – His very first job and he’d blown it.

Of course, Marc had introduced them and Aaron found out who the blond was; Robert Sugden - he remembered something about a teen on a daytime TV show when he was in primary school.

‘Are you sure he’s qualified? How old is he? Looks like a twelve-year old.’ Robert asked.

‘Basically, your fan base, then.’

‘Why, are you planning on joining? Succumb to the inevitable?’

Their eyes locked again, just like at breakfast, until Robert looked down at Aaron’s makeup case.

‘What products are you using? Dior? Guerlain? M.A.C?’

‘Erm, Wet n Wild, and just Boots own brand, really. It’s alright.’

He thought back to the weekend, trying to slip disposable lip wands in his pocket while Adam turned on the charm with the girl at the chemists.

It was Marc who broke the impasse.

‘We’ve got an hour until the transports here. Just get it done. And remember Aaron, raw and natural, alright?’

And then he’d gone, leaving them to it.

  Aaron sighed.

So the model wasn’t what he’d hoped for. The best most generous description he could come up with for this one was your boy next door type - and he wasn’t feeling particularly generous.

But he needed to put that behind him now. He needed to stop thinking of Robert as a person, and focus on him as an art project; nothing more, just something to put in his portfolio.

He checked the lighting around the mirror and unzipped the makeup case. Robert sat forward, eyeing his reflection, a finger smoothing down an eyebrow.

He chose a nude primer for the blond’s eyes to start with.

‘Swivel.’

‘You what?’

‘Just move round to face me,’ he snapped.

He squeezed out some of the primer onto his finger tip, took a breath and started at last, dabbing the make up on under his eye.

Finally, they were both quiet.

He gently worked the primer into the corner of his eye, then blended down just onto the cheek bone, while the blonde looked up at the ceiling with green eyes that changed every so often like turns of a kaleidoscope.

Now he was actually this close, the thing that struck him was how good he smelt. He must have showered, sat there now in faded jeans and a grey T-shirt, smelling like a field of flowers, or  like strawberries and melon, like those cups of chopped fresh fruit that you got with a plastic spoon from the chiller in the coffee shop at college, when you had a hangover.

‘Close your eyes a mo...’

He put some primer on his eyelids, picked up a brush and started to work it softly into his deep sockets.

The other thing was his skin. However reluctant he was to admit it, it was impressive. Fine, and poreless, just few hormone pimples on the T-line, he guessed his age around twenty. And then the glorious 3D effect that only freckles can bring, so you feel you’re looking into a sea of gold.

He sat back. He wouldn’t use primer on that, just some sheer foundation with uv protection and bronzer. Nude lips, he swallowed, shimmer on his eyes and eyeliner gel. Looked back at his jawline again.

He would need to blend down his throat.

He grimaced, he should have already thought of this. Rookie error.

‘Can you take your T-shirt off?’

‘And careful!’ he warned as the blond reached back pulling it up over his shoulder and off over his head.

It wasn’t a hot day, maybe it was where they were sitting with the sun coming in through the window pane, but the temperature in the room seemed to suddenly soar. And that fruit cup smell, now there was something sharp and tangy about it, making his mouth water when it was still hours to lunch.

He noticed he was wearing a chain, it seemed the safest thing to look at. There was a ring on it; and then he saw the writing. ‘True Love Waits.’

He blinked. He’d never seen one before, but he knew what it was instantly.

It was so unexpected.

And then the things about Robert that had jarred all at once seemed to make more sense; the awkward chat up lines.

His mind flashed back to breakfast; so when the blond had said, ‘That’s for a special occasion,’ he wasn’t joking; he’d actually meant it!

Robert had raised his hand around the ring,  his eyes watching Aaron’s face.

He thought about saying something -  something along the lines of... Look, I don’t judge, alright? Whatever people choose to do, or not to do, as long as it feels right for you and doesn’t hurt anyone else. But somehow he couldn’t quite say them aloud.

‘You’ll need to take it off.’ He gestured vaguely in the direction of the chain. ‘Maybe keep it in your pocket?’ he added gently.

He watched his long fingers move to the catch of the chain, then open it.

Of course he was still a dick. It wasn’t as if the ring made him a better person, or a worse person.

But it did make him a more complicated person.

And then Robert had turned again towards him, holding the ring out.

‘Will you take it for me? I won’t be able to wear it on the shoot, and I need someone to trust with it,’ he said. ‘Can I trust you with it?’

Aaron swallowed.

‘Course you can, course!’

[himjopper]

the flea & the acrobat (jim hopper fic)

pairing: hopper x reader, stranger things chapter: 1/? chapter rating: teen, 18+ (mention of violence, fear, mild swearing, mention of sexual intentions) summary: you’re an FBI agent from the behavioral analysis unit, living in the big city and enjoying the hustle and bustle of the 80’s crime scene. you’ve worked your ass off to get respect around a male dominated field, earning yourself a promotion as the head of your department after you helped solve a missing persons case that swept the nation just short of a year ago. the case closed, but something happening in a small town in Hawkins, Indiana is making your bones chill with its similarities to your closed case. a young girl, barbara holland, is missing and you’ve got a hunch on how to bring her home. little do you know, Hawkins isn’t exactly textbook and you need the locals’s help. a/n: helloooo!! so I actually only got back into writing literally from just reading all the drabbles and fics on here about hop and I was deserperate to get in there myself. this started as a one shot and bc I have a difficult time uhh shutting up, it became a full fic. pls enjoy and feel free to msg me with ideas and inspiration it helps a ton!! special thanks to @chiefharbour for existing and getting me out of a writers block that had actual cobwebs <3 gif credit: @hawkinslibrary​

You loved the city.

You loved the traffic and the sound of cars honking, the occasional couple arguing, the screech of tires and never ending hustle. You loved the constant rain and the way it ruined your hair every morning at 8:07AM when you’d leave your apartment to get your double espresso before you stepped into the office just to be greeted with missing persons case after missing persons case. These were all things you told yourself, every day, every morning, and every night.

On cue, the pager on your hip beeps wildly. An involuntary groan comes from your throat while you try to preview the message and head into the building.

“Scotch, I need to talk to you about the Snake Hole Case-“

Your eyes look up to address the older gentleman in front of you who reeks of too much cologne and cheap cigars; he’s just a detective and he’s never been very confident in your abilities even though you’ve been the lead profiler in your division for the last two years and you have 36 solved cases under your belt.

Regardless, you give him your distracted attention as you both stride hurriedly down the hall leading to the conference room you should’ve been in ten minutes ago. The office is bustling and there’s a fax machine ringing in the distance but your rushed heeled steps are louder even on carpet.

“This better be worth my time, Hayes, I’m late for a meeting as is and I have a phone call with Seattle’s Chamber in fourteen minutes in counting.”

The shorter man quickens his step in attempt to catch up to you. “Snake Hole, the original killer was-“

You cut off his excitement with your bluntness as usual, “Gene Schwartzman, white male, 43-years-old, small town stores clerk, no children, never married, alcoholic, absolute low life...”

Hayes snorts, “Right, but he had a pattern, an obsession with younger women with a specific and detailed description, mirroring his own mother, and that’s why he would retaliate-“

Your heels come to a halt as you step in front of the older detective. His lips are chapped, his bottom teeth have ridges from obsessive grinding, the normally groomed hair is parted in every which way, there’s an ink stain on his dress shirt’s pocket. It’s not like him to be so out of sorts. He was obnoxious, sure, but not messy.

“That case was closed a year ago. What are you trying to tell me, Hayes?”

Nervously, his tongue darts out to lick his lips before he speaks. His voice remains low so only the two of you can hear.

“I think... I think we’re seeing an admirer of Schwartzmen mirroring his case. He never got to finish his pattern-“

“We were able to catch him before the final murder. We solved his puzzle first-“

“Someone in Indiana is trying to finish the job, Scotch. I think you need to see this.”

He holds your gaze for a moment as you’re replaying the details of the Snake Hole case in your memory. His hand grips the manilla folder that he extends out to you.

There’s suddenly an impatient call for you to go into the room just down the hall to join that meeting. You’re already twelve minutes late now and before you can respond, there’s another louder call of your name.

You take the folder from the detective and return his low volume, “Get one of the assistants to cancel the phone meeting I have with the Chamber, you and I need to talk. I want to know what’s going on in Indiana. Get me in contact with the local PD, as soon as possible.”

                           · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Everyone could tell you were distracted the whole meeting. Every second you weren’t looking at the file tucked under your half-assed notes was a second wasted. Your behavior was fidgety and as you clicked at your pen the whole half an hour, you couldn’t stop thinking about the secret admirer Schwartzmen has in Indiana of all places. The original murders took place a year ago in Alabama, made nationwide headlines for weeks and there was even a public memorial for the victims and their families. Schwartzmen confessed on tape and immediately thrown in prison to rot. Everything felt so final. What was the connection to Indiana? You finally got to read over the file on your lunch break with your third coffee before 1PM. Red nails drumming on the wood of your desk, frustrated. There’s a Missing poster of a younger girl, she’s sixteen, decorated with freckles across her face. Round cheeks, even rounder glasses, red hair and seemingly innocent. You hated that the bitter but smart detective Dennis Hayes of all people was going to be right. Unfortunately, Miss Barbara Holland of Hawkins, Indiana fit the description too well. She might even be closest in resemblance to Schwartzmen’s actual mother and it made the acid from your stomach rise up to the back of your tongue.

A knock at your door finally makes your eyes look away from the young girl’s school photo.

“Scotch?”

It’s Hayes and he’s holding two styrofoam cups, hopefully full of caffeine.

“Come in, please, sit.” You wave a manicured hand towards the chair in front of your desk and he takes a seat as he carefully places one of the cups next to your current (and nearly empty) mug.

“I’ll make this short,” Hayes begins. “I know your hands are full with other cases where they’re asking you to profile who kidnapped a dog from a park and robbed a granny at the mom and pop shop at noon-“

You roll your eyes at his brief condescending comment towards your line of work as if he could make his arrests without your insight.

“But you gotta admit, Scotch... the resemblance here is uncanny.”

And it was. Uncomfortably so. She was nearly a spitting image of Schwartzmen’s mother, down to the same yearbook photo we plastered on the screens of every television in America mirrored this young Barbara Holland’s. Schwartzmen was an orphan until the age of 12, he had grown up in his adolescence without a mother and resented the nameless redhead who left him at a church’s doorstep to be found. Angry and feeling abandoned, he grieved the loss of what he never had by murdering young women who resembled the only photo he had of his biological mother: her yearbook photo. The same yearbook photo you cleared with the media to be broadcast to America during the investigation a year ago.

A part of you feels responsible for a split second and there’s a tinge of guilt in your stomach thinking you put her at risk when you let the media have the photo of Schwartzmen’s mother, the very inspiration for all his heinous murders. Did someone see this young girl in Indiana and think she was an opportunity that couldn’t be missed? Was sixteen year old Barbara Holland just an innocent and unfortunate puzzle piece? You’re both staring at the file with some local news from Hawkins along with some notes from the Snake Hole case. It was more frustrating how little Hawkins had on Barbara’s disappearance. It was as simple as one minute was there, the next minute, she wasn’t. Good girl, good grades, good friends, what happened?

You break the thick and focused silence first.

“Did you get me the number for the state police?”

“Indiana State Police don’t have much on it, it’s mainly the Hawkins PD that seems to have more information. It’s a small town. They had two missing kids in the same month-“

Your brow furrowed together, “Two?”

Hayes leans back further in the chair, arms crossed over his chest nonchalantly.

“Young boy, no older than twelve, he turned up alive after some searches, seems unrelated to this case. There’s still no body found for the sixteen year old, goes by Barb. I think we need to get involved.”

This almost makes a snort leave your body.

“We? Hayes, no, I’m going alone.” He opens his mouth to protest but you continue with your voice stern, “I know the Schwartzmen case, I worked on it first hand, I’m going to Indiana. This is just another disorganized killer and the fact it’s only one girl missing gives me some hope. Some sad sack in the Midwest trying to get a shot of fame by comparing himself to Schwartzmen, recreating the profile, maybe make the public wonder if he’s still locked up, whatever. She’s a missing girl, but it doesn’t mean she’s dead. If this is mirroring Schwartzmen and the Hawkins PD hasn’t caught up to that, it’s my responsibility to involve myself to help them be a step ahead.”

Detective Hayes stands up from the chair then with a proud smirk on his face.

“You’re welcome, you know. You can say it.”

You scrunch your nose at him then.

“I could, but I don’t feel like it.”

Hayes chuckles as he turns on his heel to leave your office. “Well, enjoy Indiana, Scotch.”

You grunt in response behind the coffee cup, your lipstick leaving a print on the white foam.

As you’re about to hear the click of your office door closing signaling his exit, Hayes peeps his head back in. “Oh, you’ll have fun talking to that chief of police, by the way. Goes by Hopper, or somethin’ like that. Hung up on me twice and told me to go fuck myself on the third attempt. Seems like a hard ass, so. Maybe flirt a little, show a little leg when you touch down in Hawkins.”

His wink and sneering grin made you sick. Just when you thought this detective was useful. You draw in a patient sigh before looking back at him.

“Detective?” Your hands folded under your chin to appear sweeter.

Hayes steps more into the doorway to listen, he’s already eyed your crossed legs and heeled shoes. Pervert.

“The only time I’m going to show a little leg is before I kick your ass.”

The smile dropped from his face and it was followed by the slight slam of your office door. You smirk to yourself and prepare the arrangements to fly to Indiana to meet with Hawkins PD and hopefully bring Barbara Holland home.

[ill-skillsgard]

On the Market - Henry Deaver X Mistress

Warning: 18+ mentions of sex/cheating/mature themes. *This part contains consensual sleep sex* Please read at your own discretion.

Note: Just a smutty little nudge in the next direction. I’m sorry about the delay. I know there is a pretty equal divide in the direction that readers want this series to go in, but this part has no butt stuff >< I’m planning to come out with a longer, more angst-driven part next, but I’ll need time! I appreciate all the requests I still get for this pairing! Kisses!

Read more Henry x Mistress imagines here > Masterpost

The letters shouted in black and white. “Local business mogul caught in a steamy affair with woman half his age!” Why did they have to mention your age? You were a fully grown adult capable of making your own decisions. How could something like this go to print? It wasn’t fair. Your heart plummeted into a deep, jagged pit that opened up in your chest. Everlasting panic kicked the breath from your lungs, and then a yawn of warmth swallowed you whole, filling up your mouth, nose, ears and eyes. 

The crevice left by the terrible news suddenly closed, and you coughed up the black residue left behind from the flash fire in your chest. Although there was a nagging sensation on your legs, you could breathe and that’s all that mattered. 

After a moment, the nagging on your legs moved across your body like a warm ghost pressing your abdomen. The pressure increased, diminishing into a concentrated beam that bristled all over one spot. It slipped down between your legs like a hot stream from the bathtub faucet just like the time you discovered how friendly a private bath with the door locked could be.

This sensation chased away all the dark and erased the glaring, accusatory headlines. You were in love, and nothing was wrong with that. If you could stamp your foot and shake your fist, you would declare it. But something rooted you in the bed, weighing down your limbs as morning faded into view.

The dawn glared through slits in the drapes, and you recoiled from a real burst of heat between your legs. When you looked down, there was no surge of hot water, but a tongue, and a mouth, and then a pair of eyes that did not match. His pixie nose squished against your mound. Henry fought off a smile but could not stifle an excitable laugh.

“Mm, good morning.”

“What is this? And from my sweet little Christian boy?” You had to tease him one more time.

He nipped back with lips sheathed over his teeth. “Would a sweet boy wake you up this way?”

It was your turn to stifle a titter. “Um, yes. This is exactly what a sweet boy would do.”

“I remembered what you said about how...” His words strayed as his attention pulled away from your face and went back to your clit. Henry smeared the entirety of his tongue between your pussy lips, opening you wide for another, similar licking.

“Oh-oh, my god,” you squeaked before clapping a hand over your mouth in disbelief.

Maybe it was your senses lagging in waking up with you, but the feeling of Henry’s mouth on your pussy sent stronger jolts of stimulation through your body than you could handle. He spent an obscene moment parting the lush skin, spitting and sucking it all back up into his mouth. When he deposited that same bubble of saliva in the same spot, you groaned out without shame.

It may have been the most arousing thing you had ever witnessed, and a voice screamed out for you to capture it. Your phone was plugged in beside the bed, only an arm’s length away, so you reached and dragged it across the blankets, clicking on the camera before Henry had the chance to notice. He was busy, after all.

Henry hummed, his lips encircling your clit before speaking. “Woke up so hungry for your pussy, baby. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I just remembered how good we fucked last night, and I needed you again.”

A short gasp left him when he looked up and saw your phone pointed at him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I just need this, okay?”

“Why? I’m right here, right now.”

“I want to remember how good you look eating my pussy.”

Those words became the new headline of your day, and when Henry finished you, he had to clamp your legs to his shoulders to keep you from shaking. The man didn’t want a thing in return besides the taste of your orgasm on his tongue, refusing a quick blowjob to insist you get ready for work. 

He liked it when you got into the office before him. It gave people the impression that you were more diligent in your job than he was, which wasn’t a far cry in his business. People with positions like Henry’s were rarely scrutinized for their tardiness. If you showed up on time while he sauntered in of his own volition, it might deter people from asking too many questions about you. 

You were uncertain of how much rumour had gone around about the blow-up in Henry’s office. As you walked through and quietly greeted the familiar people of your floor, there was no detectable air of tension. Still, it was hard not to be on edge, and when you took your first bathroom break of the morning, it confirmed your suspicions.

Henry texted you to say there was a hold-up at his brunch meeting before he could make it in, so your workday would comprise following up on important dates and intercepting phone calls from his lawyers. It also meant you could slack off, but not in plain sight. 

With one earbud in, you tried not to laugh at silly videos on the internet. You weren’t using the washroom, per se, merely adopting it as an excuse to kick back for a self-dictated amount of time. Henry had been right about a lot, one of his points being the office was laid back, and prolonged absences here and there set off no alarms.

The washroom door gusted open, and two sets of kitten heels clicked over the floor.  Neither of them made a path to the stall beside you. Instead, they went to the mirrors above the sinks. You paused the video you were watching out of habit and held your breath.

“I mean, he is good-looking. In that weird psycho-killer looking way, but I never imagined him single. He and Mary just seemed like one of those untouchable couples. The ones that meet in high school and die side-by-side sort of thing.”

“You think he’s good-looking?”

“Hell yes, girl. His eyes might be a little spooky, but I’m into it. He’s got a nice smile.”

“I guess. And tall.”

“You know what that means.”

Your palms dampened as you tried to spy the two women talking about your boyfriend through the cracks in the stall door. You thought about clearing your throat to alert them to your presence, but it was too late. There was much to hear.

“I heard he’s already got a new girlfriend.”

A gasp pealed through the washroom, echoing off the porcelain. “What? How do you know?”

“That’s what one of Mary’s friends from across said. That’s how she found out. Supposedly, somebody saw ol’ Mr. Deaver getting close with a lady.”

“Where?” The voices carried off on the backs of heels.

When they left, you noticed how tense your shoulders were. There was nothing you could do about what they said, but it didn’t stop you from grinding your teeth. 

After a short time, you went through your videos and clicked the thumbnail showing Henry’s brown hair between your thighs. A smirk cracked over your face as you popped in your other earbud and turned up the volume to better hear the sloppy, wet sounds of Henry’s tongue lapping at your pussy.

“Mm, yes, baby. Please come on my tongue. You can do it. Come all over my face. Do it for me.”

[deansawthetvglow]

Prompt: For Dean's birthday, Cas Googles "presents for loved ones" and inadvertently follows recommendations for romantic gifts.

Shit. Okay. Hi anon, i forgot how to see inbox notifs and have no clue if u sent this during my drunk promt ask or sober prompt ask but will fill now.

Alright nvm ^^^ that didn’t happen.

 I lost this prompt for days after I got drunk and I couldn’t find it in my drafts and alas, finally. Anyways, this was written fully sober, lmao.

Just a Little Bit of Your Heart, 2.2k, 

fluff, light angst, post s14. (ao3 link if u want)

It’s January 20th, 4 days out from Dean’s 40th birthday and he still has yet to decide on a gift. It’s his first time, really, buying Dean a birthday gift. Sure, there had been the pack of funny socks he had snagged in passing from the check out at a Gas-N-Sip, but there hadn’t been any thought behind that, no planning, nothing that Castiel thought constituted the socks as a gift. Not really. 

Not only that, but there had never really been occasion to purchase a gift for Dean until now. Sam and Castiel had decided that, with the world coming to an end and all, Dean finally deserved a proper birthday party. In years past, he had either insisted on drowning out his birthday’s with booze or insisted on ‘no gifts.’ 

Castiel isn’t sure why, maybe because the eldest Winchester brother would only feel more indebted to the others around him, or perhaps because he simply didn’t like gifts. Either way, that’s why it became his mission to get the perfect gift for Dean. Something that isn’t a curse, but a comfort. 

The time after Mary and Jack had passed away and Chuck opened the gates of hell had been rough for Dean and him. Sam had kept a protective arm’s length between Castiel and Dean, insisting Dean needed time. It hurt to feel their bond being stretched thin as he’d watch Dean across the bunker from the corner of his eye, careful not to step into his space. Castiel had decided to stay in the bunker despite the tension though, Sam insisting they needed all hands on deck as they began on the long road to killing God.

Still, despite their close proximity, and the time they’ve had to heal, he can’t help but feel further from Dean. 

Cas remembers when Sam told a story of the time he gave Dean a chocolate bar and some motor oil for Christmas. Apparently, Dean had lit up at the sentiment, but Castiel can’t handle settling for something like that. 

Dean deserves something special. 

Castiel begins his search on Google using the simplest, most “Dean” search terms he can think of. 

Men’s flannels

Not special enough

Classic records

Maybe some time, but still, not good enough.

A new pair of boots

Shoes are always too risky. 

Cowboy costume

Halloween maybe, but not for this. 

Guns

Dean already has one he trusts. 

It’s been nearly two hours browsing Google and Amazon before Castiel has to take a break and let his head loll back with a sigh. 

After stretching a bit and standing up to pace the length of the bunker, he finally settles on a Google search that he’s sure will bear fruit. 

Gifts to show you care for someone. 

Castiel takes his time clicking through the links and scrolling through many of the lists. He nearly gives up when finally, an article entitled, “Gifts to Connect You to the Person You Care About”  catches his eye.

Cas smiles at the headline and clicks through the list, cataloging the possibilities away in his mind.

However, all those possible gifts dissipate from his mind as soon as he sees it. It’s perfect, and they have some in stock at the Bed Bath & Beyond an hour and a half away in Nebraska. With that, Cas calls a “Be back later!” into the seemingly empty bunker and heads out to fetch Dean’s gift. 

When he finally arrives at the store, he makes his way inside and heads to the sleep section, his eyes lighting up when he sees what he’s looking for on the shelf below a big “As Seen On TV” sticker. 

Next to the sticker it reads: “Bed Beats” 

Bed Beats are a pair of wristbands and compact speakers that are connected via wifi anywhere in the world. Just slip the wristband on, place the disc speaker underneath your pillow and send a request to your partner through the app. When they slip on their own wristband, the device will relay their heartbeat to your speaker and vice versa. Never feel disconnected again.

Castiel grins, giddy, and picks up the first box on the shelf. It’s exactly what he and Dean need. It’s the perfect way for Cas to watch over Dean without invading his space. It’s anatomical communication without speech. Cas will know when Dean needs help as his heartbeat speeds up, he’ll know when he’s at peace, he’ll know he’s alive. 

He also blinks at the bursting yellow sticker that sits on the top left corner of the box that exclaims, “Great for Long Distance Couples!” 

They may not be a couple, but with the way that their souls and relationship has grown distant, Castiel decides that’s enough to classify them as ‘long distance.’ 

As he waits in the line to check out, Cas also grabs a simple card and a tube of discounted, red wrapping paper left over from the holiday season. 

When he gets back to his car, he decides it’s best to get everything in order before presenting the gift to Dean. When he finally gets into the heavily taped box, he pulls out one set of the wristband/speaker combos and sets it aside for himself. 

Before shrouding the other set in the metallic, red of post-Christmas, 99¢ wrapping paper, he syncs the devices and downloads the app to avoid the hassle of setting it up later. 

Then, he writes, with his thigh as a sort of table, in the card with an old pen he found in the console of his truck. 

I’m including the instruction booklet in this card (please don’t read until after you open the gift!)

Dean, 

I know I’ve made so many mistakes lately, and that perhaps we do not see eye to eye on everything any longer, but this is a chance to connect without having to agree. Just to sleep and not be so alone. 

Happy Birthday. I hope you like it. 

Yours, Castiel

However, he scribbles out the ‘yours’ as it feels out of place in this letter. With that, he seals the card, and the instructions, into a white envelope with Dean’s name in angelic script printed on the front.

The drive home is pleasant and he can’t help but feel butterflies for the moment he gets to present it to his charge. 

The next days pass silently, Castiel with his gift for Dean hidden in his own closet and nearly forgotten amid all the preparations for the party. 

Sam was in charge of inviting people and Dean had insisted on being in charge of food and drinks. On the day of the party, Castiel sits off to the side as many of the guests enter, most are hunters he’s never met before, and he can’t help but feel like an outsider as the day of barbequing and reminiscing devolves into pie and drunkenness by nightfall. 

He’s glad to see Jody and Claire, but even then, their conversations are stilted, both of them want to speak primarily to Dean, the ‘birthday boy’, while Cas isn’t allowed that luxury. 

He sits away from Dean all night, only making contact to say “Happy Birthday, Dean” after he blows out the ‘4’ and ‘0’ candles that someone stuck straight through the latticework on a sweet, cherry pie. Cas smiles as Claire goes up and whispers something to Dean that makes him throw his head back in laughter and begin a lively conversation with her. 

That’s when he realizes he’s on the outside looking in. 

From where he stands, nursing a finger of whiskey, he can see Alex and Garth discussing the medical anomalies of Lycanthropes, Sam, apocalypse-world-Bobby, Donna and Jody playing some sort of cards-and-drinking game, a few people he doesn’t know attempting beer pong in the war room and even a pair of local hunters musing over the library’s expansive collection. 

He’s an outsider like he’s always been with the Winchesters. When he’s not of use, he feels unwelcome. He knows there’s never any ill intent, but even now, when he doesn’t even need his angel mojo, he still doesn’t quite fit. He doesn’t understand half of the banter thrown around the room, he can’t get drunk unless he drinks the entirety of the Men of Letters scotch collection, and he can’t interact with the guests without Dean coming up. 

At this, loneliness overtaking him, he decides to retreat to his room to wait the party out. 

He sends a nod and a tip of his glass to Sam before motioning that he’s leaving, Sam acknowledges him with a grin, drunk on whiskey and the excitement of the party, and Cas slips out of sight. 

Before letting himself rest, he sneaks into Dean’s room to place the card and the gift on his bed. 

He decides it’s best that way.

–

Castiel keeps his personal speaker and wristband close to him, beside his phone on his nightstand, hoping that some night it will be of use. He feels the uncertainty drift in and out as each night passes without so much as an acknowledgment of the gift. 

A week passes before anything happens. It’s 3 am when Castiel’s ears pick up on the small ‘ding’ that pops out of his phone speakers. 

He rolls over and grabs his phone. On the screen sits a notification. 

Bed Beats

Dean would like to share his heartbeat. Accept?

Castiel grins into the dark and arranges the speaker underneath his pillow before securing the soft band around his wrist at his pulse point. 

With a tentative thumb, he swipes to accept and lays his right ear down onto his pillow to hear Dean. He can hear his heart beating quickly, possibly a nightmare, Cas thinks, and wills his own jittery heart to slow. He has to be the grounding one for Dean, has to be a comfort. 

His own heart beats deep like a drum, and soon he can hear Dean’s heart rate slowing to match his own. Soon, they’re in perfect sync with one another. He feels closer to Dean than he has in months and hopes Dean feels the same. 

He listens as his charge’s heart rate begins to slow even more, to around 75 beats per minute, he notes, and assumes he’s slipping into sleep. 

Castiel, usually one for wandering the bunker after the brothers are asleep, doesn’t dare lift his head from his pillow until Dean ends the connection come morning light. 

It continues like this for many weeks, Dean requesting Castiel’s heartbeat in the wee morning hours, disconnecting at sunrise, and going about the days as if nothing has changed. 

Nothing’s really changed during the day. They continue to keep their distance. Dean thanks him for making the coffee one Sunday morning and Sam tells Cas, “See, space is all you needed,” his eyes sincere, “It’s healing.” But Sam doesn’t know the reason the healing process has begun to speed up. Cas can tell Dean hasn’t told his brother of the gift, and he prefers it that way. It’s the first thing between them that Sam isn’t clued into since before Mary’s passing. That alone brings him peace.

It’s a Tuesday in early March when everything shifts. Cas is lying on his back in his bed, nerves nearly taking him. Dean almost always pings by 3 am, and now it’s 45 minutes past and he’s trying to keep calm. 

A sound makes Castiel’s ears prick up, but this time it’s not a sharp ‘ding,’ it’s the soft sound of knuckles rapping on his door. 

Cas, beneath the covers in his most comfortable shirt, one Dean loaned him for the brief period he was human, props himself up on one elbow and quirks his head as the door opens softly, revealing Dean in his doorway. 

He’s in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt with holes around the seams, and a pair of black briefs, and the “Send Noods” socks Castiel bought him. 

“Dean?” 

“Hey, Cas” Dean whispers into the darkness as he steps into the room, shutting the door behind him with care. 

Words die on Castiel’s lips and his breath hitches as Dean pads, soft and calm, to his bedside. 

He lifts the corner of Castiel’s blankets ever so slightly and looks down into the glint of Castiel’s blue eyes as if asking permission. Castiel gives him a slight nod and holds his breath as Dean lifts the covers further and slips in under them. He positions himself with his head resting on the left side of Castiel’s chest, ear right above his heart and arm draped across him, hand gently thumbing at the soft fabric on Castiel’s right shoulder. 

Castiel can feel his own heart rate pick up, it’s swift and uncontrollable and it’s filling his vessel up to the brim with hard thumps. He’s beginning to wonder if he’ll ever breathe again when a low thud overcomes his near panic. 

As bright as a bell in a void, he hears it, Dean’s heartbeat, drumming from the deep. This time it’s his charge’s heart that’s strong and steadfast and convinces Castiel’s own to join it in slow synchronization. 

Castiel takes in a breath and slows his own heart rate. He sees Dean’s eyelids flutter shut and he lets his chin rest in the soft of Dean’s hair, his left hand rubbing slow circles into his back. 

“I missed you.” 

Dean doesn’t speak, but Castiel can feel the whisper of a smile move on his chest. 

As he lets himself drift into peace, thoughts blink in his mind at the pace of his heart. 

I fit here. Dean fits here. This is my family. This is who I love. This is home.

____

(Gift based on this!!!)

[donnieluvsthings]

anyway i’m still thinkin about roceit newsies au...this got SO LONG its basically a bullet fic of the whole plot at this point but uh enjoy!!! its has all the sides and remy and emile bc i rly wanted to shove them all in here aldkaldka

this is based on the musical mostly bc i have never watched the original movie all the way thru oops

roman is jack and remus is crutchie (thanks boop). remus does crazy stunts even with his crutch and roman is Constantly Worried TM and overprotective of remus even tho remus can DEF take care of himself

on the other hand remus knows roman hates working as a newsboy and just wants to escape to some small town where he can become a local artist of some sort. remus wants roman to go CHASE his DREAMS even tho he’s afraid roman might leave him behind

roman may be the actor but remus is great at coming up with gruesome yet intriguing headlines that get people to buy papers and would totally be a great author of some sort

ON THAT NOTE roman dreams of santa fe and can picture it perfectly but whenever he tries to explain it, it comes out as senseless rambling and longing. it’s remus who can really put into words what roman feels (bc theyre bros and they just GET each other)

virgil as davey, patton as les, logan as sarah (its the musical but they have an extra sibling okay. let me have older brother logan)

virgil and patton show up and virgil is super untrusting and hates that theyre basically lying to get people to buy papers but patton is just EXCITED to meet New People!!! and looks up to roman (and remus), like, instantly

it helps that roman promises to take them to a real actual theater after they sell all their papers owned by the one the only emile picani !!!

also roman is the one who first calls him “virge” which is like jack saying “davey” instead of david. yes this is necessary information

so they sell their papers (and roman briefly meets an ESPECIALLY handsome guy wink wink) and go see emile who performs some variant of That’s Rich like the star he is. u cant take singer emile away from me

roman also performs bc i said so. he spies someone watching him during his act up above the stage and climbs up there when he’s done

janus. its janus, if that wasnt clear or u dont know the plot of the newsies musical aldkaldlal

so yeah janus as katherine!! he may be pulitzer’s son but that doesn’t mean his father wants him to be a journalist. pulitzer thinks he should prepare to inherit the publishing company or be a banker or smth, not be a journalist

i just think janus’ “society is a LIE” vibe fits with katherine. i mean, just look at Watch What Happens. “give life’s little guys some ink,” “they’ll storm the gates,” “rich greedy sourpusses” .... idk it just SCREAMS janus to me

ALSO, katherine technically lies about her identity for like 3/4 of the musical, so

anyway! roman meets janus and janus is all suave and lowkey flirty at first but then roman starts flirting BACK and jan is like “uh oh how to talk to cute boys????”

so then he gets all “i have more important things to do” *hair flip* and goes back to the article he’s supposed to be writing about emile’s theater (a lot of his notes are about roman’s performance but nobody needs to know that shhh)

roman draws a portrait of jan and leaves it there and janus gently & dramatically picks it up, stares at it, and tucks it into his suit with a soft smile

uh oh prices for papers went up! virgil steps up and helps roman lead a strike. turns out his caution works GREAT with roman’s determination and they keep each other from going towards extreme overthinking (virgil) or extreme stupidity (roman). they are a TEAM and they are BESTIES.

remus: lets SET THE PAPERS ON FIRE

roman, starry eyed: HECK YEAH LETS DO IT

virgil: how about we dont do that and instead form a union

and then the twins are like GOOD IDEA and tell everyone else. virgil may be a cautious and untrusting and afraid of public speaking but he has good ideas dangit

the intro to seize the day yknow? virgil says a Good Idea (which can probably be traced back to him always listening to logan rant about his studies) and roman spreads the message in a Firm Rebellion-y way to the other newsies

and patton is there doing his absolute best. he may be small but he knows that this isn’t right or fair to the newsboys and he’s ready to physically fight someone

enter logan who is lowkey really proud of virgil for stepping outside of his comfort zone to do whats right. logan may be scared out of his mind for his little bros but he’s gonna help them as much as he can between college and trying to work side jobs to help their fam

basically logan knows janus and tells him that he should report on the strike bc logan wants to help his bros AND his friend however he can

cue janus seeing his opportunity and TAKING it. he’s gonna write about this strike even if no one else will!!! take THAT, father

he also maybe possibly wanted to see roman again. but roman never needs to know that okay what he doesnt know cant hurt him

seize the day happens!!!! they strike!!!! they r powerful!!! but then no one else from any other sections of new york strike with them and they lowkey get rekt

remus mocks the delanceys but that was a BAD decision cuz now theyre targeting him and he gets taken to the REFUGE

roman is SAD bc his brother’s been taken away, no one showed up to help them strike, his brother’s been taken away and he just wants to get OUT of there. run away to santa fe, his ideal world, but he can’t even articulate that because his brother is gone

how is that just act one. how have i written so much yet left out so much???

remus is at the refuge and he’s a little more scared, now, that roman really will just leave him behind even though he knows deep down that roman would never.

still. he writes roman a letter and maybe he goes into a little too much detail about his injuries and the refuge but hey, that’s remus. he writes about how maybe they can run away to santa fe together. he signs it “your brother” and i CRY because they are the best bros

roman reads it and ALSO cries. especially because there it is, the description of santa fe he can never come up with by himself. remus rly does know him, huh

total scene change: janus finds the other newsies (and logan) in a restaurant? bar? and is like “!!! ur on the FRONT PAGE on my newspaper” which i just decided is called the snake instead of the sun

virgil didn’t totally trust janus would follow thru at first but now he’s convinced. they did it!!!! theyre on the front page!!!! the world WILL know!!!!

cue tapdancing!!!!!! king of new york is an absolute bop. i need logan tapdancing daintily and then janus LAUNCHING into some complex tap routine bc the newsies think he too will dance daintily

i know they wouldnt,,, actually dance but just let me have this self-indulgence in this entirely self-indulgent au

the Bro Trio + janus go hunt down roman to show him the paper and find him painting stuff at emile’s all sad and upset bc, well, they lost and remus was taken

but virgil is trying to show him that they made progress!!! sure pulitzer won but he won the BATTLE and actually the poor guy’s head is spinning bc theyre gonna win.

“cmon, ro, if i’m is telling you to be optimistic there must be hope”

see virgil calls him RO and its cute bc roman gave him the nickname ‘virge’ and now virgil’s giving him the nickname ‘ro’ theyre just besties okay

roman is unconvinced but then logan, who roman has actually never met before, steps in with Facts and Statistics, and patton adds some adorable words of encouragement, and janus sassily waves their Front Page Story at him, and roman starts realizing they DO have a chance

but then uh oh pulitzer threatens remus and the Bro Trio and roman is forced to speak out against the strike or risk ruining the lives of everyone he loves. and also he finds out that janus is pulitzer’s son and is Betrayed TM

theres some “he’s just trying to build up a false confidence in u so u can plummet to even greater depths” parallels in there somewhere....u can’t trust many people as a newsie and when roman DOES trust someone turns out he’s the son of the guy ur trying to fight

so roman says overnight in pulitzer’s basement, sleeping on an uncomfortable old printing press, and makes his decision

now for the RALLY

remy is spot conlon bc he DESERVES to be the leader of the brooklyn newsies. brooklyn, flushing, richmond, etc all show up to a newsies rally and are like YEAH!!! STRIKE!!!!

virgil is trying to tame the crowd nervously and keeps waiting for roman to show up bc they work best when theyre working together!!!! finally roman’s there and virgil introduces him (the attention isnt solely on him now thank gosh)

but then roman starts talking about how they dont stand a chance and how they shouldnt go on strike and virgil is just. confused and upset and angry

especially when he sees one of pulitzer’s employees slipping roman wads of money

virgil corners roman afterwards and is absolutely RIPPING into him. roman could fix this if he would just tell virgil the truth, tell him he doesn’t care about the money, he just wanted to keep him and patton and logan safe—

but roman knows if he tells virgil, then virgil will turn all his anger towards pulitzer, will be able to convince roman to keep going, and roman won’t. he can’t put virgil, put his family, at risk.

so he lies.

he doesn’t mean any of it. but he says it.

and maybe he kind of understands why janus lied, too.

he says he’s never had anyone to take care of him or remus, not like virgil does with his parents and his older brother. he says virgil will never know what it’s like.

virgil scoffs and glares and beneath all his fury looks crushed. but there’s still fire in his eyes, a spark roman saw that first day that only grew and engulfed any doubts virgil ever had.

roman says he’ll take the money and go, leave new york behind.

virgil says fine. we don’t need you. because you know what? all those words you said were mine. i didn’t have the courage to say them back then but now i do. we don’t need you.

(because i watched that scene in the movie and like YES go OFF davey i mean virgil)

roman flees to his “bedroom” which is really just a fire escape and just longs for remus’ reassurance. he has the letter but it doesn’t seem as encouraging now, not when he’s lost everything else important to him.

then janus shows up and roman’s mad at him but not mad enough to kick him out. and janus watched roman just give up on everything they’ve been fighting for and just wants to know WHY. why did he turn his back on the newsies when they were so close?

and roman, tired and upset and defeated, just says they wouldn’t succeed. even if all the newsies went on strike no one would report on it, anyway, because pultizer has all the printing presses on lockdown, even the one janus published from. and they already lost once! what more could they possibly do?

roman looks out over the railing, chest heaving from his rant, longing for his imaginary santa fe where he doesn’t have to face his failures. janus stands next to him and puts his hand over roman’s.

“i don’t have a simple answer to that question....but here’s a start.”

and janus pulls out a paper with roman’s words (well, and virgil’s, because virgil said it first but roman rephrased it powerfully, and that’s why they worked as a team) typed out, words that make the strike not about newsies but about ALL working children in the city who are being exploited for their youth and naivety.

it’s an entire article, expertly written. if published it would get the word out to the other newsies that they haven’t given up and show other working children and adults alike that this is IMPORTANT and they aren’t going away.

and then roman remembers his drawings of the refuge and remus’ graphic descriptions and shows them to janus and hey!!! they have a plan!!! they just need to print it....

roman’s like yo there’s an old press in ur dad’s basement he’d never suspect anything

and theyre both so excited and theyre gonna DO this, FINALLY, and janus sees hope on roman’s face again, maybe permanently this time, and janus just leans in and kisses him.

its very sweet and cute and theyre in LOVE

they pull back and kinda stand there awkwardly for a few seconds before both of them start grinning

and they both know its fragile, that they’ve hurt each other and trust was cracked, but it wasn’t broken completely, and they can fix this. they believe in each other and that’s enough for now.

and then they go find virgil at his house

roman knocks on the door and virgil opens it and just. glares at roman. and roman starts rambling apologies and explanations and tries to tell virgil about their plan and did he mention he’s sorry

virgil kinda just stares at him as he goes on and on and the only thing that stops him is patton running out and launching himself at roman

then logan appears behind virgil, and virgil kinda just smiles

“glad to have u back. again.”

and then they go sneak into pulitzer’s basement and print the article with jan’s writing and ro’s drawings and remus’ descriptions and the other newsies go spread the papers ALL around the city

the next morning EVERYONE is out on strike!!! u cant get ANYWHERE without seeing ppl, newsies or otherwise, filling the streets with chants of “seize the day”

roman, with the Bro Trio and Janus trailing close behind, waltzs on in to pulitzer’s office and flings the money pulitzer gave him back on the desk and is like whatcha gonna do NOW, joe??

pulitzer angrily tells them he’s a fool for going back on their deal and logan steps in sayin pulitzer is a fool for letting this get so out of hand over a 10 cent price increase. his sales are down 70%!! objectively the price increase was like the worst business decision ever

virgil’s like plus it’s making u look bad that ur business is the reason most of these kids are suffering. people really love kids, mr pulitzer and patton smiles brightly but in like a menacing way

then emile walks in with a ~dazzling smile~ and is like ur son told me about this whole situation, it’d be a shame if i contacted my good friend governor roosevelt who won’t be as kind as these brave newsies since u tried so hard to stop him from being elected :)

((in the show roosevelt is actually there but i want emile to have a moment to SHINE))

so pulitzer’s like FINE and talks to roman alone and roman wears him down, throwing words from janus, virgil, and pulitzer himself right in pulitzer’s face until FINALLY they have a deal. he’ll lower the prices by half AND pulitzer will buy back whatever they don’t sell full price

roman bursts out of the office into the streets where all the newsies are waiting and is like WE WONNN

and since they published all that stuff about the refuge in the paper, the guy who runs it is being arrested and REMUS IS FREE

the twins hug for like a full two minutes

then pulitzer offers roman a job as a political cartoonist and roman’s like. well idk now that this is over i should probably...head out

bc lowkey he’s thinking virgil still doesn’t wanna see roman ever again and he did say he would leave, so

but then virgil’s like come on, ro, you don’t really think we want u to leave, do u? what’s santa fe got that new york aint? tarantulas? sandstorms? stampedes? you can’t go to santa fe what if you DIE—

and logan says new york’s got us!

patton: and we’re family, right?

then janus is like you got a union to lead! and...you got me.

and remus is like bro, anyone can dream, all you do is close ur eyes! but some made up world is all you’ll ever see. (bc he’s the wordsy one, u see. he helps roman have the poetic realization that his santa fe isn’t real, but this IS)

so roman says well if u guys INSIST.....and then he takes jan’s hand and kinda asks w his eyes and then kisses jan in front of all the newsies who proceed to cheer obnoxiously

when they break apart roman leads janus by the hand over to the paper-buying-cart and slaps some couns down on the table and BUYS SOME PAPERS BC THEYRE NEWSIES BABEY

and everyone lived happily ever after🥰

[drowning-in-dennor]

I’m Coming After You

Just as the little town of Hetalopolis is settling into a long-awaited age of peace, another villain rises in power. A swift-footed bandit is draining Hetalopolis of its valuables, and it’s up to a local superhero to stop him. [Recommended listening: I’m Coming After You by Owl City.]

  It’s the same headline as yesterday. 

  BANDIT PULLS OFF ANOTHER HEIST, the Hetalopolis Times screams, STARZKA CLOTHING STORE COMPLETELY LOOTED! The page-long article includes a tearful interview from the owner of Starzka, lamenting the loss of his clothes and the ransacking of his store. Henrik shuts the newspaper and tosses it across the room, watching as it hits the wall with a satisfying smack.

  He feels bad for not stepping in to stop the bandit, but again, what can he do? Hetalopolis has a plethora of other superheroes, after all, most of them way stronger than him. Henrik gets up from his moth-eaten couch and picks up the newspaper. Then he throws it at the wall again for good measure.

  The sudden ear-piercing chimes of his cell phone makes him clutch his head in a mixture of pain and surprise. Rubbing his temples and reminding himself to change his ringtone, Henrik answers the call. “Hullo?”

  “YO!”

  He almost drops the phone again. “A-Al?”

  “WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE?”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Henrik winces. “Can you, uh, quiet down?”

  “Sure, sure.” On the other side, there’s a pretty large chance Alfred is grinning. “Sorry if I burst your eardrums, dude. But anyway, I called because I need your help.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m going villain-hunting tonight, and I need a sidekick,” Alfred says, “and Gil’s already piss-drunk, Mattie’s asleep and Artie’s working. So can you help me out?”

  “...what?”

  “You heard me!” Henrik places his phone a good few inches away from his ear. “I’m gonna find that thief and turn him in, and you’re gonna help me!”

  The notion is so ridiculous that Henrik takes a few moments to reply. “Al, look for someone else. Out of all the heroes, why the hell are you talking to me?”

  “Because you’re my friend! It doesn’t matter if we get booted off a skyscraper or run over by a tractor, or something. We’ll just patch each other up and go for a beer afterward!”

  Leave it to Alfred, stupidly optimistic Alfred, to worm him into the most stupid things. “You’re really cheesy.” 

  “I know.”

  “I’ll do it, you gremlin.” Henrik runs to his bedroom, rummaging through his closet for a long-forgotten outfit. “But you’ll have to pay for my hospital bills.”

...

  Fifteen minutes (and a struggle to fit into clothes meant for a man far younger than him) later, Henrik finds Alfred at the base of his apartment complex, his cape flapping in the wind and hands on his hips. “Hey!”

  “Why do you look so much cooler than me?” Henrik picks at his worn-out tunic, pulls up his drooping breeches and reminds himself that at twenty-six, being the local half-retired superhero is still a valid job.

  “Because I’m actually in shape!” He adjusts the mask covering the top half of his face. “Unlike you, I don’t just sulk at home when there’s crime to fight.”

  He decides not to reply and lifts up his axe, arms straining with the effort. Henrik curses himself for getting so out of shape. Alfred snorts at his struggle and begins to march off.  

  They race through alleys, stalk under streetlamps and peek behind trash cans, before heading to the little shopping district of Hetalopolis. The stores are all closed, double-locked to keep out any thieves. Alfred, with his ability of super-strength, lifts up a truck parked next to a restaurant and lets Henrik crawl under it. “D’you think he’ll be here tonight?” He whispers.

  Henrik shrugs.

  Neither of them know how much time passes as they stare out from below the truck at the streets, at alleycats scrounging for morsels of food from the trash, at the occasional car driving past. It must be around midnight when a shadow, one that’s undeniably human, passes them by.

  Alfred nearly kicks him in the groin as he points at the shadow, whisper-screaming “IT’S THEM!”. Henrik wiggles out of the way and peers at the bandit, who creeps along the pavement in muted black slippers, pressing a gloved hand to the cap concealing their head. A masquerade mask of midnight blue covers the top half of their face. As they step past the truck, the hem of their navy tunic swishes past. 

  Craning his neck, Henrik watches as the bandit makes their way toward another clothing store, running slender fingers over the glass window that displays elegant, expensive clothing. In split seconds, the glass bursts. The bandit steps inside.

  On the floor, neatly camouflaged among shards of broken glass, a spear of ice begins to melt. 

  “There they go, there they goooooooo...” Alfred hisses. He begins to inch out from beneath the truck. “Should I toss this truck at them?”

  Following his friend out, Henrik shakes his head. “I’ll surprise them.” He digs his boots into the pavement, squares his shoulders and runs through the hole.

  Before he can even blink, he’s inside the store, watching as the bandit walks, movements fluid and graceful, toward the cashier and tugs at the drawer. It seems that the bandit doesn’t even see him, as they pocket wads of banknotes and walk toward the hole in the wall again, right past Henrik.

  Then they turn. A harpoon of ice, jagged and sharp, flies toward Henrik’s face.

  He dodges it, skirting past them and zipping out of the store before more ice can hit him. “Al!”

  His friend appears swiftly, jamming a car into the hole of the window and skirting back. “You didn’t get them?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll call the cops, then. You can grab them until they get hand — “

  The door, now completely frozen over, flies off its hinges. The bandit sprints out from the doorway, stopping only to summon another spear of ice and turning on Alfred and Henrik.

  “Or we might have to fight now!” Pulling the car out from its hole, Alfred tosses it at them. As though dancing, they jump it effortlessly. Henrik swings his axe at the bandit, only succeeding in slicing off part of their tunic. They retaliate with a smack of their ice-spear.

  Reeling, Henrik only avoids another smack by a hair. Alfred darts at the bandit, trying to throw a punch, but gets knocked back with another harsh strike of the cold, hard spear.

  His axe breaks the spear cleanly in two, the sharp tip flying off onto the road, but a new weapon is in the bandit’s hand almost immediately afterwards. Even though he’s practically teleporting around them, every one of Henrik’s attacks is swiftly dodged. Even without Henrik’s superpower of enhanced speed, the bandit is quick.

  Alfred’s attempt to punch them is again parried away with a harsh jab of the spear that punctures a hole in his shirt. “Dang it!” He goes for a kick. He misses for the third time. “They’re so hard to catch. Almost like a, uh...”

  Henrik sweeps his axe-handle at the bandit. It knocks him back slightly, but is nowhere near enough to defeat him. “Think of that later!”

  “A pixie!” Alfred rushes in, shouting, “they’re like an annoying little pix — “

  He falls down, knocked out cold with an ice-block to the stomach. Henrik watches as he slumps down, then hefts up his axe with what almost feels like excitement running through his veins. “Guess it’s just you and me now, Pixie.”

  He charges.

  Actually managing to slice a tiny cut in Pixie’s calf with the tip of his axe and knocking them down once, Henrik’s blood roars in his ears. He slashes, ducks and counters with newfound strength, his ability allowing him to escape a few deadly attacks to the head. He has almost forgotten the exilharation of a good fight.

  Now wielding a mace, the Pixie slams their icy weapon into his ribs. Hot pain lances through his side, but, not bothering to check if he’s broken any bones, Henrik lunges forward desperately, axe aimed at Pixie’s face.

  Pixie dodges at the very last second, and the blade only catches the corner of their mask. It falls off, clattering to the ground after being sliced in half. Victoriously, Henrik stares at Pixie, who falls to their knees... and pauses.

  He looks at his opponent, now unveiled. A few scattered golden locks fall above murky blue eyes blown wide with surprise. Their smooth, round cheeks are red with the cold and with exertion, and their rosy lips are squeezed in a tight “o” of shock. They struggle to their feet, standing uncertainly and squaring their shoulders.

  Screaming at himself to pick up his axe, Henrik is frozen in place, despite the fact that Pixie hasn’t cast anything on him. He stares, as Pixie turns, stumbling a little, and runs.

  At his feet, Alfred groans. “Whuh?”

  “They got away.”

  “Whuh?”

  “Pixie ran away.” Henrik starts to feel the adrenaline fade, the pain in his ribs increasing tenfold. “I don’t think ice is their only ability.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Alfred crawls toward a street lamp and pulls himself up with it. 

  “I don’t know what it’s called, but y’know, it’s like that Medusa thing. When you look into their eyes, you freeze.”

  “Wait, really?” He massages his head. “That didn’t happen to me when I fought them, though.”

  “Maybe they hadn’t activated their ability then.” Henrik grabs one of Alfred’s arms to keep him steady as they limp away from the crime scene. “But enough of that. Let’s get you to a hospital, then we’ll tell the cops about Pixie.”

...

  He’s in the headlines again.

  SUPERHEROES AMERICA AND VIKING TRY TO STOP HEIST, is printed on the front page this time. MONEY SAVED, SHOP DECIMATED!

  Again, the newspaper is thrown against the wall. It’s exactly twenty-four hours after Alfred took him to go villain-hunting, but with his friend at the hospital, there’s no way he can face Pixie alone.

  Then their face flashes in Henrik’s memory, of astonished midnight eyes, puckered lips and a slender frame stumbling away with all the grace of a bird with a broken wing. He remembers the thrill of fighting a bad guy again, and his bruised ribs ache with the thought. 

  But who cares about broken ribs when there’s crime to fight? Once again, Henrik changes into his outfit, grabs his axe (not so heavy this time) and returns to the shopping district.

  This time, Pixie is looting the florist’s, easily picking their lock and gathering banknotes, which are cleverly hidden in a flower pot, but still not hidden cleverly enough to escape their eagle eye. When Henrik enters the store, axe held protectively in front of them, they turn. Their mask is intact again, and Henrik reminds himself not to knock it off.

  Then they lunge.

  The first bolt of ice is easily dodged, the second one missed by a hair. Backing out of the flower store, Henrik swipes his axe and catches Pixie’s lance. It cracks in two, then skitters across the pavement far away from the fight. While they look at their lost weapon, Henrik kicks them in the back of the knees, making them stumble, and thrusts out his axe-hand to slice him in the chest —

  Pixie grabs his wrist.

  Henrik freezes, like he did when looking into their eyes. His hand trembles. His axe falls to the ground. Agonising cold is spreading across his arm. When he looks down, his entire forearm, from wrist to elbow, is covered in ice.

  He wrenches away, head reeling. He can hear every one of his breaths.

  Before Henrik can get a hold on himself, or a hold on his axe, Pixie walks away, throwing something behind their back.

  That something lands right at his feet. He looks down — it’s a bouquet of roses. But Henrik can barely register why he was thrown the bouquet. The only thing occupying his mind, making him feel giddy despite his defeat, is the warmth in Pixie’s hand he felt the split second before they attacked.

...

  Everyone says the third time’s the charm, and Henrik can’t help but agree.

  Pixie is far easier to fight this time. Perhaps it is the strain of fighting three nights in a row, but their icy mace is smashed in half, and their tunic is quite torn up from harsh blows of Henrik’s axe. A few paces away, Henrik can see their chest heaving. When he raises his axe, he hears them gasp. If not for the fact that they’re fighting, he’d almost find it cute.

  He charges for what he’s sure will be the last time — he’ll take Pixie down once and for all, and turn them in. He knocks them to the ground, presses them against the hard, rough asphalt, right outside the chocolate store they were trying to rob. Strangely, they don’t struggle. Henrik reaches into his pocket for his phone.

  But when he’s about to call the police, he looks down at Pixie, who has turned their face so that their mask falls off. And once again, Henrik looks into surprised eyes, glazed over slightly with pain. Their delicate lips are parted, struggling to take in oxygen. The bruises mottling the right side of their face, marring fine skin and sharp cheekbones, make him wish they never fought.

  Henrik feels as though he is being enchanted. He gets up, slowly, and extends a hand to Pixie. They take it. Their gloves have been sliced off, and his hand tingles when their skin touches. Despite being a master of manipulating ice, Pixie’s hand is warm, their skin soft and smooth. Henrik resists the urge to squeeze it.

  As Pixie limps away, clutching their battered mask in one hand, Henrik screams at himself for being so stupid.

  At his feet, he finds a box of chocolates.

...

  Their game of cat-and-mouse continues for weeks. No matter if it’s a win or a loss, Henrik lets Pixie go after every fight, watching as their slight, wavering figure disappears down the street. And every time, without fail, they leave a gift behind, a remnant of what they tried to steal. A packet of candy, a pair of expensive new boots, a soft, fluffy blanket.

  Alfred, still nursing his injuries from his fight, tells Henrik that Pixie’s trying to frame him for his thefts, advising him to throw those gifts away. But he eats the candy, tries on the boots (which fit perfectly) and falls asleep wrapped in the blanket, dreaming of grandeur and glory.

  One night, he can’t find Pixie in the shopping district. He walks across Hetalopolis, like he did with Alfred at first, and it takes him almost an hour to find them, lingering in front of a darkened building. 

  There’s no staring match. Henrik grips his axe handle with both hands, and looks at Pixie. “En garde, my bandit?”

  No other prompt is needed. They create a transparent, shimmering mace of ice, and swing.

  After fighting so many times, they’re both accustomed to each other’s style. The exchange of blows fall on nothing; it’s more feinting than anything. Henrik can tell, by how Pixie lags behind, how their icy darts miss by miles, that their heart isn’t into the fight. It’s almost like they want him to win.

  Pixie leaves their right side unguarded for a few seconds. He leaps forward, intent on bringing them down.

  Henrik drops his axe when Pixie grabs his arm instead, pulling him closer. With their other hand, they pull their mask off and knock their cap to the ground. Cornsilk hair that appear silver in the moonlight half-conceals those beautiful dark eyes, and those pale, slim lips appear to be smiling. He wonders if they’re as soft as they look.

  He gets his answer when Pixie leans in and kisses him. Like his hands, his lips are warm and as soft as flower petals. His other arm moves to wrap around Henrik’s waist, pressing him so close together that he can inhale their scent, drown in them completely. When they pull away, Pixie’s cheeks are red.

  “I won’t turn you in if you kiss me again,” Henrik gasps. He feels as though he is floating. Pixie continues to hold his hand, tracing their thumb across the back of his hand.

  And when they talk, he nearly forgets how to breathe. Pixie’s voice is quiet, comforting, like the murmur of rain. He wants to hear them talk forever.

  “That’s strange.” They smile, just a little, and Henrik practically melts. If either of them think it’s strange that their opponent is adorable, they don’t say it. “I was going to say that I’d turn myself in if you kissed me again.”

  “I’d rather have you in my apartment than in jail,” Henrik says, “so we can kiss each other plenty without consequences.” His heart skips as he asks, “what do you think?”

  Their eyes light up. “That’s an excellent idea. I’d much rather spend my night with you than in a cell. But a few things you should know, if you want this relationship to go anywhere.” Henrik almost faints when he hears them use the word “relationship”. “My real name is Stell. For goodness’ sake, stop calling me Pixie. I’m not short.”

  He watches as Stell draws themself up to their full height, and still be a good few inches shorter than them. “My name’s Henrik. And you are short. You’re tiny and cute.”

  An ice cube hits him on the side of his head. Henrik rubs the wet spot left behind and laughs, crushing the ice cube with his boot. Stell rolls their eyes and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. He kisses their forehead, as they make the slow, lazy walk back to their apartment.

  He wonders what the headlines will say tomorrow.

[ryik-the-writer]

Chapter 26 - Temporary Fix

[A03]

Chapter 1: Pan meets a Wendy Chapter 2: Scars (Felix’s Story) Chapter 3: Day One Chapter 4: Revenge and Fireflies Chapter 5: Brighter than Stars Chapter 6: filler: The Tigress Chapter 7: Operation Spotless! Chapter 8: Operation Spotless: Reporters Down Chapter 9: A Dance with the Devil Chapter 10: filler: Felix and the Pancake Chapter 11: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 1 Chapter 12: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 2 Chapter 13: The Girl With Blue Eyes: Underground Chapter 14. Recovery Chapter 14.2 Recovery some more Chapter 15: Trapped Chapter 16: Filth Chapter 17: Fairydust pt. 1 Chapter 18: Fairydust pt. 2 Chapter 19: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 1 Chapter 20: The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 2                                         Chapter 21:  The Mystery of the Dead Nun pt. 3                                         Chapter 22: Reflections pt. 1                                                                       Chapter 23: Reflections pt. 2

Chapter 24: Closing

Chapter 25: Felix is helping Pan

So guess what…

THIS BITCH FINALLY GOT A JOB AND HER OWN PLACE TO LIVE!!

HELL YEAH!!

So slight negative note on that: that kind of means updating is going to be REALLY slow for a while. The place I moved to, while really nice, is kind of out of my budget and I am pulling as many hours as possible to pay for it and such.

On top of that, the place doesn’t have internet and I’m trying to see what my budget will look like after I pay bills so I can consider getting my own (which I really need as a writer and as a journalist).

So just know, I’m not giving up on any of my stories. I’ve just started a new chapter of my life and have to let the ink dry before I can pick up my old interests.

Anyway, here’s Papers and Sleuthers…

-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-,-

Wendy half-heartedly checked that she had her notepad full of her old notes before she locked up to head to Peter’s. If he started acting up she could use her lack of supplies as an excuse to slip out. She truly hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She wanted this week to be a sort of awakening for them, a chance to finally pull the hatchet away from each other’s throats.

She was linked to him now in the worse way. They’d been through hell together so many times but it hadn’t done anything to shift their relationship into a more stable light. Perhaps if they took the chaos out of the equation something would change. Things really needed to.

She found herself checking her hair as she exited her apartment before she chastised herself. This was an after-hours investigation, not a date!

Wendy scoffed as she locked her door. Her and Pan on a date? What a nightmarish thought!

She grimaced when she reached his door, the unpleasant memory of confronting him the day Mother Superior died still vividly fresh.

“Tosser,” Wendy muttered, wanting to call him something much crueler. However, learning to tolerate him now that they were going to be in close proximity for an unknown amount of time might be beneficial.

With that, she took a deep breath and knocked softly on the door.

There was a light thud behind the wood before it opened, a wild Pan greeting her with a sharp once-over.

“You’re wearing that road-kill?” he scoffed, pointing harshly at her feathered sweater that had been more than appropriate for the weather.

So much for patience.

“Shove it,” Wendy hissed, pushing him into his trashed living room.

“The hell happened in here?”

Pan circled her, not answering, and pulled a giant marker board from the kitchen.

“I’ve started putting some notes together,” he said, adding a picture of Cruella de Vil on the board.

“Um…” Wendy started, her heart speeding up at the site of their old nemesis. “Where are we starting?”

Pan pondered at the start of his chaos. “From the beginning. The devil woman is our best bet. Somehow she set all of this off.”

“How do you figure that?” Wendy inquired.

Pan passed a folder over his shoulder to her, eyes still trained on the board.

Wendy shifted through its components, her gut dropping at the various photos of the dog murderer.

Her brow wrinkled in thought as she went through de Vil’s information. Exact date and location of birth unknown, though her last address was in Manchester…with her now-deceased husband. Wendy whistled at the rap sheet of her marriages. Four times, all but her last ending in death (the last abruptly ended in divorce following a major arrest of the husband.)

There was a scan of her passport as well, signifying that she had been in the country at least six months before she kidnapped Storybrooke’s dogs.

“Why here?” Wendy wondered aloud. “Why Storybrooke, and why dognapping? It’s such a cartoonish villain move.”

“Except in cartoons the villains wouldn’t bleed the dogs out and turn their skins into coats,” Pan muttered, back still to her.

“Coats?” Wendy gasped, the mental image making her stomach twist.

“Last page in the file,”

Wendy balanced the folder to find the page and blinked at the printed out copy of a news article before her.

MANCHESTER WOMAN CHARGED WITH 13 COUNTS OF ANIMAL CRUELTY

Wendy gulped at the picture of the drunk-looking mugshot of de Vil, her intense eyes seeming to stare right at Wendy, as if blaming her for her past crime.

 A local woman is being charged with the kidnapping and death of several dogs.

The dogs, all of Dalmatian and mixed Dalmatian breeds, were taken out of the Manchester and Liverpool areas within a three week period, according to authorities.

The woman, identified as 39-year-old Cruella de Vil, was apprehended at an abandoned windmill outside of the Liverpool area where over 20 dogs were being kept. Upon her arrest animal control discovered the mutilated remains of eight dogs. The remaining five dogs very rushed to the Wrightsville Veterinarian clinic for emergency treatment, and are expected to survive.

De Vil is being held at the Wrightsville Police Station without bail.

This story will be updated as more information becomes available.

Wendy checked the date of the incident to find that Cruella committed her first act three years ago. She shifted to Pan’s slightly cleared off the counter to spread out the devil woman’s file and located an additional article.

MANCHESTER DOGNAPPER TRIAL UNDERWAY

The trial Manchester dognapper Cruella de Vil will begin Monday morning.

De Vil was charged with 13 counts of animal cruelty following the torture and murder of several dogs in January.

De Vil’s lawyer originally declined to comment of her client’s state for her case, but De Vil stated to the press before being led to the jail: “I’m not worried, Darlings. Who would sentence a woman in diamonds?”

Wendy snorted. Now that was quality journalism! She flipped to the next article.

‘DEVIL WOMAN’ CRUELLA DE VIL EXPOSES PLOT FOR DOGS DURING TRAIL

Manchester dognapper Cruella de Vil stated during her trial that she abducted the Dalmatians with the purpose of using their pelts for ‘the perfect coat’.

De Vil continued to go into great detail about how she mutilated the dogs ‘when it was their time’, much to the disturbance to the court.

“I took one pup by his stringy little tail and hoisted him up,” de Vil, who was clothed in an elaborate gown and furs, detailed, “The little bugger wouldn’t stop squealing, even after I slashed his throat open.”

Evidence shows that De Vil had dozens of sketches for coats not just for the Dalmatians she abducted, but also for poodle and Shi Tzu breeds. The sketches also showed plans for various muffs, boots, and glove items.

When asked what she was going to do with all the coats, De Vil said, “Why, wear them of course! I’ll be the envy of every bitch at the social club.”

 De Vil's criminal record includes dozens of speeding tickets and two cases of vehicle homicide attempts. Records show that De Vil was acquitted for both cases and never paid off the tickets.

De Vil’s sentence trial will be held in October. Until then De Vil will be held in Manchester Sanitarium for the Mentally Unwell for further observation.

Wendy sighed in exhaustion. What a story! How could someone so heinous be so close to her neck of the woods?

The other articles were faded from an obvious lack of printer ink, but Wendy was able to make out enough from the headlines to guess what happened next.

De Vil was sentenced to two years in a different sanitarium that specialized in disorders like her. She was deemed “cured” after a year and released due to a special project. She left for America right afterward for a “fresh start”.

“Oh she stared fresh alright,” Wendy commented.

“Great,” Pan said from the board. “You’re where I was thirty minutes ago. Let me know when you get where I’m at now.”

Wendy resisted throwing De Vil’s folder at his head.

“I don’t think there’s anywhere else to go with this one,” Wendy pointed out.  “She went crazy, killed a bunch of animals, ran here and started all over again. That’s really it.”

“But the motive!” Pan growled, looking her dead in the eye. Desperate. “There had to be something else. Maybe she was working for someone or trying to start a multi-dognapping franchise here or…”

Wendy edged back at the desperation in his voice. He was grasping at straws, but there were none left for him in this case.

“Pan,” Wendy tried carefully, “There’s nothing left,”

“How the hell would you know!” He shouted.

“Because sometimes people are just bad,” she shouted back. “Sometimes they do a few terrible things just to do them! There doesn’t have to be a reason or a great scheme behind their actions! They just cause chaos and kill over!” with a spike of adrenaline, she stepped up to him, feeling his hearted pounding in the buzzing air.

“Don’t they?”

Pan twitched, glaring at her with a raw sense of hatred.

Wendy thought for a moment he might throw her out, and she really didn’t want him to. Pan had to see logic, had to stop filling his mind with information that just wasn’t there, and she couldn’t just run off and leave him to fill in such non-existent gaps. 

He’s scared. He’s frustrated. He needs to be kept busy.

With a deep breath, she stepped back to locate one of the other boxes on the couch, tensing a bit when she saw Jekyll’s name on the cardboard.

“We can start with him now,” she said, pulling out a folder.

In a flash, Pan slapped it out of her hand.

 Wendy gasped and brought her stinging hand to her chest where a shallow papercut was surfacing, staring at Pan.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” he said, looking just as surprised as she did.

It was the closest thing to an apology she would get from him, she knew, and she expected it, but it still did not stop her from hating him.

“What is your problem!” she yelled as she sucked the blood from her stinging cut.

“Nothing,” Pan defended, though he was tenser than a tightly wound spring.

Wendy looked him over, trying to pinpoint the root of his harsh mood. Of course, going through their old cases was certainly stressful, with the memories that surfaced as they saw photos of their former nemesis faces…

Ah.

She stared at Jekyll’s case box where the corner of his photo was just peeking out, turning Wendy’s stomach.

Gods know what the site of him was doing to Pan.

The journalist stepped away, twisting to pick up de Vil’s box.

“What about her lackey’s?” Wendy inquired, picking through her file.  She didn’t meet his eyes as she dug through the very scarce information. “We don’t know how they play into all of this outside their association with de Vil.”               

Pan looked at her, his expression solid and unreadable, but Wendy swore she saw a glint of something in his eyes.

Gratitude?

No, Peter Pan didn’t thank anyone for what they did, for him or otherwise.

Good thing Wendy didn’t expect it from him, or anything else for that matter.

They began adding Horace and Jasper’s notes to de Vil’s board, though a now were quick glance told Wendy it wouldn’t add much. They were jailbirds on and off as far back as the records could show, became acquainted with de Vil sometime after their most recent parole hearing, and thanks to her and Pan were tucked safely in a Boston prison until they could be moved to one in London. Nothing more, nothing less.

But Pan wasn’t ready to accept that, so Wendy pretended to stay busy until she commented on ordering from the Chinese menu on Pan’s fridge.

Half an hour later they were sitting silently in his living room, munching on greasy eggrolls as they stared absently at the evidence before them.

Fuzz the cat made a lazy trail from Pan’s bedroom to where they were eating, plopping himself next to Wendy.

The blonde smiled, charmed by the odd-looking cat, and reached out to pet him.

Pan readied a warning. Fuzz was known to scratch first-time visitors to bleeding shreds, but with a flash of naughtiness, decided to let the little bird find that out for herself.

However, Fuzz the cat purred in delight at the attention and collapsed next to Wendy, hungry for more.

“You…slut!” Pan hissed at his sorry excuse of a cat.

Wendy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“The damn cat,” Pan barked, turning back to his food to begin another round of silence.

Wendy shrugged and quietly offered him another eggroll, which he took with no additional fuss.

It was strange, this quiet domesticity. No violence, no fighting, no apprehension of what was to come.

It would have been peaceful if it weren’t for the wave of uneasiness Pan was letting off.

His leg was shaking with antsiness, and he kept making small sounds to break the silence.

I suppose it’s better than him yelling, Wendy thought. Might as well attempt conversation.

“So…” she begun, earning a questioned glare mid-chew. “I…ran into someone today,”

Pan looked up at her, looking slightly bored.

“And?” he shrugged, mouth full.

Wendy shrugged. Of course it was a stupid thing to bring up. Pan probably knew everyone in Storybrooke, and he had little interest for all of them.

“It’s nothing,” Wendy responded. “Just thought he was…” She searched her vocabulary for the word to describe the man with unsettling charming manners.

“Different,”

Pan’s eyes flickered at that.

Wendy Darling was smitten.

“Sounds like a scoop,” Pan smirked. “Let’s go find him.”

Wendy coughed on her fried rice as he stood. “What?” she laughed, truly mystified.

“Let’s go meet this mystery man,”

Wendy blinked trying to comprehend his shift in emotion as he put on his coat.

“Pan, it was dark out, I didn’t get a good look at him,” she explained. “I don’t even know his name!”

“It’s Storybrooke,” Pan waved her off. “We’ll find out who he is in an hour.”

“This is insane,” she barked with a laugh.

Pan wadded up her jacket and threw it at her, earning a yelp.

“Well, I’m bored. Are you coming or not?”

She stared at him, wondering just how high up the cliff of insanity he had already climbed. Boredom was making him scattered-brained and seeking action in the tiniest occurrence.

It was sad, like watching an animal trying to chew its way out of a trap, but also fascinating. Pan needed her, whether he would say it in words or in action. He needed her to keep him from jumping off that cliff, especially when they had no way of knowing what was waiting for him at the bottom.

With an exhausted sigh, she unraveled her jacket and followed him into the icy night, missing his satisfied smirk as he closed the door.

.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.=.

Wendy was having trouble keeping on his heels. It was dark and cold and he was the only one who really knew where they were going.

If he even knew himself.

Pan was all over the place tonight, and Wendy was starting to get dizzy from his back-and-forth.

She was practically having to skip to keep up with him. It was like he was forgetting that she was with him. Already he was trying to focus on something else.

Her loud cobbling seemed to echo through the street of Storybrooke, and in the dim night she felt a wave of paranoia run up her spine. It sounded like there was someone behind them, following them.

“Do you hear that?” she asked Pan.

“No, here we are,”

He stopped so suddenly Wendy ran into him, her face hitting him square in the spine. She gained her balance and glared at him before she stepped to his side, staring into the bright building ahead as it spilled vibration into the night.

“What is that?”

“The Rabbit Hole,” Pan smirked. “Sleaziest place in town.”

Wendy snorted through a shiver. “And you thing the well-polished man I ran into tonight is in there?”

Pan shrugged. “Maybe. Either way I want a drink. Come on,”

Wendy followed him with a sigh. At least she would get out of the cold.

Her ears began ringing as soon as she entered the nightclub, her eyes cloudy from the flashing lights.

“I don’t know about this,” she shouted, her voice lost in the sound.

This time, Pan took hold of her sleeve and pulled her through the cluster of tipsy people.

“Good thing it’s not a workday,” Wendy muttered to herself as Pan pulled her to a cluttered table.

She swept bits of food off the sticky surface, wincing at the music and hard chairs. Across her Pan was staring out into the crowd, his eyes glistening bright as he watched the gyrating bodies.

“You…come here often,” Wendy joked, feeling claustrophobic and savagely out of place.

“Once or twice with Tiger Lily,” Pan shrugged, somehow able to hear her over the music.

“And you’re not deaf?” she shouted.

“It’s not loud enough. It never is.”

“Huh?”

Pan looked up from the dancing sin to stare at her. Really stare at her. Truly look at her for the first time in days.

Her hair was growing out more evenly, her curls had even started to come back.

But the bags under her eyes were darker, hollower. She was tired, and he knew it was his fault.

“You want to dance?”

Pan looked as shocked as Wendy was when he looked back up at her.

“Did I…did I hear you right?”

Pan’s bright red face was hidden by the flashing strobe lights. The fuck did he say that?

“You’re not deaf yet are you?” he smirked, standing. “Let’s go.”

Wendy glanced out onto the dance floor. “I…think I’m overdressed.”

Pan glanced out at the half-clothed bodies and chuckled. He slipped off his jacket and undid the first two buttons of his shirt.

Wendy’s heart leapt and her throat tightened.

“You’re turn.”

Wendy shot from her chair, her clothes suddenly feeling stuck to her skin.

“Oh don’t be so damn modest,” Pan cackled, easing out into the dance floor. These little outbursts were giving him some energy.

Wendy shivered, feeling naked under her multiple layers.

Damn it! Why the hell did he have to get under her skin so easily!

She clutched her sleeves, watching as he began to get swarmed by dancers.

Yet…strangely enough…he was still waiting for her. As if he actually wanted her to come out there with him.

Keep him distracted. Keep him busy.

And he was actually smiling!

Well…leering, but he wasn’t as threatening as usual.

With a groan, she shed her feathered coat and eased out into the crowd, instantly getting sucked into the vortex of sweat.

She reached out for stability, hoping she wouldn’t accidentally grope anyone. Out of the sea of grinders a hand grabbed her wrist and—thankfully or unthankfully, she wasn’t sure yet—she fell into Pan’s chest.

“Bet you didn’t do this kind of dancing in your London prep school,” Pan snarked against her hair.

Wendy detached herself from his chest, getting some much-needed space between them.

“I went to a public school, thank you,” she barked, a smile tugging at her lips. It was hard to find a balance with so many people crushing them together.

“What do we…how…” she yelled, desperate for just an inch for space.

She felt Pan’s laugh rumble against her chest, the feeling much more put-together than the vibrations in the air. His hands snaked up her shoulder and gave them just enough space so that they could look into each other’s eyes.

“Just do what I do.” He said.

I already do.

He took her hands and helped her sway in their tiny space. Wendy could have fainted from the heat and the shock of the situation. Here she was dancing with the biggest arse in the entire world! She must be as mad as he was bored!

Her heart pounded as she copied his movements, almost afraid to let him go. So many people were brushing and bumping into them. She could easily be trampled, and something told her she wasn’t leaving the bar tonight without at least a cracked rib.

She looked up to find Pan watching her. He looked strangely human. Less territorial and ready to fight.  

Like he was actually…enjoying himself.

“Okay,” he instructed, pulling her arm over her head. He began twisting her wrist and Wendy caught on quickly, letting her twirl her until spots flashed before her eyes.

But he didn’t stop, and she kept going, catching the light in Pan’s eyes each time she spun back to him.

And before Wendy knew it, she was laughing, the sound much more soothing than the trash flowing through the intercoms.

For a moment Peter Pan and Wendy Darling weren’t small-town reporters who got into too much trouble far too often.

They were just two normal adults who were having a fun, random night.

Wendy couldn’t remember the last time she did something like this. Perhaps back in college…when she wasn’t as dark, before the bloodshed and the grittiness of the world became part of her daily routine.

And it was nice to be having this fresh taste of life with the person who had drug her into it.

“Not bad, Wendy Bird,” Pan teased as she grabbed on to his shoulder to stop the dizziness.

“Same to you, Peter Pan,

He scoffed, covering the hand on his shoulder and grasping this one.

“Let’s make you fly.”

With that, he pushed into the crowd, anchoring her with the hold on her arm. She spun back into him naturally, howling like a fool.

“Don’t let go if you’re going to do that,” she laughed.

“I promise, I won’t.”

Wendy had to admit, she rather liked this fun side of him. Sure, he was really just distracting himself from his current issues, but he was doing it in a constructive way that was keeping them both out of harm's way…mostly.

She nearly slammed into a dancer during her second twirl. When she spun back to Pan she was ready to tell him to try something else, but he looked so…happy.

She couldn’t do it…and had he had said he wouldn’t let her get hurt.

And she was safe…

Thank you.

Until he spun her out again…

Time to fly.

And let go.

He was gone in the blink of an eye and she stumbled out into the crowd.

The more drunkard dancers shoved her away and she stumbled to find stable ground.

“Pan!” She called out, drowning.

She was wedged between so many people, blind and hot.

“Pan!” She yelled again, feeling for him. “Where are—“

Someone’s elbow pounded into her lip and she flew to the sticky ground. Blood filled her mouth in seconds, and she stopped caring if she found Pan or not and started searching for a way off the dance floor.

Pan had taken them too far out. She had no idea where she was. People were stepping on her like she was nothing. On her hands, her hair.

She was going to die here. Had Pan done this on purpose? Had he really hoped her death would somehow entertain him?

She was going to die and no one would know until the club closed, or morning at least.

She was going to die…

“I got you lass!”

She was picked up effortlessly and drug from the crowd, the person clutching her moving through them like Moses through the parted sea.

A savior, it would seem.

Before her brain truly recognized what was going on, her savior had her outside, away from the noise and her unintentional murderers. Her lungs painfully filled with fresh, icy air and she started coughing up blood from her wound, very uncaring how disgusting she looked to her companion.

“There you go, love,” the savior—a man?—instructed, patting her back. “Get the sin out of your lungs.”

Love…

Wendy brushed her bangs from her eyes and met the haunting blue eyes of her earlier savior, the very man she and Pan had set off to find.

“You!” she gasped, nearly laughing with the insanity of it. “I…we…hi!”

He chuckled. “Hello again.”

She tried to catch her breath as she went back and forth with the odd coincidence and Pan’s disappearance.

Disappearance…or abonnement?

Wendy’s stomach flipped when the idea passed through her mind. It seemed almost too cruel for him to do, yet it seemed like something that he would do.

He was all over the place tonight, jumping back and forth like a frog on a scorching lily pad.

But really, he was always like that, she just hadn’t accepted it yet.

And now he had left her to be trampled to death in a night club, wandering off to gods’ knows where.

And he didn’t care. He just didn’t care.

“Are you alright?”

Wendy blinked, not realizing that her eyes had been misting.

“Yes, of course,” she breathed deeply and stood. “I just…I need to get home.” And get a club, she added to herself.

“I’ll walk you,” he offered immediately.

“Thank you, but I’m fine.”

The man chuckled. “Each time you say that I find you in peril,”

Wendy made a sound, not wanting to be rude but really not wanting to stick around much longer. “Really I’m fine. But thank you.” She nodded at him and began walking away, the raging fire in her heart, melting the ice in her bones.

“Killian Jones.”

Wendy paused and glanced back at him. “What?”

He smiled, at pearly whites and charm. “My name. I think it’s about time, you learned it.”

Wendy worried at her lip, letting the name rest on her mind. It suited him somehow. An old-world name for an old world charmed man. It was an interesting combination.

“I see. Well then, thank you, Killian Jones.” She said with a nod, picking back up her step.

“Wait.”

Wendy halted, slightly aggravated. If he turned out to be a maniac like Jekyll she’d bash his lights out with a chunk of ice.

He stepped forward, his hands resting in his pockets, showing he meant no harm, posed no threat.

“Would you like to get a drink sometime?”

Wendy laughed, her face burning. “That’s…forward.”

Jones chuckled with a shrug. “With your track record, the next time I may see you is in a hospital.”

Wendy shrugged that was true. She gave him another look over. Mysterious creature of the night.

She had learned already that trusting people was too dangerous, especially the kind who lurked in the dark. 

She didn’t know him, and he, despite his multiple rescues, didn’t know her.

“Why on earth would you want to have a drink with a perfect stranger?” she inquired aloud.

Jones cocked his head, his eyes gleaming with intentions Wendy couldn’t trace.

“To get to know you, of course.”

Wendy stiffened, her anxiety rising.

“That’s not a good idea,” Wendy gasped, desperate for space. “I have to go find…” she shook her head, her mind too cluttered to find a definition for her current view of Pan.

“If you change your mind,” Jones called after her. “I’ll be waiting. Tomorrow at the diner.”

Wendy increased her speed, making a direct line to Pan’s apartment.

She was going to kill him. She’d made the threat many times before but this time she meant it.

He left her.

He pulled her into all of this madness, and then just released her to break her neck without him.

Where had he gone? What temporary rush was he following now?

Why hadn’t he taken her with him?

She found his apartment the same way they had left it: locked up and dark. She searched for a spare key in the places anyone else would, but Pan wasn’t like everyone else and thus wouldn’t think to leave a spare key.

Out of aggravation, she picked up a loose brick, check over her shoulder, and hurled it into the glass.

It was exactly something Pan would do, and Wendy couldn’t help the small flame of satisfaction that came with damaging his property—which she had to plan to fix thank you very much.

She stormed in, flicking on lights and opening doors to find him. Fuzz the cat ran out of the bedroom as she checked behind checked in his closet.

“Pan!” she howled, her hands shaking.

Why?

“Where are you?”

Pan wasn’t there. He hadn’t returned to hide from her or even to continue their work. He had vanished completely with no warning for her.

With a stiff sob, she collapsed on the couch, feeling right at him with the shattered remains of his home.

“Peter…”

He left you.

“He left me.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

He wasn’t sure when or where he was.

But it was bright there, and surprisingly warm. It couldn’t be a memory of his childhood. Those were always dark and cold.

But he was somewhere…at least he thought it was him. There was glass in front of him, well-made and clean, and big enough to cover an entire wall.

But he couldn’t see his reflection…

Nor anything outside the window.

That’s why when the little bird flew closer, it terrified him.

“Stop…” he tried to scream just as the bird hit the window.

A loud bang…

It landed at his feet—

Its neck was broken.

He startled into consciousness, his fuzzy mind going into an automatic death mode.

Someone had grabbed him…he thought.

One second he was throwing Wendy out—letting her fly just enough from him—and then she was flying out of his grip while he was being pulled further from her.

He wasn’t sure what happened after that, but now he was tied up in some sort of darkroom, his hands above his head on some kind of meat hook, by the fill of it.

Something equivalent to a lantern was in the corner, giving him just enough light to keep him from going into a state of complete panic.

Jekyll’s prisons were always too bright.

A noise indicated he was no longer alone. A second later a door in the corner opened, and a man stepped in, the light behind him silhouetting him just long enough for Pan to get a good idea of him.

“Good to see you again,” the man said as he pulled a chair up and straddled it.

“Again?” Pan scoffed. “Go to hell, you wanker.”

“That’s captain to you, boy,” he returned firmly. “Captain Killian Jones, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t care, and know, who the fuck you are.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Killian said casually.

“I tend to forget people who aren’t worth remembering,” Pan smirked, his face warmer from the trail of blood leaking from his temple.

Killian chuckled, charmed. This was going to be the most fun he’d had in a while.

“I suppose it won’t matter anyway,” he sighed. “Not with you knocking on death’s door.”

Pan licked his lips. A challenge at last!

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” Killian said. “You see m’boy, I’ve been sent by someone who really wants you dead.”

“You’ll have to be a bit more specific,” Pan winked.

“No one you’ll need to worry about,” Killian alluded. “Just know that you’ve caused enough trouble that it warrants a very clean—and if you behave yourself—a very quick one.”

Pan scoffed. “If I’m scheduled to die, know that I’ll make my last days your worst,”

Killian seemed unphased by Pan’s threat, and while Pan wasn’t yet worried about it, it did make his gut turn just enough to be noticed.

Then, Killian laughed, and tapped his fingers on the back of the chair.

“You know, you actually gained our attention after that boy with the scar inquired Henry Jekyll’s files,”

Ice…the blood can’t move.

“Oh…I can’t quite remember his name…”

You have to keep count of the spasms…you have to know where the blood is going…

“That’s his benefit I suppose,” Killian smirked, watching as the blood drained from his face.

Felix…oh Felix I’m sorry…

“After all, it’d be a shame if that poor boy succumbed to one of his little fits in the privacy of his own home one afternoon…”

Pan bolted against the restraints, blood raging and teeth desperate to break skin.

“You fucking go near him I’ll kill you!”

Killian grabbed Pan by the jaw and forced him into the wall, pressing his knee into his stomach.

“I’d love to see you try,” Killian husked, his ice blues evenly hitting Pan’s forest greens. “I’d love to see you help any of them. Him, that pixie of a girl who hates you more than life itself…” his grin widened. “And that pretty blonde distraction you brought into this whole bloody mess.”

“Wendy…” the word left his lips before could stop it.

He didn’t know how to protect her the way he did the others.

“Such a pretty name,” Killian gloated. “Such a pretty girl at that. And she’s so desperate to find you, even after to abandoned her on a dangerous dance floor,”

Pan glared at him. “You bitch,”

Killian released him and made his way to the door.

“I’ll take no pleasure from killing her, m’boy,” Killian said, surprisingly quite truthfully. “However, this is as much to do with her as it does with you.”

Pan dug his nails into the cloth binding his wrists, trying desperately to stare a whole through Killian’s heart.

“How quick or how slowly she goes depends on what you can do for me within the next few days,”

Pan winced.

“Goodnight,” Killian winked, turning off the light and enclosing Pan in a blanket of darkness.

[psychosistr]

The Bloody Truth

Jonawagon Week- Day 7: Free Day/Legacy

Summary: Jonathan and Speedwagon deal with a nasty disagreement that drives Speedwagon out of the house. Can Jonathan make it up to him and see the truth behind why they were even fighting in the first place?

Notes: For the free day, I wanted to tackle a concept I don’t really see explored all that often with these two- making up after a fight. One of my biggest beliefs in relationships is that the true testament to its strength isn’t in never fighting at all because that’s unrealistic, but, rather, in how well the people involved can make up after the fight and if their relationship is strong enough to survive something like that. With that in mind, these two may seem a bit OOC and I apologize for that, but I just really wanted to explore this concept with them.

“Dad?” A familiar voice accompanied the knock at the door of Jonathan’s study.

Jonathan, who had been preoccupying himself with reading over some maps spread out across his desk, looked up towards the door. “Yes, George?”

The door opened and the young boy- ten years old, to be exact, as his birthday had just passed a month ago- walked into the study, closing the door behind himself. George walked up to his desk, worrying at his lip with his teeth like he wanted to say something but was nervous to do so. “……”

Jonathan gave his son a kind smile rolled up one of the maps he had been reading. “Whatever is on your mind, George? You know you can ask me anything.”

George looked up at his father before glancing down at his feet. “…When…When do you think..that papa will come back home…?”

Jonathan’s smile fell for a moment at the question. A feeling of irritation bubbled up within him at the thought of his partner, but, he put a firm barrier over those feelings to keep them from showing on his face. Just because he was annoyed with the other man was no reason to make George unhappy.

“I am sure he will come back any day now. He cannot keep this stubbornness up for long- he was always terrible at it.” He smiled at his son again, trying to believe his own words. “Speedwagon may be a bit brash at times, but he loves all of us and has never been able to stay away for long.”

“……” George kept his eyes on his feet, not looking up at his dad. “..I wish you two would make up already. It’s been three weeks now and I…I miss him.” Jonathan blinked in surprise at the observation. Had it truly been three weeks already? “Mom says that neither of you have ever been very good at giving up your ideals, but that one of you will have to bend for the fighting to stop..”

Jonathan looked down at the papers scattered about his desk. “……” Truth be told, he did miss his partner terribly. He had thrown himself into his work to serve as a distraction from the problem, insisting to himself that Speedwagon would not be able to stay away for long and would surely be back soon enough to apologize for his wrong-doings. However, if it had truly been three weeks by now, then it seemed Speedwagon was as unwilling to budge on the issue as Jonathan was. Jonathan took a deep breath to collect his thoughts before giving George another kind smile. “I cannot say it will help..but..I shall speak to him.”

“You promise..?” George asked while looking up hesitantly.

“A Joestar never goes back on their word.” Jonathan replied while extending a pinky finger towards George expectantly. “If I do, then you may disown me as your father.”

George smiled a tiny bit and hooked his pinky around his father’s, their hands going up and down a few times to seal the promise. “I don’t think I’m allowed to do that, but okay.” He turned to leave, but paused and pivoted on his heel to instead wrap his arms around Jonathan in a hug. “Thanks, dad..”

Jonathan gently returned the hug and gave the boy a pat on the head. “Of course, son. Now, you should be getting ready for bed. Hurry now, before your mother finds you hiding in here and sentences both of us to sleep in the living room tonight.”

“I don’t know, that sounds kind of fun to me.” George teased with a much brighter smile before leaving the room. “Good night, dad.”

“Pleasant dreams, George.” Jonathan said with a wave and a smile while watching George leave. It was only once the door was firmly closed again that Jonathan allowed his smile to fade. “……” Reaching down to open a drawer on his desk, Jonathan pulled out the newspaper article that had been the source of his family’s current dismay.

He still recalled the day this whole debacle began…

“ ‘Hospital Under Inspection for Organ Trafficking’ ” Jonathan read the headline aloud with a troubled expression while sitting on a couch one morning. He continued reading the article, his brow creasing with each line. “ ‘Local hospital run by oil tycoon and philanthropist, Robert Edward O. Speedwagon, has had an informal investigation launched against the staff for suspicion of organ trafficking. After receiving an anonymous tip, local authorities exhumed the bodies of several deceased individuals who received final medical treatment and hospice care at the hospital in question, only to find that each body had surgical scars indicative of surgeries unrelated to their cause of death and many were drained of their blood. It was also discovered that the families of the deceased were all payed substantially BY Mr.Speedwagon. Speculation at this point has led to the belief that the hospital is paying families in exchange for desecrating their loved ones’ remains, presumably with the intent to sell the removed parts on the black market’- What slander!” Jonathan suddenly stopped his reading to glare at the paper and toss it down on the living room table. He was absolutely furious. How dare they print such lies about his beloved Speedwagon! He would never approve of something so horrid! “How dare they spread such lies about you?! It is unforgiveable!” He looked up to the man in question who was seated next to him while sipping his morning tea, surprised to find him not even half as upset as he himself was. “How can you be so calm about this, Robert? They are saying such horrid things about you!”

Speedwagon reached down and picked up the paper, his eyes calmly scanning over the article. “Hmh..can’t say I didn’ expect it. Part of bein’ a public figure now, I suppose- people will leap at the chance t’ crucify you. Someone’s certainly got an active imagination over there..” The blonde man had spent the past few years, after he was blessed with the good fortune of finding oil in the middle of nowhere, training his accent into something more “respectable” in the public eye. He did a good job of it around strangers and people he was meeting for business deals, but Jonathan could still hear a slip of his original cockney accent when he was at home or when he was in distress. “Anyway, it’ll all blow over once they find out the black market thing’s a load of rubbish.” He said calmly while setting the paper neatly back down on the table.

Jonathan felt slightly calmer from his beloved’s words. He knew he would never play a part in something so- Wait, what was that last part he said?

Jonathan looked up at Speedwagon with a hesitant, beseeching expression. “You meant to say that all of it was rubbish, didn’t you, Robert?”

Speedwagon briefly glanced away, a slight frown pulling at his lips. “Well..it’s nothin’ like how they’re makin’ it sound in there..”

“What?” Jonathan was shocked. He..He must have heard that wrong. There was certainly no way that his beloved would do such a thing…right? “Speedwagon..” He swallowed down a lump in his throat, praying to god that he would not receive the answer he dreaded. “Tell me the truth: Are any of these allegations true- yes or no?”

“……” The blonde pulled his hat from atop his head and began to fiddle with it in his hands, a nervous habit that Jonathan was all too familiar with by now. “…It’s a bit more complicated than that..”

“It is a yes or no question, Speedwagon.” Jonathan said while narrowing his eyes. “Are you paying people to take the organs from their deceased family members?”

“I…well…yes.” Speedwagon finally answered after fumbling for his words, looking up at Jonathan’s shocked expression. “But, I’m tryin’ t’ tell y’, i’s more complicated than it sounds!” Ah, his accent was back again, a sure sign of his stress in that moment.

“More complicated?!” Jonathan balked at his partner, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Speedwagon! How could you be a part of such a thing?!”

Speedwagon gripped his hat a little tighter, frowning at Jonathan’s reaction. “If y’d just gimme a chance t’ explain, y’d understand that what I’m doin’ is ‘elpin’ people! No one’s gettin’ ‘urt an’ that ‘ospital is savin’ hundreds o’ lives- all o’ the ones I’m startin’ are!”

Jonathan felt the color drain from his face at those words and something gripped his stomach with terror. “Good lord..you..don’t tell me that ALL of your facilities participate in such sordid acts..?!”

Speedwagon crossed his arms over his chest with a huff, beginning to look irritated rather than worried as he had been. “I’d ‘ardly call it ‘sordid’. We’re savin’ people’s lives and makin’ sure they don’ go bankrupt in the process. I’d call it a win-win for everyone involved!”

“What about for the deceased?!” Jonathan countered while standing up to look down at Speedwagon and convey the seriousness of his words. “Do you truly think they would be okay knowing that their bodies were desecrated in such a way?!”

“Yes!” Speedwagon snapped at him and stood to his feet as well, looking Jonathan dead in the eyes with a scowl. “We got permission from each and every one o’ those poor souls for what we did. They figured they wouldn’ need their organs anymore if they were dead, so why not put ‘em t’ good use and give their families somethin’ for the trouble? Honestly, I don’ get what all the fuss is about- i‘s not like they care once they’re dead, the livin’ are the ones in need of ‘elp.”

Jonathan was growing increasingly frustrated by his partner’s attitude. “Not everything in this world has a price tag, Speedwagon. What you are doing is morally wrong and you need to stop this practice at once.” Jonathan stated firmly. He did not like using that tone of voice with his beloved, but it would hopefully make him see the error of his ways and apologize so that-

“No.” Speedwagon’s voice was equally as firm and unyielding as Jonathan’s own- so much so that it shocked the larger man, as he was not used to hearing Speedwagon speak to him in such a manner. “You ain’t got no idea what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, so I ain’t gotta listen to y’ on this one, Jonathan.”

“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan replied while staring the shorter man down.

“Y’ ‘eard me, damn it.” Speedwagon stated while placing his hat back on his head. “You don’ know a thing ‘bout this, ain’t givin’ me a chance to explain my actions, and keep tryin’ t’ insist what I’m doin’s wrong even though y’ don’ know nothin’ bout it.” He turned away from Jonathan and started walking towards the door. “I know what I’m doin’s right, tha’s all the validation I need.”

“Where exactly are you going?” Jonathan asked, his tone coming out harsher than he intended due to his frustration.

“To the ‘ospital. When y’ get your ‘ead outta your own arse, come find me there an’ we can talk like grownups for a change.” He placed his hand on the doorknob, throwing Jonathan one last look over his shoulder, it was equal parts coldness, aggravation, and…hurt. There was pain in those eyes and it almost made Jonathan say something else before Speedwagon beat him to it. “By the way..‘not everythin’ in this world ‘as a price tag’..tha’s somethin’ people only ever say when they’ve never ‘ad t’ worry ‘bout the cost before.”

Those were the last words the other man said before he left their home, softly closing the door behind himself rather than slamming it and alerting the rest of their family to what happened…

A gentle knock at the door to Jonathan’s study roused him out of his thoughts and back to the present. “Come in.” He called towards the door.

Erina walked in, already dressed in her sleeping gown with a shawl draped around her shoulders. “Planning to work yourself to sleep again tonight?” She asked with a gentle smile and a tone of voice that was part teasing, part concealed concern.

Jonathan checked the clock in the corner of the room and noted that it was nearly midnight. “Oh..my apologies, I did not realize it was so late.”

“You seem to do that quite a bit lately.” Erina walked over to his desk, delicately moved a few documents and books aside to clear a space for herself, and sat herself down on the corner of it so she was sitting close to eye-level with Jonathan. “George told me of your conversation before he went to bed.” The way she said it was so patient, opening the conversation but giving him room to take it in whatever direction he felt comfortable with.

“……” Jonathan looked down at his desk with a frown. “I suppose nothing will change if we do not at least discuss the matter.” Jonathan sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I just…I do not understand, Erina- how can he not see what he is doing is wrong? I even asked him to stop such a practice, but he outright refused. I do not know what more I can do…”

There were few times in their lives that Jonathan had ever asked Speedwagon not to do something or to change his behavior. He loved the other man for everything that he was, rough edges and bad language and all, so there was very little he ever wished to see changed. The only things he ever asked him to change were usually with his best interests at heart, such as cutting back on his smoking and drinking when he was stressed or always going off alone when he felt there would be trouble from his past rearing its head against him. Any of those times, he had been able to persuade Speedwagon to change those dangerous behaviors simply by asking him- he had never had to deal with Speedwagon outright telling him NO before.

“I went to see him the other day.” Erina said calmly, her hands folded over her lap. “At the hospital, that is. We had a discussion about everything and it helped to clear a few things up quite easily.”

Jonathan looked up at her, surprised by her words. “You went to see him?” Darn it, if he had known, he would have gone with her. It would have been so much easier to speak to him if Erina was there, too. “…How is he?” He asked after a moment, his concern for the other’s well-being briefly outweighing his irritation at their disagreement.

Erina paused for a moment, considering her words carefully. “He is…doing as well as could be expected. He does miss all of us quite terribly and wishes to come home sooner rather than later.”

Jonathan frowned and glanced away from her gaze. “He is free to come home any time he wishes.”

Erina placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “He is waiting for you to come see him, as he told you when he left. He has not left that hospital in three weeks, and will not do so until the two of you have your discussion there.” Her hand squeezed his shoulder, it was firm but still so gentle and understanding. “Jonathan.” He turned his eyes back towards her, meeting her firm, piercing stare hesitantly. “I read the article as well. I know what words were printed on that paper and what everyone is saying about him. However, if you go there and see what he is doing with your own eyes, I think you may gain some insight into his actions that will paint them in a different light. What he is doing truly is for the good of everyone involved.”

Jonathan frowned more as he looked into her eyes pleadingly. “You are on his side as well?”

Erina brought her other hand forward to rest on top of Jonathan’s own where they were lying on the desk. “We are a family, Jonathan. There are no sides. Different points of view and opinions, certainly, but never sides.”

“I suppose you are right in that regard..” Jonathan conceded, though he still frowned a bit.

Her eyes softened, as did her tone of voice. “Do you recall when we were young and how Dio tormented you? He did everything he could to turn others against you and make you unhappy. Even your father, may he rest in peace, believed Dio’s act.” She began to stand up from the desk, her hand remaining on his shoulder as she got to her feet once more. “What I am trying to say is that you, of all people, should know how it feels to have everyone you know turn against you due to the cruel lies of another, as well as how much it can hurt to not even have those whom you love believe you.” She gave his shoulder one last squeeze before releasing it. “All I ask is that you speak with him and try to remember that things are not always as black and white as they seem in this world.”

“……” Her words struck a chord within Jonathan. Even though more than a decade had passed, he still clearly remembered the pain his adopted brother had caused him- the pain made even worse by his own father not believing his claims against the devil residing in their home. Had he really been inflicting a similar pain onto the man he loved? He certainly hoped not, for he could never forgive himself for such a thing.. “I shall go to him tomorrow.” He said with a tone of finality, steeling his own conviction on the matter.

“Good.” Erina said simply and leaned over to place a tender hiss to his furrowed brow. She headed towards the door, pausing once her hand was on it to turn back to Jonathan with a light smile, her tone genial and teasing. “Having said that, do try your best to bring him home- I am quite tired of nearly drowning in the blankets of a bed that is more than three times my size.”

The comment earned a smile and a short laugh from Jonathan. “I shall do my best to rescue you from such a plight, my dear.”

She smiled back at him and left without another word.

Once she was gone, Jonathan’s eyes returned to the newspaper article that had been pushed aside upon Erina’s arrival. He looked at the headline one last time before grabbing the paper, balling it up, and tossing it into the waste basket beside his desk.

Tomorrow he would see the truth with his own eyes and make his decisions from there.

The front doors of the hospital stood before Jonathan, the building looking daunting and almost menacing with the early-morning sun rising up behind it to cast the front in ominous shadows. He had been stuck, frozen a foot or two away from the entrance for at least ten minutes now, grateful it was early enough that no one was around to witness his odd behavior.

“This is ridiculous..” Jonathan muttered aloud, taking a deep breath to calm himself and exhaling it slowly. “This is a hospital. You faced down undead horrors and a being who was nigh-immortal. You can certainly open the door of a hospital and walk inside.” He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining instead that he was back at Windknight’s Lot, and the courage he had on that night pushed him forward to finally enter the building.

Upon opening his eyes again, Jonathan took a look around and found that the inside of the building was actually quite…nice.

The front lobby and entrance were surprisingly cozy for a hospital. Rather than feeling the overly-sterile, cold, clinical atmosphere one would expect from a place that dealt with illness and death, it felt safe and welcoming. There were comfortable sofas and armchairs settled around a fireplace, tables and cushioned chairs with an assortment of fruit baskets and plates of sweets set out on them, large windows that let in plenty of natural sunlight and offered a calming view of the well-maintained gardens outside, and Jonathan could even spot a play area for children set up outside through one of the windows. All-in-all, it felt more like stepping into someone’s home rather than a hospital.

As he walked through the lobby, he noticed that even the receptionist’s desk was far more welcoming than in most hospitals. It was made of a warm-looking cherry-wood and polished beautifully. There were fresh flowers in vases on the corners and a bowl of small candies resting low enough that a child could easily take some.

The woman seated at the desk (looking quite comfortable in her well-cushioned chair that matched the desk’s wood for the frame) smiled politely at him when he walked up to her. “Hello, sir. How may I be of assistance? Are you here to see a patient, or perhaps looking to make an appointment?”

Jonathan froze slightly, after a polite bow to the lady as was proper of a gentleman, momentarily unsure of how to phrase his reason for being here. “Um…well..no, not quite. My name is Jonathan Joestar- I am a friend of Mr.Robert Speedwagon. I was wondering if I could, possibly, if he is not too busy of course, speak with him..?” His nerves started to return towards the end of his question, his words almost running together.

The woman gave a slight gasp, her eyes regarding him with a look of realization. “Oh! So YOU’RE Mr.Joestar! Why, Mr.Speedwagon speaks of you so fondly, sir!” She smiled at him and rose from her desk, motioning for him to follow her down one of the hallways branching off from the lobby. “I believe he is taking a brief respite in his office, but I am certain he would be quite happy to see you.”

Jonathan followed her with a grateful smile, hoping his nervousness did not show in either his tone of voice or his facial features. “I certainly hope so..”

As he followed the receptionist down the hall, Jonathan got a better look at the rest of the hospital.

It was kept clean and pristine, but the warm colors helped to preserve the homey feeling he had from the entrance. The empty rooms for patients that were left open looked as inviting as a small bedroom or lavish hotel suite with actual beds rather than just cots on metal frames, full book cases in every room to entertain any residents, windows that could easily be opened to allow in fresh air and sunlight, and plenty of comfortable chairs and other furniture for both the patients and their guests to enjoy. That being said, there were still plenty of rooms they passed that clearly reminded him that this was, indeed, a hospital- and quite a state of the art one, if the unfamiliar devices and equipment he spotted in the surgery wing of the building were anything to go by.

It was certainly clear that Speedwagon spared no expense renovating the building and Jonathan briefly wondered if all of the facilities he ran were this nice. He had been aware of the many businesses that Speedwagon had come to run over the past few years, but he, ashamed as he was now to admit it, had never really been inside of one before. The other man always insisted that there wouldn’t be anything worth seeing and distracted Jonathan with news of something exciting he’d done that day.

“He’s right through here.” The woman’s voice suddenly cut through his musings about the hospital. He looked at the door they had stopped at, a metal nameplate on the front reading “Mr.Speedwagon- Founder” and he couldn’t help the small swell of pride he felt at seeing his beloved receiving the recognition he so rightfully deserved. “Let me just inform him you’re here.” The woman said with a smile before walking inside. Jonathan waited patiently for a moment, hearing muffled voices and quick shuffling sounds before the woman exited the room and stood aside for him. “He says you can come in.”

Jonathan bowed his head to her with a smile. “You have my thanks, madam.” He walked in and closed the door behind himself.

Looking around the office, he was surprised to see that it was actually rather sparse compared to the rest of the rooms he’d seen. There was a desk and chair similar to the one for the receptionist set in the middle of the room, the top covered with many documents and books and charts that Jonathan knew he would be unable to understand without someone to guide him. In the corners of the room behind the desk were a pair of bookshelves that were cluttered with many books, files, and papers that had been set down on the shelves haphazardly. There was a window beside the desk, but the curtains were currently drawn to block out the sun. The only furniture other than the desk was a sofa and two armchairs similar to the ones from the waiting room set up to create a small square space with the desk, allowing those seated in them to speak to the person sitting behind the wooden furniture.

His partner was easily visible in the small space and Jonathan’s heart ached slightly when he saw him.

Speedwagon was preoccupied when Jonathan walked in, busying himself with the task of trying to cram a pillow and blanket beneath the desk. The long indent that had yet to fully rise back up on the sofa cushions confirmed Jonathan’s suspicion that Speedwagon had indeed been sleeping on the furniture moments ago. This notion was further cemented by his beloved’s appearance- his hair was mussed, his normally pristine suit (the same one that he’d left the house in, Jonathan realized with a growing feeling of guilt) was wrinkled and slightly untucked, and, though it was dark, Jonathan could clearly make out the dark bags still present under those nervous looking brown eyes.

God, why had he waited so long to come here? To put the other man through this was incredibly rude and Jonathan felt ashamed of himself for his own foolish stubbornness..

“Ahem.” Speedwagon cleared his throat, gaining Jonathan’s full attention again. “Do pardon the mess, I was not expecting any company this morning.” No accent. He was being overly formal. Not a good sign for Jonathan.

“My apologies.” Jonathan offered a small bow of his head, preoccupying his eyes with looking at the wood flooring beneath his feet. “I probably should have come later in the day.”

“……” Speedwagon was quiet for a while, the tension in the room making Jonathan feel even more anxious than he already was. “It’s quite alright.” Speedwagon finally spoke and Jonathan allowed himself to look up from the floor. The other man was doing his best to make himself look presentable- mainly combing his fingers through his hair to tame it slightly and righting his suit. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr.Joestar?”

Jonathan bit the inside of his lip at the overly formal moniker, trying not to cringe. Speedwagon had not called him that since they started dating. It further twisted the knife of guilt that was stabbing him in the gut hearing his beloved speak to him as if they were acquaintances at best.

“..I..” Jonathan searched for the right words to say. He decided on something honest and emotional, to see how the other would react. “George and Erina…they both miss you terribly…they..wanted to know when you would be home…”

“Hm, is that so?” Speedwagon’s tone of voice did not change as he finished smoothing out the wrinkles on his sleeves to the best of his ability. “Well, that is hard to answer. I am quite busy here, what with assisting with the day-to-day workings of the hospital, as well as the rest of my business affairs. Oh, not to mention that I am currently fending off those who wish to see me socially crucified due to a rather nasty news article regarding my business practices.”

There was that knife again, twisting and stabbing him so painfully in both his gut and his chest now. It hurt so badly and he was not sure how to make it stop. If even George and Erina’s concern was not enough to draw him home, and the fact that he brought up the incident with such an icy tone to his voice-

Oh.

Perhaps a different approach was in order.

“I am quite aware- I have read the article in question.” He stood up straighter, trying to appear as confident as he was trying to sound. “However, I have found that one cannot always trust what they read in the paper.” That earned him a sideways glance from Speedwagon. He took that as a good sign and decided to press on. “I know you are a very busy man, but I was wondering if you would be so kind as to grace me with a tour of this building and its workings? If it would not be too much trouble, of course.”

“……” Speedwagon eyed him again, taking long enough to answer that Jonathan feared he may have misread him and was about to apologize. “Very well, then.” The other man relented with a passive expression that did not betray any clear thoughts or feelings on the matter. “I was just about to begin my morning rounds, anyway. You are welcome to join me, if you wish. Though, I must warn you, some things you may see are not for the faint of heart.” The way his eyes narrowed slightly on the last part was clearly a challenge. One that Jonathan would not back down from.

“I assure you, I can handle any manner of unpleasantness you may show me.” He returned Speedwagon’s challenging look with one of his own. If Speedwagon wanted to show him the truth, then Jonathan would stomach every bit of it- whatever it took to understand why his love did what he did and why he felt it so necessary.

“Very well, then.” He gestured for Jonathan to follow him as he left the office. “There are a few patients I usually check on in the mornings. After that I need to speak with the doctors. Then there are a few special cases I need to see to before reviewing the hospital’s financial records for the day.”

“Sounds like quite a full day.” Jonathan commented as he followed the blonde down the hall back towards some of the patient’s rooms he’d passed on the way there. “Is that a typical schedule for you?”

“It varies from day-to-day, but most of it is fairly routine.” Speedwagon shrugged slightly before stopping at one of the doors and knocking. The tone of his voice changed instantly, going from the cold formality he’d shown Jonathan to something softer and closer the kindness he was used to. “Ms.Eliza? Do you mind if I come in?”

A voice, very faint and tired, called back from the other side. “Of course not, Mr.Speedwagon.”

Speedwagon opened the door and the two walked into the room. Resting on the bed was a woman who looked to be close to Erina’s age, though she was quite pale and very thin, save for the bulge of her stomach that Jonathan could clearly see through the blankets.

She put a finger to her lips in a shushing motion before pointing towards the sofa in her room. Curious, Jonathan looked over and saw a young girl, probably less than three years old, sleeping on the furniture with a doll cradled in her arms.

Speedwagon looked at the girl and smiled, speaking in a hushed voice. “Little dear tuckered herself out again, has she?”

The woman on the bed muffled a giggle behind her hand. “She stayed up all night playing and telling us stories..says she can’t wait to be a big sister.” She smiled softly while rubbing one hand over her swollen stomach. Her smile faded slightly, though, when she looked back to Speedwagon. “Do you..think it will go well..?”

Speedwagon stepped closer to the bed and gently placed a hand over her own. “Of course it will. My staff will see to it personally. Tell me, does it feel like the transfusions are helping any?”

She nodded, a faint smile returning to her face. “I do feel better after receiving them. Who knew something as simple as blood could make such a difference?”

Jonathan blinked slightly in surprise at the statement. “Blood?”

When the woman gave him a curious look, Speedwagon answered her unspoken question. “This is Mr.Joestar- a friend of mine who has come to see the workings of the business.” He then turned back to Jonathan to answer his question in turn. “My doctors and scientists have found that blood transfusions can serve many purposes. It’s still a fairly new practice in the eyes of the public, but there have already been a few cases of doctors using blood transfusions to save patients’ lives over the years. The trick is identifying what kind they need- we’ve found that each person falls under one specific blood type out of three or so possible ones and that you can take blood from one person and essentially inject it into another person of the same type to help stabilize their circulation.”

“Really?” Jonathan was stunned by his partner’s knowledge on the matter. “I had no idea one could use blood in such a way..”

“Indeed you can.” Speedwagon turned his smiling face towards Eliza on the bed. “And Ms.Eliza here is living proof that it can help with many illnesses.”

She returned the smile. “I honestly never would have thought of it myself before coming here. Your doctors are truly amazing, Mr.Speedwagon- I can’t thank you enough.”

“Nonsense, it’s what we’re here for, ma’am.” He stepped away from the bed. “I’ll have the staff bring you two some breakfast shortly. Any requests?”

She looked back over to the girl sleeping nearby. “I know she would love some of that toast and marmalade again. Oh, and some tea would be lovely.”

“Of course. I’ll put in the request for you.” He replied with a bow and a tip of his hat. “Try to take it easy for now- I’ll be by again later.”

With that he left the room, Jonathan following close behind after giving the woman a polite bow of his head. When he caught up to Speedwagon outside, he watched the other man pull a pen and notepad from his pocket, write down what Eliza requested earlier, then put it away again.

“If it would not be too rude to ask, and if you are allowed to say so at all,” Jonathan began his question, earning a glance from the blonde. “What is her condition? I recall Erina’s pregnancy quite well and she looked sickly at times, but nowhere near as pale or feeble.”

Speedwagon hesitated for a moment, and Jonathan feared he had pushed for too much information, but the other man answered, nonetheless. “She has anemia. She was involved in a rather nasty accident around the time of her previous pregnancy and it caused a problem with her liver. For now, the blood transfusions are helping and should stabilize her enough through the delivery. In a year or two, once her body’s fully recovered and stable, we’ll take the next step to solve the problem for good so she’ll no longer be stuck relying on the transfusions.”

“The next step?” Jonathan inquired with a tilt of his head. “What would that be?”

“……” Speedwagon glanced away again and continued down the hall. “We can discuss that after I see to the rest of my morning duties.”

Jonathan was a bit worried by his partner’s reaction, but chose to wait and see what he had planned. After all, this was Speedwagon- he was certain the other man would explain things at some point or another.

Jonathan spent the rest of the morning following Speedwagon around the hospital to check on various patients- the blonde philanthropist knowing each and every one of them by name and having extensive knowledge about their individual needs and conditions. He learned quite a bit about the patients there, namely that many of them did not have stable incomes and were essentially receiving free or extremely discounted care thanks to Speedwagon himself. That thought was truly touching, reminding Jonathan that, no matter what, his beloved was at his core a kind and caring man who wanted to help others.

He had practically forgotten about the main reason for their argument..until they reached the hospice section of the hospital.

As with the other patients, Speedwagon knocked on the door politely and called the name of the person inside before entering. “Mr.Adams? Mind if I come in for a moment?”

A series of raspy coughs could be heard within the room before the person spoke. “Yes, go ahead..”

Speedwagon opened the door and Jonathan followed him inside. The man in this room was the worst out of any that Jonathan had seen that day. He was older than Jonathan and Speedwagon, but only by a decade or so, yet he looked much older with the way his skin was wrinkled and scarred and his hair had all but fallen out. He seemed to have a hard time even turning his head in their direction to look at them properly.

Speedwagon took off his hat and sat in a chair by the bed with yet another kind smile, Jonathan taking the seat beside him. “Morning, Mr.Adams, do forgive the delay.” He gestured to Jonathan beside him. “This is my friend, Mr.Joestar, he is shadowing me for the day to learn how the business works.” The two nodded politely to each other as Speedwagon set his hat aside and, though his smile remained kind and sympathetic, his voice took on a serious tone. “…The doctors informed me of the results..”

The man sighed heavily, his eyes looking up to the ceiling. “I figured as much. I’m honestly not surprised, but it’s still not a nice thing to know.”

“I know it isn’t.” Speedwagon frowned slightly. “Have you contacted your family yet? Or would you prefer one of us to do it? I could pay a visit to them myself, if you’d like.”

The man managed a small shake of his head. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary- I already had a letter sent to my wife. I expect she’ll be here within a day or two.” The air was heavy with silence for a while as the gravity of the situation left Jonathan feeling uncomfortable, as if he were intruding on something he should not be a part of. “Mr.Speedwagon..” The man suddenly broke the silence and turned his head to look at Speedwagon properly again. “About your offer…I’ve decided to take you up on it.”

Speedwagon looked at him with a sadly serious expression, showing his sympathy and concern. “Are you certain? You should probably wait until you have a chance to talk things over with your wife-”

“I’ve thought it over plenty.” The man interrupted with a sigh. “I’ll let her know about it when she comes to visit, but it’s my body, so it’s my choice.” He narrowed his eyes at Speedwagon, showing how serious he was on the matter. “If you really agree to help out my family after I’m gone from this world..then you can take as much out of my body as you need to.”

Jonathan gasped quietly in shock, looking between the two in alarm. “Are you..Are you truly at peace with such a decision? Surely your family will not agree to such a thing..”

The man looked up at Jonathan with a frown. “They may not have much of a choice. Besides, I won’t need the rest of me where I’m going. If using what I leave behind can help these doctors save other peoples’ lives, then why wouldn’t I do it?”

“Save others’ lives?” Jonathan questioned, perplexed by the idea. “How so?”

Instead of the sickly man answering his query, it was Speedwagon who did so. “Blood is not the only thing in our bodies that can be used to maintain peoples’ lives. I’ll explain further after we finish here.” He then turned back to the man with his earlier kind smile. “Now then, I’ll wait until after you’ve had a proper discussion with your family on the matter to make anything official, but I’ll have the paperwork drafted up in the event that they agree to it. And don’t you worry about a thing, they will be well taken care of.”

“Thank you, Mr.Speedwagon.” The man returned his look with a tired smile of his own. “You are a blessing. I really cannot thank you enough for all you’ve done..”

“Now, now, there’s no need for any of that.” Speedwagon said while standing up and placing his hat back onto his head. “You just get some rest and I’ll be back to see you after your family arrives.” He tipped his hat slightly to the man in farewell and left the room with Jonathan following behind him after a polite bow of his head.

Once they were outside the room with the door closed, Jonathan turned to his partner with a genuinely curious expression. “Now then, could you elaborate on what you said earlier, if you would be so kind? About this whole business regarding organs and other peoples’ health?”

Speedwagon gave him a nod as he led him through the building again. “As I said before, blood is very useful in helping with a variety of medical conditions and illnesses, but it is not the only thing in our bodies that can be of use in keeping us alive- there are our organs to consider, as well. Hearts, livers, kidneys, even lungs and stomachs and intestines can suffer damage or have defects that cause harm to the body and keep it from doing as it should.” He looked over to Jonathan as they walked. “Tell me, if your carriage had a busted wheel that made riding uncomfortable and you knew it would one day give out and leave you stranded, what would you do about it- merely patch the wheel with a piece of wood or replace it entirely?”

Jonathan brought his hand to his chin in a thoughtful gesture as he contemplated the question. “Well, I suppose I would replace the entire thing if I could. Patching it would keep it going for a short while longer, but it could still break at some point. Better to replace the whole thing and avoid the discomfort and worst case scenario in the first place.”

“Precisely.” Speedwagon said with a snap of his fingers. “However, you do not know how to make a proper wheel on your own. So, how would you come about procuring one?”

“I would likely go to someone who sold them and purchase one.” Jonathan’s eyes widened slightly when he realized where exactly Speedwagon was going with this analogy. “You mean..?”

Speedwagon finally offered him a confident, proud smile, one that warmed Jonathan to his very core. “I do indeed: Here, we can identify what organs need to be replaced in living patients, store the organs from deceased patients, and surgically implant them into the ones who need them. It’s a rather tricky and risky process, but it provides much more stable results than mere blood transfusions or medicine ever could on their own. Remember Ms.Eliza? The blood transfusions help for now, but the real problem is her bad liver, so, once she’s well enough, we’ll remove her liver and give her a new one so her body can take care of itself properly!” He put his hands on his hips, looking far more confident than the first time they’d discussed the matter and sounding much more like the Speedwagon that Jonathan knew and loved, rather than the overly-formal businessman he’d been stuck speaking to for most of the morning. “Like you said, Jonathan- better to replace the wheel and avoid the worst case scenario in the first place, right?”

Jonathan stared at his partner with wonder in his eyes. “That is truly incredible, Speedwagon!” He could hardly believe his ears. What a wonder of medical science! To think, so many peoples’ lives could be improved or even saved, simply by implanting another person’s organs into them. It was pure genius!

“Glad t’ see you’re finally comin’ around.” Speedwagon’s smile was far more natural and small traces of his accent were slipping in, though it was more from comfort rather than stress this time. “Come on, then- we still have a few more stops to make.” He motioned for Jonathan to follow him, and the nobleman gladly did so.

They spent a while afterwards speaking with the doctors of the hospital. They showed Jonathan their methods of preserving the organs and explained that, similar to how one needed to identify a base blood group for a successful transfusion, you would also need to do the same to ensure a successful organ transplant.

Jonathan ended up learning quite a bit about medical practices that he never would have known before. It was a bit shameful to admit, but he had never done very much research into things like surgery or medicine, despite his wife working as nurse for so long and his partner opening and helping to run several hospitals. He made a mental promise to himself to take up a greater interest in their fields of study, at least enough that he would be able to understand things like this in the future.

After checking on a few more patients (and stopping for a quick bite in the dining hall they had prepared for those well enough to leave their rooms), they returned to Speedwagon’s office.

The blonde pulled a few files off of the shelves and set them on the desk along with a rather thick notebook. “I’m afraid this part of the job isn’t as fun as going around talking to everyone.” He opened the notebook and turned it so that Jonathan, who had taken to standing beside the blonde as he sat in the chair, could see the contents as well. “This is our record book for where all of the money I spend on the patients and staff is recorded.” He then opened the file and started pulling out a few papers. “And these are bills, receipts to be reimbursed, and requests for funds I have to portion out properly.”

Jonathan nodded silently as he listened to his partner explain everything. He stood by for a little while, simply watching as the other man looked over the paper work, wrote notes in the notebook, and signed off on a few documents. He soon noticed, though, that Speedwagon was silently and subtly laying the papers out in a way that made them easier for Jonathan to read from his position.

Curious, Jonathan took a peek at the paperwork. Some forms were obvious things, such as medical equipment and supplies needing to be replaced, food for the dining hall, fresh linens, etc. Others were what looked to be paychecks for the staff, Jonathan noting that they were all payed quite well for their excellent work. Then, at one point, there was a particular paper that he didn’t quite understand the purpose of.

“Speedwagon, would it be alright for me to read this one?” He asked while pointing at the paper in question.

Speedwagon glanced to him after writing down the information from a similar paper. “Hm?” He looked at the paper in question and seemed hesitant to answer for a moment. “Oh, that one..hmh, I suppose it’s alright.” He then went back to writing his notes.

Jonathan picked up the paper curiously and read it. It seemed to be a letter addressed to Speedwagon himself:

“Dear Mr.Speedwagon,

We truly cannot thank you enough for your kind words and your help throughout our father’s final days. You have already done so much for our family, it seems selfish to expect anything more. Merely because you have insisted so strongly on the matter, below we have enclosed the amount requested from the funeral home for the service. It looks like many of us will be able to attend thanks to your arrangement of transportation for all who wished to attend, resulting in a much bigger reception than we initially thought.

Please, do not feel the need to pay the amount in full, as we would be more than happy to help pay the difference if it is too much to ask for.

Thank you once again for everything you have done. You are a blessing to this world.

-Sincerely, Peter and the rest of the Belmont family”

There was a pricing statement from the funeral home, as mentioned in the letter, and it was quite a substantial amount for the entire service. Something about the number seemed familiar though, and Jonathan leaned a bit closer to the desk to read the opened notebook more closely.

After scanning through the numbers written along the side, he found the exact amount listed with a note saying “Thomas Belmont- Completion of Contract” and an arrow pointing to the name of the funeral home to indicate the flow of money.

He found many other entries in there with similar wording, all with the names of, presumably, deceased patients and the words “Completion of Contract” followed by an arrow pointing to different funeral homes and churches with large amounts of money listed. There were also other things such as “travel expense for family of ___”, “last will and testament lawyer for ___”, and “recompense for family of ____”- all with the names of different people whom Speedwagon had already funded funerals for, with the recompense for the families being the highest amounts.

“Speedwagon?” Jonathan questioned while looking over the thousands of dollars that Speedwagon had spent on these services. “What does ‘completion of contract’ mean?”

Speedwagon finished another note, this one, Jonathan noticed, being listed as “last will and testament lawyer for William Adams”. He then reached into a drawer on the desk and pulled out what looked like a pre-written contract. “It’s referring to this.”

He handed the contract to Jonathan, who took it and began to read over the lengthy document. From what he could gather, it was essentially an agreement that the person signing the contract would give their full permission for their body to have certain organs and a pre-selected amount of their blood removed. In exchange for this, all of their final expenses including the hiring of a lawyer to help write out their final will and testament, their funeral, traveling funds for their family and friends to attend said funeral, and an agreed upon lump sum of money would be granted to the family of the deceased- all to be paid for by Robert Edward O. Speedwagon.

By the time he was done reading the contract, everything started to become crystal clear to Jonathan. He had been so blind to it all…

“Robert..” Jonathan began while setting the paper down on the desk and looking down at the other man. “Is this what the article was referring to when they claimed you were paying off the families of the deceased?”

“……” Speedwagon wrote one last note in the notebook before setting his pen down. He had a pained look on his face and, instead of looking at Jonathan as he spoke, his eyes stared ahead as if he was remembering something heartbreaking. “When you don’t have any money, or even just barely enough to get by, living can be hideously expensive. The only thing more expensive…is death.” He frowned, looking down at the papers strewn across his desk. “It’s never a cost that goes to you, but it still ends up falling on someone’s shoulders along the way. Hospitals, funerals, final rights, gravestones- it all adds up rather quickly. Then, if your loved ones don’t have enough money to pay for it, you just get burned away to ashes or left to rot in a hole somewhere with no record to prove where your final resting place was.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders shaking slightly. “I’ve seen it ‘appen more times than I care to remember…too many good, honest men left t’ decay in a gutter or tossed in a heap to be burned just because the ones what loved ‘em couldn’t scrape together a few pounds for a plot o’ grass t’ be dug up..” His accent was growing thicker again, the memories clearly painful for him. “It just..it ain’t fair- chargin’ people money they can’t afford t’ stay alive, then forgettin’ ‘bout ‘em once their family ain’t got nothin’ left t’ give. It’s hauntin’, ‘earin’ widows cry or watchin’ children’ starvin’ on the streets just ‘cause they ain’t got ‘nough money t’ get by.” His hands gripped into fists where they rested on the desk, his head tilting down and shoulders shaking further. “It ain’t right. There’re so many people out there with more money than they can ever spend in their lifetime and they just..they don’t do nothin’ t’ ‘elp! There’re kids starvin’ t’ death, families loosin’ their ‘omes, and good, kind people dyin’ from things that should’ve stopped bein’ a death sentence ages ago jus’ ‘cause they can’t afford t’ see a doctor! It’s sick!” He looked up at Jonathan, his face contorted in pain and sorrow and tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “I jus’ don’ get it! How?! Tell me- ‘ow can so many people jus’ see that shit every day and ignore it?! It’s disgustin’! I just- I don’ get it! I feel like I gotta do somethin’ t’ ‘elp or no one else will!!”

Jonathan’s heart clenched painfully at seeing his beloved so upset. He felt so strongly about this, so righteously furious and passionate..

Meanwhile, Jonathan had been just as guilty of not helping those in need aside from a few charitable donations here and there, as well as wrongly judging Speedwagon for actually DOING something to help those who truly needed it.

He felt absolutely disgusted with himself, but there would be time for self-loathing later.

“Robert..” He moved closer, wrapping his beloved up in a comforting embrace. “You are truly too good for this world, my love..” He held the other man close, leaning down for a better hold and so he could kiss his head sweetly. “You have such a kind heart and a generous soul. If anyone in this world could make a difference, I know it would be you.”

“I just..I..” Speedwagon pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried his face, but his eyes still looked red and shiny with tears. Despite his own grief, he managed to look up into Jonathan’s eyes with a sense of conviction. “I jus’ wanna do somethin’ t’ ‘elp..t’ live by the example that YOU taught me, Jojo. There’s already so much hate and darkness in this world- I wanna give back. I wanna put some kindness an’ hope int’ this messed up place t’ make up for everythin’ wrong with it. Places like this are just the startin’ point, I wanna do much more than I think I can even manage in my lifetime- I wanna build schools an’ orphanages an’ protect rare things in this world ‘fore they can disappear.” He looked back down slightly. “It’s probably selfish or conceited t’ think like this..but..I feel like I was givin’ this money for a REASON, y’ know? Like..I’m supposed t’ DO somethin’ grand with it..”

Jonathan’s face broke into a soft smile as he kneeled down to the floor and turned the other man’s chair so they could face each other properly. “I would hardly call that conceited, dear- I find it quite noble.” He gently placed a hand on the other’s still damp cheek while gazing into his eyes. “Many men in your position would have simply taken the divine providence and looked after themselves. YOU are not most men- you are far better than them.” His smile widened as he used his other hand to grab Speedwagon’s own and place tender kisses to it. “I am so very, very proud of the man you are and continue to be, Robert. You are still that same fiery, wise man I met on Ogre Street..and yet, at the same time, you have grown into someone even more incredible. Every day you continue to amaze me with the things you do, whether it is something as grand and world-changing as this hospital, or something as small and beautiful as watching you play with our son. I have learned so much more about the world through you than I ever could have before on my own.” He paused after that, thoughts of the past few weeks flooding his mind and that feeling of guilt returning horribly. He looked down, his face clearly showing his unhappiness with himself. “I really should listen to you more often. You are so much more knowledgeable about this world and what goes on it than I could ever hope to be. You were right to be upset with me- I was being a naive fool, forgetting that, though I am older than I was when we first met, I was still quite sheltered growing up. Every time I think I finally understand how cruel this world can be, I realize that you have truly seen the worst humanity has to offer…and I chastised you for trying to do something about it..” He squeezed the other’s hand gently, his chest feeling tight with his guilt and remorse. “I…hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me. Though I may not deserve it, know that I will do all in my power to earn your trust again and that I shall always be on your side to fight your battles alongside you- just as you did for me all those years ago.”

He looked back up, expecting to find disappointment or some lingering sadness in those brown eyes he adored so openly. What he saw, however, was more warm and welcoming than a fireplace on a cold winter’s night: Love, adoration, affection, pride, gratitude, and joy, all conveyed through half-lidded eyes and a gentle smile.

“Jojo..” Speedwagon said while bringing his arms around Jonathan’s neck to pull him into an embrace, his chin resting on the larger man’s broad shoulder. “That’s all I wanted, love- t’ know that even if the whole world turns against me, that I’d still be doin’ right in your eyes.”

“Robert..” Jonathan wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist, holding onto him tightly. “Always. There is no room for doubt in my mind any longer. Anything you need from this day forth, know that you will have my full, unconditional support.”

“Thanks, Jonathan.” Speedwagon said softly, burying his face against that same shoulder. “Thank you..”

Jonathan placed a light kiss to the smaller man’s neck with a loving smile. “You are the one far more deserving of thanks, my dearest.”

An hour or so later, Speedwagon walked Jonathan to the exit, the smile on his face letting Jonathan know that all had truly been forgiven from how warm and tender it was.

“Well then,” Speedwagon began once they were outside the front doors. “I have a few things t’ finish up here before I head home for the day. Do let George and Erina know I’ll be over for dinner, though.”

“Of course.” Jonathan replied with a bright smile, relieved to know that soon his beloved would be back home in his arms once more. “We will prepare something special to celebrate-”

“Mr.Speedwagon!” A voice interrupted their conversation rather rudely and insistently. They looked to see two men approaching them, one with a camera and another with a notepad and pen. The one with the notepad was the one who called out to Speedwagon and he made himself known with a rapid introduction. “Edward Gallmon from ‘The Ledger’ daily news. Tell me- are the allegations printed about you in ‘The Sunday Times’ article true? Is your hospital stealing body parts from deceased patients and paying the families to keep quiet about it?!” He had his pen ready to write down anything that was said at a moment’s notice.

“Not this again..” Speedwagon scowled slightly at the man’s pushiness. “I do wish you people would call first to schedule a proper interview, rather than just posting theories or bombarding me the moment I step outside.” He placed his hands on his hips and stated with a firm tone. “No, this hospital is not ‘stealing’ anything: We are utilizing new medical breakthroughs to extend the lives of many patients through surgeries that have not been explored before, some of which involve things such as transfusions of blood or organ replacement. Many of our deceased patients consented to having their various organs removed to help further this cause, and the money paid to their families was to help with final expenses.”

“And what of the allegations about your under-the-table dealings with the black market and various local mafia groups?” The reporter pressed on while writing down Speedwagon’s answer. “Many people out there speculate that this hospital is merely a cover-up for a smuggling ring. After all, there have been several incidents of people referring to you as a former criminal.”

Speedwagon was about to answer, but Jonathan beat him to it by placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder and giving the man in front of them a firm look telling him to be silent. “Robert Speedwagon is one of the kindest, most noble and caring men that I have ever had the pleasure to know, and I will thank you not to speak ill of him, good sir.”

The reporter cowed back slightly at the imposing figure that Jonathan cast when he felt like it. “A-And you are..?”

“Jonathan Joestar.” He answered, never breaking eye contact. “A longtime friend of Mr.Speedwagon, and a far more reliable judge of his character than anyone who would dare make such rude remarks about him.”

The man’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait- ‘Joestar’? As in the noblemen? How did one such as yourself come to know Mr.Speedwagon?” He had his pen ready to write down any answer given to him.

Jonathan’s firm gaze softened when he turned his head to regard the blonde with a fond smile. “We met over a decade ago. He assisted me with tracking down some information I was desperate to find, saved my life when my family’s mansion was burned down in a horrible incident that nearly ended both of our lives, and has been a steadfast friend to my family ever since.” He left out the more dangerous, bizarre parts of the story, but the slight smile on Speedwagon’s face and the crinkle around his eyes showed that he was thinking about those days as well. “He is my dearest friend, has been a constant reassurance through the hardest days of my life, and is the godfather of my child.” He wanted to say “other father”, but knew that would only hurt Speedwagon’s reputation rather than help it. Instead, he looked back to the reporter with a look that was less stern than before, but not on the same fond, friendly level as the smile he’d given his partner. “Having said that, you are allowed to quote me for saying this:” The reporter rapidly finished what he had been writing and looked at Jonathan in excited anticipation for his next words. “Robert Speedwagon is a remarkable, kind hearted, selfless man who has the best interests of not only this hospital’s patients, but the entire world in mind with everything that he does. After being granted a tour of the facility and seeing everything he has accomplished here, I am proud to say that I shall be donating a substantial portion of my family’s fortune towards his future business endeavors.”

Speedwagon stared at him with a surprised expression, looking positively floored by Jonathan’s statement. “Jonathan…?”

“He is far wiser than I am and already has so many ideas for what can be done to improve the lives of so many people in need.” Jonathan smiled at his beloved again, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “This world needs help, and I can think of no man more suited to the task than Mr.Robert Edward O. Speedwagon.”

“……” Speedwagon stared at him for a moment, too stunned to speak. Eventually, a soft smile appeared on his face. “I appreciate the vote of confidence and shall do all I can to be worthy of such support.”

The look shared between them said “You already are” and “Thank you for believing in me”, and, as always, “I love you”.

There was a flash from the camera that captured that moment for posterity.

Later that evening, after he told the rest of his family about what transpired during his trip and that Speedwagon would be returning home soon, Jonathan busied himself with helping Erina prepare a nice dinner of roasted duck and root vegetables- one of Speedwagon’s favorites. Even George was eagerly helping by setting the table and making sure everything looked nice.

The sound of the front door opening drew everyone’s attention, but George was the first one to act. “Papa!” He shouted excitedly and took off for the other room. From their positions in the kitchen while they worked to finish plating everything, Jonathan and Erina could hear the conversation clearly. “Wow! Papa! Your hair!”

Speedwagon gave a chuckle and Jonathan could recognize the sound of him taking off his jacket and placing it on the coat rack. “What do you think, George? Too much?”

“It looks wonderful, papa!” They heard George’s footsteps as he walked quickly back towards the kitchen and dining room, apparently dragging Speedwagon behind him judging from the sound of the other’s steps. “Come on! You have to show mom and dad!”

Now even more curious about the other’s arrival, Jonathan and Erina finished their work in the kitchen and turned towards the doorway expectantly.

What they saw was startling, but it caused a mild flush to rise to Jonathan’s cheek: Speedwagon had cut his hair. Not just a light trim to deal with the split ends as he usually would, no- he had cut his long hair off completely and now had a much shorter, more mature style to his look.

Speedwagon looked between their stunned expressions for a moment before glancing down. “So..um..” He looked back to them with a shy smile, the tips of his red ears clearly visible without the long locks to hide them. “Whattaya think?”

Erina was the first to speak, as Jonathan was still caught up in staring at the gorgeous sight. “You look quite handsome, Robert.”

He smiled a bit more, though it still looked a little shy. “You really think so? I figured it was time for a change. I’m supposed t’ be a respectable businessman now, so ‘s about time I looked the part.” He turned his attention towards Jonathan and, oh. Oh that little smile and the way he looked at him was making Jonathan’s heart leap up into his throat. “Whattaya think, Jojo? Does it..look alright?”

Yes, Jonathan wanted to say. He looked amazing. Gorgeous. Handsome. Mature. Lovely. Wonderful.

So many adjectives he wanted to say at once died on his tongue and all that managed to come out was a strangled series of sounds. “Iii..uh..ah..” Brilliant, Jonathan, really doing your English teachers proud with that one.

Erina muffled a giggle behind her hand while side-eyeing Jonathan. “I do believe you’ve left him speechless, Robert.”

Speedwagon’s shy smile turned into a bright grin as he walked up to Jonathan. “Oh ‘ave I now?” He teased before giving Jonathan a peck on his burning hot cheek. “Good t’ know I can still manage that after all this time.”

Jonathan finally swallowed down the lump that had blocked off his throat and responded by wrapping his arms around the smaller man to prevent his attempted retreat. He smiled down at him, gazing into his lovely eyes with a soft smile. “You have not, nor ever will, cease to amaze and surprise me, my love.” He then kissed the other man squarely on the lips, ignoring the muffled giggles from both his wife and his son.

It was good to have his family together once again. He missed this warm, loving atmosphere, it was so much better than the stifling depression and irritation he allowed to consume him previously- he made a mental vow to never let that happen again for as long as he lived.

Later on they would enjoy a delicious home cooked meal, the family catching each other up on everything that transpired over the past few weeks. Then, that night, Jonathan would finally be able to sleep peacefully in his bed once more, happy to serve as a living pillow for the two loves of his life. The next day they would receive a copy of the morning paper on their doorstep with an article printed about supposed new advancements in medical technology at Speedwagon’s hospital and how he was receiving endorsements from the noble Joestar family. They would cut out the article and its picture of Speedwagon and Jonathan on the front, preserving it as the last photograph of the blonde’s long locks, and would go out as a family to take a group photo to serve as a sort of before-and-after. Then, at the end of that night, they would have a discussion about future business ventures and an organization that Speedwagon wanted to form with Jonathan’s assistance.

For now, though, they were happy to simply be together once again, glad that their relationship truly was strong enough to survive anything.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Kira (4)

CHAPTER 4: Count My Doubts Like Breaths

Loki x fem!Reader (Kira)

Series: Will contain fluff, smut, bloodshed, violence, anxiety, tears and the cries of my wilted soul.

Chapter content: a reveal; an aftermath

Warnings: an attempt at harrasment

Word count: I found out I don’t know how to spell pigeon.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The iridescent blue of the digital clock reminds Heimdall of the time he had first seen the strings tangle in front of him. He is still holding the two golden-eyed marbles like he did that day, his hands playing with the cold glass on a rhythm known only to those long, dark, experienced fingers. There is a flinch in the regular breaths on the screen initially. A microscopic jerk. The fingers curl around the black sheet covering the bare body before turning into fists, crumpling up the fabric beyond recognition at one point. One long inhale and unmistakable flutter of breath and eyelids. Heimdall watches the movements with a shade of worry wrapped quite sophisticatedly in observation -so sophisticatedly that he can fool his own self into thinking he did not care for the one he was looking upon- as if watching some dark ritual unfold in front of him.

In a way it is. In many ways, it feels worse. The sweat beads become distinct, glistening against the moonlight that enters through the glass doors and lazily roams about the room, touching everything it can get its hands on. There is a moment- a cautious one at that- where he even sees the veins give way through the skin, waiting to burst out as suppressed moans turn to feral grunts and the silence takes place of a repeated incoherent mumble. Even if he wants to, Heimdall has never been able to retrieve his gaze from the inevitable that happens every time. The shallow breaths and low but ominous moans slowly turn to delirious cries of someone wanting the tortuous voices to stop. But the man watching it all reasons that it is not his place; it never was. And so, the infamous man that is Loki Odinson continues to drown in the pool of sweat being created by his own gory dreams till he wakes up with a horrible yelp escaping his throat, bringing back the silence as and when his lungs allow him. Heimdall's features do not even flicker where he sits. But on the inside, he genuinely wonders the cause behind such horrid nights that are punishment enough for the man already paying for his deeds. The smooth squeak of the turn of the shower handle has now created a Pavlov effect on Loki's mind because he knows what waits for his heated head as soon as the cold metal turns to his liking. The raw water with the perfect pressure hits his head, creating a rough waterfall where the white foam ends and his black ravens begin, sticking down on the nape of his neck, slithering with the flow down them onto his shoulders, creating pathways for the water to follow down his back, which already has it's own story to tell as the freezing liquid snakes through the multiple unnatural tiny peaks and valleys of the skin that run along the otherwise smooth pale surface. Flashes come back in front of his eyes. Loki's hands rest against the wall, balancing his upper body's weight upon them as he tries to stabilise the incoherent cries swimming up to the surface from a long lost memory. The flashes are in pieces; pieces with sharp edges trying to find their way through the flesh of his overworked brain. Blood. Chains. Soul-wretching screams. A muddied chunk of crystal falling down on a hard surface with a clatter before engulfing everything around it in its light. The flashes repeat themselves. And then they do it again. And again. The shoulders rise and fall with surfaced breaths. The water pressure taints the face to drown out the sooty images. The spread palms ball up into fists against the cinnamon tiles, the knuckles bruised red with a rough press to the hard surface. Everything seems to accelerate, too fast for the senses to catch up till a low crunch is heard, the shower is shut and the shower temple is left with a cracked tile. You don't read newspapers. The everyday tragedies printed in bold over front pages forcing people to swallow the death and destruction is not something you like to start or end your day with. In fact, had it not been your job to do thorough research on the people Loki was in business with- or going to be- you would never keep yourself updated to what was going on around the world. Ever. Ignorance is indeed bliss sometimes. Today, the woman sitting by stairs of the station isn't begging but selling a bundle of a local newspaper and as usual, you try to walk by without giving much thought to watch she would do with the money she makes. But something stops you. Turning back you take a step towards the bundle lying by her soiled feet. A photograph covers one-fourth of the front page with a name and a face that is way too familiar to be ignored. But that isn't as relevant to you till the headline dances in front of your eyes. The time you take to go inside the station, wait for the tube, sit down in it, is a blur. A part of you wants to laugh. A part of you wants to scream a little. But whatever ounce of concentrated sanity you feel inside your blood forces you to dial a number on the phone. "Hi, it's me, Kira," you breathe the shivers out through your lips, "is it okay if we meet today?" "Breakfast, Master Loki," Ygritte calls from outside the room. Loki removes a piece of lint from his black shirt before flattening the most invisible creases and walking out of his room. As soon as he steps out the door, the air smells different. The faint touch of lavender and citrus in the air apart from the usual aroma of freshly baked bread- toasted and buttered- and served with sunny-side-up eggs and bacon tells him you are early to work today. Must have read the news, his inside voice smirks from a hollow abyss, nearly chuckling with bliss. Closing his bedroom door behind him, he struts through the hallway that opens up into the living room. He can already see your back towards him, sitting on the sofa, hair in a high bun today over a brown blouse that complements the tone of your skin quite well. With every step he takes towards you, his heart beats with anticipation to what reaction you would give him, readying his mind to capture the moment for his to cherish on a minuscule level. "You're early," he announces his presence behind you. He watches you straighten and move away from the laptop kept on the coffee table to get up and turn towards him. "We have quite a busy month ahead. Wouldn't want to lag behind with the preparation." You don't smile. You don't even blink. He knows you're lying right to his face about your reasons for being here. Had he not been good at the part himself, he would genuinely believe your words to be true. What else have you lied about, pupper? He wonders on the inside. Loki watches you sit down and go back to whatever it is you are working on, your expression null, your eyes fixated, your glasses adjusted as and when needed. "What all are we busy with this month?" Loki watches you take in one heavy breath as your hands fold one over the other. He notices that one ring that is always adorning your right finger (on the wrong hand). The gem- which he knows is a cheap mimicry of a precious stone- is a tinge of yellow trying its best to reflect golden at the cuts that mark it. The worn out silver band having zero lustre tells him you have a really old relationship with this piece of useless stone. "You," you stretch the word a little, "have a charity gala to attend to along with new tech expo happening with Stark Industries this month. It's a five-day affair. Lots of influential names from around the globe, heavy press, world leaders making a visit, deals to go down." Loki's brows furrow at the mention of Stark. "Stark invited me." He almost sounds sceptical to your ears. Your fingers lift the pile of files lying beside your laptop to show Loki the invite. "The invitations went out a month ago, I'd say you were a last minute addition," you quip quite smoothly, making Loki smirk on the outside. "I'm surprised he even thought about me," Loki mutters as he looks at the expensive invitation paper inscribed with golden calligraphy. "I guess everyone has an agenda in the corporate world for even breathing near someone else," you smoothly spew into the air, making his brilliant green eyes turn towards you, and watch a sliver of a smile creep over your lips. "I see you got the invitation too." A voice Loki is too familiar with, calls out from behind him with a soft clack of heels. That's when Loki realises the reason for a hint of a careful positive on your features. "Solaris," he greets the woman clad in a royal blue dress complimenting her curves the best way possible. Even you are in awe of the way she walks towards you. Silver heels glistening with every step she takes, you still are not used to the kind smile she spreads your way. "Hi, Solaris," you greet the woman with a bit more stretch in your lips and Loki watches the change in your posture on the woman's arrival. "How are you doing, Kira?" Solaris takes the liberty to give you a hug, which surprises not only you but Loki but neither of you says anything. On the contrary, the gesture fills you up with warmth inside your chest that you haven't felt in a long while. "I'm...doing fine," you assure, nodding your head and licking your lips before stepping back and busying your fingers to adjust your glasses. Solaris turns to Loki, one side of her flawless dark forest skin reflecting the green hues of the grass and trees swaying in the languid breeze outside. "I hope you have been taking care of her, Loki. Because of not, I'd be happy to take her away with me." Loki's sly smirk grows over his lips. "Quite a subjective question, Solaris. I believe Kira will be able to tell you more than I ever can." "Miss Solaris, Miss Kira," Ygritte calls out with a smile as she comes from the direction of the dining room at the far corner of the house, "would you be joining Master Loki for breakfast?" You look at the redhead dressed in white, her already pale skin looking paler in the combination of the sunlight and the clothing. She is shorter than you even if you are not wearing any heels and has a sweet smile stuck over her pink lips as she stops just a few steps back, her hefty figure coming to a standstill from walking nimbly. Solaris rejects the invitation before turning to you. "Oh, no. I'm good. Thank you, ma'am," you state, watching the redhead's eyes widen a smidge before crinkling with a smile. "Please, miss, call me Ygritte." You pause, trying to let your delayed brain function take in her words before nodding in assurance in her direction. "Everything okay, dear?" The door clicks shut behind you, you and Solaris being the only one in your office. A calculated inhale later, you walk to your desk to pick today's newspaper and show it to her. Solaris reads the headline, going through the article before his crinkled brows rise up to look at you. "Yes, this happened last night. Andrews' estate went up in flames. What's the concern, Kira?" You really want to stop yourself but the scoff escapes your lungs. The tick of the clock in your office echoes through the morbid silence with the only touch of serene in this hollow space being Solaris' perfume. It takes an effort for you to walk and sit down on the couch. "Solaris," you begin, the tremble in your voice quite evident to the woman who makes an effort to come to sit by your side, "why exactly am I here?" Solaris' blink is filled with doubt as she tilts her head in question. "You are the assistant to-" "To the one man who might as well be the most powerful person in this country in terms of his intellect, yes, I have heard that before. A hundred times." Solaris takes in a breath to speak while keeping her slender hand over your shoulder. "I know about the cameras in my house, Solaris. I know about my ID tracking my every movement. I know how closely your employees-well, I can't speak for others, but I sure as hell am being scrutinised," you manage to speak through the shiver in your throat that you just want to burn away, "so please, do not insult my sanity. Or whatever is left of it, that, at least I'm pretty sure you are aware of considering the textbooks steps you've been taking around me to keep as much of my anxiety at bay as possible." The silence comes back again as the last of your words break and are left into the air for your audience to weight in her heart. There is a faint sound of scratching on the closed door before the handle turns and in walk the silent paws of the wolf of the house. Fenrir sniffs his way to you and makes sure to take in a whiff of every part of you before settling down by your legs, his warm furry body resting right above your boots, which he rightfully does not care about once he knows he is in contact with you some way. Your right hand moves on its own to rest on his head and you feel him tilt back into your touch with a relieved exhale. "I'm not complaining about my boss. Neither am I asking you to rescue me if that's what you're worried about. I just want you to know that right now I am on whatever side Loki points me in, which means it will come with a thorough scrutiny of my own. For the sake of the company that I work for. Nothing else." You scratch Fenrir under his ear, forcing another exhale out of him as he closes his eyes. "And if I ever have to be the bait," you conclude, "I'd like to be made aware of it beforehand." "It's eight, Solaris." Loki watches the woman step into his office as he takes the aide of a sunless sky outside his window to gesture at the lateness. "I was going through Kira's progress. She's quite patient and thorough, I have to say. Really saved your hair in the Andrews case by involving the legal team." Loki carefully closes the folder he'd been going through before sitting back in his chair. His fingers rest over his lips in some calculated thought as he eyes Solaris taking a seat in front of her. "Too bad she couldn't save the man, though," he is a little quick to add. A smirk runs over her lips, making Loki wonder how many men and women he has seen fall for this beauty, profess their love, break themselves apart to fit to what the thought would her liking, threatened her with flowers and guns alike and yet she is untethered. Loki knows way too well why that is. "She is capable of far more than you give her credit for, Loki," Solaris settles back, picking up a paperweight in the shape of a glowing blue cube from his table. "Quite perceptive too." "Are trying to warn me about something?" Loki's words are soft, the smile over his lips even softer. "She knows," Solaris states. "I know she knows." Her brows rise up and she shrugs. "Of course, you do. I'd be surprised if you didn't and that's not my concern right now. My concern is you unconsciously putting her in the centre of annihilation you're causing for your ambitions, Loki." Loki gets up and walks towards the glass wall separating his office from the view to the lounge outside. "Just because she wants to do her job?" Through the intricate drawings done on the glass, he can see your figure sitting in the living room, working on your laptop. "She wanted to be a part of my world, Solaris," he coos into the air around him and he is quite sure of the fact that Solaris is rolling her eyes right behind him. "Loki." Her voice is threatening. "You wanted Donatella gone because she was making deals with the devil's pawns but you're practically throwing Kira to the beasts." Loki doesn't budge where he stands. His languid breaths send a prick of frustration down Solaris' spine but she brings back her calm; as always. "Loki," she announces delicately, "I'm sure you have something in mind for her. Whatever it is, mark my words, she better not pay for things that are your doing." A sharp inhale and Loki's head turns a little towards Solaris. "We have been working together for enough time for you to counsel my mother, haven't you? You know my goal better than anyone on this planet. So we'll, that you left your identity to follow me into the perils. After all that, you worry about that one woman." "I do. Because even if I have changed my name, I am still a spy working as a soldier in this shrouded battle. I do not take unnecessary lives." "Is that so, my pretty warrior? Did your royal ex-boyfriend agree with you on that?" Her arms crossing in front of her tells Loki she is done playing the word game for the day. "You are more interested in throwing her in your customised playground just because she won't play by your rules. Trust a woman who has some experience with the same." His lips twist in agreement and he nods. "You're not wrong," he iterates, "but I will have my fun till I get bored. Though I admire her tenacity even when she's clearly in no shape to bear the mind games." "Just don't do something reckless. She's a gentle heart and I'd rather she stayed that way. Even Fenrir thinks the same." Loki blinks. He doesn't like the idea of you having formed a bond with his pet so soon. In fact, he was counting on his wolf to play with you more. That fickle beast. Supporting his back on the glass wall behind him he looks at the woman right in her sparkling brown eyes. "You've been with the canines for quite some time," he mentions in Solaris' direction, "don't you miss your cats?" Solaris doesn't shift but her lips do, smirking at the man in front of her, causing him to mirror her. "Don't you miss your home, my lady?" Solaris smiles. "Don't you?" And there she lands him a low blow, forcing the most pleasurable chuckle out of him. "You can take the woman out of Wakanda," he speaks softly, "but you cannot take Wakanda out of the woman." The uncalled vibration of your phone over the coffee table breaks you away from the laptop screen. Ma, it says. You look at the time and curse out loud. It is past ten and you knew exactly why your mother- who did not bother with the time you came and left that much- was calling now, of all the times. Curse those wretched witches living in your building. Why do they even have her number? Picking up the phone, you assured your mother you were at your boss' place working late due to issues that your brain made up on the spot. Worried as she is thinking about you going home in the tube, she goes out of her way to tell you to stay over at your boss' place. You cannot believe the intense rage that rushes through you at the thought of you staying the night over at Loki's place but a part of you pours ice over the heat and tells her you'll message her when you reach home. It takes three tries before she finally agrees and you walk out of the house with your stuff, Robert already waiting by the car. "A bit late." He opens the door for you. "Yeah, sorry. I completely lost track of time," you stutter, "don't worry I'll be able to catch the late tube." Robert pauses as you get inside. "If you don't mind, Kira, maybe I should drop you home." As good at it sounds, you are too concerned about the prying eyes of your neighbourhood to pay heed to the concern in Robert's voice. "No, that's okay," you blurt out trying to calm down your roaring heartbeat, "just take me to the station." Robert doesn't say anything but he stands by the door for a lingering moment before closing it and moving to the driver's side. The drive to the station is quiet. Some roads inside the city are still a blur of busy while others are quiet as the night above them. Robert asks you again to let him drop you home when you reach the station but gives up in front of your adamancy. You take your earphones out as you climb the stairs but do not put on the music. The tube you board is nearly empty but for a group of young men sitting in the far corner singing crappy songs and having fun in their own world and an old man wrapped up in a jacket even in this weather. Feeling the bunch of keys inside your bag in your fingers, you place them near the mouth of the purse. The earphones stay in place but your ears look for any unusual sound around you, mostly from the corner where the young men sit, now gazing in your direction.

The ride back home in the tube seems longer the more silent the car gets. The man in the jacket moves a car further and stands by the door, busying himself in his phone while the men on the opposite end talk in hushed voices before getting up from their seat. Every so often you throw a casual glance in every direction, catching a few of those pair of eyes looking in your direction more than often and you feel a grim tingle in your back, recalling Robert's repeated pleas to take you home. The tube slows down to a halt at the station before your stop, the doors hissing open for arrival and departure. No one enters. The only soul present outside is a pigeon that flaps itself away from the platform to perch over the railings above. No one leaves. The hiss announces the closing of doors and you feel yourself breathe a little. That's it. Your stop's here. The group of men have slowly shifted to the car next to you watching something with curious eyes in your direction. Avoiding as much eye contact as possible, you keep your ears open, stand up beside the door and count the seconds till your destination arrives. "Excuse me," you hear behind you from the same direction, making your insides flinch just as the doors hiss open again and you nearly run out, never slowing down your pace till you hear them close back again. What you do miss, therefore, is those very men running against the direction of the tube inside it, tapping on the glass to get your attention to warn about something- or rather- someone behind you. But even with no music running inside your ears, you cannot hear the muted warning disappearing from the view behind you as the tube leaves the station. "Solaris has a flight out in three hours. Escort her safely to her destination, Robert." Heimdall waves his hand over the sensors radiating a soft golden light that shuts down all the screens lit up in front of him, filling the large room with darkness save for the splatter of stars shining above. Grabbing his keys, he walks out of his observatory and out of his place of stay to get into his own SUV and take his car for a ride. Tapping a number into the screen in front of him, he puts on a classical piece. The melody from the harp fills the space around him, bringing the tensed muscles in his forehead to a point of relaxation. That's it. That is all he needs for the next three hours to rejuvenate his soul before he can get back to work. Nothing else. That's what he thinks till an itch turns up in his gut. And without so much as a thought, his hand goes into his jacket pocket, taking out his two golden-eye marbles. One appears ordinary. The other seems to be glowing, a few of a clustered strands inside the glass, illuminating brighter than others. His features change within seconds and his other hand is already going over the screen in his car while his foot is off the gas, bringing his vehicle to a halt. The crickets nearby get the jump scare of their lives as the SUV screeches without any warnings and takes a one-eighty before revving and burning its tires as it zooms past the deadly silence of the brightly lit city night. The clack of your boots echoes down the stairs. The woman who was selling newspapers in the morning is sitting in her designated corner again. Her hands are moving in a repeated motion till you figure out she is stroking a cat sitting in her lap. The street you turn into barely has a soul walking by. Weekdays really suck the nightlife out this city. The local deli is already closed and you begrudgingly have to walk further to the twenty-four-seven store to grab something to eat. The only sound marking the surroundings is the howl of street dogs fighting for their territory, the crickets going about their business in the night, the occasional open hiss of a cat on seeing something- or someone- it doesn't like. And faint footsteps from behind you. A wave of alarm goes down your body as you realise how close they are behind you. Your steps freeze. So does your breath. The sound of footsteps stops too. And before you can inhale the rush beginning to burn inside your body, you hear them run towards you and grab you from behind. The muffled noise escaping your shut mouth does nothing to stop the heavy hands from dragging you away from the road to a back alley. "Tell Loki Mr Andrews sends his regards," a heavy voice filled with filth whispers in your ear. The panic rising inside you forces you to throw a punch down backwards right into his groin, painfully urging the man to loosen his grip on you. You try to make a run for it but he is quick to grab your leg and force you down on the ground. Turning around, you plant your hands over his shoulders to prevent him from putting all his weight over you. A grunt leaves the man while you notice the familiar jacket from the tube. Grounding one shoulder and the opposite hip, you make an effort to slither out of his attempted deadlock over your body, your legs kicking their way out from under him, your boots making an impact on his face. The escape is short lived as the man pounces over you. In the next moment, he is thrown off like a ragged doll. From the tears and fogged up glasses you notice a figure pick the son of a bitch by the collar to push him into the wall without any restraints and land his fist right into his jaw, making it audibly snap in just one blow. The man in the jacket groans as his limp body falls to the ground. The figure watches him for any movements, poking his unresponsive body by the shoes before turning its gaze in your direction. You do not realise when the dams had broken down your heated cheeks when you adjust your glasses and slide back to the wall, not sure what to make of the figure walking towards you. From the shadows of the alley, a face comes forward into the light as the figure squats down in front of you. "Are you all right?" A pair of brown eyes peer at your trembling figure with a heavy voice filled with apparent concern. You do not make eye contact for more than two seconds, trying to ground the shivers in your body by finding something to hold on to. "I promise I won't hurt you," the man says, "I'm-" "Heimdall," you hear yourself cry out softly. He pauses for a second before nodding in your direction. "You know about me," he responds with the same softness. You nod. "Y-you... you're Loki's...his father's-" Warmth engulfs you from everywhere, taking you a moment to realise a suit jacket landing over your shoulders to cover you up. "Your clothes are a mess," Heimdall tries to reason, even when he doesn't have to, "would you like me to take you home?" You nod again, making more tears break out as he helps you up. You try to strain your neck to look at your attacker but Heimdall is quick to wrap his arm around you to walk towards the car waiting for you both at the end of the alley. "He will be taken care of. Don't worry about it." A silent breeze comes in from the open doorway when Loki is halfway through the book he is reading on the discovery of ancient treasures and techniques of lost civilisations. A whine and a growl from in front of him snaps his attention away from the book towards Fenrir's almost invisible figure in the night outside if it wasn't for his glowing eyes. "Come back inside," he smoothly orders his pet. A painful howl breaks from the throat of the black beast filling the surroundings with a dismal air. "Fenrir," Loki commands, bringing the gloomy howl to a stop as the beast walks and restlessly settles beside him. "What is wrong with you?" The vibration of his cellphone takes away Loki's attention from his wolf to attend to the call. "What? My father's royal keeper is having trouble sleeping?" Silence fills his expressions as Loki hears what the other side has to say before cutting the line. He looks down at the beast with just one thought to linger in his mind. The reticence around his familiar environment seems somewhat hollow for the first time in a very long while. So hollow, that the movement of the pendulum feels like a mockery of the breaths he takes with every passing instant. "Looks like I won, Fenrir," he speaks softly to the little one before settling his hand over his head to give it long gentle strokes. "And still it feels like I didn't." TAGLIST

@shockwavee @meganlikesfandoms @thecutestlittlebunbunfairy @alexakeyloveloki @kcd15 @tarithenurse @itheoneofmanyfandomsi @joyofbebbanburg @gotta-get-back-to-johnlock @moonlightprime @henloamkitty @confessionsofastrugglingteen @keepingupwiththelaufeysons @loki-the-fox @loving-life-my-way @everythingmarvelsherlockspn @ultraslytherwin @supernatural-kinda-girl @magiclolipopqueen @yzssie @cauraphernelia @lokis-lady-death @l0kisbitch @lokixme tags are open

[arbeaone]

OPEN Magazine The Serial Kidders Issue Published on October 09, 2014

[ View larger version here ] Text from the article can be read below. (There may be some errors.)

SERIAL KIDDERS

NOEL FIELDING

By Zoe Yvonne Delaney

Noel Fielding the man Phil Jupitus magnificently described as 'a Gothic George Best', is 41 years old! Forty freaking one. This is like when I learned that Gwen Stefani was actually my mum's age, all over again. It’s not that he's especially baby faced; it’s just that he looks like he'd be more at home smoking outside Bold St Coffee with graduates, rather than down the local pub, playing darts (I have no idea what men in their forties actually do; I'm just lazily stereotyping). Either way, he's looking good for his age - he could probably still blag a student ticket on an Arriva bus.

Perhaps ‘The Fountain of Youth' from Fielding's most notable work The Mighty Boosh, actually does exist? In the hit TV show, Fielding played the ultimate confuser ("Is it a man? Is it a woman? I'm not sure if I mind!"), Vince Noir. Alongside his highly wound sidekick Howard Moon (Julian Barratt), The Boosh amassed a cult like following and took viewers on a surreal journey through time and space with their unique brand of comedy. Androgynous Vince; with his childlike outlook on life, narcissism and impressive hair hubris ("A basic back-comb structure, slightly root-boosted framing with a cheeky fringe") quickly became one of the most popular characters in British comedy. The multi-award winning comedy troupe went on to produce three BBC series; two live UK tours and see Fielding and Barratt dubbed the funniest double-act in Britain' by NME.

Since we last saw him in Zooniverse and Nabootique, Noel has been busy going solo. There has been two series of the inescapably whimsical Luxury Comedy, an inspired stint as a team captain on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, the infamous appearances on Big Fat Quiz and now he's about to embark on a nationwide tour - his first in five years. An Evening with Noel Fielding promises to be a magical mix of his eccentric brand of stand-up comedy, live animation and music. There will even be some special guests too as he's taking his brother, Mike Fielding (Naboo) and Luxury’s Tom Meetan along with him on the 34 date stint. It certainly sounds like it’s going to be value for money. I caught up with Noel to discuss the upcoming Liverpool date but to be honest, we mainly ended up chatting about beards, Cliff Richard and Russell Brand's move into politics.

OPEN: So, your live show is called An Evening with Noel Fielding - it sounds more like an ITV special with the likes of Michael Buble rather than a comedy show?

NOEL: Haha, that is the angle I'm going for, there are going to be a lot of Frank Sinatra covers [...] When I booked it, I didn't really know what kind of show it was going to be - I hadn't written it. I was thinking it may be an amalgam of things; I knew I wanted to do some stand-up, I have some characters and have people with me - quite a mixture. But yeah, I was aware of what I did with the title. I did do it slightly tongue in cheek because it’s really not the sort of show I would ever do and it really made me laugh - it’s the sort of thing Barry Humphries would do.

They'll definitely be a mention to Michael Buble now you've said that though. The thing is with 'An Evening With...’ is that it sounds like you're 70 and ITV are giving you a pat on the back for being amazing but Buble has got to be incorporated into it too, now.

A lot of the Operation Yewtree suspects loved a good old fashioned 'An Evening With...' but I reckon were safe with Buble. We hope.

Yeah well this doesn't go to print for a few weeks so you never know....

What’s happening with Cliff at the moment, is he alright? I hope to God he didn't do anything. If Cliff goes then the whole fabric of society will disintegrate.

The whole of the 70's are going to be in prison, that's what’s happening. Oh it’s horrible.

It's looking that way. Now your last solo show was scheduled in 2010 but, according to the fountain of knowledge that is Wikipedia, it got postponed due to you working on The Boosh movie. Where the hell is that film?

We didn't really know what to do. Oh God, I don't know what we were doing. We were supposed to be going to America to do a show... then we decided no to that. Then we started writing a film but we didn't know which one to write so we wrote half of a film, it was a musical like Rocky Horror, and then a different half of another film. They didn't go together, obviously, which wasn't useful to anyone. We ended up doing neither of those things and I started working on an animated thing while Julian worked on something else - it was a bit of a shambles at that point. Also, that last big Boosh tour, it was like 100 dates - I was wasn't really in shape to tour.

But I'm back! Has it really been that long? 2010? I like doing that keeps people on their toes. It looks like its took me four years to pluck up the courage to come back on tour but I've done three series of the Buzzcocks, two of Luxury and I've done little bits of stand-up, but not a tour. I have been busy.

I’m not judging. Are you looking forward to this long awaited tour then?  

Yeah, it’s going to be nice to see some faces. Comedy is best with an audience otherwise it all feels a bit weird; making it in secret and putting it on telly. You don't really know how its gone; you get ratings and a few reviews but its not the same as going out into a room full of people.

When I was texting all my friends showing off that I was interviewing you, I noticed that the iPhone decides to autocorrect your name to Noël. What do you think about Apple giving you a Christmassy edge - too hipster?

I was born on Christmas Day, just like Jesus. Haha, no I wasn't...

I knew, I have read your Wikipedia after all. Speaking of hipsters - the man who created Vince Noir must be a tiny bit hipster?

You know what, no - I'm not like that. I’ve got loads of friends from Shoreditch who've got massive beards, short hair, tattoos - that seems to be the new hipster look doesn't it? When I went to Brooklyn, the Williamsburg crew all had massive beards - it’s quite funny, it’s like sitting in a convention of lumberjacks. Everyone looks like their dad, it’s all quite weird.

I can't really grow a great beard. And also, I’ve never wanted a massive beard. Do I really want something that covers up my face? That seems like a waste!! Haha, no, I'm joking.

Too late, that's going to be the headline of the interview.

The truth is I'm just not very good at growing a beard. It all goes a bit rubbish. Russell can grow a good one, Russell Brand.

Ahhh, speaking of Russell, he tweeted you the other day - are you guys really going to reunite as the Goth Detectives for The Big Fat Quiz of the Year?

Yeah we might be...(intriguing voice)

Really?

Maybbbbbeeeeee

I want an exclusive, come on.

Ahhh ok. I don't know if I'm allowed to say.

I'm taking this as a yes, Noel.

Ah, are you? We might be, we might not... hahaha. I haven't got black hair anymore - I can’t do it!

You can! Come on, hair dye is like a fiver from Boots.

Alright then. Five quid from Boots, yeah? I'll speak to Russell and see what he says. He’ll find the Big Fat Quiz too flippant now he's a politician.

He has gone political of late, hasn't he? Are you planning to join him on the revolution?

Well, the thing is, I'd like to... no, basically. Hahaha. I've heard that he's currently writing a political manifesto.

Really?

I know! Its insane isn't it? He's gone serious. And I think Eddie Izzard is running for Mayor at some point - all the comedians are going for it. I better get involved somehow. I don't really know how; it’s not my vibe, that. Maybe I could remake The Monster Raving Looney Party?

You could form The Goth Detectives Party with Russell?

The Goth Detective Party! Everyone has to wear black! We can spray all the Boris Bikes black, it will be amazing. I'm up for that lets do it!

When you discuss this with Russell I want full credit.

Haha, okay. I’ll wear a badge saying "It was Zoe's idea" and if it all goes wrong we’ll definitely, definitely say it was your idea.

Yeah but if it goes right then I'm laughing, I've started a political revolution.

If it goes really wrong then we’ll all have to grow beards.

Deal. I'll probably grow a better one than you by the sounds of things.

Haha. Basically we’ll grow massive beards and stand in Shoreditch then all my mates will get arrested instead of us. My mate Baccy has such a good beard, its huge. I was like, "how long did that take?" and he claims two months. I was like, "get lost it would take me about ten years to grow that". What do you think about them, you like them?

Not for me. I'm not sure why girls are pretending we really fancy men with them - grow a personality, not a beard. My dad had a beard growing up, so I sort of have a fondness for them, though.

My dad in the 90's had a beard, sleeve tattoos and smoked rolls up - he'd be so on trend now.

He was the pioneer of the look.

Either that or just a bit lazy. Now we've gone a bit off topic with talk of beards and politics - any plans for the return of The Boosh?

Maybe. The thing is, never say never. It’s difficult because when you get involved in something you have to see it through and it takes a while. I don't know when we’ll both be free but we still do fantasise about writing the film.

Well you should get cracking, Wikipedia has blown your cover with that one-you've got people excited!

I know! We need a year where we can sit down and write. People have such a fondness of The Mighty Boosh and it lives on in their memories so we don’t want to come back and do something not as good.

True. A lot of the great series bow out after two or three series.

Ah yeah, that's true. If we came back and do something not very good then we’ll have undone all the good work that's been done. It’s tricky. You never know what to do.

You can give me a ring once you've wrote it and I'll let you know...

Yeah we'll try that I'll send it to you and you let me know.

That would be great. I promise I won't leak it - I won't even save it to iCloud or anything!

I'll send it to you in a beard!

I best start befriending those who enjoy the lumberjack look, then.

[midnightiscoming-kasabian]

Nine Songs: Serge Pizzorno [1/2]

Kasabian’s Sergio Pizzorno talks Maddy Smith through the songs that have soundtracked his hit-filled career, and why he’s taking on an escapist solo project with The S.L.P.

“I always think that there’s a Japanese take on western culture. One where you can get a different eye looking at society. It’s a cartoonish way of looking at the world.”

A shaven leopard print fade, suede tiger print shirt and cheetah print jacket is not the typical get-up of someone who takes themselves too seriously. Kasabian’s creative force Sergio Pizzorno is just that - a character with a unique view of the world. As we sit down to chat in a London café, Pizzorno’s laid-back demeanour is somewhat at odds with his aggressively loud attire. Discussing his approach to song writing he reflects on a career that spans two decades riddled with no. 1 albums, and he stresses the importance of comedy and light-heartedness in a world that can often take itself too seriously.

“It’s all very visual and imagery is really important, I like to set little scenes in my lyrics, and humour as well. I think there has to be a little twist, or a little darkness, like in ‘Vlad the Impaler’. Calling a track that is ridiculous, so there’s a cartoonish nature to it as well. But ‘Underdog’ actually is about the love of the underdog and ‘Fire’ is about when you keep rolling sixes, when you just can’t miss. ‘Thick as Thieves’ and tracks like that are little stories. I think films and cinema are important, I feel like a lot of my ideas come from that world.”

With five no. 1 albums, a Glastonbury headline set and a wealth of worldwide tours behind him, Kasabian’s guitarist and songwriter meets me in the run up to a new challenge with the release of upcoming solo album, The S.L.P. Featuring Little Simz and Slowthai, he explains the reasons behind his solo venture. “I wanted to make an album where I can collaborate and it’s easier to do that when it’s with a different project. It was almost to create a world that you can visit every now and again. It gives you total freedom; you can be in the studio with anyone, see what happens and that’s really exciting.”

From his tongue-in-cheek dirgy, paleontological lyrics, zesty fashion sense, to the left-field tracks in his nine songs, it’s clear to see an eclectic pattern emerge; a comical twist on the everyday but also on life’s darker tangents. Catching a glimpse of the luminous socks peeking out of his shoes (which are emblazoned with a product available in Amsterdam coffee shops - you know the ones) I inwardly chuckle as I’m reminded that all too often we get caught up in cynicism, and think back to those infamous words from ‘Vlad the Impaler’ where Noel Fielding rigidly terrorises unassuming locals in ‘80’s horror movie fashion through barren fields. “Get loose, Get loose.”

“Dragonaut” by Sleep

“There’s a wicked film called Gummo, have you seen it? This song is on the soundtrack and it’s got that Sabbath thing going on, which we were looking for around our second album. The first album sort of blew up and we were quickly becoming quite big. We went in to record the second album with that in mind, we wanted to have heavy guitars for the live sound, that tone and that evilness, that heavy sort of drone in ‘Dragonaut’ - we just wanted to create some of that.

“It was a big contrast to what the first album was. It was becoming this band on this escapade, so we fell into that and life just got insane. We wanted to make a really heavy record to reflect that, the guitar was at the forefront because we played live every night, so we wanted to take that attitude and capture it in the studio.

“This track has that dirgy sound that I love, for me that will go to a lot of different areas but at the core, groove, flavour and flow is so, so important. We used to call it “The push” because if it pushes, it’s laid back behind the beat.

“It’s funny, because if you know that a musician has got it or a band has got it, it’s like you’re in that clique - ‘I know why you like that, because it’s got that flavour.’ You can listen to a hip-hop tune or a heavy metal tune and somehow get it. I think that was the appeal with making Empire, it was to retain that, ‘Okay, it’s going to be heavy and it’s going to be distorted, but we still need to retain that flavour and that push.’”

“Revenge of the Black Regent” by Add N to (X)

“I love their album Avant Hard, it’s way, way ahead of the game. It must have been the late ‘90s when I discovered it, around ‘98 or ‘99. I used to work in a clothes shop when I was about 18 or 19 and in the square where the shop was there was a record store. We got on with the guy there and he told me I’d love this record. So on the Monday, when the new records would come out, I put that on instantly and thought ‘What is going on here?’

“They were really ahead of the curve with ‘Revenge of the Black Regent’. Add N to (X) were using all these synths that I’d never heard of, that’s when I started to really research and get into the synth world and I became a complete synth nerd.

“What’s interesting is what people can hear compared to what you’re actually listening to. Say with our first album, when people said it sounded like Primal Scream or Happy Mondays and all this, we were actually listening to Add N to (X), that’s where we were getting that sound you can hear on the first record. It’s almost like they didn’t dig deep enough to realise what we were into, and where we were getting our inspiration from.

“‘Revenge of the Black Regent’ is really minimal, there’s hardly any layers and the girl’s voice is amazing; ethereal and floaty, it’s so good. The synths are amazing and the flavour’s there again that I love. There’s a horror to it as well, a darkness to it. It celebrates that feeling of discomfort or like you’re feeling a little on edge. It looks like there’s a thread to these tunes!”

“A To G” by Blackalicious

“That’s going back! For me, the lyrics from Gift of Gab - who’s part of Blackalicious - have such an amazing wittiness and humour about them. Blackalicious are so good at that, combining cleverness and wittiness with that melody and production on the track.

“My friend used to DJ in Leicester as a hip-hop DJ and he used to get me all of these albums. He played that out to me one time, it was that wordplay and the artistry in connecting words and meaning that grabbed me, and the flow on ‘A to G’ blew my mind.

“There’s humour in the song and I feel that’s also important. At the forefront I think humour plays a big part of my taste; there’s humour in all these tracks - even in ‘Revenge of the Black Regent’ and ‘Dragonaut’. I find something quite absurd about them, but I think if you’re writing something that’s a bit weird and wacky it’s really important for people to be in on the joke.

“We actually managed to work with Blackalicious and get a remix done of ‘Take Aim’ by them. We’re going to get that on YouTube at some point, which is amazing. That was great.”

“Plateau” by Meat Puppets

“I came late to the game with grunge. At the time I was a bit young, the rave scene had a massive effect on me and grunge was so far from what I was into. I think back in the day you didn’t tend to like everything, you’d say you were more into grunge, or into hip-hop, or a certain scene; it was very tribal.

"So I couldn’t really connect the dots to Nirvana and grunge, and at the time I missed the wave of grunge. But then when I got into guitar music later on - maybe in the late 90s - I found Nirvana. I heard Kurt talk about Meat Puppets, I think they covered them on MTV’s Unplugged? “Again, it’s the vocal on this track - “And an illustrated book about birds” - you can’t not smirk at that, it’s so far off. It’s the brittleness of the sound, it feels like at any point it’s going to fall to pieces - and I just love that, I like broken stuff. In the studio I play with guitars that are really old and have got one string on them, so I feel like I really connect with this ramshackle, rustic sound and I just want to be in that band. I want to be in the Meat Puppets - I feel like they operate in a whole other world.”

“Six Days” by DJ Shadow

“I’ve spoken about ‘Organ Donor’ quite a lot, but with this track I think the words are really powerful, especially with everything that’s going on at the moment. He talks about “Tomorrow never knows until it’s too late.” It’s a very powerful message and it’s where the world is right now.

“DJ Shadow has always been a massive inspiration and I cite him as the reason that I make music now, because of how big an impact that first album Endtroducing..... had on me and how it made me look at music. He combines a sort of psych/folk with a beat with more of an electronic focus.

“As long as there’s people willing to experiment with synths and electronic influence in rock music - and I like to think there is - I think it will stay popular. Those waveforms must do something to some people’s ears. It’s funny when you hear people getting synths really wrong though, because it’s very obvious. I think you should have to have a licence. There’s certain synths that I hear on records that are so bad, it’s ‘Put that away! Please stay away from pre-sets and do some research if you want to get involved in experimenting with synths. Don’t just pull out a keyboard and start to make music.’ You’ve really got to do your research.”

The Line of Best Fit | Words: Maddy Smith | 23 August 2019