#local author must now lie on the floor for a bit

[hpowellsmith]

Three-quarters through drafting Honor Bound wooooo

[glowingbadger]

You may have a little Lorenz Prompt as promised. As a treat. Here goes~

Lorenz taking thorough notes to surprise his s/o (is it the blog owner? the reader? some random character? It doesn't matter~!) with the most lovely, romantic date imaginable based around everything they like. He wouldn't put in this much effort to TRULY impress someone, but you're worth every step and more.

Enjoy where this takes your thoughts~!

(and pls don't eat it, Tumblr)

Y'know what, I've had a shitty day and I just finished writing some darker content- so I am going to ~indulge~. Normally I try to make my Reader character as broadly relatable as possible, but today we're going with MY preferences and interests because I WANT A NICE DATE WITH LORENZ GODDAMNIT

Lorenz (FE3H) x GN Reader - perfect date

Fluff - SFW

Today simply has to be flawless- the Gloucester heir will not accept any less. Not when it comes to you. Of course, Lorenz holds himself to high standards in all things, but the thought of providing anything less than perfection for you is one that pains him to even consider. Especially now that he'd finally gotten the courage- or, rather, found the right and proper time to ask you to spend the day with him.

You approach him at the Monastery gates not long after noon that day, and find your pace slowing as you eye him before he's noticed you. Without his usual elegant set of armor, you can appreciate the way constant marching and training has toned his slender frame- and appreciate it, you most certainly do. Though he soon turns to face you, and your eyes dart back up from a rather ignoble place to meet his instead.

"You're as radiant as ever, I see," he says with a warm smile. He offers you an arm and you take it, replying with a grin,

"You've already got me for the day, Lorenz, there's no need for flattery."

"'Flattery' implies a measure of falsehood," he says with confidence, leading you towards town, "and I could never bring myself to lie to one so lovely."

As your time together proceeds, you can't help but feel that, some way, somehow, Lorenz has some kind of psychic insight into your preferences. Everywhere you turn, whatever your heart could desire is immediately available and set before you with hardly any negotiation at play. At the first flower stall you find, Lorenz takes a moment to exchange words with the owner while you admire the sprawling array of colorful blooms; and by the time he's returned, he's holding a woven crown of delicate little white flowers. With an admiring smile, he carefully places it on your head, a hand trailing down a lock of your hair as he pulls away to observe you.

With a shy grin, you perform an exaggerated curtsy, prompting Lorenz to laugh fondly and take you by the hand. He twirls you slowly under his arm, watching you all the while, then says,

"They suit you every bit as wonderfully as I'd thought."

"They're my favorites," you reply.

"I know- erm, that is- I know of a superb bakery down the block this way," Lorenz seems a bit red in the face, but you chalk that up to nerves.

He's not wrong though- this bakery is something else. The selection and quality of ingredients is on an entirely new level compared to the Monastery's dining hall, and you find yourself overwhelmed even reading down the list of items posted to the wall. By your third pass over the full range of options, the words are starting to dance in your eyes- but a warm touch at your arm shakes your focus. Lorenz leans close to be heard over the rapidly growing crowd at the bakery's counter,

"Might I make a recommendation?" you nod, and he goes on, "I happen to have it on good authority that there's an item not included on this menu that you may like. It incorporates three different treatments of Brigid cocoa, if that is of any interest to you."

Your eyes light up and you can practically feel the rich sweetness across your tongue already.

"That sounds incredible," you reply, enraptured by the very thought. When you start to ask how he'd heard of such a thing, Lorenz has already turned to speak to the worker taking orders, and your words drown among the crowd of customers. The speed at which he acquires this mythical pastry only fills your mind with more questions. How did he manage to purchase an off-menu item so quickly? Wouldn't the cost of something requiring those many luxurious imported ingredients be astronomical?

But then, Lorenz returns to your side and guides you out of the crowded shop, and the sight of the delectable chocolatey treat in his hands dashes all other thoughts from your mind. He hands it to you wrapped in a handkerchief, and you can't help but immediately plunge in for a bite.

"Mmmm-!" you wear an expression of pure bliss as your mouth fills with sweet, savory chocolate, "Oh- Lorenz, it's so good!"

When you glance up at him, he's watching you with a strangely heavy expression. Once more, his fair complexion is painted a light red. You tilt your head curiously, and he seems to resurface from whatever thoughts had taken him for the moment.

"Here- you should try some," you break off a piece and hold it up to him.

"Are- are you certain? I had intended for you to enjoy it to your heart's content," he stammers out, evidently still a bit flushed.

"I want you to get to have some too. Please?" You hate to resort to puppy eyes with him, but it's hard to argue with the results. He leans forward and accepts the piece of pastry from your hand. You don't shy away from him in the slightest, and so a brief brush of his lower lip along the tip of your finger simply can't be avoided. Lorenz does his best to move past this without acknowledgement, and you two enjoy your treat together as you take in the bustle of the town around you.

The day continues in kind, with Lorenz apparently having painstakingly arranged every element of this date from start to finish. At a local seller of antiques and luxury goods, he secures permission to view and explore rare and dazzling paintings from around the world. Here, he's rather uncharacteristically reserved. Wandering the storage area like your own personal art museum, he watches you with evident warmth as you exclaim at the rich and varied pigments, the innovative expressions of human form, and so on.

After this, he brings you to a tavern at the far end of town, where he's reserved the second floor exclusively for you two to enjoy a quiet, intimate meal together. By this point, you've finally gotten around to considering just how much gold must have gone into this singular date.

"Lorenz," you say cautiously, "are you sure it's okay to go through all of this and spend so much just for-"

He raises a hand to cut you off, then replies,

"I assure you that it is," he takes your hand in his, holding it warmly from across your private table, "wealth has no value that we ourselves do not assign to it, and I have chosen to spend it on your pleasure. I can think of no greater use for a bit of coin."

The rest of the early evening is filled with pleasant chat and the occasional subtle sweet-talk. As you discuss everything you've seen and experienced that day, Lorenz engages you with surprisingly astute comments and observations. He's always at his best when he feels permitted to simply talk with you, as one person to another, free of the pressures and expectations of his birthright that he shoulders without a thought.

The sun is steadily lowering behind the hills and walls of the surrounding town by the time you make your way back together. As you walk hand in hand watching the Monastery gates rise ahead of you, Lorenz clears his throat abruptly and says,

"If I may steal you away for just a little while longer, there was... actually someone I thought you'd like to meet."

"Oh? What an honor," you say with a smile, "Do I get any hints?"

Lorenz gives a good-natured chuckle and says,

"Only that I think you'll get along splendidly."

And of all places throughout Garreg Mach's grounds, you begin to recognize that he is leading you towards the stables. You've met Lorenz's horse before- a lovely mare with a calm and agreeable temperment. If not her, then...

"Eloise?" Lorenz calls out in a gentle voice, "Eloise, come say hello- Ellie? Come now, don't tell me you've chosen tonight to become bashful..." at his call, a svelte black cat with delicate little white paws comes trotting out to meet you. Your heart positively aches and melts at the sight of her eagerly approaching Lorenz with clear comfort and familiarity.

"Lorenz, you... have a cat?" You say with obvious disbelief.

"She's one of the Monastery's strays, to be clear," he says, "She helps with the mice in the stables. Evidently, she had become quite fond of my preferred horse- and so eventually became fond of me as well."

Fond seems an understatement- she very clearly adores him. With a chorus of happy little mews, she circles his legs and rubs against him until he crouches down to offer her his hand. As he does, a shred of parchment flutters from his pocket onto the ground. Eloise targets it like a seasoned warrior and pounces at it with gusto. With a laugh, you kneel down to retrieve whatever this paper she's captured might be.

"Now Eloise, none of that- you must behave genteel-like with guests."

As he firmly lectures the cat, you glance at the paper in your hand. Nearly every inch of it is covered in an elegant, curling script that you imagine must belong to Lorenz. It looks like a... list of some kind. As your eyes scan down the page, you begin to recognize a pattern. Your favorite flowers, favorite desserts, favorite types of books and places around town- plus, to the side, the word "cats?" underlined several times. For a moment, you simply cover your mouth to hold in a snort of laughter. Then, you come to kneel beside Lorenz as he's failing to convince his feline friend to stop swatting at his hair.

"So- you've been taking very thorough notes lately." you say, nudging his arm playfully. He turns to face you with an immediate look of panic. Lavender eyes widen and glance down to the parchment in your hand, then back to you. He visibly deflates and says,

"Goddess- you must find me such a fool-"

You press your lips firmly to his before he can say another word. With a soft noise of surprise, his eyes flutter shut and he leans into your kiss. His lips are wonderfully soft, and the subtle scent of his cologne surrounds your senses as you tilt your head to seal your lips to his more firmly. You're not certain how long you remain like this, but only the dull ache of kneeling on the dirt and the incessant sound of Eloise bapping her paw against the paper in your hand bring you back to your surroundings. When you part from him, you brush aside the silky curtain of his hair to run your hand along his face, and say,

"I had a wonderful time today, Lorenz- and it means the world to me that you put so much thought into this. But next time, you don't have to study so hard, okay?"

For a moment, he seems speechless. Then, he gives a shy chuckle.

"You have bested me yet again, it would seem. How can I ever hope to become a man worthy of you when you are ever more lovely with each passing day?"

Eloise gives an insistent chirp and rubs once more against his leg, evidently tired of distractions from the attention she feels she's owed. Your smile widens, and you scratch her ear fondly.

"I think there's at least two of us who like you just as you are, Lorenz."

[neverdoingmuch]

now hear me out,,, an au where lan wangji is an editor who works for an erotica publisher and wei wuxian is essentially chuck tingle. (also lwj writes romance novels on the side)

wei wuxian didn’t plan to write erotica he wants to make that really clear, he was actually studying like biomed or something equally “oh wow my parents can brag to the other parents about this”

but, as frequently happens in wwx’s life, he got drunk with nhs, like really drunk and they woke up the next morning with a laptop on the floor beside them and loose paper strewn everywhere

they don’t really remember what they were doing or thinking last night but they’ve both drawn a bunch of really shitty and weird porn (the less said about the anthropomorphic version of wen chao’s pet turtle the better) and wei wuxian has like 20,000 words of an erotica story on his laptop

when he starts reading it, at first he’s like haha what the fuck this is so weird but then it turned out to be really good??? and nhs blushed at some of the ~sexy~ scenes so that’s how wwx knew he was writing the good stuff

anyway they’re sitting there, eating their hangover food and wei wuxian goes so uh my story was good right? and nhs is like yeah it was, top stuff i would buy it and wei wuxian goes what if i actually wrote it,,, haha just kidding,,,,, unless?

and in his defence he doesn’t actually write anything for the story for another like three months but then he finds himself in the middle of exam season and he’s like fuck it stress relief let’s write some erotica

he finishes the book and his exams (which he does well in but whatever) and then spends his summer holidays editing the book

when he comes back, he slaps down a paper copy on nhs’ desk and is like i finished it. nhs, thinking he meant his latest lab write up, opens it up to a random page and starts reading it out loud which was a Mistake

he trails off mid-sentence, and whips around to glare at wwx with all the wrath he can muster. it’s raunchy nhs says and just read it wwx tells him so nhs does

like 2 hours later nhs turns to him and says if it wasnt for you and the librarian staring at me the whole time i definitely would’ve felt something and wwx is like so it’s good? and nhs is like fuck yeah it is but i dont get what you want from me?

pretty much wwx passed out after exams, slept for like 20 hours and then woke up and went i should publish this and decided that nhs should draw the cover art.

nhs agrees of course and a month later wwx self-publishes bc there’s no way he can walk into a publishing house with his porn and not just combust on the spot and he decides to go by the name yiling patriarch

wwx clicks the final button to upload the fic and nhs just toasts him and goes yknow what,, this is the closest you’ve ever gotten to having sex and i’m proud of you

wei wuxian is the man who guarded his first kiss for the first twenty years of his life for someone special,,,, wwx definitely wants his first time to be special and there’s no way he’s putting out for someone he doesn’t think is important & despite having dated before, he’s never gotten close enough to someone to go yeah let’s do it so our boy is still a virgin

so wwx’s entire erotica writing inspiration comes from porn, nhs’ way too in-depth answers as to how his latest date went and uh more porn

wwx blusters about a bit bc how is he meant to respond to that and nhs is like maybe you’ll finally move on from reading those trashy romance novels and read something more exciting and wwx is like how dare you call them trashy!! hanguang-jun is a master of the romance novels!! he understands the heart in a way that no other person has ever!! 

and nhs just chugs a bunch of wine and is like yeah hon okay, do you still blush when the main characters hold hands? and wwx is like no! of course not! (it’s a lie, he blushes a lot)

so nothing really happens with the book at first and wwx forgets about it for the most part but then he wakes up one morning and he’s got an extra like RMB 1000 (i dont actually know much about currency so it’s roughly $200 if my quick interneting is legit)

wwx is like wtf? and once he finds out it’s from his novel he’s doubly like wtf? but then he finds out that someone had purchased his book and did a dramatic reading on youtube bc wwx decided that regular erotica was boring and decided to make it satirical or whatever and people loved it??

he’s got nothing better to do so he just goes hm yeah remember that Author i dated who had an “incredible idea that would absolutely amaze The Critics and helped explore his own convoluted mind” let’s make something of that and he writes another book kinda mocking that idea in a very horny way.

he publishes it and someone writes a review of his two books on their blog and now he’s actually starting to get popular - he’s got more money from those two books than he did by working at the local cafe for the whole week

wwx is poor and broke and semi-disowned anyway by this point so he goes fuck it and spends every moment he’s not studying writing erotica. 

he publishes another like five books by the time the year is out (i know the maths isnt working here but this is a book world where wwx can just do that via the power of loneliness and friends who egg you on)

also?? he varies his books. some of them are porn parody things a la chuck tingle and some of them are genuine porn and one book was just him writing a recipe book but making it sound as horny as possible

by the time he’s published his like 8th book or so he starts getting reviews that are critiquing his book and most of them boil down to the fact that he needs an editor or something 

he ends up asking nhs for help and he’s like oh sweet my brother’s boyfriend works for a publisher who does that sort of thing

cloud recesses actually specialises in erotica and i hate the idea that lqr has spent years reading and editing erotica but sacrifices must be made

(side note that i know nothing about the writing or publishing process so pls don’t judge me too harshly)

wwx goes in with his latest manuscript and ends up arriving like ten minutes late, he rushes into the room sweaty and hot, takes one look at the guy sitting on the other side of the desk, flushes an even brighter red and runs back out of the room. he checks the plaque on the door and walks back in slowly and goes hm i didnt expect you to be so hot

cue lan wangji

lwj has always enjoyed being an editor. what do editor do specifically? idk? edit? regardless, he enjoys it. 

while most of the time he’s happy working from this side of things he also likes writing

lwj fucks. he deserves it tbh. but, while he’s had a tonne of one night stands and fuckbuddies, he’s never actually dated someone. so the fact that he’s writing romance novels under the pseudonym hanguang-jun makes his friend jzx laugh a lot

he tried writing porn once and he just couldn’t do it. it was always too clinical or vague and lacked any actual passion bc he was always going oh okay mc sucks a dick but the guy i slept with last week was like a 6.4/10 when it came to sucking dick so maybe mc should also be bad at it or whatever and it just ends up falling apart,,,, but romance he can do

as an editor lwj has pretty high standards for good erotica but he’s really found himself enjoying yiling patriarch’s work even though he’s clearly just been editing himself so when the guy sent cloud recesses an email asking whether they’d be interested in his latest book lwj was ecstatic. 

he also didnt expect wwx to be so hot

anyway,,, we now get to enjoy a week of lwj thinking that wwx is super hot but even more annoying and then him deciding that annoying is hot and now wwx is just absolutely amazing and wwx is just panicking the entire time 

i want my publisher to rail me so hard wwx texts nhs and nhs just responds has he read the bdsm scene with the alien who has a tentacle dick and a knot yet? and wwx is like no??? nhs just goes shame, it will give him so ideas for if you ever grow a backbone and just ask him out

they publish one book together and nothing happened between them the entire time other than yearning and horniness,, of the heart and body. 

when wwx realises this means that he won’t get to see lwj again he immediately writes a new book and like a month later he’s back in lwj’s office, lying on his couch while whining about the cafeteria prices at university

lwj is very enamoured by the fact that wwx is writing erotica and studying biomed bc wow

they do this for like another three books and wwx’s eroticas evolve from here’s a dinosaur man fucking a politician while a mary sue watches on to be like here’s a dinosaur man with black hair and golden eyes and a stern look to his face fucking a politician while a mary sue watches on

and hanguang-jun’s latest book?? i dont want to say that this au’s version of wangxian is hanguang-jun finally finding inspiration to write porn (his muse is wwx of course) and writing the most amazing porn with feelings and plot novel ever,, but it is. 

wwx read it five times in the first week and when nhs finally tried to read it he was like uhhh wwx are you a narcissist, the love interest is exactly like you? and wwx is like ??? no???? he’s nothing like me??

anyway one day wwx gets called into lxc’s office and lxc is like so i’ve read your latest book (not the dinosaur man, a serious one with like normal people and not overly humorous thank fuck but still full of lwj yearning) and wwx is like okay? and lxc goes yes, see i was worried that you didn’t care very much for my brother but after reading your book i’m not so sure and wwx gets the weirdest shovel talk ever which is interspersed with like compliments for his porn writing skills

anyway lxc accidentally mentions that lwj writes books too and before he can take it back wwx is like who??? and lxc is like are you fucking stupid?? you told lwj to his face that you loved his books,,, he broke his theme of tender romance to write kinky sex with a character that’s a lot like you and wwx is like .,,,,,,,,, hanguang-jun??? HANGUANG-JUN???!!

lxc barely manages to confirm it before wwx is sprinting out of his office and across to find lwj.

regretfully for everyone else, lwj is in the lobby so thirty people get to hear it when wwx comes in and shouts LAN ZHAN!! back then, i really wanted write porn about you! ... i think i have actually? but i want to write porn about you and i want to be able to do the research to make it accurate! and i also want to go on dates and hold hands and feed each other food! and i love you a lot! 

lwj is dying inside bc his brother’s bf is there, his uncle is currently waiting for the elevators and a whole bunch of staff are also there but also wwx likes him??? dinosaur man was lwj??

he goes over and they make out for a really long time right there in the middle of the lobby but no one wants to get between them when they’ve been pining for so long

after that they start dating and they do all the romantic stuff but also,, let’s just say that the next book wwx publishes is a lot more creative than all of his previous books

and they become some writing power couple with horniness of the heart and body and sometimes wwx will be like hey lwj i don’t really know how the logistics of this sex scene will work and lwj will be like we could try it out ourselves? and wwx just pats him on the head and is like im sorry but you dont have enough dicks for it to work ),: better luck next time

[bonjour-rainycity]

The Long Way Around ~ Chapter 4

Link to previous part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/623116614605357056/the-long-way-around-chapter-3

Pairing: Jasper x Reader

Word count: 2092

Warnings: None

Y/n’s POV

The next three weeks pass in a now predictable sequence. I spend the majority of my time getting to know my new roommates, for lack of a better word. Esme, who is quickly becoming my favorite, does whatever I want with me. We read books, watch movies, go for runs in the woods. The doctor, Carlisle, isn’t home very often. He and Edward spend a lot of time in town making sure the Cullens are not suspect in my disappearance. They decided it would be best to continue ‘business as usual’ to avoid suspicion, but also so they don’t have to give up the advantageous location in the woods and risk moving with me. Bella tends to keep to herself, though she does occasionally join Esme and I in our book club. Alice and Arthur are quite friendly, and I enjoy spending time with them, even if Alice does treat me like a Barbie doll. I swear, I’ve never owned more clothes in my life! Rosalie is slowly warming up to me. She’s not rude, exactly, but I can tell my presence is hard on her. Her husband, Emmett, is a whole lot of fun. He invites me for races and arm wrestling matches which, obviously, I win. I suspect that won’t continue forever, though. Once my newborn strength fades, he will likely be the strongest in the house. 

Then, of course, there’s my shadow. Jasper doesn't say much, but he is a constant presence. I can tell he doesn’t trust me. The minute I get frustrated or upset he invades my personal space and uses his ability to calm me down. I do resent it slightly, but I understand the need. It’s as he says: I’m dangerous. It amuses me though to know that, as Jasper has taken the task upon himself to never leave my side, he has to do everything I do. So he watches sappy movies with Esme and I, he sits quietly while Emmett and I play board games, he sulks in the corner while I ask Alice endless questions about her psychic ability, and, of course, he hunts with me about four times a week. 

My bloodlust is insatiable. This newfound life and the thirst that accompanies it keeps me in a near constant state of pain. My throat burns badly, and, even when I am drinking animal blood, the burn remains. I have a feeling that, at this stage of life, not even human blood would satisfy my thirst. 

At the thought of human blood, a delicacy so far denied to me, venom pools in my mouth. From across the room, Jasper shifts uncomfortably, feeling my desire. I imagine it must be harder for him than the others, because he not only has to fight his own bloodlust, but everyone else’s. 

He eyes me evenly. “Do you want to hunt?”

“I’m fine,” I lie. We just went yesterday, and I feel like a burden asking people to go with me constantly. I usually have an entourage of three minimum when I hunt, and I can tell it interrupts the daily flow of things. 

Jasper’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Taking you hunting isn’t a burden. Trust me, we would much rather go with you twenty times a day than have you get too thirsty and lose control.” 

I purse my lips at his uncanny ability to know what I’m thinking. I know his emotional radar detector must help, but seriously, sometimes he rivals Edward. 

“It would probably be a good idea,” I acquiesce. “I’ll go see if anyone else wants to go.” I push myself off the kitchen floor-I had been busy reading through one of Esme’s architecture journals-and walk into the living room where Emmett, Rosalie, Carlisle, Esme, and Arthur are gathered around the TV. 

“Hey does anyone wanna-” My words die as I register the news anchor’s words. 

“The search continues for local Y/n, Y/l/n, who was reported missing over three weeks ago.”

It feels like the breath has been knocked out of me. I grip the back of the couch, grief ripping through me. Five vampires turn their wary gazes at me.

“Turn it off.” Jasper’s command comes from behind my shoulder. 

“No,” I breathe, deeply hurt but desperate to know what my friends and family could be seeing.

The anchor continues. “Authorities say they have a man in custody who confessed to stabbing the woman, though claims he can’t remember what he did with the body. Witnesses to the crime seem to suffer the same memory loss. Police have refused to offer further comments, though locals speculate a conspiracy or the presence of illegal drugs. While the two witnesses to the crime, Kaitlyn Myers and Blake Hannigan, have faced backlash surrounding their involvement in the case, police have cleared them as suspects at this time.”

The couch snaps under my grip. I take two quick steps back, shocked by what I just heard and the jarring display of my physical power. 

“Oh, sweetie.” Esme is in front of me instantly, reaching out to envelop me in a hug. Before I can even blink, Jasper is standing between us, acting as a barrier to Esme. 

Hurt pierces through my gut. He only sees me as a threat.

“I’m not going to hurt Esme, Jasper. Back off!” I wish my words didn’t waver. 

His voice is hard when he responds. “You don’t know what you’ll do. Newborns are governed by their emotions more than anyone else. I’m not taking any risks.”

“Well how about getting to know me instead of just generalizing?” I throw my hands up, properly yelling now. “I’m sick of feeling like I’m a prisoner with you. Everyone else is giving me a chance, so why can’t you?” I spit the words out, my hurt growing by the second. 

“We’re hoping it’s all a terrible dream, that we’ll wake up soon and everything will be alright.” 

They hadn’t turned off the TV. On the screen is a video of my parents. Hearing my mom’s tearful voice is like a kick to the stomach. I sink to the floor, gasping for air I don’t need. 

“I just want our little girl to come home.” Mom’s voice breaks, and she stares into the camera. It’s like she’s staring right at me. 

“Jasper, it’s alright, really. I appreciate your concern very much but I promise, it’s alright.” Esme’s soft voice vaguely reaches me through my sobs. 

A pair of arms-Esme’s, likely-envelopes me, but I barely take notice. I only feel the pain. It’s so much worse than the burn in my throat. It almost has me wishing for the fiery torture I felt while becoming a vampire. But wishing very seldom equates to reality, so I’m left to allow the gaping hole in my chest to consume me.

I don’t know how long we stay like that, only that it’s dark when I finally regain control of myself. Esme never left my side, and even Rosalie had come to join us at some point. She says nothing, only rests her head on my shoulder and holds my hand. 

Jasper is noticeably absent. 

“I think I scared him off,” I mumble, guilty. 

“He’ll recover,” Rosalie replies, sounding unconcerned. 

“He’s coming from the right place,” Esme assures. “Jasper is a very passionate person who gives his all in everything. This is no different. I think he sees keeping you and us safe as a chance to redeem himself for his past indiscretions, though those are long-ago forgiven. He’s trying to keep you from making the same mistakes he did.” 

I look at the floor, mulling Esme’s words over. I don’t really know what to say to that.

Thankfully, Rosalie saves me from having to craft a response. “Do you still want to hunt? I can go with you.” 

I smile and shake my head, exhausted from the recent emotional turmoil. “No, it’s okay. I think I’ll just go to bed.” I say the word lightly, knowing I’ll probably just spend the next eight hours reading or something to keep my mind busy. 

I stand, intending to exit the room. On the way out I see the poor couch, broken in two. I grimace. “Sorry about the couch.”

Esme smiles sweetly, waving it off. “Don’t worry about it. It just gives me an excuse to go shopping.” 

I give her a quick hug, grateful for her endless kindness and patience. 

Once upstairs in the room Alice and Esme courteously set up for me, I flop on the bed, grabbing the nearest book. I do my best to let my mind go blank and focus only on the words in front of me. About two hours into this exercise, I hear a soft knock on the door. 

Jasper stands in the frame, looking repentant. “I’m sorry. You were right. I haven’t tried to know you. But I’ve got some time now if you’re free.” It’s then that I realize he means to do this now. Not wanting to smile because I really am still upset with him, I bite it back. 

I decide to play coy instead. “I suppose I could clear my schedule. Though, a little more groveling might help…”

He smiles softly, almost hesitantly. With exaggerated movements, he gets on his knees and clasps his hands together in an excellent show of desperation. “Please do me the magnificent honor...of telling me your favorite color.” 

Now I can’t help but crack a smile. “You may approach, peasant, but remember that my good grace can easily change.” I pat the foot of my bed, and he sits, facing me. “It’s green. Like trees and moss and emeralds.” 

“What’s your favorite thing about this new life?”

“The running. I had asthma as a human but now I can run for as long as I want and be completely fine.” 

He nods, filing the information away. “If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?”

I answer without hesitation. “London. The culture, the history, the accents.” He chuckles, teasingly exasperated. “I bet it’s amazing.” 

He smiles, a faraway look in his eyes. “Oh it’s great. I was there back in the ‘90s...I bet it hasn’t changed too much though.” He grins. “Maybe in a couple of years we’ll all be able to take a trip.”

I look down at my fingers. “Maybe a few more years than a ‘couple’. I can’t even think of human blood without…” Venom floods my mouth. I offer a humorless chuckle. “See?”

Jasper shakes his head emphatically. “No, you’re really doing good.” I try to protest, but he shakes it off. “I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true. You are doing remarkably well for three weeks in.” 

I sigh, ready to tease him a bit. “Well I couldn’t do so well without my shadow micromanaging my every move.” 

He smiles sheepishly and looks at his lap. “I’m sorry I seem a bit…,” he sighs deeply, “intense. I will try to ease off.”

I grin, pulling my knees up to my chest. “Thank you. I’ll try to be a little less emotionally hectic. It’s gotta be hard on you.” 

Too quickly, he shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. You’re going through a lot, it’s okay.” 

I chuckle, feeling much lighter now, either thanks to his ability or the natural resolution of tension between us, I don’t know. “Yeah well I could stay away from the movies that make me feel all the things.” Now he grins, raising his eyebrows. “Next time we’ll try something bland, like High Noon.”

“Hey now.” Jasper raises a hand, a comically disbelieving look on his face. “High Noon is a masterpiece, don’t knock it.” 

I grin broadly, smacking him on the shoulder with a pillow. “I knew you were a Western guy! Gosh, that’s gotta be like, what, forty percent of your personality?”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, taking the pillow from me. “Mhm, somewhere around there.” 

I like this Jasper, I decide firmly. This new, witty, freer Jasper is so much more fun to be around. I could stand to have this Jasper follow me around all day. 

As if he has come to the same agreement, that Jasper stays at the foot of my bed well past the time the sun rises, talking and joking. We get to know each other. 

And, for a while, I forget about how sad I am and the near constant burning in the back of my throat.

A/n Thanks for reading! I’m having so much fun with this story and I’m glad you guys are enjoying it, too! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter and if you would like to be added to the tag list!

xx, 

Bjr

Link to next part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/623283543296049154/the-long-way-around-chapter-5

Tag list: @puer-de-infinitate @charliestuff @hindustani-diaspora @one-thread-can-save-a-life

[angelicspaceprince]

Take Me To Church

Author: Ama

Title: Take Me To Church

Pairing: Zhuk/Reader

Character/s: Zhuk

Word Count: 6, 437 words

Warnings: Smut (18+ only please), cockwarming, tentacles, Priest Kink, sex in a church, Demon Priest, hypnosis, aphrodisiac, stomach bulge, double and triple penetration, sex on an altar

Prompt: You were just trying to keep to yourself and avoid the rain when no one seemed to want to help you after you are left stranded in the middle of nowhere. The thing that lives in this abandoned church seems to have other ideas.

Notes: I set out to destroy myself and managed to take some people down with me. It was.....fun. Many hours of work and putting it off, its finally done. Also. There is a part two in the works so if you want to be tagged in it....send me an ask. Translations for long pieces of Russian is at the bottom of the post in order of appearance. Enjoy.

Buy Me a Coffee

Take Me To Church

You hadn’t meant to get lost at this time of night. It was dark, it was raining, and you were just done with today. Your car broke down in the middle of nowhere, you walked for hours, getting lost and finally finding your way to a near-abandoned town and, once you found someone to actually help you, every door was slammed in your face. Rain turned into a storm, a downpour, and you just wanted somewhere to hide until the rain passed. You saw a rundown looking church when you first walked into the town, and that was only a block away. Perhaps there would do? As far as you knew, churches were open to all in need, and you were in need of not getting sick before finding a phone to call for a mechanic.

You shuffle in and move to sit on one of the pews. It was empty, cold, made of grey stone that seemed to be crumbling in places with stained glass windows, some broken and covered with increasingly dampening cardboard whilst others stayed intact. You weren’t fussy. It’ll do for now. You are dripping with the rainwater, the only sound in the entire church is your laboured breath from running and the drip, drip of water running down your hair and onto the floor. You think for a minute - is it really a good idea to be staying in these wet, cold clothes? You look around, no one else is in the church that you know of. Perhaps you should just slide your coat off.

The desire to at least see how wet your clothes were under your coat proves to be too great as you carefully slide it off and lay it beside you. Your clothes are plastered to your body, saturated from the intense weather. You sigh loudly in defeat, you just couldn’t win today.

The sound of the door opening and closing loudly followed by the gruff voice of the bar patron stirs you from your self-pitying thoughts. Fuck, you said you were going to leave and wait by your car. You couldn’t bear the idea of getting into another argument with the man. You look around for somewhere to hide, eyes flickering to the confessional. Maybe? It was certainly the closest.

You dash in, leaving your jacket behind, and close the door behind you, moving to sit on the surprisingly comfortable seat. You weren’t an expert in these sorts of things, but you thought these to be always uncomfortable and wooden, but this was almost like a cushion that went from the bottom of the seat all the way up above your head. Even if it was lumpy, it was more comfortable than the pews out there.

It was dark, and the only thing you could hear was your laboured breath and the steps of someone investigating the church. You swear he is nearby, you hold your breath and try to keep yourself silent when what you think is him brushes past the confessional.

A low, rumbling voice shocks you as he greets the bar patron, asking if he is well. You can’t quite make out the conversation, except for the newer voice reassuring the man that everything is okay, he has it sorted, and he can go home now. There is a bit more back and forth that slowly fades as the new man leads the bar patron away. You let out a small sigh of relief, sagging back slightly. Now you just have to wait for him to leave before you can get out of here. You don’t feel safe here, you need to get back to your car, weather be damned! You’d rather battle out a horrid respiratory infection than be in some weird cult sacrifice to the village’s local god, or whatever Stephen King-esque thing this town seemed to be into.

You wait quietly, trying to quiet your loud, uneven breaths as your adrenaline slowly starts to wane. Seconds before you go to leave, you feel it. Something cold, slimy, slippery curls its way around your foot. Before you even have a chance to jump or scream, the confessional screen opens, causing you to jolt and the thing to unhook from your ankle. You look down and see nothing. Perhaps it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But you still have a problem. The priest now knows you’re here. How were you going to explain that you were hiding from someone like a child, simply because you didn’t want to interact with them?

“Do you have anything you wish to confess?” He finally asks, his heavily accented voice giving you a small shock, having grown tired of the silence that stretches between the two of you.

You wince. “Well, actually, uh-” You trail off, and you can almost feel the amusement rolling off of him in waves.

“Or were you just hiding from Mr MacNamara?” His voice is kind, but also bemused. Even then, it’s calming and draws you in. Just something about it, something tinged within it makes you think there is something he is hiding. You shake it off, what would a priest have to hide?

“Yeah.” You say quietly, guiltily. “I’m sorry si- Father, I’ll go.” It wasn’t really polite or religiously sensitive to hide in what you believed to be a sacred place, at least to the priest.

Your hand barely leaves your side, however, when he speaks. “Never mind the reason you originally came here, my child. You are here now, there must be something you need to get off your chest. Why else would you run and hide into a church and then a confessional, unless you have a guilty conscience or something you need to speak about.” He offers softly, his voice drawing you closer and closer to him as you feel your body relax into the soft booth. You jolt. No. You shouldn’t be here. You are making a mockery of his religion, at least, you feel like you are.

“I’m not Catholic. Or religious.” You state bluntly.

“My confessional is open to all who need to clear their heart and mind.” He doesn’t sound like he’s insisting, rather that he’s just patient. Waiting for you to finally crumble and agree to confess to something. You might as well. Just to let him leave you alone.

“Where do you want me to start?” You sigh dramatically, leaning back and getting comfortable. If he wanted a confession, you were going to waste his time a little.

“Perhaps the one that is weighing you down the most.” He instructs, amusement seeping in his accented voice. What was it? Russian?

You shrug. “Lusted over a married man, that’s a pretty big sin I suppose. Would you consider it a major sin, Father?” You start with the one you are sure he will question the most and then have you move on and leave. The idea of making the priest squirm amuses you, and you’re almost tempted to state that you lusted over a man of God to see what he’d say. Alas, you decide against it. He stays silent for a second.

“Did you tempt him?”

“God yeah.” You try not to act proud. “Worked too. That’s adultery, isn’t it? Or at least, tempting someone into adultery.”

“Did you enjoy it?” He sounds slightly conflicted. Good.

You can feel your body begin to melt and relax into the pew, shifting slightly as you start to grow warm, starting from your ankles, almost like a blanket has been placed over your feet. “Mhm.” Is all you can get out. “It was. Good. We didn’t regret it. It happened a few times, but. Neither of us regretted it.”

“Did the wife know?” You shrug.

“Dunno. Don’t care, to be honest.” Silence begins to tick over you as you wait for your dismissal. But it doesn’t come.

“Anything else you wish to confess before I give you your penance?” His voice is still soft, inviting. You go to groan as he speaks again. “You’re here, you might as well use this time wisely.”

Wisely. Yeah right. Your jaw clicks, taking the challenge as you start to ‘confess’ your many sins. Missing mass, as you’ve never been to mass since after your confirmation, using contraception as every good girl does, being envious of others, having bouts of extreme anger, the times you had sex with another girl, both taking the Lord’s name in vain and being blasphemous, your slightly excessive masturbation habit, every lie you could think of, how you left religion behind a long time ago, your impressive pornography collection. Every little thing becomes pettier and pettier as you try to get him to shut you up and leave, but instead, he just keeps asking question after question, digging deeper as if trying to figure out what to add to your penance. You even stooped so low to start telling him about the time you stole chocolate from your local supermarket when you were a toddler, and every pen, eraser, piece of candy, anything from anyone as a child, be it malicious or by accident. Your eyes look firmly in the space in front of you, a dark nothingness - didn’t they have candles or something to light up this incredibly dark room? -, but better than to see his face and how schooled it must be. That would frustrate you even more. He didn’t get annoyed, or frustrated, or anything. Eventually, however, he decided he didn’t want to play your game anymore. “Y/N, look at me.”

You are so busy with your revenge that you don’t feel your body slowly growing warmer and warmer, relaxing into the soft back of the confessional seat, voice growing softer as your eyes start to close. That one command to look at him has your eyes snapping open as you turn to look him in the eye.

They were glowing.

Wait a minute.

You didn’t tell him your name.

But that’s not the thing that’s concerning you now, your eyes beginning to bulge out of your head when you take in the sight before you.

Bright amber eyes encourage you to relax for him, obey him, trust in him, which didn’t concern you at this moment. No, what concerned you were the mass amount of tentacles that seemed to be coming out of his back, covering his back wall and crawling your way into your small cubicle. You see him smirk faintly at your realisation. “Relax, Y/N. Do not worry about them, malen'kiy. Focus on my voice instead.” He instructs quietly, and it almost works. Were it not for the cold jab in your gut when you realise. Something was moving over you.

You look down and let out a loud gasp of air, your body in so much shock a scream couldn’t form. Every inch of your part of the confessional was crawling with tentacles. They filled the walls, the floor and, to your horror, was the cushion between you and the hard, uncomfortable wood of the confessional chair. “I-”

“Shhh, malyshka, don’t stress yourself. They won’t harm you.” He sounds bemused as you start to squirm, finding your movement restricted. You struggle, and something seems to squeeze you until you stop.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Like a long, black snake, one of the tentacles had slowly wound its way up your legs, waist, hips and was slowly beginning to climb its way up to your torso and shoulders. “Dorogoy, relax.” He reminds you gently, voice inviting, warm. You relax as you feel the tentacle coil around you another time, slowly, gently.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. That was enough for you. You grab the doorframe, ignoring the tentacles now moving to hold you there, and you use it as leverage to pull yourself up and out of his grasp, slime from the one grasping onto you giving you enough leeway to climb out and into the cold of the stone church, tugging back on your hands until they are freed as you land on your back, scurrying back against the rough floor. You are freezing again and, when you look down, you realise that you had been worked out of your clothes, leaving you in just your bra and panties. You move to stand and rush towards the still slightly cracked open door when the other side of the confessional opens, tentacles that were once climbing out of the door you just lept from moving back into the shadows. Your blood turns to ice as you freeze in place as his loud footsteps echo through the room.

He’s huge.

Tall, dressed in the usual black slacks and shirt with the clerical collar that you’d expect all priests to wear, he was intimidating. The scar over one of his still bright and bemused amber eyes doing nothing to settle you as what seemed like countless, black, dripping, slimy tentacles came out from behind him, all constantly moving. You swallow, unable to move or think as you look at him. He couldn’t be human, a demon perhaps? But you thought no demon could ever set foot in a church?

“Ne boysya, ne begi, moy rebenok.” He speaks softly as the tentacles start to climb the floor directly towards your feet.

It was enough to break the spell. You stand up and bolt in the opposite direction, away from the door. Surely there was a back exit? You dash and, somehow, escape every grab attempt he makes at you as he calmly, slowly, follows you. He knows this church like the back of his hand, and he knows there is no escape for you. You trip over nothing, landing flat on the floor as something twists its way up your ankle and calf. Hot adrenaline kicks in and you kick back wildly until you are free and able to make another mad dash towards the back of the church.

Nothing.

Not a door, not even a window. A set of rickety-looking stairs. You look behind you and see his shadow slowly come into the doorway, his tentacles climbing the walls, ceiling, floor, slowly. As if searching for you. Another hot pump of adrenaline hits your body as you instantly run up the stairs, yelping when one gives way under your feet. You hear his chuckle, low and dark as he stands at the bottom of the stairwell, just staring up at you as you pull yourself up to the top stair. “Don’t hurt yourself, Y/N, ya predpochitayu, chtoby moi blyuda ostavalis' tselymi i nevredimymi, poka ya ne poluchu ikh v svoi ruki.” He purrs as his ever-moving appendages stop for a split second before rushing directly towards you.

You can’t help the scream that leaves your lips as you rush past the open door and slam it shut behind you, his loud laugh echoing into the room around you as you see the black, oozy tendrils, smaller than the main tentacles but still just as scary somehow, slowly make their way under the gaps of the door, slowly covering and dissolving the wood with their goo. Fuck. You need to keep running.

Up on the upper floor, there really wasn’t anything. A little nest of coats and blankets, obviously a makeshift bed, and a broken-down organ. You look over the edge as the door starts to shake, already on awful foundations, it won’t take long for it to break down. If you could just get downstairs and hide until he went searching for you, then you can make a run for the door. Your eyes scan what you had around you, knowing that if you jumped you’d probably break your neck on impact. Then you see it. A ladder. It looks old with the wood rotting, but it will suit your needs for now.

You rush over and start climbing down the ladder quickly, hitting the ground underneath the mezzanine just in time to hear the door break. Shit. No way you could make a run for the door now, even then beforehand your chances were slim. You remain well hidden from him as you plaster your back against the wall so as he looks over the church, not an inch of you or your shadow can be seen. He takes in a deep breath through his nose as you look for a hiding spot.

“I can smell your fear, zakuska.” He purrs. “It smells delicious.” You swallow as you continue to search before realising. The altar.

You lift the piece of fabric that reaches all the way to the ground and bite back a cry of success. There is a gap there big enough for you to hide. You smuggle your way in, unseen by the demon as you curl up and try to quieten and control your breathing.

His feet land heavily on the stone floor seconds later as he apparently grows tired of your game and jumps from the upper floor. You jolt when you realise he’s landed on the other side of the altar. Just stay quiet, and wait until he’s gone. Then you can run. Your stomach feels sick with nerves as you wait and listen to the demon’s footsteps as they fill the church. You don’t realise it yet, but he is pacing around the altar, smelling your scent and knowing exactly where you are hiding.

His low chuckle sounds even more ominous as it echoes around the empty church. “You can't hide from me now, roza. I grew up in this church, I know every inch of its cold walls, every shadow, every crack, every stone. Give up now, and I may just go easy on you.” He warns. You stay still. There is no way you are giving in to him, not now. Not ever. You’ll hide until you get the opportunity to run. “No? Alright then. Just remember, little one, you chose your fate.” He sounds tired as he says this and, before you know it, the cloth is pulled back and everything on it clatters to the ground and he is right there in front of you, sharp teeth gleaming as he stares at you. “Hello there roza. It appears that I’ve caught you.” He teases. Before you can even get a chance to move, you are dragged out into the air, warm vines sliding their way around your body and hoisting you into the air as they move to support your legs, arms, torso. Even one is so considerate to support your head. Higher and higher you go, them tightening as you struggle as if to keep you steady. “I wouldn’t continue that if I were you, Y/N.” He warns. “It wouldn’t be a pleasant landing if you do.” The threat is crystal clear. You fall, he won’t be catching you.

You go deadly still and try to bite back a sob. He caught you and now he has you. Suspended in the air in just your underwear, nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. You were his.

You don’t even register the tentacle pressing against your lips until it’s made its way into your mouth, tasting salty yet strangely sweet as it pushes into your mouth and down your throat, causing you to choke slightly. It pulls back to just before where you started to gag and tear up and slowly starts to pump a thick, almost syrupy liquid, causing you to gulp out of fear of drowning in the air. For a hot second, the idea of biting down to hurt him crosses your mind, but his threat rings again in your ear. You could faintly hear the splat of you falling to your death if you did something wrong in the back of your mind. So, you continue to drink whatever it was filling your system, not noticing how your once tense muscles start to relax into the hold of the black, leaking appendages or how your face is becoming flushed, eyes glazed, body slowly beginning to warm despite the cool air. All you can feel is the throb between your legs and just how empty you feel. You whine, the sound quiet with your mouth stretched open as you start to suck, hips beginning to buck against nothing. You need to be full, you need something inside of you. You start to claw at your little clothing, even that’s too much of a barrier. You need to be full, to be touched, to be fucked. You can feel the demon’s amusement under you as he slowly starts to help, tendrils moving to tug down at your panties as others unhook and slide off your bra, leaving you bare as you continue to ride against nothing. You are already wet down to your knees, slick just dripping from your already sopping wet sex just from being given a little dose of….whatever it was he was feeding you.

You don’t even realise you’ve been lowered onto the altar until the cold marble was pressed against your skin, two large, cool hands tugging your knees apart so amber eyes could look down over you. His hair is a dark green mixed with magenta whereas before, you swore it was just green or black with a trick of the light changing its colour. What did that mean?

It didn’t matter now, all that mattered was being full. You whine pitifully as you jerk your hips up, coaxing him to at least slide a finger into you to relieve the pressure. He snickers at your desperate attempts for help before one of the thinner tentacles moves to press against your entrance, entering maybe an inch before withdrawing teasingly before finally, it pushes in slowly, confidently, until it’s pressing against your cervix. You clench around him, moaning softly as he stares down at you, the rims of his eyes slowly turning a matching magenta colour. Was he staring down at you hungrily or adoringly? Fuck it, you don’t care at this moment.

You grind up at him, babbling nonsense from your still full mouth as you try to beg for more. He tuts, taking pity on you as the tentacle inside of you begins to expand, slowly filling and stretching you out as you shudder around him. You felt so full, it felt perfect. All you needed. You rotate your hips, encouraging him to move, goddamnit, letting out a small whine as you feel him slowly pull out only to thrust back in, the movement bouncing you up the altar slightly. Fuck. You are sure nothing has ever felt so good in your entire life. It’s not long before the tentacle down your throat and the one in your pussy start to move in tandem, you being helpless to do anything but just suck and clench and cling on for dear life as you feel yourself go higher and higher, right to the very brink. Like waves crashing against a cliff, so does your orgasm in that moment, wave after wave hitting you as you cry out around the appendage in your mouth, clenching around the one inside of you as you jolt up as white-hot pleasure washes over you again and again.

Your hips twitch lazily as you feel the heat that bubbled over slowly return to its previously itching warmth. That couldn’t be the end of it, right? Surely not. You need more. More, more, more, more.

“Oh, malen'kaya zakuska,” his growl sends shivers up your spine as you feel his nails dig into your skin, leaving large crescent-shaped welts in their wake, “this is far from over.”

You whine as you start to feel the feelers inside of you start to move again, this time more roughly if at all possible. It wasn’t enough, why did you feel so empty? It’s not until you feel something small probe at your ass that you realise what you were missing. Yes.

The tendril pushes in slightly, just the tip slipping inside of you before a small gush of something hot, wet and sticky floods you. Then, slowly, almost gently, it starts to fill you, just enough that you’ll feel completely full once it’s finished. Slowly, it starts to grow and expand, thickening as it stretches you out, sating the heat inside your belly as well as making it erupt into an inferno as your blood boils, eyes rolling back as your ass joins in the brutal fucking. You barely have the energy to move, using what little energy you have left to babble out the words ‘please’ and ‘Father’ over and over, muffled with your mouth full, your arms and legs laying limp, dangling off the altar as your toes curl every time he hits a spot deep inside of you that causes electricity to course through your veins, each time a loud grunt falls from your lips, echoing in the room. You can hear his deep laugh and feel his amusement roll off of him in waves as he continues to fuck you nice and deep, everything moving almost inhumanely fast, your brain barely able to keep up.

Your body still sensitive from your last orgasm, it doesn’t take long for another to wash over you, more powerful than the last, your entire body shaking as you feel your slick slowly slide down your thighs and the ornate table under you before audibly dripping onto the floor right next to the priest’s feet. Your body tenses, it feels like you have been set on fire as your body is engulfed once again in a white-hot blaze as a hoarse scream leaves your throat, hands curling into fists before your body slowly relaxes again, feeling boneless and like you’re made of jelly, you try to catch your breath.

It still wasn’t enough.

The Father’s hands move from your hips to beside your face, caging you in against him, the look in his eyes positively feral as he takes in your fucked out frame, glazed eyes and mindless, dopey smile. He purrs as the tentacle inside your cunt slowly slips out, his grin widening when you protest weakly. “Shh, malen'kiy, I’m not through with you yet.” He growls lowly. You feel the head of his cock brush between your folds, collecting your slick as he prepares himself. He feels huge, like nothing you’ve ever had inside of you before. If you weren’t so high on endorphins and whatever he had pumped into you, you’d be frightened. But now? You crave it.

Your hips tilt upwards slightly for a bare second before slamming back against the stone of the altar. A clear invitation. Fuck me.

Slowly, he pushes inside of you, the mass of tentacles from his back beginning to slide up the sides of the altar and over your body as he does so. It feels like an eternity before he bottoms out, feeling stretched to the absolute limit, as you cry out loudly. Finally. It feels right. You feel absolutely perfect with him inside of you, the Goldilocks Zone, not too big, not too small. Just right. You could finally settle.

Unfortunately, the priest has other plans. It feels like he is waiting for you to adjust, but you feel a smaller, thinner tendril slowly wrap around his cock as he sits inside of you, slowly making it become almost ribbed in texture. At the same time, you feel something else slide into your mouth, another tentacle of the same size as the one currently occupying your throat, twirling with its twin as it does so and yet another, albeit smaller, one probe at your ass, slowly sliding into you without hesitation, ready to join in the fun. You can feel two slowly trail up your stomach and twist around your breasts once, twice, enough to squeeze them roughly as the tips open up to cover over your nipples and start sucking away gently. Finally, one more tendril, smaller than all the rest, moves to flick at your clit, causing your head to slam back as it causes a near painful jolt through your system. The priest chuckles, his hand moving to rub at the back of your head tenderly, making sure you haven’t hurt yourself before it returns to its previous position. “Ready, roza?” He asks softly, eyes watching yours for any notion of approval for him to continue.

You nod, slightly confused by his sudden gentle demeanour. His wicked smile returns, his hips rolling against yours as he groans lowly as he takes in just out tight and warm you are, in comparison to his cool body. “Fuck, malyshka, you take me so well.” He growls as you moan around the appendages stretching out your throat, the tendril around his cock dragging against your walls deliciously. Slowly, but surely, every growth out of his back moves in tandem, the ones in your ass withdrawing when his cock enters you and pushing deep inside you when he pulls out, leaving just the tip inside. Your tits being squeezed and sucked at every time the tentacles in your throat pulls back, only to relax when they advance forward again. The small one on your clit, however, never lets up. Each little flick causes you to buck up as you just try to hold on for the ride, eyes never leaving the priest’s in front of you as he stares down at you possessively, little growls leaving him every so often.

Eventually, every thrust up into you causes loud noises to leave your body, barely able to keep up you just accept what is given to you as your body tenses, ready to be taken over that abyss once more. Your mouth goes slack, drool pooling in your mouth before slowly dripping out, leaving your checks wet in its wake. Something about the sight of you amuses the Father as he laughs his low, rumbly laugh as he looks down at you. “I think I’ll keep you. Kak ugoshcheniye. My own little toy to chase down and play with and fuck. What do you think about that, moya milaya malen'kaya blyad'?” When you don’t answer with words but with a pleading whine, his grin grows to an almost unnatural size, white teeth glinting in the faint light the candles around you provide. “Oh, how could I ever give such a pretty little thing like you up?” He purrs, his face moving down to press small kisses against your neck as you turn your head to the side, baring it openly for him. Something about that he apparently approved of, as suddenly his teeth are pressing down into your skin, a barely audible ‘mine’ vibrating against your skin before he slowly starts to suck, marking you. “Oh, I am definitely going to keep you, little Y/N.” He purrs happily, his thrusts becoming harsher and faster by the second.

It takes a few more flicks of your clit, and you definitely had been right on the brink since your last orgasm, before your entire body almost seizes as the near painful experience of you coming and coming and coming around him begins. A barely-there cry rips from your throat, you only just able to piece together the Father’s loud grunt before he’s spilling inside of you, on you, marking you. You were his. In every way possible.

You don’t so much as come down from your high as slam into darkness for a few seconds as your body twitches as the sensation of overstimulation begins to wrack through you. You are barely able to piece together the sensation of everything slowly pulling out of you and being collected into the priest’s arms, a warmed, too big coat wrapped around as he starts to walk towards the front door slowly. Your ears barely hear his voice, now soft and caring, as he talks to you in a gentle, loving tone. “-ika. Settle now, I've got you.”

You faintly recognise getting into a warmed car and it taking off before you start to fidget and whine loudly. “Empty.” You complain. After what felt like hours of being, if anything, too full to quickly being completely empty? No, no you needed something inside of you.

The priest tries to shush you before a small chuckle falls from his lips when he realises all attempts will end in vain. He carefully repositions you, sliding you down his rehardened cock with ease as it becomes your time to purr, resting your head against the crook of his neck as his hands move to rub your back and sides. “Rest now, moya lyubov'.” He instructs. And it’s an easy command to obey as you fall asleep, sitting in his lap with his cock inside of you as you are driven home.

You wake up to the sensation of someone rubbing some form of oil against your skin, the sound of a heavily accented voice murmuring small praises to you as you slowly regain awareness. You hiss at the feeling of coldness between your thighs, an ice pack having been pressed up against your pussy in order to help with the inevitable swelling that was going to occur after the beating it had been given. Your eyes flutter open and instantly make contact with the concerned amber ones of Zhuk’s. “Hey.” You say, voice a little hoarse from sleep, overuse and the throat fucking it endured.

“Hello, roza.” He says with a small smile, leaning over to grab the glass of water for you as you sit up slightly in order to sip at it. You fall back to the bed with a small grunt when your arms give out.

“Thank you.” You say, your lips quirked up into a small grin.

Several months ago, the two of you had found an abandoned town a few hours away from the manor, including a crumbly, old, haunted-looking church and a very grouchy man who lived in a house on the outskirts of town, the only resident who was determined to stay there until he died. Two weeks later, after you, Bajo and Cia ended up getting a little too into the alcohol, as Zhuk carried your ass to bed, getting everything ready for the inevitable hangover in the morning, you told him about a fantasy you had since pretty much the onset of puberty.

“I want to get fucked in a church.” You stated bluntly, his lips twitching as he tries to hold back the amused look in his face. “I blame Catholic school. I spent too much time in Mass. I wanted there to be a demon priest who could fuck me brainless.” You declared. “With tentacles.” You added as an afterthought, turning to look at your husband with wide eyes. “Snuggles?”

He obliged, placing the asprin and water bottle on your bedside table before sliding into bed behind you, pulling you into his arms as you snuggled up. “What brought this confession on, moya zhena?” He asked, hand moving instantly to play with your hair as you wrap your arms around his chest.

You hummed. “The town we passed when you made the wrong turn.” You yawned, struggling to finish your sentence. “Brought it back to life because the church there looked hella haunted. Like a demon should live there.”

Zhuk went to ask more questions, but your gentle snores made it apparent that anything asked wasn’t going to be answered.

After that, plans were made. Zhuk was all too happy to fulfil your little fantasy, even going so far to offer to hypnotise you in order to make it feel more real and less like a scene. Everything was planned down to a T, with him promising to create a cheat so if you really were in distress and wished for the scene to end, the hypnosis would break and you could safeword out.

And it worked brilliantly.

Zhuk smiles as he looks down at you softly, hand moving to brush your hair back as he constantly scans your body for more bruises, more scratches, more cuts. Anything that needed attending to, and to make sure that he didn’t hurt you too badly. “Anything for you, kotenok.” He says, voice quiet as he slowly picks you up and pulls you into his arms and lap. “You did so well, took everything I had to give and were so beautiful whilst doing it.” He presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “Do you feel alright, little one?” He asks concern still very much apparent in his voice. You nod a little jerkily.

“Just tired.” You say with a fucked out grin. You feel incredible, and you wanted to ride this high for as long as possible. “Hold me?”

“Of course.”

A few seconds tick by as he moves to lay down on the bed, you in his lap as his fingers trace loose patterns on your skin. A thought was hammering his head and it was refusing to move on.

“Roza….” he starts hesitantly, knowing that under the hypnosis he gave you, anything you said had a basis of truth in it, “was I the married man you lusted over?”

You snort a small noise as your eyes flicker up to look at him, your body beginning to slowly relax as it prepares for sleep. “Duh.” You say, amusement sparkling in your eyes.

That does not help the confusion clouding Zhuk’s mind. “I married you, moya zhena.” He reminds as if you could have forgotten.

You nod as if to agree with his statement, secretly enjoying the baffled look on his face as he tries to follow your logic. “I know. I still lusted and lust over you though.” You say, grinning up at him.

His confusion leaks into amusement, a fond look taking over his face. “Y/N, I don’t think it counts if you are married to the person.” He corrects you gently, hands moving from tracing patterns on your skin to rest on your waist.

You shrug. “You never know. Could work like that. Who’s to say?” You tease him, voice playful before you yawn against his chest.

He shakes his head, moving down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead. “Go to sleep, moya lyubov'.”

Even if the fatigue wasn’t seeping into your bones, you wouldn’t be able to help but obey as you slowly fall into a peaceful slumber in your husband’s arms.

Translations (In Order):

Don't be scared, don't run, my child.

I prefer my meals to remain unharmed until I get my hands on them.

As a treat. 

-my lovely little fucktoy?

[thecatprince]

Stages and Stars

First | Previous | Next

Read on AO3

Pairings: Eventual Prinxiety, Eventual Logicality

Summary: Roman waits anxiously to know if he got a part in the local play.

Warnings: None

Authors Notes: Hi I am not dead!! Sorry for the wait for this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it! Also ignore any mistakes I may make in the future concerning the show Wicked, I have no idea why I chose it because I know next to nothing about it and should’ve probably gone with a show I am more familiar with but here we are!

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Chapter Five - Roman’s Success

Roman stared at his laptop, constantly refreshing his emails, bouncing his leg to try and calm himself down. He was waiting to know whether or not he got into the community musical.

Despite his confidence in his acting he was feeling uncertain about getting in. Virgil kept glancing over at him as he sipped his coffee, but Roman ignored him. Logan was in his room, reading most likely or working on some top secret project or whatever he was hiding. He had been surprisingly protective about people going into his room. Patton had once almost gone in as he was cleaning up the apartment to drop some books of Logan’s off and Logan almost tackled Patton away. No one was interested in going into Logan’s room after that, although Roman was exceedingly curious to know what Logan was hiding.

Patton was humming and dancing around the kitchen as he baked. He was almost constantly baking, and while Roman wasn’t complaining because the smell was heavenly and the results were delicious, he did wonder how Patton could do it day in day out. Roman got bored after a couple of minutes. Cooking on the other hand Roman enjoyed. He was able to taste as he went and add his own flair. Baking you had to measure everything out and if it wasn’t exact then it messed the whole thing up. But everything Patton made was delicious and his baking brought a sense of warmth and homeliness to the apartment, and made Patton happy, so Roman didn’t really have a problem with it.

Roman stared at the screen, which still hadn’t shown any new emails. He didn’t notice his leg bouncing was causing the whole table to shake until Virgil’s coffee splashed him. “Hey Princey, chill out, you’re causing my coffee to spill,” Virgil said, his tone half playful half serious. Roman took a deep breath and moved to lie on the couch. He picked up the book he was reading and opened it, but he couldn’t focus enough to take in the words. He sighed, put the book down and stared out the window. The sky was a solid grey, and the trees shook in the wind. It looked how Roman felt, bleak and cold, the nerves and excitement churning in his stomach. He needed a distraction.

Roman stood up and went into his room. He usually read when he needed to be distracted, but his emotions were too overwhelming to fully concentrate on reading words on a page. He popped on headphones and turned on his music. The familiar tunes of his favourite musicals surrounded him, and he began to clean his room. Roman always struggled with wanting to be able to control his life, which created so many problems for him given how out of control his life always seemed to be.

Roman made his bed, smoothing out the sheets and piling the plethora of blankets he slept under on top. He picked the clothes off of his floor and chucked them in a basket to be put in the wash later. He cleared his desk/vanity (he really needed a better space to do his makeup) and then sat down in front of his bookshelf. He took all of the books off of it, and then started to reorganise them. He didn’t really have a theme for his books, he just put them wherever felt right, as long as series and authors went together. Many of his books where slightly tattered from all of the times Roman had read them, while other newer books were in a bit better condition. It wasn’t that Roman didn’t take care of his books, for he did, he just liked to read as much as possible, on the train, on the beach, while eating, and so as a result his books just got a little more wear and tear than perhaps a casual readers books. Also Roman loved to reread books he loved, which meant that certain books looked a little more worse for wear than others.

One particularly battered book was his copy of Anne of Green Gables. The book was a small paperback, with the original text and an illustrated cover, depicting a redheaded girl clutching a book to her chest in front of a large white and green house. The spine was all bent, and one of the corners of the cover had come off completely, exposing the pages behind it. The pages themselves looked a little water damaged, but the main text of the book was largely unharmed. It was one of Roman’s absolute favourite books, the one he read for comfort, so much so that he could basically recite portions of it.

He wasn’t sure why he loved the book so much. It could be the way it was written, with a classic early twentieth century style that made everything sound oh so wonderful. It could be the endearing character of Anne, a talkative imaginative girl, who seemed to strike a note in the hearts of those around her, and who Roman found a portion of himself reflected in. It could be the delightful nature of the story, the little adventures and accidents that Anne found herself in. Whatever it was, the book brought great comfort to Roman, who had spent many days of his childhood holed up in his room, devouring this book again and again. It provided as much comfort to him as a childhood toy or a blanket.

With his bookshelf reorganised, his mind was once again free to wander back to the musical. He needed a role in this so badly, so much it hurt. He needed them to like him, needed them to notice him, because if they didn’t then… then… it didn’t matter what happened as long as it didn’t happen. He just needed to get a part in the play and then everything will be fine.

He sat on his floor for a couple of minutes, tired from the tidying, and just stared at his bookshelf, admiring his large collection of books. A knock on the door broke him out of his stupor, and a voice followed.

“Hey Princey, you have an email.”

Roman shot up, quickly opened the door and ran right into Virgil who was standing right outside his room, causing both of them to go crashing to the ground. Roman flushed, embarrassed, and quickly got off of Virgil, offering his hand to help him up. Virgil brushed him off, and got up himself, wincing slightly as he did so.

“Sorry,” Roman said sheepishly. Virgil shrugged, appearing rather nonchalant about the whole ordeal, though he still moved rather tenderly.

“Just go read that stupid email.” Roman nodded and ran over to his laptop, thankfully not bumping into anyone else on the way. He opened the email, and read through it as quickly as he could, then reread it because he didn’t actually take anything in the first time.

“HEY PAT I GOT IN!!” Roman yelled, jumping up and down in excitement. Patton ran over, dusting the flour off his hands with his apron. “And as Fiyero Tiggelaar no less,” Roman exclaimed dramatically, striking an extravagant pose. “That’s one of the lead male roles,” he added after seeing Patton’s confused face.

“Congratulations Roman! I am sure you will do a great job!” Patton said, clapping his hands. Virgil on the other hand, snorted and crossed his arms, looking at Roman with amusement. Roman glared at him. “What are you laughing at, Emo Nightmare?” “Nothing, just that stupid pose. And you have already used that nickname. Congrats Princey. Though maybe next time don’t knock me over.”

Roman gave a rather haughty look, but let it go. “Thank you… I think. And there is nothing wrong with this pose or my nicknames, JD-lightful. And… uh… sorry about that.”

Virgil shrugged. “It’s chill. You only broke a couple of ribs, nothing major.” Virgil said playfully. Roman noticed a glint in his eye and was about to respond with a clever remark, but was distracted by Logan finally emerging from his room.

“What is all this noise about?”

“Roman got a part in the show the local theatre group is doing!” Patton said excitedly.

“Well congratulations Roman, but could you all please keep the noise down? I am trying to read.”

“Sorry Logan but no can do! I was born for the stage and I must make my achievements heard!”

“Hey Logan, while you are out here would you like have some of these peanut butter cookies I just made. We can have them in celebration of Roman’s success!”

Logan sighed, but smiled at the offer. Roman smiled at Patton, who went over to the bench and brought over a tray of cookies that had just come out the oven.

“You know, I knew a friend who was in a theatre production about English Language Puns,” Patton said as he passed the tray around.

“Were they? How interesting,” Logan commented as he took a cookie.

“Oh yes. It was a play on words!” Patton gave a little giggle at his pun. Logan looked unimpressed, but he smiled a little as he bit into his cookie.

“I also knew an actor who fell through the floor.”

“Were they alright?” Logan asked, cautious of the direction this was going.

“Don’t worry, it was just a stage he was going through!” This was met with hearty laughs from Roman, sighs from Logan and amused looks from Virgil.

“Well thank you for the cookies, Patton, they are quite delicious!” Roman declared, kicking his feet up on the chair next to him.

“It’s no problem! Congratulations on the part! Or should I say, congrat-shoe-lations!” When this was met with no response Patton continued. “You know, the silver shoes that Dorothy finds, belonging to the Wicked Witch of the East… who is also a witch of Oz like the Wicked Witch of the West… never mind.”

“It was a horrible pun but a valiant effort, Patton,” Roman said, smiling. “And now I must be off. I need to go down to the library to return some well over due books. Gosh those fines are expensive.”

“Wait Roman before you go can you return some books for me too?” Logan asked, running into his room and returning with a couple of books. Roman nodded, putting them in his bag before dashing out the door.

“Well, those two seem to be getting along,” Virgil murmured as Logan went back into his room.

“They sure are,” Patton said, a weird look on his face, but before Virgil had any time to decipher what that look meant it was gone, and Patton was smiling once more, leaving Virgil to wonder if he had imagined it.

--- 

What is wrong with Patton? What is Logan hiding? Is it important? Only time will tell....

Let me know what you thought of this chapter!!

Tag List - send me an ask if you want to added or removed!

@patton-cake @alias290

[omgrachwrites]

Schooled (Bucky Barnes)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OC

Summary: After the passing of Ava’s father she starts acting out which drives her right into the arms of one gorgeous Professor Barnes.

Warnings: fluff, lil bit of angst, mentions of dr*gs

Words: 2260

A/N: Can you guys believe I’ve posted twice in one week?! I don’t think I’ve ever typed the word ‘Shakespeare’ so many times and on Shakespeare day as well, its pretty fitting! I hope you guys all enjoy this, please let me know what you think and if you would like to be tagged just shoot me an ask! I love you guys very much! xxx

Part Four - Halloween

Bucky sighed to himself as again he marked another unsatisfactory essay, he couldn’t believe those essays were written by the students in his class. The first few were okay but barely, the next couple had just been plain rubbish and the essay that he had marked before this one was downright plagiarised. He looked up at his students who were working on their projects with the exception of Ava and Loki; they were passing notes to one another. Bucky thought that he should say something but he didn’t want to single out Ava. Again. He remembered how embarrassing that was from his own college days.

He raked a hand through his fluffy hair as he looked back down at the pile of essays that he should have marked weeks ago. Now was the perfect time to get the marking done before the work load piled up. Turning over the top essay he saw that it was another one on Shakespeare. He was pissed off with himself, why the hell did he put Shakespeare on the syllabus? The last essay he had marked on Shakespeare there was an author’s note at the bottom of the page, explaining why they thought that Shakespeare was a ‘cool guy’.

Bucky was sure that being a ‘cool guy’ wasn’t very high on Shakespeare’s list of what he wanted to leave behind. Massaging his temples, Bucky looked at the name that was at the top of the essay and saw that Loki had written it. Loki had transferred from Cambridge with a glowing recommendation and now it was Bucky’s chance to see if he lived up to his expectations.

From the first paragraph of the essay Bucky was hooked, it was probably one of the most engaging essays that he’d read about Shakespeare. It was plainly obvious that Loki was passionate about Shakespeare and that was what Bucky wanted in a student, somebody with a bit of passion. By the time that Bucky had reached the end of the essay it was obvious that this was the highest mark on a paper so far. It was so good that Bucky would have even allowed an author’s note about how cool Shakespeare was and it would have even made him laugh.

“Mr Odinson,” Bucky started and Loki looked up with wide eyes, Ava also looked up at him, “I really enjoyed your essay about Shakespeare, it’s the best one I’ve read in a while.”

Loki looked slightly confused and hesitant but he smiled all the same, “well, thank you very much sir,” Ava nudged Loki’s arm and gave him the most dazzling smile that Bucky had to look away.

“Right guys and gals, get going and please enjoy your weekend. Next time we’ll be picking up Shakespeare, Hamlet to be exact,” his announcement was met by an influx of groans but Loki looked excited, “oh, don’t sound so glum, according to Mr Owens, William Shakespeare was a cool guy,” he grinned and there came a whoop of agreement.

“Yes! Right on sir!” Bucky laughed and dismissed the class; Ava shot him a faint smile on her way out.

As Ava walked out, Steve was walking in and did a double take when he saw Ava, “wait, what the fuck?” Steve mouthed and he backtracked himself into the hallway.

Groaning, Bucky stood up and followed his friend out of the lecture hall, “Steve come on! Don’t,” Bucky pleaded but it was too late.

“Ava?” Steve called out, way to keep a low profile Bucky thought, Ava turned around at the mention of her name.

“Steve? Is that you?” she laughed and narrowed her eyes, “I’d ask what you’re doing here but obviously by the look of those shorts you’re the gym coach,” she gestured at his outfit, causing Steve’s ears to go red, “is Sam here too? Maybe we could have ourselves a lovely little reunion,” she rolled her eyes at Bucky.

“I thought that you had graduated university,” Steve said slowly, pointing out the obvious and he looked from Ava to Bucky and Bucky shrugged nonchalantly.

“Yeah Steve, so did I, I mean that is what you told us right Ava? Or at least that’s what you implied,” Bucky knew that he was acting like a child but it was hard for him not to feel offended. Especially when she looked so beautiful in ripped blue jeans and an oversized green sweater.

“Oh my god Bucky, all I did was lie to you! I didn’t realise that it was a crime, maybe your pretty face kept you safe from women lying to you but we’ve all got to start somewhere,” she walked up to him, “so please, stop treating me like a fucking war criminal, alright?” she snarled, jabbing him in the chest.

This girl certainly was a far cry from the woman that he’d met in Greece, “it was good to see you though Steve, really it was,” she looked around the corridor to make sure no one was coming before she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed Steve’s cheek. She shot an angry look at Bucky as she walked off down the hallway.

Steve looked amused and was about to say something but Bucky shot him a venomous look that made him shut up. Bucky sighed and the two best friends walked off down the hallway together and into the car park.

“So,” Steve started, deigning it safe to speak as they squeezed themselves into Steve’s tiny vintage car, “tough break huh, where do you want to go for lunch?”

Bucky was starting to get a migraine from all the marking he had done and the frustrating encounter that he’d had with Ava in the hallway, “yes Steve, it is a tough break, I must have been especially wicked in a past life to deserve this, and honestly, I don’t mind. As long as they sell Irish coffee, I need some sort of alcohol,” he sighed, rubbing his temples.

Steve nodded as he started the car and when he spoke, his voice sounded a little weird and high pitched, “I know the perfect place, I’ll call Sam on the way and see if he’s free to meet us.”

About ten minutes later Steve was pulling up outside a little café, it was absolutely packed inside so Steve and Bucky sat outside – it was a pretty nice day – to wait for Sam. When Sam turned up there were a group of girls that giggled and swooned at Sam as he walked to Steve and Bucky’s table, he was still in his firefighter uniform. Bucky rolled his eyes and grinned as Sam sat down opposite him, he couldn’t see why Sam just couldn’t get changed into regular clothes before he came out on his lunch break.

“Sam, you could have at least gotten changed, you’re making the rest of us look bad,” Bucky chuckled and Sam shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sorry Buck, I just can’t help it if the ladies love me,” Sam winked, “how are you and that incredibly hot TA?”

Bucky shrugged, shaking his head as he nervously began to rip up the napkin that was in front of him, “that incredibly hot TA and I can be nothing but good bed mates,” Sam was saved from replying because at that moment the waiter came to their table to take their order.

“Just three coffees please man,” Sam said to the kid who nodded and scrawled it down in his notebook.

“Make one Irish,” Bucky smiled and turned to look at Steve who looked crestfallen which was pretty out of character, he was staring at his shoes. Bucky was about to ask him what the matter was but a lightbulb went on in his head and he smirked, “oh my god. It’s here isn’t it? She works here,” at Bucky’s words Steve’s head whipped up and a dark flush spread out across his cheeks which confirmed Bucky’s suspicions.

“Who works here?” Sam frowned, on the wrong page from everybody else and Steve gave Bucky a threatening look which Bucky promptly ignored.

“The girl he’s got a crush on, I hear she’s an English beauty,” Bucky chuckled and clapped Steve on the shoulder, “I just can’t understand why you won’t ask her out.”

Steve looked at his best friend like he’d just suggested the most outrageous plan, “what the hell are you talking about Buck? I can’t just ask her out, a woman as beautiful as her must have a boyfriend. She could do a lot better than me anyhow,” Steve shrugged, he’d been nervous around girls ever since high school.

“Seriously man, our local bar is throwing an early Halloween party tonight. How about you invite her to that?” Sam suggested reasonably and Steve rolled his eyes shaking his head.

“It’s three weeks till Halloween; it’s completely ridiculous celebrating it this early!”

“Yeah, that wasn’t really my point,” Sam sighed, “but never mind,” Steve fell silent almost instantly when their coffees were brought out.

They were brought out by a pretty woman with short dark hair and by the look on Steve’s face this was the woman that he’d been lusting after. Steve was hopeless when he was around women that he liked, that was made plainly obvious as Steve wouldn’t say a word to the waitress when she came outside to collect cups and plates. She even smiled at him once which caused Steve to completely lose his head and spill coffee all down himself. When Steve went to the restroom Buck wrote Steve’s name and number down on the bill.

“He’ll thank me one day,” Bucky said to a smirking Sam.

——————————–

Ava walked out of her room, her heels clacking on the hardwood floor and she stood in front of Loki, turning on the spot, “what do you think about my sort of costume?” she giggled, she was going to an early Halloween party with Wanda and MJ tonight. She had decided to go as a princess but she made her outfit casual so it could be seen as normal party attire.

Loki leaned back on the couch, raising an eyebrow appreciatively as he looked her up and down, “you look fantastic.”

Ava giggled and flushed slightly at the compliment, “are you sure that you won’t come? It won’t be the same without you.”

“I might come later on but if I don’t, have a wonderful night love and stay safe,” he smiled and Ava nodded, blowing him a kiss before she headed out of the door.

Ava met MJ and Wanda at the bar and Wanda held up a sandwich bag with cookies in the shape of ghosts inside, “they’ve got pot in them,” she giggled, during the first three weeks of their final year Wanda had taken up a new hobby, “senior year of college is fantastic!”

“Maybe later Wand,” Ava giggled, shaking her head, “do you girls want some cocktails then?”

Soon enough the three girls – after one too many cocktails – were dancing in the middle of the room, drinks in hand. They’d also had a little nibble of Wanda’s homemade pot cookies but they weren’t really giving any effects at the moment.

“I still can’t believe that Bucky is your goddamn professor!” MJ shouted down Ava’s ear as she sucked her iced cocktail off the stirrer. Ava giggled, playing with the ends of her hair, not getting a chance to reply as Wanda spoke up.

“Are you going to start sleeping with him again though?” she asked and Ava shook her head, too much had happened between them.

“No, I’ll get us some more cocktails shall I?” she didn’t wait for an answer before she walked over to the bar, desperately wanting to get away from the conversation. While she was at the bar she felt a hand on the small of her back, she turned to see that it was Loki. He looked so handsome. He’d sprayed his curly blonde hair black and he was dressed in Victorian attire.

“Loki! You came!” she giggled and gave him a hug; he chuckled as he kissed the top of her head.

“Are you drunk?” he asked.

“Loki,” she gasped playfully, “however did you guess?”

“Well Miss Stark, your cheeks are perfectly rosy from the liquor and you look undeniably beautiful,” Ava giggled at his words and gave the gorgeous boy another hug. Over his shoulder she saw Steve – with a beautiful woman – Sam and Bucky. Bucky had some beautiful blonde perched on his knee. Despite herself, Ava couldn’t look away.

Loki pulled away from the hug and followed Ava’s line of sight, “ah, do you fancy Professor Barnes?“ he smirked.

“Something like that,” Ava thought there was no point in lying about it; she was still attracted to Bucky.

“And, he’s looking this way, how about we give him a show?” he winked and Ava nodded, wondering what he could mean.

In a flash Loki had her in his arms, leaning her back slightly, “I hope this doesn’t make things awkward between us,” he murmured before kissing her. She was pleasantly surprised but only for a second before she kissed him back, running her fingers through his thick curls. Loki grunted into the kiss as Ava pushed up against him before pulling away and the pair turned to look at Bucky.

The woman was now sitting beside him instead of on his knee and he was looking at Ava and Loki with a mingled look of amusement and perhaps something else, Ava couldn’t be entirely sure.

——————————–

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[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Dying on PLA (Pure Love Alliance)

This post was written by a former BC who questioned an authority figure on PLA and experience life-threatening consequences.

I’ll start with this: the moment I was dying was when I felt my soul sinking into the ground during the PLA 2000 tour, in a lavish town house owned by The Unification Church in Kensington, one of the most expensive neighborhoods in London, UK. I was 16 when this all happened. For some reason, my soul wasn’t rising as you might imagine when people die, probably because it was too tired, instead, it sank. I was in a sleeping bag and surrounded by 300 other kids all in sleeping bags, lined up like goods in the grocery store with little room to walk. Asleep, I slowly realized that I was sinking through my sleeping bag, past my body, into the oriental rug and through hardwood floor, deep into the ground, creeping further and further below the foundation of the building. So I knew I was dying—but I didn’t feel the least bit sad or upset. In fact I was relieved—even ecstatic. It meant that the torment from my supposed fellow BCs would be over, that this pain from the infection raging through my body that left my neck, arms, wrists wrapped in puss filled bandages, and my body so fatigued (so. fatigued.) would be over. The ground felt cool, and was getting colder, and it was really actually quite refreshing.

How great would that be to not have to wake up? Who cares if these people found a dead girl in her sleeping bag in the morning. Good for them. They might be surprised but they’d get to spin some fantastic story about my soul paying indemnity for the crimes that my Japanese ancestors committed against the Koreans; that’s apparently how they were explaining my mysterious illness to friends— an illness that had my upper body oozing a relentless and embarrassing flow of thick yellow puss, that had me changing my bandages every hour if I had the energy and a clean bandage on me. I found out that this story was making the rounds through the 300 or so BCs who were also on that tour. Before that, someone who I went to summer camp with for years, actually asked nonplussed, if I was currently struggling with Satan. Another story that others hinted to was that I was fallen. Writer’s note: At that point in time, like many of you, I had not so much as held a boy’s hand, let alone kissed anyone, made out and definitely never lost my virginity. I was precocious, spirited, ballsy—like any teenager trying to find humor in strange places. Most things I did was for the sake of a good laugh. But I was in my heart a total straight arrow, and I believed in the church, seriously, like the best or worst of them.

On this trip, there were also elders who took me aside from the group dinners and recounted the amazing stories about my dad and what a great guy he was at the religious seminary, the New Yorker Hotel, Belvedere, etc. And then they would say; Why would you disappoint him so horribly?

I wouldn’t know exactly how much I was disappointing him because I was never allowed to call him or my mom, or make any phone calls for that matter. I was being guarded 24/7, my passport was locked up, I wasn’t allowed to sleep much (I would be kept up later and woken up earlier than the others), nor take showers, which caused, what I would later find to be a trio of life-threatening infections coursing through my body. I had a very different experience from other BCs who were free to eat, shower, and sleep.

When I felt like my soul must have been half a mile below ground. I stopped, because this was it. Then I felt something big—bigger than me, bigger than everything and everyone around me, pulling me up with the utmost urgency, and I knew that this big thing gave a damn— even if I didn’t. I snapped back to my body with a whiplash that woke me up, panting, freaking out. Even if I didn’t care to live (and I really didn’t), even if these 300 other people around me, even if my religion didn’t care, God, the universe, this force, without a doubt, cared violently. This is when I realized that God did not move exclusively through organized religion, he/it moves and vibrates in anything, in everything. So my direct relationship with this force was felt for the first time under those floorboards, separate from and despite the machinations of my religion.

I immediately woke up and saw in the reflection of this gigantic ornate gold mirror on the wall opposite me, what looked like at least 20-30 white, blue glowing shadows, all very tall, standing around me and the dozens of sleeping BCs around me. Who they were, I’m not sure, I was delirious, and more importantly I was terrified that I had almost died, and so willingly. I couldn’t go back to sleep. But now I had a fire in my stomach, to get through this alive and a rabid indignity against those who’d put me in this position, including myself. I would do right by the universe, by God, by surviving this.

I got here by making the mistake of questioning the director of the PLA on the modus operandi of the Pure Love Alliance, on Day 1 of the tour. My fellow BCs didn’t make the mistake of vocalizing the inconsistencies in the logic of posing as a non-denominational group when we were 99% BCs, they didn’t stand up for the not even 1 percent non-BC kids who didn’t have a choice but to read the Divine Principle and join our prayers. If you are too precocious with too many rhetorical questions for elders, you’ll see just how nasty and how quickly the machine will mobilize against you.

Why. During the previous PLA tour of 1999 I remember lying about our religious association when being interviewed by the local news in Birmingham, AL. We were vetted and instructed to withhold our association with the Unification Church so when a reporter asked me what I was, I responded “Lutheran"— my father’s previous religion before joining the church.

I hate lying about something as grand and dumb as my religion. I didn’t think that we needed to constantly lie, it frustrated me always having to hide the church from my school friends and I wanted to do away with the smoke and mirrors and live openly about this. So at the beginning of the 2000 tour that would be marching through the US in July and then marching through Europe in August, I went up to the director and I asked him: why can’t we be forthright about who we are, if we’re truly non-denominational?

I didn’t immediately realize what a total coward he was, I just thought he was an adult, he must have some good answers. But he pandered with half answers, trotted me around the ring with half baked logic all while getting increasingly upset and dismissive: you just don’t understand; this is much too complicated for you to understand (more upset); this is God’s will; do you want to go against God’s will? And I responded with: I think it’s pretty simple, God doesn’t need us to lie. We should be honest to the press and other churches about being associated with the UC. Otherwise we should stop calling ourselves non-denominational, right? The conversation went nowhere and I eventually walked away.

I was probably earmarked as being a troublemaker but it wasn’t that bad. At least in the beginning, I hung out with my BC friends, some of whom I’d been growing up with and all was well during the tour through the US.

It was when I noticed that there were 3 or 4 non-BC kids on the tour—how they were roped in to hang out with us nutjobs for two weeks, I’m not sure, but I know everyone looked at them with a special wonder. They were special to us because we were showing them that there was this great camaraderie and communal life that we had together amongst ourselves and we really believed that we were letting them in on something special.

I noticed that while we were reading the Divine Principle and praying in circles, they were expected to do the same with us, without any opportunity to decide for themselves whether or not they wanted to in the first place. This would be a small but important gesture to extend for any organization that called itself non-denominational to the outside world; to accept and respect people of other faiths; to let them have the opportunity to pray in their own way if they needed to. It really bothered me because it seemed wildly disrespectful and a bit dishonest. If I were traveling with a Christian youth group, wouldn’t I want the right to read the DP and pray my way at 5 am in the morning on Sundays?

It became a breaking point when late one night on a tour bus in Europe, I brought up the issue again during a bus reading of the DP, and I got pissed. I openly pointed out to the bus leaders the hypocrisy of a so-called non-denominational youth group posing as such to the press, all while not respecting the faiths of others on the tour.They said that this is how it’s done, that everyone does the same thing so that they can stick to the strict schedule to get through the tour. This is the will and mission of the PLA, this is God’s will, and we need to see it through. Then I said: If they aren’t allowed to choose, than I refuse to read the DP and refuse to join prayers until they do have the choice.

I’m not really sure why I cared so much but it was because I could see my bus leaders acknowledging my logic, I could see behind their eyes that they did. But they towed the line and refused to acknowledge that there was any right. But my refusal to pray or read DP, they took very, very seriously—yet in my mind, I wasn’t doing anything drastic, I wasn’t leaving the church. That would be crazy! I was just taking a stand.

These non-BC kids were, at least outwardly, complacent. But let’s be honest we were all 14, 15, 16 years old and expected to do everything en masse, but why shouldn’t they/we have the choice to read the DP or not? What was faith if it wasn’t a deliberate, and educated choice? Shouldn’t anyone be allowed the right to question things, if only to return with stronger answers?

As soon as I had this fight on the bus, that was when the horrible things really began. I was always being shaken awake on long rides when everyone else was allowed to fall asleep, even if only for an hour or two. Lack of sleep breaks you quickly. I wasn’t allowed to sleep with my friends, instead I always had sometimes two unnis sleeping and walking with me. I could mingle with others, but I was always being watched by them close by. I was escorted to bathrooms but never allowed to take a shower, they said I could take one later, but later never came until it was too late, after my infections had become so severe they couldn’t exactly ignore it.

It was 3 in the morning when the buses filled with BC teenagers and our wranglers parked on the curve of the fucking German autobahn to let us out. We were released into the cold night by our demented but well-meaning leaders, searching along the curve of the freeway in the wet grass and mud trying to find our suitcases. Let me repeat, 3 am, 300+ teenagers trudging in the dark along a sharp curve of the German autobahn before entering what, in my mind, was the Black Forest.

I don’t even remember who was in charge of me at that point but it seemed to be predetermined that one sister became my handler in Germany. She came out of the blue, barking at me to move out, and personally marched me into that forest, literally behind me nipping at my heels, always on the assumption that I would flee sideways, off the trail, deeper into the forest, to what, I don’t know. I had no desire to leave, I was just hungry and exhausted. When we reached the top it was a huge building that wasn’t even fully constructed with insulation hanging out and utility lights haphazardly nailed and dangling from the ceilings. It was in a huge large barn like space where we convened in a long line to finally get some split pea soup as dinner, and by the time I finally got some, someone knocked it out of my hand, on purpose? Who the fuck knows. I would have cried but I was too tired and I don’t need sympathy. Some other BCs said that was too bad, but my handler wouldn’t let me go back in line to get more. Instead, we had to pitch our tents in the mud incline below the barn, my tent mate was of course my ever-watchful unni/handler.

I’m not exactly sure how the tent stood up, it was lopsided because of the mud and the wet grass, and the incline, but once that was done I went to go brush my teeth, and saw behind the barn, a bunch of white statues staggered in a terrifying symmetry along the hill; literally, I don’t think I’d ever seen anything as frightening as those statues in the moonlight. They were the true family, ghostly white and with their arms outstretched like they were dancing, I went up to them unsure as to what they were. They were smooth and so white but when I touched them, they weren’t marble, just hollow and plastic—creepy, empty lawn furniture. And for the first time in my life I saw them as this insidious, careless force who either had no idea, or simply had no compassion for the ramifications of their will and franchise. That was the night when my perspective on everything started to shift.

I wasn’t allowed to shower the next day even though I could see my other friends lining up with their towels. And I was always ferried away from communal meals, to have a one on one with some important elder who would shame me for an hour. And it worked. I remember one guy telling me with beady eyes, rather emphatically, how disappointing this will be for my father, who’s such a good guy, everyone loves him, I don’t know him, but everyone loves him— when he finds out how I’ve been working against the mission. I really tried hard to imagine if my dad would be proud or disappointed in me for taking a stand but my thoughts fizzled into a murky question mark while I stared at the white statues now in daylight. I didn’t know the answer and I was so tired, exhausted and hungry, and I was beginning to slowly not care as much.

But I also began to resent these elders for believing that I was working against them, I wasn’t! I was only asking good questions! I was on their side, and I believed I was still a good person.

Instead of not really being able to hang out with my friends, I sensed they were also avoiding me. I remember incredulous looks. It got super lonely fast.

It was when one elder oppa along with a whole slew of younger oppas in training crowded around me in a circle in front of everyone after one march to give me a talk. "Stop setting a bad example to the other sisters, this is your last warning.” Their vague warning was made abundantly clear. Even if it wasn’t true, my generation believed that I was fallen and that’s why I was acting out…

At that point I didn’t even consider the sheer stupidity in this non-linear logic, clearly, I ruined my chances of a good match! That was the end for me. No one would want to be blessed to me and that was when I began to really lose it because it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t have an arranged marriage, that my trajectory would be anything less than what was expected of me, or any different from anyone else. Even when I was asking these people seemingly simple rhetorical questions, it didn’t mean that I wanted to leave. But I was beginning to realize that it would be impossible to have a happily ever after ending in the church.

I don’t remember France, France was a blur, I just felt sluggish and horrible, light sensitive the entire time, still wasn’t allowed to sleep much and was barred from the showers. I was hiding a nasty rash that was breaking out all over my skin by wearing a cardigan, the only cardigan that I had brought on the trip.

My illness was getting bad when we arrived in the posh neighborhood of Kensington, London. The buses unloaded this shocking fire hazard number of teenagers into one townhouse that strangely appeared to have a bullet proof vestibule and a security camera at the entrance which only added to my feeling that I was being held captive. Meanwhile, nobody else seemed to care about this detail, the fact that we were in a fucking compound. You wouldn’t know it from the unassuming white exterior that blended in with the row of townhouses exactly like all the others in the neighborhood.

I remember after marching through Leicester Square, my subgroup broke off to Trafalgar Square where we shouted our testimonies at one of the fountains and anyone else who would care to stop, but no one did. My leader wasn’t really convinced by my conviction to Pure Love. It was a bit hard, being exhausted, with a fever, to be shouting about Pure Love all while being slut shamed by my generation for no good reason at all. I didn’t really feel like shouting, I just wanted rest and to be alone.

My illness was getting from bad to worse quickly, I had a fever, felt hot, then clammy cold, sweating bullets, in addition to huge open sores spreading on my neck and arms, but whenever I asked to see a Dr. they wouldn’t allow it, I later realized it wasn’t because of money, even after I offered to pay myself, it was because they were afraid that I would talk about everything happening on the tour. It hadn’t even occurred to me to go public with any of this. With what? I didn’t know that there was a story, how bad it really was until afterward.

I did finally get to take a shower in London, I think because that was more reasonable than covering up a dead girl, probably. But the shower didn’t help at that point. Whatever was happening with the sores, it was also in my blood, I felt exhausted, jumpy, crazy, sensitive to light, miserable. When they wouldn’t let me see a doctor, when the pus was spilling out of my bandages and running down my neck, running down my arms, like in some horror film, I begged them to at least let me go to a pharmacy to buy bandages, Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide. They agreed so long as a brother escorted me, a tall one who could easily outrun me if it came to it.

Maybe it was because they were making such a huge deal to keep me on watch that I began to fantasize about getting away. Not to tell on anyone or anything, with no agenda in mind, I just wanted to go home. I asked if I could get my passport and my ticket to try and go home early but that was not possible. I just wanted to get away and so on our way to one rally, I had this brilliant idea and I jumped out of a subway train and onto the platform, I only ran 5 steps before I was yanked back into the train by my unni. After that everyone thought I was totally nuts and definitely pure evil. I had no idea where I was planning to go, I think I was just going to ask directions to a hospital— at that point my sores on my upper body were just getting bigger and were oozing, no amount of soaking the sores in hydrogen peroxide or neosporin would help. It was embarrassing because it was pus and blood soaking through my bandages and into my shirts that I could only rotate so many times. People on the subway and in public were furtively staring at me, they probably smelled the disease on me, but I couldn’t ask for their help.

In my mind today, my older self rewrites the history of that trip. In my older self’s version: I’m unstoppable even though I’m sick. In a fit of manic strength, I jump out of the train, out run my guard, and I don’t stop running until I get to a doctor or to a police station, whichever happens first — then I seek protection at the US embassy despite not having a passport or money on me, and then I get to all major news outlets and I expose this youth group for their psychological and physical abuse, and for misleading the public on the PLA. By doing so, I set a chain of events on an international scale that would bring to light all of the questionable things we’ve had to quietly endure. I put a small chink in the church’s armor and it all comes crashing down. I save my fellow BCs from a life without an educated choice to believe or not, from the waste of time spent fundraising for a thankless institution while their families struggle to get by, in questionable matchings, in a sad, vicious cycle.

In actuality, after nearly dying in a sleeping bag, I’m too tired but crazy alert and a day and a half later I’m somehow on my way to Heathrow airport via the subway. On the way there I fall asleep hugging my backpack, only to wake up to find that other passengers are just looking at me horrified; my bandages had soaked through again, I was pouring pus onto my backpack. I’m so embarrassed for alarming these strangers but there’s nothing I can do, I had changed my bandages only an hour before hand, right before leaving the townhouse. All I can do is zip up my anorak and hope I can rinse these out later.

Finally at Heathrow, I’m handed my plane ticket and finally, my passport and it turns out that the tour is over. I can’t even believe it but the elders, including my handler, are walking away to catch their own planes. I curb my hysteria and get to a pay phone where I finally call my parents in Seattle on a collect call, and I’m freaking out, I’m worried that someone will come out from nowhere and cut the line, capture me, throw me in a white van, what with my luck.

My parents are so happy to hear from me! How are you kiddo? I have to fight to keep from sobbing, I’m shattering and yelling, focusing on just one thing: that they have to get me to a doctor as soon as I land, I keep repeating this until my dad promises and repeats this to me. I’m scared I just might drop dead right then and there. Once I’m appeased, I take deep breaths to cool down and I ask my mom if anyone in her family did anything to the Koreans during the occupation. She doesn’t understand the question until I explain to her the theory behind one of these rumors.

The line went quiet.

My dad doesn’t know what to say, but my mom blew her top, she was furious.

In my mother’s adorable, hot headed Japanese mom fashion, she emphatically starts yelling into the phone about how my ancestors did nothing. No one in my family served, and in fact, my family was socially ostracized for years for accepting a Korean family who were on hard times into their farming community in Shizuoka prefecture.  (see Footnote)

She was furious and I think stormed away from the phone but I was happy to know, without a doubt, that this dark age posturing was completely ridiculous. My sense of what was reality and what wasn’t was a bit diminished in my daze the past few days, I was glad to have my intellect reinforced.

My parents collect me at the airport and are stunned by the shape I’m in. The doctor explains that I have several severe infections, a staph (staphylococcal) infection and impetigo— a highly contagious bacterial infection on my skin, but it was progressing as an infection in my blood—septicemia, which would have killed me in 48 hours without medical attention. I’m given a heavy flow of an antibiotic cocktail and I’m closely monitored. When I do get home, I can hardly move, and if I’m not sleeping or sitting in a mineral bath, I’m taking antibiotics and trying to heal my skin in time for the new school that I’m transferring to. But in every waking moment, I’m trying to make sense of the previous two weeks. I tell my parents that I’m no longer in the church and they don’t even put up a fight. We don’t talk about it but they can hardly believe what happened to me.

From that point on, I’ve kept my distance from every BC. I partially hold it against them for being complacent, for not chiming in with me, for not seeing the fatal flaws that were so obvious to me. I hold it against them for not standing up for me when they saw the quiet abuse that I went through. For not speaking up for me when people were effectively spreading lies about me. But I realize they didn’t really know me enough, or really even know what was going on all around us at the time, or themselves for that matter. And if I were them instead of me, would I do it any differently?

I hold it against the church for breeding ignorance and stupidity in its members and families; encouraging them to have upwards 10 kids before they can even think about what it means to really take care of them, giving them a real, true education and a fulfilling life; for grinding these families into poverty, a life partially lived on food stamps, for what exactly, I’m still not sure; for collectively instilling this insidious belief that it’s women who are always at fault/responsible in all situations and who carry the onus of Eve’s imprint on the Fall; that men are never to blame/never responsible and therefore unaccountable creatures save for their purpose of begetting a blessed family; that if you’re about to be raped, it’s your duty to kill yourself—not defend yourself and your right to live—before it gets to that; that you are anything less in God’s eyes if you are raped; that our sexuality is a fixed binary without room to account for a full spectrum within ourselves that acknowledges and respects humanity in its entirety—homosexuality and all. I hold the Church responsible for the deaths of BCs I knew, but that’s a longer, separate story.

When and where it all went bad for the Unification Church, I don’t know. I know it was a beautiful thing when my parents joined, I truly believe that they were meant to be together. It was something that I believed in with my whole heart when I was little. I do in fact believe that I’m a blessed child— I have no doubt that there’s a divinity in me, but I know there’s a divinity in everyone, BC or not. Our lives should be lived acknowledging and honoring that little spark, that bit of magic in each of us. It’s that simple.

My only regret in leaving the church at 16 was leaving behind my fellow BCs, especially the younger ones who have no one to advocate for their choice to question. I know they’re struggling or have struggled against parents and elders who are even more forceful and too scared to ask the same questions themselves. I know their questions are harder because they haven’t seen what I have in such crazy, sharp relief. It was made almost too clear to me but for them their experience is slower, blurred and more broken. I have dreams where I’m fighting for them, but I have to leave them behind to fight my own battles. I can hardly think about the church for very long without feeling the most violent, extreme emotions, mostly on behalf of my fellow BCs. It’s part of the reason why I’ve kept away for as long as I have, I’ve forgotten names and faces, and while I’ve forgiven the church for what it’s done to me, I will never forgive what it’s done to the thousands of individuals and families raised in almost poverty because of it. In my heart, it’s not hate, it’s justice, it’s right and wrong, clean. In my heart, I am a fucking vigilante, and part of what propels me is to vindicate them. I fantasize about doing well enough in life, to have enough money so that I can buy up each of the church’s properties so that I can burn them all down to the ground, in the name of all my fellow BCs. If there is one thing that I can thank the church, it’s for making me a fiercely passionate person. To this day, I don’t think anyone can hold a candle to the flames that burn in our hearts.

Life outside of the church is hard, reprogramming the way you consider everything never ends. Dating still feels impossible even after 10 years at it. But it’s so beautiful, it’s so varied and complex and breathtaking— the multitudes, the possibilities that I’ve experienced and are still at my feet. It’s always up to me, every mistake, triumph, difficulty and opportunity is up to me, and I’m so grateful that my conclusions are my conclusions even if it’s a process. As stupid or sad as this story is, I’m grateful for it because now I have a tenacity that rivals most anything. Now, almost 14 years later, I am a fucking panther and I don’t let anyone or anything take me down. Nothing fools me, no situation happens without my consent, and I live life fully, authentically, deliberately and always on my terms. And I want that for every single BC, in the church or not.

__________________________

Silra said: This makes me so sad. I’m an ex British moonie and the PLA was a last straw for me. I was 12 during that time and remember rumours being rife amongst all the BCs. I had to say my testimony at Leicester Square where my dad was super proud. Little did he know I wasn’t happy and the rumour mill was ripe with bullshit about me. I’m sorry you had to go through that.

__________________________

Footnote

The Unification Church heavily guilt tripped the Japanese members about the Japanese occupation of Korea (1910-1945), and about the Korean ‘Comfort Women’. To understand the psychology of this manipulation used during recruitment, see:

Japanese woman recruited by the Unification Church and sold to an older Korean farmer in an ‘apology marriage’

To understand more about the Korean ‘Comfort Women’ issue see:

The Comfort Women controversy

This ‘Comfort Women’ research is very important for all Japanese members. For some perspective, here is an extract from a piece from the New York Times. There were more Korean ‘Comfort Women’ serving the US military from 1950 than ever served the Japanese military during the colonial period.

New York Times:

Ex-Prostitutes Say South Korea and U.S. Enabled Sex Trade Near Bases By Choe Sang-Hun  January 7, 2009

SEOUL, South Korea. South Korea has railed for years against the Japanese government’s waffling over how much responsibility it bears for one of the ugliest chapters in its wartime history: the enslavement of women from Korea and elsewhere to work in brothels serving Japan’s imperial army.


Now, a group of former prostitutes in South Korea have accused some of their country’s former leaders of a different kind of abuse: encouraging them to have sex with the American soldiers who protected South Korea from North Korea. They also accuse past South Korean governments, and the United States military, of taking a direct hand in the sex trade from the 1960s through the 1980s, working together to build a testing and treatment system to ensure that prostitutes were disease-free for American troops.


While the women have made no claims that they were coerced into prostitution by South Korean or American officials during those years, they accuse successive Korean governments of hypocrisy in calling for reparations from Japan while refusing to take a hard look at South Korea’s own history.


“Our government was one big pimp for the U.S. military,” one of the women, Kim Ae-ran, 58, said in a recent interview.


Scholars on the issue say that the South Korean government was motivated in part by fears that the American military would leave, and that it wanted to do whatever it could to prevent that.


But the women suggest that the government also viewed them as commodities to be used to shore up the country’s struggling economy in the decades after the Korean War. They say the government not only sponsored classes for them in basic English and etiquette meant to help them sell themselves more effectively but also sent bureaucrats to praise them for earning dollars when South Korea was desperate for foreign currency.


“They urged us to sell as much as possible to the G.I.’s, praising us as ‘dollar-earning patriots,’ ” Ms. Kim said. ...

The Comfort Women controversy

[nyxocity]

please tell me more about spn sims

Soooo much to tell, but I’ll try condense lol

My neighborhood is a combination of Buffy & SPN Sims. I built the Winchesters house from scratch, and it’s got this backstory. It’s decorated in a very heavy 1970’s theme, the idea being that they bought someone’s old house pre-decorated, and it’s both very Winchesters and very anti-Winchesters depending on what room you’re in. 

I did, of course, make Sam and Dean to live in it, and sadly I did not make them brothers as I had it on good authority siblings can’t have romantic interactions (although I get flirt options with Buffy for Dawn all the time so idk). I didn’t even make them separate bedrooms because I had PLANS :D I set up a motel room divider and gave them separate beds in the beginning. I also made Castiel and Meg to round out the house.

Dean is a foodie who’s working on becoming a Master Chef and ripped like a motherfucker because I gave him the active trait to offset being a foodie. Sam is a genius Tech Guru who started out programming but now plays video games for a living. Meg is evil (in the game), enjoys implying people’s mother’s are llamas, and is working on becoming a bartender. Castiel does not work. He stays home and paints paintings and occasionally cries over them. The second painting Castiel ever did (his first “realism” painting), looked like this (center):

And I stared at the screen for a really long fucking time and wondered if the game KNEW what I was doing. Then I framed it and hung it on the wall in their house (note the Winchester-esque 1970’s wallpaper).

Dean and Sam fell in love quickly, started fucking, began sharing a bed and soon after got engaged. They couldn’t wait and didn’t want a real wedding anyway, so they got married in the kitchen (which is a very important place to Dean) while Meg was making bar drinks in her underwear in the next room, and then celebrated by fucking in the hot tub. Twice.

Meet Dean Winchester, male modeling motherfucker:

Most people in the neighborhood like Dean, though he and Meg did NOT get along at all in the beginning. He’s pretty charming and funny. EVERYONE loves Sam. Like absolutely EVERYONE. Even Meg loves him, and he’s got the “good” trait, while she has “evil”--which usually results in mortal enemies. One time I played a different house for a while (life goes on at your other Sims’ homes when you’re away), and when I came back, he was best friends with and had given a house key to one of the local celebrities (my fave celebrity in the game, to boot). He’s best friends with her and Buffy.

Meg and Cas did not hit it off the bat right away. For a while I thought they were going to fuck out of spite. They finally got it together, though. They remain unengaged as Castiel pursues his painting career and leads the quiet artist life, mostly lost in his own world. Seriously, I have to MAKE him go to the bathroom and shower and actually SLEEP instead of making coffee or taking a nap. He requires so much looking after. Castiel is becoming famous from selling his paintings and has begun to develop celebrity quirks. Right now he has a “refined palette” which means the quality of his meals must be “excellent” or else he gets very upset and suffers adverse physical effects--good thing he lives with an almost Master Chef.

Here’s Castiel with one of his masterpieces:

I shit you not. The quality of this painting was actually MASTERPIECE.

Also? Castiel won the fucking in game LOTTERY and made a million dollars.You know, the only one who ALREADY didn’t have a job.

They are ALL a bunch of fucking alcoholics. No lie. They get the slightest bit inspired and they’re running to the bar to make drink after drink after drink, and I can’t count the times I’ve had to REMOVE THE FUCKING BARS from the HOUSE because they would. NOT. STOP. That shit costs money, and they were pinging for $30 to $125 a drink. Basically, one of them will make a million drinks, the rest will wander in, grab one, and proceed to get drunk. One time they did all of this in Sam and Dean’s bedroom, and they were all sitting on or standing next to the bed getting drunk in various states of undress and flirting, and I swear to god it looked like the beginning of a porno. I was worried.

If I didn’t watch these people’s every move they’d all end up drunk, face down passed out on the floor in a puddle of their own piss.

Occasionally the game prompts me to have Sam and Dean try for a baby, and I’m like.. .. .. That’s not how this works. They DO have a big Bernese Mountain Dog which Dean named “Grace” after Grace Slick. I am thinking about adopting for them, but I have my hands so full with the four of them I’m not sure it’ll be soon lol I love them all dearly though, they’re definitely my fave house to play. I have tons of other stories (like Meg pissing off the gnomes on the equivalent of Thanksgiving and they rained down god-like wrath on the house), but that’s the basics.

I leave you with this:

[askarchmagearen]

4 5 8 14 25 37 42 for sir aren :3

Savos is kneeling in front of his garden, shears in hand. Next to him lies a pile of freshly cut canis root. He stands up and brushes the dirt off his hands. "Sir?" His cheeks turn slightly red. "How quaint. Please such formalities are not necessary; just call me Savos. If it's not urgent I would like to finish this first. If you like we can chat a little in the meantime."

4. What type of discipline was your character subjected to at home? Strict? Lenient?

"Looking back now, I'd say my parents did everything right, even though then I thought they were overly strict. I guess I had that impression because I got in a lot of trouble for playing pranks on the neighbours." He smiles at the memory. "Had they been as strict as I thought back then, well, I probably would have spent my entire childhood grounded." 

5. Were they overprotected as a child? Sheltered?

"I wouldn't say my parents were overprotective, but they did worry about me - especially when I said I wanted to join the college. I can't fault them, really. If I had to mend scorched robes at least once a week, I'd worry as well."

8. How does your character feel about religion?

"Like many dunmer, I grew up believing in the reclamations, or good daedra as some may call them: Azura, Mephala and Boethiah.Many dunmer also revere their ancestors, but my grandparents' ashes lie in a tomb near Blacklight, so we did our own thing and had a little shrine at home. I still believe - I'd be foolish not to - but I don't actively worship; I prayed in my darkest hours, but it seems nobody listened." He takes a deep breath.

"I often go down to the shore and leave an offering there. For my parents and all the others who lost their lives during the Great Collapse. My prayers may not have been answered, but maybe the three - or any other deity - are willing to show some sympathy for the souls of the dead.  Sadly, some of the locals have come to view this as an admission of guilt."

14. Were they involved at school? Sports? Clubs? Debate? Were they unconnected?

"I don't think the college ever had any official clubs; if it did, it must have been before my time. However, there were still loosely organized activity groups. For example, my friend Girduin founded what he called "The Winterhold Writers Association" - an overly fancy name for a gaggle of students writing short stories, but I digress. Anyway, while I wasn't technically part of the association, I always got invited when the actual members presented their stories," he strokes his beard. "Hmm, other than that there was another friend, Takes-In-Light, who organized a board game evening every Tirdas - some of those games even were her own invention." He smiles sadly. "Those evenings were always fun." 

For a moment he is silent and stares at the ground. When he turns back to his guest, his sadness seems to have vanished. 

"Oh, if you meant any involvement with responsibility, I don't think any sane teacher would have trusted me with that."

25. What are their hobbies and interests?

"Hobbies, right. Well, you caught me right in the middle of one. My precious garden is my biggest hobby of them all. There is nothing that relaxes me more than taking care of my plants and seeing them thrive fills me with joy. They are also extremely useful." He beckons the visitor to come closer. "See, these White Caps make a wonderful "Restore Magicka” potion if you mix them with powdered Creep Cluster and the essence of those Nightshades helps against cramps*. Just be careful with the dosage. And these," he points at the Canis Root lying on the floor. "Make for a remarkably aromatic tea." 

He walks behind the wall separating his bed from the rest of his quarters. When he returns he is holding a leather journal and a wooden box.

"I'm currently reading this journal recounting the author's travels across Tamriel. Judging by the way it is written they might have been part of a khajiiti trade caravan, but I cannot say for certain. Regardless, the stories it contains are both informative and entertaining and I'm enjoying it a lot."

He puts the journal aside and focuses on the box. After a bit of fidgeting, the lid opens revealing a wooden board painted with a crude map of Tamriel and a bunch of tiny colourful wooden figurines.

"This is a strategy game Takes-In-Light invented when we were students. I often play with Sergius, although we often end up butting heads while doing so." He chuckles. "Despite my years of experience, I win far less than I would like to admit."

37. How is your character’s imagination? Daydreaming a lot? Worried most of the time? Living in memories?

If I had a septim for every time I've been criticised for "living with my head in the clouds", I'd have enough money to fix the bridge. I admit, I talk about the past a lot, but then again, life in Winterhold is fairly uneventful - a good thing in these troubled times.

42. What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively? What are they willing to do, to sacrifice, to obtain?

Savos eyes the visitor and purses his lips. He seems conflicted, as if he wanted to say something but swallowed the words the last second.

"I hope to mend relations with the locals. It's been 80 years since the Great Collapse; it is time to finally put hostilities to rest along with the dead and build towards a better future for Winterhold," he sighs and crosses his arms. "I just wish the rest of Winterhold would see it the same way. I'm willing to make concessions, but due to the current political situation negotiations have reached a stalemate"

He finishes his gardening and puts the shears away. 

"Chatting with you was refreshing. Now, what was it you actually wanted?”

((Whew, that took longer than I expected. Thank you so much for bombarding me with all those questions, I had a lot of fun answering them. 

*Don’t ingest deadly nightshade; that use above is archaic and it’s called deadly nightshade for a reason.))

[honestandsincere]

reputation

Y/n writes something that Ethan doesn’t like

----

“This is preposterous! Totally and utterly absurd! It’s almost laughable!” “Mr Dolan, I’m terribly sorry-” “Sorry doesn’t cut it, Howard! This is my entire reputation we’re talking about here. This is slander!” “Again, Mr Dolan, if there’s anything I can do-” “Don’t publish the damn article, Howard!”

Ethan Dolan slams a tight fist onto the desk in front of him before pushing himself out of the worn leather chair. He grunts in frustration when his eyes meet his brother’s, sending him a look of warning. Rage pulses through him; he feels his forehead pound with stress. Ethan likes to think he’s untouchable, but this article might just be his downfall.

“I’m afraid, Mr Dolan, that the decision of whether or not the article should be published lies in the hands of its author,” Howard Benson, editor in chief of LIFE Magazine says calmly. Ethan takes a deep breath and walks past his brother towards the floor length window of the office, his eyes scanning the skyscrapers and seemingly tiny reflective pieces of glass. He chuckles in incredulity, knowing that if push comes to shove he could end the publication entirely. But he doesn’t want to destroy them just yet. “Forgive me, Howard, but aren’t you in charge of the final draft of the magazine? Surely this is all under your control?” “I wish I could do something about it, Mr Dolan. LIFE Magazine puts all responsibility in the hands of our journalists, that’s what makes us so unique.”

Ethan pivots quickly, his head snapping towards Benson’s direction, the cool facade he’d put on now fading. Grayson can see his brother is on the cusp of another verbal explosion but makes no attempt to stop him. “It makes you a joke of a publication! This article is about me, my business! I should have a say in what gets released!” “I understand that Mr Dolan, but you did agree to an unbiased interview. Miss y/l/n simply wrote about her observations.” Ethan clenches his jaw, walking back towards the so-called boss’ desk. He presses his palms against the mahogany, pushing his weight towards Benson, “What a pathetic excuse for a journalist, Howard. I should’ve known she would manipulate everything I said for clout, some kind of twisted kudos-”

“Ethan,” Grayson finally intervenes from the back of the room, “watch what you’re saying.” The older twin rolls his eyes, “If you read the article, Grayson you’d understand I’m entitled to an opinion on Miss y/l/n considering she shat all over our business’ name.” “Miss y/l/n has been one of our most esteemed writers for the past three years, Mr Dolan. She’s incredibly well received by our readers. This article is not a reflection of her work in its entirety,” despite being a man of maybe sixty, Howard Benson seems intimidated by Ethan’s presence.

Ethan pushes himself from the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He feels as though he’s overheating, never has he been so disrespected in his entire career. “Bring her in,” he shrugs. “I’m sorry-” “Did I stutter, Howard? I said bring her in.” “Ethan, bro you’ve gotta calm down,” Grayson sighs. “When we’re filing for bankruptcy because the entirety of New York turns against us, I’ll calm down,” Ethan spits.

Benson reaches forward for his telephone and Ethan watches as he pushes a sequence of numbers into the machine. “Hi Mary, could you please send in y/n? Thank you,” he sounds tired, weary. He doesn’t look up to gauge Ethan’s reaction.

----

“So, Mr Dolan, what was it that drew you to business?”

Ethan leans back into the plush velvet armchair of The Ritz-Carlton’s restaurant. He weaves his thick, ring-clad fingers together and pushes a small hum from his full lips. “I guess I’ve always had an entrepreneurial streak in me. My brother and I would sell candy during recess at school, I’ve always been good at selling.”

Y/n y/l/n taps her ballpoint pen against her chin after scribbling down each of his words, “Could you let our readers know what it is you do?” “My brother Grayson and I are what I like to call the ‘New Real Estate’. Dolan & Dolan buys derelict and abandoned plots of land across the city for huge companies like hotel chains or shopping complexes.” “Interesting,” she nods slowly, Ethan pays attention to the way her brow furrows in focus as she’s listening to him, “what project are you most proud of thus far?”

He takes a sip of his gin and tonic, letting the satisfying burn tingle the back of his throat. He swills the liquid around the crystal glass before speaking, “Last year we found a plot in Brooklyn, a real shabby place. It’s now just had planning permission from the council for a new Four Seasons Hotel. It’ll generate a few hundred jobs and will be superbly beneficial for the community.” Y/n grimaces, but he’s too busy checking his phone to notice. Ethan’s black pinstripe suit and shiny Gucci loafers make her feel a bit queasy, this man is wearing her month’s paycheck. She glances at her recording device that’s on the table in front of them. They’ve been talking for approximately ten minutes and she already knows she can’t stand the man.

His arrogance is disgusting; she didn’t miss the tone he used with the waiter when he explained that the table by the window had already been reserved. She notices the way he refuses the engage in any of her questions that don’t involve him. When she’d asked him about his opinion on the city’s new plan to cut carbon emissions he’d been incredibly nonchalant, and yet as soon as she’d referred to his success at the Business Awards earlier this year it was hard to get him to shut up. Y/n had done her research into Dolan & Dolan. She knows what they do. All this talk about ‘derelict and abandoned’ patches of land across the city is a joke. Essentially, they wipe out other businesses around them, forcing them to sell their office blocks or warehouses to the brothers who then go on to rake in millions from these huge chains. It’s foul play. There’s nothing commendable about it. But she’s not going to let Ethan Dolan know that she knows.

“So how do you go about sourcing this land, Mr Dolan?” she asks innocently, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. He smirks at her, loving the way she seems so dazzled by his presence, “Well, nobody loves this city as much as my brother and I. A lot of the time we head out into deprived areas and ask local people what kind of change they’d like to see in their communities. Most of the time they’re looking for business, something that’s gonna draw people to their corner of the world, y’know?”

Y/n hums in false agreement. Another lie. Ethan Dolan has never set foot in a ‘deprived’ area in his life. Dolan & Dolan’s main projects are based in the city center, the big highrise buildings that are constantly being refurbished are all down to them. Buying out businesses. Admittedly, y/n cannot hold him responsible for making people redundant. Having rifled through what must have been thousands of documents online, it seems that Dolan & Dolan employs those that worked for the businesses they destroyed. This young man in front of her, his pretense of integrity, is sitting on one of the biggest empires in the city. But he’s not a good man.

“Earlier this year, Vogue labeled you one of the ‘most eligible bachelors in the world’. How does that make you feel?” “I think you’re mistaken because I rank number one on that list,” he laughs at her, watching the way she clenches her jaw, “In all honesty, it doesn’t bother me.” Y/n wants to roll her eyes, his words seem humble and innocent but it’s his tone that gives him away. It’s like he knows this interview will look nothing but praising in print. Ethan Dolan is making her feel stupid. She hates it. “Finally, what are your aspirations for the future, Mr Dolan?”

Ethan leans towards her, setting his glass on the table and not breaking eye contact, “I guess, Miss y/l/n, I just wanna make the business world a better place for young philanthropists like myself.”

----

Y/n y/l/n would be Ethan’s cup of tea if he didn’t hate her. She’s pretty, well dressed and clearly an educated young lady. He can’t stand her.

As she walks through Benson’s door, her wide smile falters. Y/n’s eyes meet Ethan’s and the softness of her features harden. She sends him a curt nod and shakes Grayson’s extended hand with mandatory politeness. Y/n looks like she belongs in an office, her pencil skirt, and crisp white shirt make her seem professional yet youthful. It’d be cute if he didn’t want to ruin her career. Howard has risen from his chair to greet y/n, an almost sympathetic look on his wrinkled face, “Miss y/l/n, thank you for joining us.” “Of course, Mr Benson, what can I do for you?”

Ethan scoffs, “Don’t play dumb.” Both Grayson and Benson seem shocked by his behavior. Y/n wasn’t expecting anything less, “Excuse me, Mr Dolan?” “You’re a smart girl, don’t mess me about,” he’s leaning against the window, not feeling the need to move towards her in order to assert his dominance. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to elaborate, Mr Dolan,” y/n remains composed. “That article you wrote, it’s very hyperbolic.” “Mr Dolan, I don’t write fiction.” “You seem to have dabbled in it, y/l/n.” “I wrote about my impressions of you and your business-” “You made up a whole lotta shit-”

“Ethan,” Grayson warns, cocking a brow at his brother. Ethan shoots him a look telling him to keep his mouth shut. “Have you read this magazine before, Mr Dolan?” she asks, walking to the water machine beside Benson’s desk. “Of course I have,” he rolls his eyes. “Well then you’d know our motto,” she pours herself a glass of water and cradles it in her hands. Y/n watches as Ethan straightens himself into a standing position and holds the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I don’t see how your motto relates to this issue, Miss y/l/n.” “The Elegance Of Honesty Needs No Adornment,” she says as if it were a universally known fact. Howard Benson nods. Ethan sends him a glare. He stops nodding.

“You see, Mr Dolan as a journalist not only am I paid to be honest, it’s my duty to provide our readers with the integrity and honesty they deserve to be given.” “Again, this is not relevant.” “Mr Dolan, you lied to me during our interview, I couldn’t not write about that.” her tone is firm. “You have no right to include information beyond our interview in your article. I agreed to be featured on your cover as New York’s youngest businessman, not to be ridiculed,” Ethan looks at her with so much intensity it’s a wonder he doesn’t bore holes through her eyes. “I’m sorry that the truth angers you, Mr Dolan. Is there anything I can do for you?” “Don’t publish the article, y/n,” this is the first time she’s heard him say her name, it sounds alien in his accent, almost wrong. “Mr Dolan, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Ethan groans, “I’ll sue!” he exclaims, “I’ll take you to court for slander.” He expects her to respond, but y/n doesn’t flinch. She knows the truth. She knows what he’s like. Howard Benson begins to panic, he sends y/n a look of worry. LIFE Magazine cannot afford a court case, not one filed by Ethan Dolan. “Your integrity as a publication will be severely maimed, I’m sorry Howard. But Miss y/l/n has given me no choice.” Benson squeezes his eyes shut, deliberating what he should do. Y/n turns to watch him, praying he won’t give in to Dolan. “Y/n, I’m so sorry but...”

Grayson sighs in relief, Ethan’s smile is as wide as the horizon and Y/n’s eyes are the size of saucers. Never once has Howard undermined the magazine’s main principle. She’s outraged. “Mr Dolan, I apologize for the inconvenience,” Howard says begrudgingly. “Thank you, Howard. I always knew you were a good guy,” Ethan walks past y/n and extends a hand or Benson to shake. Y/n has never seen her boss look so defeated. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Lewis,” Ethan smirks turning to look at her. She says nothing, staring at his attractive face and feeling sicker by the second. He pats her shoulder almost sympathetically and walks towards the door, Grayson following him.

Y/n waits for them to leave before she moves. She looks to Howard, “I’ll start writing a new piece,” she says. He opens his mouth to respond but he can’t seem to say anything. Y/n sighs and turns on her heels.

----

Ethan Dolan : The City’s Brightest

He can’t deny it sounds good. It looks good too, his face plastered on every newsstand, the entire city seeing his suited glory. His hair is swept in a mass of styled curls, his scruff makes him appear rugged but professional. He always does photograph well.

His inbox is full. Every one of his contacts desperately praising him for the brilliant article. Everybody fawning over his generosity and admirable need to give back to the community. He’s witty, considerate and intelligent. Y/l/n’s words couldn’t have painted him in a better light. Ethan almost likes her. Almost.

Ethan Dolan is undeniably attractive, in his looks and his mannerisms. He is nothing short of welcoming, polite and respectful. As he looks over Central Park with an animated smile, he seems young; in awe of this city and all it has to offer. He speaks of his family with a warm fondness that’s hard to find in many of his generation, his close ties to home echoing in his business today...

Ethan feels like he can breathe now. There’s nothing he can fault. He has no qualms, it’s perfect. He almost wants to reach out to her, maybe follow her on Instagram just to show his gratitude. Ethan would quite like to see her again, maybe talk to her a little more. He likes that she's so headstrong. He lays the magazine out on his desk and exhales in relief. His face stares back at him in black and white, the headline blinding but brilliant.

Grayson walks into their shared office, a small spring in his step. He hands Ethan the coffee he'd asked Carol, their assistant to go and get from downstairs. Ethan thanks him. "It's a great article bro," Grayson chuckles as he flops into his leather swivel chair and spins himself around, "that y/n can write." "Yeah, I know," Ethan nods, sipping his now lukewarm drink. "I googled how many readers LIFE gets," Grayson continues, logging into his computer on the desk that's opposite Ethan's. "Really?" "Yep! Take a wild guess of how many New Yorkers now think you're the 'Brightest'," "I dunno, like a million?" Grayson snorts, "4 mil, bro! Plus another like 20 million online!"

Ethan's eyes widen. This is insane, incredible even. The business will be booming in the next few days, he's sure of it. The Dolan Twins will be on the guest list for every event the city has to offer. He can see TV interviews, more magazine articles, the paparazzi swarming around the double doors of Dolan & Dolan HQ. Ethan can picture summer in the Hamptons with all of their clients, polo games and champagne. 24 million. "Thank God they never published the first draft," he laughs to himself, setting his coffee down on the desk and picking up the magazine. "I never got to read it," Grayson shrugs, "what was so bad about it anyway?"

Suddenly Ethan's chest feels tight. His hands are now clammy and his head starts to pound. He's broken into a cold sweat and suddenly his suit feels about three sizes too small. Y/n y/l/n knows. She knows everything. This young woman with 24 million readers knows all about Dolan & Dolan. She probably still has that first article lurking in a folder on her goddamn laptop. Ethan feels sick. There's no way he can let that get out. He'll die before that article gets published.

His head snaps up to look at Grayson, "Get LIFE on the phone. I need to speak to my new best friend."

-------

I should be studying but instead I wrote this! Big shoutout to @babyboydxlan for the pic. Hope you guys liked this! I kinda wanna make it a series, but let me know your thoughts! Lots and lots and lots of love!! xxx

[scullysexual]

Noctorum: Chapter One.

This is now the full chapter. This is my first time writing anything like this so it’s probs not gonna be perfect but I’m trying. I also changed the year because I changed a certain element and it no longer needed to be the Secret Season of Sex for it to make sense so we’re now in season 5 territory which is fine and that’s literally the only visible change I’ve made. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.

Tagging: @today-in-fic @suitablyaggrieved @purrykat @mypanicface @lappina Anyone else wants tagging let me know. 

NOCTORUM, NORTH CAROLINA

APRIL 24, 1997.

10:04 pm

The flickering of flames dance across the wall. The window partly open, an April night’s chill blows against the rotting curtain gently moving the material back and forth.

Esther listens, wide awake and alert, to the commotion down below.

They gather in a circle directly below her bedroom window, hushed whispers into the night, Martha Berry’s voice reciting a prayer of some kind.

The girl itches to move towards the window, to peep down and watch from above but she stays where she is, listening, clutching the sheets beneath her to hold her in place.

Yet the prayer gets louder.

…to release the darkness within her. Free her blackened blood from her body. Liberate her rotting soul and purge her from her sin…

And Esther listens harder now, gripping the sheets until her knuckles turn white. The sound of a whimper, a plea and a cry of No!

It must be gone, child, she hears a man’s voice say. We must save you from it.

Yet the woman continues to shout no at them.

I didn’t mean for it to happen, she cries. Please…Please, don’t do this.

But we must, another says. For Jeremiah! they shout.

A chorus of people follow, echoing the voice.

“For Jeremiah,” Esther whispers to the darkness.

Then she listens again, a silence, then a shriek of pain emits across the town and up to Esther’s ears.

Then silence once more.

It always ends with a shriek and silence.

 FBI HEADQUARTERS

WASHINGTON, DC

April 16

9:07 am.

It wasn’t often they got many visitors down in the office. Cases usually ended up on the desk in the form of a file, a sheriff with his one-man police force stuck on a crime that was beginning to go stale, looking to the FBI for help and if it was spooky, it ended up down here, presented to them in a perfect manila folder.

This case wasn’t given to them like that this time, however, as Scully soon found out when she opened the office door. Mulder sits by his desk, sleeves already rolled up despite the early morning whilst another dark-haired man sits on the opposite side, fingers laced together and eyes occasionally darting around the room.

They both turn to look at her.

“Scully,” Mulder says, swinging on the chair. “Glad you’re finally here. I want you to meet Rob Mason.” He motions to the man opposite him.

“Hi,” Rob Mason says, a little shyly.

“Hi,” Scully cautiously repeats back. She throws a questioning look towards Mulder before proceeding into the office more and heading towards the counter Mulder once had the audacity to call “her area”. Curious about their rare guest at 9 o’clock in the morning, she quickly places her bag and takeout coffee down before walking over to join Mulder at the desk.

“What’s this all about?” she whispers to him.

“Rob, tell Agent Scully what you told me.”

The man looks to her then. “Well…my wife, Jessica, she’s gone missing,” he begins and Scully waits, knowing there has to be more to the story. “And, well…” He looks nervously towards Mulder, as if looking for confirmation, which Mulder seems to give him. “I can’t remember exactly but there were people surrounding us with torches. They kept chanting For Jeremiah and saying how Jess was carrying the…” Mason glances to Scully’s cross briefly before finishing, “the Antichrist.”

At this point in her life, she shouldn’t be surprised at  the type of words people say to her yet this one throws her back slightly. She glances down to Mulder who has that “Well he’s said it so it must be true” look on his face before looking back at Mason.

“I’m sorry,” she says, still processing the tale. “Antichrist, you say?”

Mason shrugs, now unsure himself. “The memory is hazy but I think that’s what they were saying.” He frowns then, looking towards the floor in deep thought. “Thing is, Jess wasn’t even pregnant before we went there and then…boom…it was there in front of me.”

Mason looks up then and Scully immediately looks away, her sceptical brain beginning to search for some logical answer to all this.

“Thank you, Mr Mason,” Mulder says, standing up from his chair and moving over towards the door. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll look into your wife’s disappearance and keep you updated on anything we find.”

Mason nods, standing up from his own chair and beginning to make his way out of the room, saying his thank you’s along the way.

Once he is gone and the door is shut, Scully lets out a long, hard sigh.

“Well that was a load of bullshit,” she proclaims.

Mulder, his hands still on the door handle, lets out his own sigh and Scully instantly knows what that means.

“You can’t believe that story. How can somebody not be pregnant then suddenly be pregnant? It doesn’t work like that.”

Mulder is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment before he finally takes his hand off the door. “I dunno, Scully, but I believe him.”

She scoffs at that.

“And something like this has happened before.”

She throws him a “Of course it has” look as he makes his way over to the filing cabinet, pulling open a draw and rooting through the disorganised messed.

“And the Antichrist, really?” she adds.

Mulder finds the file he’s looking for and hands it to her. She takes it, muttering a, “And where did this even happen anyway?” as she opens the file.

“Noctorum, North Carolina,” Mulder answers just as she reads the words on the page. “In 1958 a similar case on a much smaller scale happened where a woman, believing she was pregnant, managed to escape from a group of people who called themselves The Children of Jeremiah. She had sworn to local authorities that she had given birth to a baby boy having only been in the town for three days and that these people claimed it was the ‘Antichrist’ and needed to be “purged from her body”, yet when the doctors had done an examination on her, they found that she hadn’t given birth, in fact, she hadn’t been pregnant in the first place.”

Scully stares at the black and white photos of the woman, of the black ink of the doctor’s words. She skims across quotes describing the townspeople as deranged and murderous. Other words such as A blinding white light and crackling signal noises stand out before her eyes. The victim’s testimony handwritten by the woman telling the same tale Mulder had just told her.

Scully closes the file, thinking for a moment about the woman’s story, about Mr Mason’s own similar story. It was worth checking out. Even if the man and possibly the woman was making it up, there’s usually some truths to lies and if so there’s at least some small possibility that a crime has been committed here.

“What are the chances of two people experiencing a similar situation thirty years apart?” Mulder asks.

Unlikely, Scully thinks, and she won’t lie that she isn’t the tiniest bit intrigued in this case.

Giving in she asks, “So when do we leave?”

[thosequeenboys]

For the sake of autonomy (John Deacon x Family)

Summary/Author’s Note: This is a family drama and coming-of-age story, focusing on the familiar scenario of students returning home during holiday break and family relationships readjusting.  The father is modeled after John Deacon, Queen’s bass player.  The depiction of John’s family members is purely fictional. Any likeness or perceived likeness to his family – or their family dynamics - is unintentional and coincidental.  Wishing everyone gentle and joyful holiday reunions! This is chapter 1!  The title and topic were inspired in part by this article: Carl E. Pickhardt, Ph.D,. A Detachment Theory of Parenting Adolescents.Psychology Today, December 9, 2013.

Warnings:  Depictions and emotions related to a difficult first semester away at college/uni, sibling rivalry, separation, parent-child relationships, cursing

Chapter 1

John ambled up the steps for the third time that day.  This time there was nothing to carry upstairs, nor chores to be done.  No need to make the trip, really.  Everything was ready.  With his wife Claudia and their middle son Mark at the market picking up some last-minute staples, he wanted just a few moments in that space. The room’s occupant, his youngest son Dan, was returning home soon having completed his first semester in college. As John ducked into Dan’s room, the mid-afternoon sun lit the wood floor to a golden hue, giving the room a warm glow.  He smoothed the bed, recalling how the day before he had unfurled the striped blue sheets, warm from the dryer, tucking and smoothing them to remove all the creases.  He had slid the crisp blue pillowcase over the pillow and plumped it.    

Now, he sat down on the bed gingerly, eyeing the remnants of a childhood and adolescence:  photos of friends and celebrities plastered the walls, some faded with age and light; souvenirs from family and class trips held their place in between favorite books in the bookcase.  Old school notebooks, folders and other flotsam and jetsam of past academic and youthful endeavors lay scattered in piles on the dresser and desk surfaces.  John took a deep breath, and a smile glossed over him as he warmly anticipated the room cluttered with new trappings of a college life.  He wondered what that life encompassed and how his son was changing.

The front door opened below and he heard Claudia and Mark head into the kitchen.  He took a deep breath, stood and smoothed the bed. He stopped into the bathroom and dug into a drawer on the vanity, retrieving and plugging in the nightlight.  It couldn’t hurt, he figured, just in case Dan needed to get his bearings on this first trip back home, the symbolism not lost on him. 

Then John proceeded downstairs to help with unpacking.   His middle son Mark was in his senior year in college and had been home a few days, his exams having ended earlier than Dan’s as a first year.  

His oldest son Chris was expected for dinner that evening to help ready the home for Christmas.  Chris graduated a few years ago and was working as an analyst for a financial firm.  It was a good job, and after learning the corporate ropes, he was now up for a promotion.  

This was the happiest time for John. With the arrival of the holidays, his closest loved ones surrounded him and the house took on a refreshed and festive air.  In a few days,  the extended family would gather for Christmas.  Past memories would be remembered and new ones created.

‘Well, we are set!’ Claudia said. “I’ll start lunch.”

John joined Claudia at the island counter and started to peel and chop the vegetables Claudia had placed next to him.  They worked in tandem to prepare the meal, as Mark sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.  

John checked his watch anxiously.  Ten minutes to two.  Any minute now. Mark eyed a crime story in which someone was robbed on the street and no one responded to the screams. He spoke about the Bystander Effect.  John half listened; under different circumstances he would be fully engaged, but his eyes kept darting toward the window in anticipation. Suddenly, a vehicle pulled into the driveway.  Immediately, John put down his knife and left the kitchen without a word, headed to the foyer and opened the front door.  

“Well, good I got in a few days with Dad before the star of the show arrived,” Mark said bitterly.

“Oh, Mark, try to understand.  Dan hasn’t been home in months.  It’s his first semester away.  Dad doesn’t mean to dismiss you.”

Mark resumed reading the newspaper, clearly annoyed.

The car came to a halt. Standing between the heavy wood door and the clear storm door, John watched the two occupants conversing in the front seat.

“Have a good break. Things will be better next semester. It gets easier,” Lily said soothingly from the driver’s seat.   Dan and Lily had been friends in high school and now attended the same college. Lily was a year older.

Dan felt a rush of anxiety course through him at the mention of next semester, though he appreciated his older friend’s support.  “Thanks, hope you have a good break too.  I’ll see you in a month. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said. They hugged as Dan thanked her for the ride and got out of the car.  Dan hoisted the suitcase and duffle bag out of the trunk as the door rose slowly and then slammed it shut.

The house door opened and John emerged.  “Hi, Love, let me get that for you,” he said quickening his pace.  

No, I got it.”  Dan said.  The car pulled away and he and his dad waved to Lily.

“Ah, laundry,” John said, eyeing he duffle bag, “I’ll take it.  I know you didn’t have time to do it with your exams.”  John moved toward Dan and tried to ease the duffle bag strap off of Dan’s arm, reaching out with his other arm to bring Dan in for a hug. “Don’t touch me.  Please.” Dan said as he stepped back.  

John hid his confusion and disappointment.  He always shared an abundance of affection with his sons.

They walked side by side, “How was the trip?”  John asked.

“Good.”

“ Lily? Nice she was there to show you the ropes a bit, yeah?”

“She’s good.”

John sensed tension between them and distance emanating from Dan.  He tried to keep it light.  He felt like he was dancing on the tip of a needle and not maintaining his balance very well. John held the door for Dan, and upon entering the house, Dan stopped and took in the home, enveloped and calmed by the familiarity.  The living room was to the left and kitchen and dining room, to the right.   Even if his eyes were closed, he could envision every item in each room: the carved wood birds on a side table, his mom’s hand-thrown pottery displayed on the mantle among graduation and family photos and his dad’s Gold Record plaques hanging above the fireplace. The walls of home were lined with framed prints from museum collections they had visited during their travels and some smaller original paintings and collages from local artists. Many lamps dotted the rooms, emitting warm and soothing light.  Lamps with bronze and ceramic bases resided on tables.  Others stood elegantly on the gleaming wood floors, their arms stretched over comfortable couches, easy chairs and the game table.

“Danny!” his mom joined him in the foyer, breaking his gaze. “Hi, Mom.” They hugged.  “Come, have lunch,” she said as John headed into the kitchen. We made your favorites-chicken salad with dried cranberries, potato salad, fresh bread and brownies from…”  

“Thanks, Mom,” Dan cut her off. “But I’m not hungry.  I just want to be horizontal. I’m tired.”  Dan said, as he peered into the kitchen where his brother Mark was gazing at the newspaper on the table, holding a sandwich on thick slices of bread.

Mark looked up. “Hey,” he said, trying not to be pissy in the first five minutes of his younger brother’s arrival.

“Hey, Mark. I’m going to lie down-see you later.”  Dan called out, before he headed to the back of the foyer up the staircase clutching his suitcase and duffle bag.  

John peeked out from the kitchen and looked at the figure climbing the steps, wanting to help him with the luggage, wanting even more to accompany him up the steps, tuck him gently into the carefully made bed and ruffle his hair.  Instead, his eyes brimmed with tears and he willed his longing to subside.  

Claudia must have read his mind. “Let him go, John,” she said softly. “He needs to rest. Give him time-and space.  You remember what we have to do during this time.”

John nodded, Claudia’s words led him to remember the experiences of his two oldest sons.  It was a transition marked by a parent’s excitement to see a child’s growth and newfound independence -- and the inevitable separation that comes from the child making his way in the world.  The child’s reliance on his parents starts to slip away as autonomy emerges. The relationship noticeably shifts.  

Dan entered his room, which had been cleaned and organized since he exited four months ago, leaving behind abandoned clothes and other things that didn’t make the cut for college in a whirlwind.  He dropped his luggage and collapsed onto the bed, yanking down the neatly tucked covers. He tore off his sneakers, eased out of his jeans and flannel shirt and scooted under the blankets.  As he stretched out under the soft sheets warming the cold spots, he watched the shadow of the bare winter trees dance against the wall, the low winter sun leaving orange-yellow squares on the wall, its finale before setting. He closed his eyes, and before he could form a thought or feel an emotion, he was asleep.  

When Dan woke, the sun was long gone.  The room was black, save for a sliver of hallway light shining through the door set ajar. He stretched, not ready to wake up, feeling disoriented.  He heard footsteps on the stairs and suddenly the door opened, letting in bright light.  He cringed and flipped toward the wall.“What time is it?”  

“6:00,“ came the reply. “Did you have a good nap?  Do you feel better?”

“Groggy…”

“How about some dinner? Steve’s here. He’s staying over to help get the house ready.“

“Ok, give me a minute.”

“Sure, Love,” came John’s response, as walked out and shut the door, trying to give Dan space, remembering what Claudia had said.

Dan flipped on his bedside light, threw off the covers and dressed slowly.  He looked around the room, conflicted by wanting to be there and thinking he should want to be back at school in his dorm.  He grabbed his toiletry kit from his suitcase, went to the bathroom, and threw cold water on his face as a first step to waking up.

He went down the steps, where the family was seated at the large kitchen table. His wise and sensitive oldest brother Steve rose to greet him.

“Hey,” Steve said softly, smiling, as Dan leaned in to hug him.  Steve had been his rock during the last few months.  The recipient of many late-night phone calls, Steve talked him through panic attacks about schoolwork, helped him to organize his study schedule, guided him through the intricacies of making new friends, shored him up as his confidence dipped and eased his frustration about how FUCKING HARD everything was in these ‘best years of his life.’  He wouldn’t have made it through the semester without Steve.  

The two of them hugged tightly, and once again Dan let Steve take his weight and with it, all the emotions that hovered at the surface.  

And an emotional grab bag it was:  There was his desire to distance himself from the painful remnants of the semester, but a motivation to embrace his identity and life as a college student, however fraught it was.   And he felt a tug to distance himself from his family, but also a pull to slip back in the comfort and caretaking he knew and was lucky to receive at home.

Steve and Dan broke apart and Dan looked away, concerned that his emotions might show.  He felt his father’s eyes on him.  

“Let’s eat!” John called, breaking his gaze from his sons, as he moved serving bowls and platters to the table and the three boys sat at the table, Mark entering from the hallway.

“How was your semester, Mark?”  Steve asked, grabbing a platter of roast chicken, taking some and passing it to Dan.

“Great,’ Mark responded. “Made the Dean’s list again. Can’t believe it’s my last year. My frat brothers and I - we have a great time in the house.  I’m starting an internship next semester at an engineering firm-really excited about that. And, Shawna and I are still dating.  I’m taking her away after the holidays for a weekend.  Yeah, overall, it’s great. I’m really gonna miss college though.”

Dan took some chicken and placed the platter on the table while trying hard not to roll his eyes.  Everything came so easy to Mark:  school, friends, girls. Dan looked down, focusing on his food, well, focusing on pushing it around.  He prayed the discussion would not come around to him.  Steve, of course, had his back, knowing what had transpired his first semester.  And he felt he had pushed his dad away enough to create a barrier to discussion. Perhaps Mark had his back too, because he turned the conversation to global warming-not a cheery topic by far, but certainly a good distraction.

When Claudia added to the conversation, John looked at Dan seated next to him and quietly said, ‘Are you feeling ok? Can you eat a little, Love?”  Dan raised his head and glared at his father.  “Stop FUCKING calling me that!” he yelled. “And, you don’t need to watch me eat.  I’ve been eating for four months without you.”  He dramatically pushed his chair out and stood with his arms braced on the table and stormed off to the family room.  “Danny, don’t use that language with your father.” his mother called after him, clearly upset.  

Dan’s emotions created an explosion in that moment:  Anger, sadness, anxiety, jealousy, for starters.  He collapsed into a chair and clicked on the TV, turning up the volume, watching mindlessly, as his heart pounded.

Meanwhile John sat stunned at the table. “I don’t know what’s with him,” Claudia said.  “I’ll speak with him.”

“Let me go, Mom,” Steve said, standing up and proceeding toward the blaring TV. He entered the room, shut the French doors gently and turned down the volume slightly wanting some background noise.  He sat down in the chair next to Dan and leaned toward him.

Steve took a deep breath. “You know…you don’t have to be a complete asshole to him.  He basically has a part-time job of loving you.”

“I didn’t ask him to take on that job.   He’s always in my business, treating me like a child.  Wanting me to…need him.  Calling me that name he gave me when I was a baby.”

Steve swallowed, thinking about his response.  “Well, Your birth changed him-brought him back. To us.”  Steve said softly.  “Look, he cares-he always has. He senses you’ve had a tough time.”  

“Did you, did you tell him anything?” Dan asked nervously.

“No, of course not, but he knows you.  And, sometimes it’s what you don’t say that says it all.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad to tell him what your semester was like. You’ll probably feel relieved, and he’ll be supportive.” Steve urged gently.

“Yeah right.” Dan huffed. “Like Mr. Perfect would understand. Mr. O levels and A levels and honors degree.  Mr. Electronics Guru and World-famous musician and songwriter.  Mr. Finance Expert and… UGH, Mr. Fucking Perfect.  In Everything. I see where Mark gets his perfection.  And you too, while we’re at it.”

Steve chuckled.  “No one is perfect, and everyone-including me, Mark and Dad have had our challenges. Guess you don’t remember Mark’s first semester, when he was tasting freedom for the first time and partying too much? Almost flunked out.  And, dad…well you don’t remember a lot of it, but he’s had some challenges emotionally….”

Steve switched the topic. “Give Dad a chance.  It doesn’t have to be as a father.  More as a coach, a friend, even.  My relationship with him shifted when I went off to school.  You know, it’s ok to need sometimes.   We all go through the autonomy-dependency thing.  It’s a process. These are tough years. No one goes through this period unscathed.”

Dan raised his eyes and glared at this oldest brother.   “No.” he said stubbornly, turning his focus to the TV.

Ever-patient Steve was at this wit’s end.  “Ok, now you do sound like a child.  I want you to think about what I’m saying.  At the very least, we all want to have a nice holiday.  Please curb your anger, and stop being a dick to dad.”   Steve rose and walked out, closing the doors roughly behind him, fighting to hide his own anger and frustration at his youngest brother as he walked back to the kitchen.

Dan listened to the doors rattling from the abrupt closing and the droning TV. He stewed in his potpourri of emotions. Eventually, he let his thoughts disperse. He realized that he had a choice.  And, the issue wasn’t his dad, really.  It was him. He knew Steve was right-his dad meant well and would be helpful and supportive.  He had to move beyond feeling like a failure from this first semester. For now, he envisioned different scenarios to rejoin the family.  He knew that he deep down, he wanted – and needed - to feel the connections - and to let himself be loved. 

Tagging:  @warriorteam1924 @deakysgurl @im-an-adult-ish

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Like a Hole in the Head

Author: IDeserveYou

Year: 2012

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Naboo/Saboo

He doesn’t know where he is: somewhere in London, presumably. There’s nobody in sight; no demons, but nobody to help him either. How long has he been left to wander around like this? It could be days. It feels like days. He’s starving, wet through, shivering, disoriented, and very, very pissed off. Fucking Board of fucking Shamen. It's all coming back now. How on earth he can be expected to work with people like that – Harrison. Dennis. Kirk. And most especially that little tit Naboo. Where are they when you need them? When it comes to the crunch, they’re all fucking useless. Muttering savagely to himself, he sets off down the narrow street. The pavement is cracked and uneven, making him stumble and wince at the pain in his blistered feet. He trips over a doorstep and almost falls: saves himself by grabbing onto the doorpost. At last. Somewhere with signs of life. There’s the heavy pulse of music, and a waft of stale booze and smoke: some sort of seedy club. Not Saboo’s usual scene, but the door is half-open and there’s no bouncer to turn him back. And the air coming through the door may stink, but at least it’s warm. So warm… he needs warm, he’s cold without the wrappings of Nanatoo's woolly scarf. He slips through the door and wobbles down a corridor into a gloomy, black-painted room. At first he feels a bit conspicuous teetering around in high-heeled shoes, but he's still too cold to take them off. Anyway the place is full of goths and nobody takes much notice of him. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Hang on a minute. Is that a gorilla over there with those two girls? Then someone bumps into him. Someone small. “Evening gorgeous,” the someone giggles, “fancy meeting you here.” Oh, shit. This is just what Saboo needs. He needs this like – “Do you know you’ve got a hole in your head?” Saboo can’t understand why anybody would be giggling. This is serious. Very, very serious. “Yes,” he snaps back, “I do know, I could hardly fail to be aware of it.” “It’s a good look for you. Very cool. You can see the lights through it.” Feeling terrible, Saboo leans on the wall. “Are you high, Naboo?” he asks severely. Naboo giggles more. “Yeah. Good to see you too, Saboo. You look great, you should wear a dress more often.” “It isn’t a dress, it’s a coat.” “Whatever, it goes well with the heels, you got a ladder in your tights though.” “I’m not surprised, I’ve been walking the streets for days…” The room spins, and Saboo slides down to the floor. Naboo kneels beside him. “You OK down there?” “Do I look like I’m OK?” Saboo snarls. “Why couldn’t I bump into someone competent, you plum duff? Why did it have to be you?” “Magic. It was meant to be.” Naboo is laughing outright now. “No, it sodding well wasn’t. You know I’ve never liked you.” The little shaman shrugs. “OK, I’ll go an’ call Tony then, I’m sure he’ll be happy to – take care of you.” “No way.” Saboo heaves at the thought. “I am NOT letting Tony bloody Harrison see me like this. And if you EVER tell him…” “What you gonna do? Bludgeon me to death with a shoe?” Naboo is laughing and laughing and Saboo can’t do anything except lie on the floor; the lights are dancing with the music and is that a gorilla over there with those two girls? He groans. Naboo puts a hand on his forehead, beside the hole. The touch is cool and Saboo can feel the power in it; he’d never known Naboo really had any, always thought he was only on the council because Dennis fancied him. Naboo smiles. “Yeah, it is a gorilla over there. It’s Bollo, you idiot. Yeah, I do have the power, how d’you fink you ended up here? An’ no, Dennis don’t fancy me, he fancies you. Don’t tell him I said that.” Saboo tries to sit up, and heaves again. Naboo leans down; speaks very clearly in his ear. “Tell you what we’re gonna do, OK? I’m just gonna tell Bollo you’ve finally showed up, leave him to get some action, then I’m gonna take you home an’ fix you. An’ if you ever tell the H-Man that I chose you over two hot goth chicks…” “What are you going to do?” But Saboo can’t think what comes next. Naboo shakes his head. “No comeback? Oh, dear. You're in a bad way. Don’t go anywhere.” He’s gone, Saboo feels the loss, the music is arguing with the lights and he wishes they’d both shut up. He shuts his eyes. “Hey,” a voice says in his ear, “don’t cry, it’s gonna be OK now.” “I’m not crying,” he sobs. “I – never – cry –” “Have it your own way.” Naboo passes him a tissue, and hauls him to his feet, one arm across Naboo’s shoulders. Naboo feels strong and solid and Saboo feels as though he’s floating… then he opens his eyes and realises it’s because he is floating… It makes him feel more nauseous than ever. He holds on tight as Naboo tows him out of the club, chatting away as though this is something he does every day. “Got the carpet parked out the back. I’m not s’posed to use it for personal transport, but seein’ as I’m rescuin’ a fellow shaman, I don’t expect Dennis’ll mind. An’ it’s a beautiful night for flyin’.” “You’re flying all the time anyway, you little stoner,” Saboo mutters. “Look who’s talkin’. You’re the one glidin’ along two foot off of the floor.” He has a point. And he’s right about the night. It’s truly beautiful. The clouds have cleared away, the stars are dancing with the moon and is that a glimpse of the Xooberon Nebula away up there between those two planets? Saboo hopes so. And he also hopes – Hang on just a minute, he must really be in a bad way. Naboo lets him sink gently down on the carpet, and smiles. “Don’t worry.” “I’m not.” “Are too. Your thoughts are all leakin’ out of that hole in your head, I can hear ’em loud and clear.” The smile turns into yet another of those infuriating giggles. Oh, fuck. “It’s all right.” Naboo clambers on board, and bends down low, so low that his silky hair brushes the other shaman’s cheek. His breath is warm against Saboo’s ear. “Dennis ain’t the only one,” he whispers, and launches the carpet up into the glittering sky.

~~~

Saboo never thought he’d be happy to be back in Naboo’s squalid little flat; but then, today has been full of surprises.

Naboo’s two waste-of-space employees are sitting very close together on the sofa when the shamen walk in (or rather, when Naboo walks in; Saboo is still floating). They move rather hastily apart and Vince says, too brightly, ‘Alright, Naboo?’ Howard is blushing. And wearing eyeliner. At least he looks better as a goth than he did as a nana. Knee-length floral Crimplene is not a good look for anybody, especially anybody with a moustache. ‘Oh, er, hi Naboo, you found him then.’ Howard crosses his legs elaborately. Probably hoping nobody will notice what’s happening inside his skin-tight black trousers. ‘Well, it was more like he found me, actually. Budge up a bit, Vince.’ Naboo shoves Vince along the sofa until the gap between the two humans is wide enough for him to push Saboo into it and sit him down. ‘Sorry to interrupt your romantic evenin’, but I need you to keep him warm while I get some things to fix him with. An’ be gentle with him, he’s been to the crunch an’ back, remember.’ Vince pulls an insanitary-looking rug from the back of the sofa and drapes it over all three of them. Saboo hates to admit it, but the warmth of the primitive fabric is welcome; he’s still chilled to the bone, and a carpet flight through the frosty winter sky hasn’t helped. ‘Blimey, you’re cold. I can feel the cold comin’ out of you in waves. Hey Howard, snuggle up a bit, this poor sod’s freezin’.’ ‘I thought you didn’t even like Naboo,’ Howard says in a puzzled voice, as he shuffles closer under the blanket. The cold makes speech impossible; and anyway, Saboo doesn’t know how to answer that. Or even whether it’s a question at all. ‘Do you like him?’ Vince asks, all guileless blue eyes. Saboo shakes his head and wishes Vince would shut up. Vince smirks. ‘Do you love him?’ ‘Shut up, Vince,’ Howard says, and Saboo gives him a grateful glance. ‘He does love him though, Howard. Or why would he be here?’ ‘Just… shut up about it, Vince, not everything revolves around sex.’ ‘Yeah, it does.’ Vince grins wickedly. Saboo relaxes against Howard’s shoulder. The warmth of these primitive humans is welcome, too; poor things, they have to keep themselves warm, their crappy planet doesn’t even know what hot is, you can’t rely on its pathetic local star like you can on the suns of Xooberon. Vince quivers with laughter, and says very quietly: ‘Did you kiss him?’ Shut up, you tit, just shut up, this isn’t funny, it’s too much on top of everything that’s happened, the demon invasion and the stress of working with Tony and the feeling of knitting needles thudding into flesh and the cold and the floating and the stars and awakening to a swift, delicate press of lips and a small voice whispering wake up, ballbag, we’re home… and the pain… The binding spell that held it all together finally fails, as Saboo gives in to the exhaustion he’s been fighting for days. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Vince’s voice is high with sudden alarm. ‘Naboo, he’s bleeding. What’s happening? Do something!’ There is warm wetness seeping through the coat or dress or whatever it is, and oh shit, it hurts, it hurts… ‘I’m sure it does. Hang in there, we’ll take care of you.’ Fuck, must’ve said that out loud. ‘Yeah, you did. It’s all right.’ Howard takes the hand Saboo didn’t even know he was holding out, and holds tight. ‘Hurry up, Naboo.’ Vince sounds panicky. ‘I’ll be there in a minute, OK? Just findin’ the potions I need. Can’t plug a demonic wound with just any old rubbish, you know.’ It’s more like two minutes and it feels like two lifetimes, but at last he is there, and Howard’s hand is warm and solid as Vince helps to strip away that ridiculous outfit, thankfully without comment. It could be worse. At least that damn gorilla isn’t here. He didn’t need to see this. ‘You idiots,’ Naboo squeaks, ‘you only told me about the one in his head, you never said he took four needles to the chest as well.’ ‘Sorry, Naboo. We forgot, there was a lot else going on… But you can fix them, right?’ ‘I dunno, Vince, this looks bad, I might ’ave to call Dennis.’ ‘Please don’t,’ Saboo whispers, and bites his lip with the pain. ‘Well, alright, I’ll do my best. We need to lay you out flat. Vince, if you’re gonna puke, go an’ do it somewhere else.’ ‘I’m not.’ ‘Good. Go an’ boil the kettle, we need hot water. Howard, can you…?’ ‘Like this?’ ‘Fine, yeah.’ Saboo finds himself lying with his head across Howard’s knees and two big warm hands holding him down as Naboo cleans away the blood and then does something with an evil-smelling potion that makes Saboo arch his back in agony, and also swear his tits off. ‘Sorry ’bout that, it does tend to sting a bit.’ Was that a tiny tremor in Naboo’s level voice? ‘It should all go numb in a minute, then I’ll just squeeze this frog over it…’ ‘Does the frog’s slime have healing powers or something?’ Howard asks. ‘Nah, but look at its stupid expression, if ever an amphibian deserved a good squeezin’ this one does. Then I’ll put some fillin’ in the holes an’ it’ll all be fine… Vince, quit fiddlin’ with those jars, that’s powerful magic stuff in there.’ ‘Shouldn’t this one be in the kitchen? It says “cherry pie” on the label.’ ‘Course it does. It’s the best fillin’ there is. Hand it over, an’ get us a teaspoon. An’ if you manage not to faint, you can scrape the jar out afterwards.’ Nobody faints, not even Saboo, although having your brain and lungs reconstructed with a teaspoon is not a pleasant sensation. Howard draws the occasional sharp breath, but he doesn’t let go of Saboo’s shoulders until Naboo drops the spoon back into the jar with a faint ‘clink’ and hands it to Vince. ‘There you go, knock yourself out, pity to waste it… Cheers, Howard. Saboo, ya ballbag, you still with us?’ Saboo forces himself to croak: ‘Yes.’ ‘Sit up, then, an’ we’ll see whether it’s worked.’ ‘It had better have worked.’ Saboo groans as Howard helps him to sit up and swing his legs to the floor. ‘I’m not going through that again. And I much prefer rhubarb, anyway.’ ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, sir,’ Howard intones sanctimoniously. Saboo is about to point out that this is something he neither begged for nor chose, but something in Naboo’s expression stops him. Little tit’s actually worried. ‘He looks alright to me,’ Vince says, sucking thoughtfully on the teaspoon. ‘You look a bit peaky, though, Vince.’ Howard gets off the sofa and puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. ‘Bit pale.’ Vince is indeed very white and wide-eyed, his mouth stained a vivid cherry-pink. He looks at himself in the mirror. ‘I do, don’t I?’ His expression brightens. ‘Genius. It’s just perfect for the goth look.’ ‘Is that all you can think about – how you look?’ Naboo snaps. ‘Howard, get this idiot out of here before I shove a frog somewhere he didn’t even know I could.’ ‘Sorry, Naboo,’ Vince mumbles. Howard whispers something in his ear, and he nods. ‘I’ll – we’ll see you in the morning, yeah?’ ‘Whatever.’ Naboo turns his back on the two of them, and bends over to check Saboo’s injuries. ‘Those don’t look too bad, if I say so myself. I’m not really trained in magical surgery. Good thing you didn’t get a hole in the heart as well.’ His face is intent, professional, concerned. Those black-and-silver robes are stunning, even crumpled and stained from a night’s hard partying followed by a life-or-death rescue mission; and someone (Vince, most likely) has artfully applied eyeliner and just a touch of makeup, to emphasise Naboo’s wide dark eyes and fine-boned features. There’s still a trace of lipgloss on his mouth, that soft mouth, so gentle, Saboo knows he didn’t imagine it… Naboo looks up, smirking slightly; evidently not worried any more, then. ‘We need to get your core temperature back up. You’re still shiverin’. You wanna have a hot shower?’ ‘Won’t the holes –’ ‘Nah, they’ll be fine now. Look.’ Saboo steals a hasty glance, and is reassured: a large area of his midriff is covered by multicoloured bruising, but the four little round knitting-needle scars are already almost invisible. A chance to be warm again is tempting, very tempting… ‘I’ll wash your back.’ That shouldn’t sound as tempting as it does. ‘I can manage.’ ‘Yeah, I know, but I’ll do it anyway… I’d offer to wash your front too, but I don’t wanna push it.’ Naboo is giggling again. Saboo suddenly feels very weary. ‘All right, you know what? I give up. Just do – whatever.’ He wriggles free of the rest of his outfit and gets unsteadily to his feet. ‘Happy now? I’m standing here in my underwear, completely at rock bottom, and all you can think about is your own smutty little fantasy. Well, I hope you’re enjoying this. Because I’m most certainly not.’ ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that.’ ‘Oh, and what did you mean it to sound like? No, don’t tell me, I don’t care. Just get me fucking well warm and then let me sleep. Just – ’ Naboo puts an arm round him, to hold him up. ‘Hey. It’s all right.’ ‘No, it’s not. It’s not…’ And now Naboo has both arms round him, and he’s resting his cheek on Naboo’s sleek hair, and choking out: ‘I’m sorry.’ Naboo gives him a friendly squeeze. ‘ ’S’OK, I know you’ve ’ad a tough week. Come on. Bathroom’s this way. An’ I promise I won’t look if you don’t want me to.’

~~~

‘Naboo, you plum, what on earth are these supposed to be?’ ‘They’re Howard’s pyjamas. You’re both tall… I thought they’d prob’ly fit you OK. An’ they do, look.’ ‘I am looking, and they don’t.’ Saboo glares at his multiple and extremely unflattering reflections in the bathroom’s many mirrors. ‘They’re a baggy nightmare. And for fuck’s sake, they’re paisley patterned. I cannot go out of this bathroom looking like this.’ Naboo’s mouth twitches. ‘Might look better if you put the matchin’ top on as well.’ ‘Somehow I seriously doubt it.’ ‘Well,’ Naboo says calmly, ‘you can walk round the flat naked if you’d prefer that. I know I would…’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t.’ ‘Thought not. But a shaman can dream, can’t he?’ Naboo passes the pyjama jacket, and watches Saboo shrug his way reluctantly into it. ‘Hmmm. Maybe I was wrong about that lookin’ better... Here you go, cover it up with this.’ He holds out a fluffy brown dressing-gown. At least it’s warm, and it does hide most of the offensive pattern. Naboo’s doing his best, even if it’s a bit crap. ‘Thank you,’ Saboo growls. Naboo smirks. But only slightly. ‘You’re welcome… and hey, Howard an’ Vince are makin’ us dinner, it was Vince’s idea to make you feel better an’ make me not be pissed off with him any more, which means Howard’ll be doin’ most of the actual cookin’, so don’t diss his terrible taste in nightwear in front of him.’ ‘I won’t. But you have to promise me not to laugh.’ ‘At you? I wouldn’t dare.’ Grinning openly now, Naboo pulls his robes on over his head, and jams his turban back onto his damp hair. ‘Come on, whatever it is it smells great.’ Whatever-it-is turns out to be macaroni cheese, great creamy mounds of it, and it tastes even better than it smelt. After his first few desperate, ravenous mouthfuls, the subtlety of the flavour has fully registered, and Saboo is able to withdraw his attention from his plate for a few moments, in order to look at Howard with a new respect. ‘This is delicious. Thank you.’ Howard looks back at him with mild puzzlement. ‘Are those my pyjamas?’ ‘I borrowed ’em,’ Naboo says unrepentantly and indistinctly, through a mouthful of cheese. ‘Knew you wouldn’t mind. An’ it’s not as though you’ll be needin’ em tonight, is it?’ ‘Ummm… well, actually…’ ‘Oh, c’m’on Howard,’ Vince laughs, putting a hand on Howard’s shoulder. ‘Naboo’s right. An’ they look better on Saboo. Still pretty ridiculous, but better.’ Howard blushes, mumbles ‘You’re welcome,’ shrugs off Vince’s hand, and starts fussing with the saucepan, doling out second helpings. Saboo takes refuge in diplomatic silence, trying to be sensible and eat slowly, sneaking glances at Naboo every so often as the little shaman checks his mobile phone – ‘Twenty-three messages from Dennis, anybody’d think he was worried about you, better send ’im one back to say I found you I suppose’ – while he tucks away a second and then a third helping. Naboo really is an enigma. How is it possible for someone so small to eat that much macaroni cheese without exploding? And how is it possible for an eccentric midget you don’t even like to wreak such havoc on your well-trained shamanic mind? Not to mention your body… He watches Naboo’s small hands flickering over the phone buttons; the same hands that had spread the shower gel across Saboo’s aching back, carefully going so far and no further, the power of the little shaman’s touch unknotting the tension until it washed away like the bubbles. It was bliss. He’d turned round to thank Naboo without even thinking about it. Only to find that Naboo was standing actually in the bath, which hadn’t actually been part of the deal, and that he was stark naked, which hadn’t been part of the deal either. How had he even got out of those robes without making a sound? And as to what was inside them – Saboo’s face must have registered his shock: Naboo frowned, and said quietly: ‘What is your problem with me? Is it this?’ ‘What makes you think I have a problem?’ At least I have fucking genitals… He turned away, staring at the crumbling grout between the off-white tiles on the wall. Naboo snorted. ‘Here I am, offerin’ you the smoulderin’ sexual release you so clearly need, an’ equally clearly haven’t had in years, an’ you look at me as though I’m a bat-dropping on your shoe, an’ then turn your back. Makes me wonder why I bother.’ ‘Why do you?’ ‘Dunno really, I just… Does there have to be a why?’ ‘Perhaps there doesn’t.’ Saboo had carried on staring at the tiles, while the water sluiced down and filled the bathroom with steam. ‘Haven’t you seen a third-sexer before?’ It wasn’t a challenge, or a condemnation; it sounded, if anything, sympathetic. Saboo shook his pounding head. ‘I didn’t know.’ ‘Not many people do. It’s not exactly somethin’ you shout from the rooftops. Even on Xooberon, which this isn’t.’ ‘Do they know?’ ‘Vince’n’Howard? Not unless Bollo’s said anythin’. Mind you, they’re unusual for humans, they take all sorts of other weird stuff in their stride, if they found out I ’ad no tackle I don’t think it’d even make ’em blink. Vince might ask a few embarrassin’ questions, but Howard’d tell ’im it wasn’t any of their business, and we’d all just make another pot of tea an’ carry on.’ ‘I’m not like them.’ ‘I’m not expectin’ you to be. Listen, I’m getting’ cold stood ’ere, an’ we need to sort this out one way or the other.’ ‘But I don’t even –’ ‘Oh, change the fuckin’ record. How do you know you don’t like somethin’ you’ve never even tried? I’m not a bat-dropping on your shoe, I’m Naboo, that’s who. Gimme a bit of respect. At least look me in the eye while you’re tellin’ me you don’t want me.’ Saboo had turned round and taken one look, and then dropped his gaze, his cheeks burning. ‘Go on, look all you like.’ Naboo’s voice had lost its waspish edge. ‘I know the timin’s crap an’ I won’t bother you if this really isn’t what you want. Or if you need more time to think. Third-sex isn’t everyone’s bag… but I never had any complaints before…’ Somehow Saboo had forced his eyes to meet Naboo’s, and he’d wanted to say something lightly humorous, like ‘I’m not surprised,’ to prove that he was still in control of this situation, but his throat had seized up. And as for being in control… ‘Alright, you don’t need to say anythin’, your body’s doin’ the talkin’ for you. An’ it’s told me all I need to know for now.’ Naboo’s grin lit up the steamy bathroom. ‘Now move over, I wanna do my hair. Towels are on the rail, an’ I borrowed some pyjamas for you…’ ‘You OK there?’ Howard’s voice cuts through Saboo’s reverie. ‘Can I get you anything else – more food? I think there are some biscuits somewhere if Vince hasn’t eaten them all.’ ‘Shut up Howard, I’m not a total pig, I always leave at least one just in case.’ ‘No, I – I’m fine.’ Saboo makes himself focus on the humans across the table. ‘That was great. Thank you. I hadn’t eaten for days.’ A huge yawn wracks him. ‘You look like you need to sleep for days,’ Vince says. ‘Tell you what, how about bedtime cocoa an’ a hot water bottle? You’ll go to sleep quicker if you’re warm. I always do. An’ I don’t need the hot water bottle any more, not since I’ve bin sleepin’ with Howard, he’s always warm...’ ‘There is such a thing as too much information, Vince,’ Howard cuts in. ‘There certainly is.’ Naboo wrinkles his nose in disgust. ‘Leave him alone, he’s making very sensible suggestions.’ Saboo yawns hugely again, and staggers over to the sofa. ‘Thank you, Vince. A hot drink and some non-human portable warmth would be very welcome.’ ‘Do I fall within that definition?’ Naboo asks very quietly, as Howard and Vince are bickering amicably over the kettle and the clearing-up and who’s done what with the stopper for the hot-water bottle. Please, no more tonight. There’s been enough to deal with today. And the thought of lying next to that small smooth body… so tempting, but also so terrifying. Saboo’s not entirely sure why he’s afraid. After all, it’s not as though Naboo could physically invade him. But the little one is already walking around in Saboo’s mind as though he owns the place, even though the hole is mended and Saboo’s thoughts are no longer leaking out… Naboo looks at him with those fathomless dark eyes, and he wonders how true that last thought is. ‘OK then,’ Naboo says. ‘Not tonight. Stay on the sofa – I’ll get you another blanket or three.’ Four blankets and a hot-water bottle render the lumpy sofa tolerably comfortable. It’s the first time Saboo’s feet have been properly warm since he broke into that charity shop and stole those ridiculous high heels. He’s barely got under the covers and already his eyes are closing. He murmurs a sleepy goodnight to Vince and Howard, but he’s not sure they’ve heard him, they seem very focused on each other… ‘G’night, ballbag. Sweet dreams.’ Naboo is smiling down at him. ‘No, shut up, don’t say anyfink you’ll regret in the mornin’. Just go to sleep.’ There’s a command in his words that Saboo is powerless to disobey. A dark tide of sleep rolls over him and carries him away, and he’s not sure whether the silken touch of lips on his cheek is the last impression of reality or the first of dreams.

~~~

On the sofa, Saboo dreams. He dreams of lights dancing with gorillas, of stars and music streaming across the sky. He dreams of a sleek white body and silken dark hair jewelled with raindrops, of kohl-rimmed eyes looking into his soul. Then the lights and the stars fade to dimness, and he is alone in echoing silence. His feet are cold. He looks down; he is standing up to his ankles in a dark pool. A tiny, fragile body floats just out of reach, its dead hair tangled around its neck and its dull eyes gazing sightlessly at him: black holes leading into nothingness. It sinks below the surface as he watches, and the last of the stars go out. There is nothing left. He wakes abruptly, shuddering all over and drenched in icy sweat. The hot-water bottle at his feet is no longer hot, but cold and unfriendly. He boots it onto the floor with a dull flump that sounds too loud in the echoing silence of the lounge. His heart is thudding wildly. He has a sudden urge to go and check on Naboo, to open the bedroom door just a crack, to see that he’s breathing; maybe to lean over, close enough to see that the pulse is still beating in his neck… Stupid, really. Of course Naboo’s perfectly all right. But it’s impossible to sleep without knowing. And his feet are cold. And the thought of the dream returning – Saboo pulls the dressing gown close round him, and creeps down the passageway. There’s a giggle from the bed, the moment the door creaks open. ‘Swallowed your pride, did you?’ ‘I’ve none left.’ ‘Hey.’ Naboo turns on the bedside lamp; he is no longer laughing. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘I was cold,’ Saboo mutters. ‘An’ you had a bad dream.’ ‘How did you know?’ ‘I saw it too. My shaman-senses picked it up. Either that, or we’ve both had too much cheese.’ ‘I’m sorry I woke you.’ ‘You didn’t. Those two did.’ There is a muffled thud and the sound of faint laughter from the next-door bedroom; then an unmistakable, rhythmic creaking, as of elderly and much-abused bedsprings. Naboo rolls his eyes. ‘At it like bloody rabbits. That’s the third time tonight, an’ it’s not even midnight yet. I mean, I’m happy for them an’ everything, but there are limits… Listen, I can hear your teeth chatterin’, you better get in ’ere, you won’t heal properly unless you’re warm.’ Saboo takes a couple of steps towards the bed. ‘Don’t pretend you didn’t come in here for this. Cos I won’t believe you.’ Naboo turns back the bedcovers, and looks down at himself. ‘D’you want me to put somefink on, though?’ ‘No, it’s all right, I –’ Explaining is just too complicated. Even to himself. Saboo strips off the dressing gown and drops it on the floor. ‘You get better heat transmission skin to skin,’ Naboo says, very seriously. Saboo sighs, and takes off the pyjama jacket as well. The bed is soft and welcoming; the covers smell of incense. He lies down, cautiously, flat on his back. ‘This way, I think.’ Naboo pushes him onto his side, facing the door. ‘More contact. I’ll turn up my metabolism f’r a bit.’ He pulls the blankets back over them both and presses close against Saboo’s back, with one arm over him. He takes several deep breaths, and his temperature starts to rise, and rise, until he’s as hot as a blue desert rock basking under the suns of Xooberon. There’s a sharp cry from the bedroom next door, then more laughter, and footsteps stumbling down the hall to the bathroom and back again. A door clicks shut, and then all is quiet. The warmth soaks through Saboo’s skin, through his body, right down to his freezing toes. ‘Better?’ Naboo murmurs, his breath tickling Saboo’s shoulder-blade. ‘Much better. Thank you.’ ‘You’re welcome. ’S’only a bit of energy.’ ‘No, I mean, thank you for all of it – rescuing me, and all that. I have to admit, I was pretty much at the end of my resources. I don’t think I’d have survived another night.’ ‘Yeah,’ Naboo says thoughtfully, ‘you were a bit wrecked by the time I called you in.’ ‘Called me in?’ ‘Told you I had the power. I was puttin’ out a subconscious signal irresistible to any other mighty shamanic mind on this primitive planet. Trouble was, you were out of it an’ not receivin’… Tony Harrison showed up days before you did.’ ‘Was he all right?’ ‘When’s the H-Man ever not all right? Thought ’e’d never stop drivellin’ on, the pink ballbag. He had some cock’n’bull story about you kickin’ ’im off the carpet for getting’ you lost, an’ then him landin’ on top of the O2, bouncin’ off into the Thames an’ bein’ rescued by the Royal Yacht.’ ‘I did kick him off the carpet. He’s a crap navigator, and bloody annoying to boot. But I expect he’s making the rest of it up.’ ‘He said the Queen invited him to dinner and plied him with champagne and caviar…’ Saboo snorts. ‘Tony has a remarkable ability to home in on alcohol. The rest of it’ll be pure bullshit. He probably raided a skip at the back of Tesco, like he did on the way to Kirk’s birthday party.’ ‘He did have a hell of a hangover. But he wasn’t in anywhere near as bad a state as you were. He’d missed all the demon action.’ Naboo shudders, and holds on a little tighter. ‘When that came to the crunch, it wasn’t pretty.’ ‘You can speak to me of the crunch?’ ‘Reckon I can now. I hit rock bottom too, you know. Six hours on the Northern Line an’ two bottles of tequila… an’ no magic. You’ve never had your powers revoked, you don’t know –’ ‘What it’s like to be helpless? I think I do, actually.’ ‘Maybe you do an’ all. Don’t mind admittin’, it teared me up a bit, seein’ you like that.’ ‘You disguised it very well,’ Saboo says drily. ‘Yeah, well… I’ve had a lot of practice at that. Keepin’ deadpan, not sayin’ anyfink. Makes life simpler.’ ‘You won’t say anything about all this, will you?’ ‘To the Board, you mean?’ ‘Yes. I – I’ve got a professional reputation to maintain. I can’t afford to have the others finding out that I’ve been – ’ ‘Dressin’ up in tights? Pretendin’ to be a nana? Fraternising with a council colleague?’ Naboo shakes with laughter. ‘Nah, don’t worry, I won’t tell ’em. I texted Dennis that you needed three days’ peace an’ quiet to recover from the evil killer knittin’ needles. Gave him way more medical information than he’ll have wanted. We’re not goin’ to get interrupted. Even though this is much more irregular behaviour than dj’ing with my familiar.’ ‘Talking of which… we’re not going to get interrupted by a gorilla, are we?’ ‘No way, I don’t sleep with my familiar. What sort of perve d’you fink I am? Bollo sleeps on the beanbags in the corner. Or in the broom cupboard if he’s been on a bender. Like tonight. He’ll come rollin’ in at four a.m. an’ crash out among the hoover bags. If he comes home at all… Is your back warm yet?’ ‘I’m fine now, thanks. Should I go back to the sofa?’ ‘Not unless you want. Plenty of room in this bed. An’ I don’t mind. Look, why don’t you roll over this way, then I can warm your front up too.’ Not even hesitating any more, Saboo rolls over and pulls Naboo close, hot and comforting against the dull ache of the needle-scars. ‘Can’t keep this up much longer, I’m afraid.’ Naboo’s breathing hard, as though he’s been running; his forehead is damp with sweat. ‘You should stop right now.’ Saboo puts a hand on Naboo’s chest. ‘Your heart’s going like a hammer. That can’t be good.’ ‘It isn’t. Generatin’ heat uses up a lot of energy. Good thing I had a third helping, thought I might need it… might have overdone it a bit there… Gimme a minute.’ He’s shaking all over. Saboo holds him while his breathing calms. His skin’s soft and smooth and his hair feels like silk and he fits into Saboo’s arms as though he belongs there and… oh. Fuck. Saboo shifts away, too late. ‘’S nothin’ to be embarrassed about,’ Naboo murmurs. ‘I’m the same.’ He takes Saboo’s hand and places it over his groin: firm and swollen and pulsing slightly. Saboo lifts his hand hastily away again. ‘But I thought you didn’t –’ ‘Just cos you can’t see it, don’t mean it ain’t there. It’s all internal. Adaptation to conserve water, apparently. Genetic remnant of our desert past. Rare, now. We can be fathers, but it needs a lot of ingenuity an’ an understandin’ female.’ ‘Stop being so blasted technical,’ Saboo grits between clenched teeth. He shivers. ‘You cold again?’ ‘No, it’s not that. It’s… it’s this, it’s you, it’s the dream, it’s being tired, it’s… I don’t know what it is.’ His throat feels tight. He’s losing it. He’s lost it. He should never have let this happen. He should be getting out of this bed, right now, and running away, far away. But he’s so tired… so weak… ‘Don’t cry.’ Naboo brushes the tears away. ‘I never cry. I told you.’ ‘Yeah, right. Well if anyone asks me, I never saw it ’appen.’ ‘Help me.’ The last shreds of Saboo’s pride are dissolving under those gentle touches to his cheek. ‘I can’t fight it, I can’t…’ ‘Then don’t.’ Naboo strokes his hair; kisses him softly, open-mouthed, until Saboo pulls away. ‘But this isn’t right – we’re professionals, colleagues on the Board, we shouldn’t, we can’t do this.’ ‘Stuff the Board. We’re mighty shamen, yeah? We can do whatever the fuck we want. As long as we’re sure we do want.’ Saboo buries his head in Naboo’s shoulder. ‘I do want.’ ‘I know you do. Just had to wait for you to work it out, didn’t I? Now, get your arse out of those ludicrous pyjamas. They don’t suit you.’ Saboo obeys happily, and stretches out under the covers, naked and hard and no longer embarrassed. ‘Beautiful,’ Naboo murmurs, running a hand down from nipple to navel, careful to avoid the bruising. ‘Just beautiful. Can I…?’ ‘Of course. That is, you don’t have to, but if you want – Oh.’ ‘Told you I ’adn’t ’ad many complaints.’ Naboo’s voice is warm with affection. ‘Go on, touch me too, you’re goin’ in there in a minute and you should know your enemy.’ ‘You’re not my enemy.’ Saboo strokes over the strange, smooth mound between Naboo’s thighs; dares to reach lower, tracing a fingertip around the edge of the opening that’s there, feeling it quiver at his touch. ‘You’ve come a long way from the bloke who turned his back on me in the shower.’ ‘We live and learn.’ Saboo thrusts against Naboo’s grip. ‘If you want me to fuck you, by the way, you’re going to have to stop doing that.’ ‘OK.’ Naboo stops doing that, and rolls onto his back. ‘I do want you to fuck me. An’ I want you to look at me while you’re fuckin’ me, an’ all.’ He kicks the bedcovers off and lies there smiling and slender and irresistible. ‘Do we need…’ Naboo shakes his head, grinning wickedly. ‘Just lookin’ at you makes me wet.’ ‘Don’t be coarse. Not when we’re about to – to make love.’ ‘Is this love?’ Naboo asks, as Saboo kneels above him. ‘Don’t ask me that. I don’t know. I’ve –’ Saboo looks away, blushing. ‘I’ve very little by which to judge.’ ‘Fair enough. I guess sex’ll have to do.’ Naboo reaches down to touch himself, and slicks Saboo’s length with wet fingers. ‘An’ maybe later on there’ll be more to it than that.’ ‘Do you want there to be more?’ ‘Well, yeah. I know, surprised me too, but like I said, there doesn’t always have to be a “why”.’ Saboo hesitates. ‘Stop over-thinkin’ it, it’s very simple an’ it goes like this. You want me, I want you, we’re gonna fuck an’ we’re gonna enjoy it, end of story.’ He takes firm hold of Saboo’s cock and guides him in. End of story? It feels more like a beginning. The opening is smooth and tight. It feels awkward and a little disconcerting: not quite where either a first- or a second-sexer’s would be. ‘Bit weird, huh?’ Naboo is smiling up at him. ‘At least it means we can do it face-to-face. An’ we can do this…’ He reaches up to caress Saboo’s cheekbone; draws him down for kisses, deep and sweet. When they break for air, Saboo has somehow worked all the way into Naboo’s body and it doesn’t feel awkward any more. ‘Are you all right? You’re still hot. And your heart’s racing.’ ‘That’s… not a bad thing, in this context. I’m fine.’ Naboo lifts his hips and pushes against Saboo’s weight, slowly; muscles ripple deep inside. In all Saboo’s sexual experience (three times if you don’t count Tony Harrison, and he always tries very hard not to), he’s never felt anything like this. ‘Open your eyes,’ Naboo whispers. ‘I wanna see…’ Saboo looks down at him, seeing Naboo with his veneer of cocky assurance stripped away, with his tangled hair fanned out around his flushed face, and his eyes wide and dark. He looks… vulnerable. And very, very sexy. Naboo smiles. ‘You look pretty fit yourself an’ all.’ Those small hands are everywhere, touching, searching, stroking; and something inside Naboo is tightening, drawing up. It’s not going to be long. The lights are dancing with the stars and Saboo can’t remember why he was afraid of this. Naboo gives a sudden sharp gasp. ‘Am I hurting you?’ ‘Yes. No. Don’t stop.’ Naboo rolls his head from side to side on the pillow. ‘That’s good. Fuck, that’s good…’ The lights blaze bright; Naboo’s smile brighter. ‘Little one… oh, little one…’ Naboo shudders and lets out a faint squeak. All the lights go on in a burst of whiteness; someone is yelling and sobbing. There is a thump on the wall. ‘Oi, keep it down will ya, we’re tryin’ to sleep in ’ere.’ Somehow this strikes Saboo as incredibly funny, and once he’s started laughing he can’t stop. Beside him Naboo is laughing too; they try to stifle the noise with pillows, but they can’t help but quiver and snort until they’re limp and weak. Finally they get a grip, breathless and tearful and tangled together. Naboo pushes Saboo’s damp hair out of his eyes and says very seriously: ‘I was right. You fucking well did need that.’ ‘Much though it pains me to admit it, you were. And I did.’ ‘Me too.’ Naboo stretches languorously. ‘Oops, I seem to’ve stuck to you a bit.’ ‘Did you…?’ ‘Yeah. Didn’t you hear me? Here you go. Share the proof.’ Naboo trails a finger through the wetness between his thighs; brings it up to Saboo’s lips. It’s musky and sweet and to Saboo’s surprise, utterly delicious. ‘I don’t always, an’ I didn’t expect it tonight, but seein’ you like that…’ ‘Like what?’ ‘Like’ – Naboo throws back his head and puts on an expression of utter bliss and abandonment – ‘like, “Oh, little one…” Tipped me over the edge, bein’ able to do that for you.’ He leans over for a kiss, warm and affectionate. ‘An’ now – ’ ‘And now I think we need to clean up.’ Saboo shifts uncomfortably in the stickiness on the sheet. ‘Got the perfect thing right here.’ Naboo reaches down beside the bed and picks up the paisley pyjama trousers. By the time Saboo comes back from the bathroom, Naboo is curled up in bed with his eyes tight shut and a peaceful smile curving his mouth. Saboo slides under the covers without disturbing him, and watches the pulse beating in his slender throat, the flickering of his long lashes, the even come-and-go of his breath. This is love. It is definitely love; and there doesn’t have to be a ‘why’. Naboo opens one bright eye. ‘Yeah, I know. Good, innit?’

[winterisakiller]

Love & Great Buildings - Chapter One

Tag list: @tinchentitri @noplacelikehome77

Chapter: 1/19

Character/Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Rosemary Mathews (OFC)

Genre: Romance/Angst

Summary: Three years have passed and a chance encounter brings Tom and Rosie together again. Can time make any difference or are they doomed to repeat their mistakes. 

Rating: T (for now)

Author’s Notes/Warnings:  This is part nine of Last Minutes and Lost Evenings. Many thanks to @redfoxwritesstuff for listening to me ramble incessantly about  this story and being a sounding board when I needed it. You are a lifesaver, even if your stories break my heart.

This story and its preceding one-shots can be also be found on AO3 under the username: winterisakiller (sparkinside)

CHAPTER ONE

 Rosemary Mathews found herself glancing once again at the clock hanging on the far wall. It was utterly ridiculous how time seemed to have come to a standstill. How can it only have been five minutes? Surely at least an hour’s past.

The stack of papers on her desk was still dreadfully high. Bills, invoices, projection figures. If she stared at them for a moment longer she feared she’d lose what was left of her mind. What had she been thinking? Tackling the online market had been one thing. Though she still had nightmares about web design…

But another physical store?

She dropped her head into her hands and groaned. “God, I must have lost my mind.”  

“Can’t lose what you never had!” Jules’ voice sounded from the hall. Rosemary had to stifle a laugh. Trust Jules to add levity to any situation, especially when it was sorely needed.

“Some friend you are!” She retorted, giving up the ghost and pushing her chair back from the desk. She needed to walk away, if only for a short while, or she would certainly go mad. And while she knew Jules had everything to hand up front, showing her face around never hurt.

Jules was perched on the edge of the front counter, a magazine laying half open beside her, when Rosemary emerged from the back. “You love my honesty, don’t lie.” Jules smirked, kicking her feet back and forth.

She narrowed her eyes, pointedly glaring at Jules’ swinging legs. “I don’t recall paying you to lounge about.”

Jules stuck out her tongue. With a roll of her eyes, Rosemary playfully smacked her in the back of the head. Mock outrage flooded Jules’ face and she reached up to rub the back of her head. “Oy! Watch it!”

Rosemary looked around the front room; a woman was browsing through the non-fiction section and an older gentlemen was holding two cookbooks in his hands, seeming to debate which one was worthy of purchase. Otherwise the store was empty. There had been a handful of customers in the morning but that had trickled off come midday.  It was just after the New Year, and the lull was not completely unexpected. They’d done a fair run right up until Christmas and had come out ahead, which was no small feat. The slowness would pass, it always seemed to. Thankfully online sales seemed to be holding steady, so no matter what they would be fine, at least for the time being. But still Rosemary was trying, very desperately, not to panic. Maybe she’d been a bit too ambitious…

“No, Rose,” Jules warned, snapping Rosemary’s attention back into the present. “Stop it. I know that look. We’re fine. You’re fine. Relax.”

“Easier said than done.” Rosemary sighed, leaning against the counter. “I know,” she started again, hands raised to stop Jules’ protest. “I know we’re fine. I’ve been over the books and so has Evan. This is a risk but there is every chance it will pay off. I’m just having cold feet.”

Jules laughed in earnest. “You overthink, my dear.” She hopped off the counter and with a knowing look walked over to help the man with the cookbook dilemma.

                                                         __

 With the front door shut firmly behind her, Rosemary collapsed, gratefully, onto her couch and let out a sigh of relief. Exhaustion weighed down her limbs and all she wanted to do was sleep. Maybe for the next few years. She sighed at the thought. God, if only. She refused to let herself think about the massive amount of work still awaiting her attention back at Stories Untold.

Groaning with the effort, she pushed herself up from the couch and stumbled towards the kitchen when her stomach growled making its presence known. It had been a long time since lunch and her body protested violently at her lack of self-care. But there had been far too much to do and eating had been the very last thing on her mind. She glared at the contents of her refrigerator; a wilting head of lettuce, a quart of milk, and a bottle of white wine. Take-away it is then. And a serious round of shopping tomorrow. Lest I starve and waste away to nothing.

With a handful of menus in hand she settled herself back onto the couch to sort through her options. She shook her head at her own laziness, but she hadn’t felt the need to bother with cooking recently. After her things had fallen apart with Adam six months ago it had been simply easier to call for a pizza or a curry than to spend any effort in putting together a meal. 

It had been a mutual end; she’d loved Adam but it hadn’t been enough. His transfer to a company in America had only sealed that for her. He hadn’t asked her to come with him and she, in return, couldn’t asked him to stay. She missed him, missed his company, especially at times like this. He’d been great to bounce ideas off of and wonderful at helping to keep her grounded. They had been a good team, but in the end it wasn’t enough. So they’d agreed to part. It had been painful, letting go of the life they had started to build together, but she had done it.

She’d struggled, at first, to find her footing again. They’d been together for a year and a half, had talked about finding a place together, building a future; but it hadn’t worked out. She was disappointed but, in the end, hadn’t really been surprised. Relationships just did not seem to mesh with her life; at least not in the recent past.

When she and Bryan had ended, Rosemary had felt defeated but not heartbroken. She’d cared for him, but she didn’t love him and that wasn’t fair to either of them. She had far too much baggage and dragging him along had been cruel. He’d understood; he always seemed to understand, that just seemed to make it worse.

And then she’d been alone. That had suited her, let her work through her own issues and simply enjoy being Rosemary again. Adam had come along when she least expected it. And unlike with Bryan she didn’t try to fight it. And it had been wonderful, she wouldn’t have traded any moment of it for the world. But that too had come to an end.

She groaned and tossed the menus beside her on the couch. She was so tired that even thinking about making a decision hurt. Eyes closed she grabbed the nearest menu. A local Indian take-away. “Curry it is then.”

Order placed, Rosemary curled herself into a comfortable ball and flipped on the television. She settled on a baking program that was nearing the finale; all tension and action. Perfect.

                                                            ___

Rosemary took a deep breath, to steel herself. It was going to be a long day and she knew that she needed to keep herself grounded if she was ever going to make it through. She closed the file on her desk and glanced again at the invitation to its right. The white embossed paper had been both the bane of her existence and a source of great pride.

It was to a relatively large local charity event benefiting children’s literacy and the arts. Stories Untold was involved in the auction portion on the event. And as such Rosemary was invited to attend. It was a great honor and would be fantastic publicity for the shop, especially with the expansion underway. She would have been a fool to turn it down.

When the invitation came Jules had wasted no time at all in dragging Rosemary dress shopping. She’d good naturedly grumbled as she’d been handed dress after dress. It had taken three stores and far too many hours before they’d settled on ‘the one’. A red sleeveless number with a modest hem and a daring neckline. It was far more than she usually spent but it would work wonderfully for the event. And she felt utterly divine in it, though she was loathe to admit that to Jules, give her an inch and the bloody woman takes 10 miles…

She glanced at the clock and groaned. The store was due to open in twenty minutes, Jules and  Tyler, the shop’s newest employee, were manning the main sales floor, leaving Rosemary firmly ensconced in the back going over the latest projections for the next month and plans for the second location. They’d settled on a site and had jumped through the necessary hoops to secure the funding and permits. They were scheduled to start set up within the next three weeks. She’d already interviewed three perspective new employees and she had planned to leave Jules to head the main store while she worked to get the new location on its feet.

This is going to be a very, very long day.

By mid-afternoon, Rosemary was ready to pull her hair out. She’d spent most of the morning on the phone arguing once again with the shippers they had hired. Yet another late shipment and yet another flimsy excuse.

She had never been more grateful to see Jules standing in the office doorway. “Lunch?”

“Oh God yes, please?” Rosemary pushed herself away from the desk. She made quick work gathering her coat and bag. With a quick wave to Tyler, she followed her friend out into the brisk January afternoon.

They ended up at the small coffee shop across the street; they had come across it several years before and found the sandwiches delightful. They always said they would branch out and try somewhere new, possibly the small bistro that opened a few streets down, but never seemed to actually follow through. Oh well, there was always tomorrow.

Sipping her coffee, she let herself start to relax. It was a false sense of calm, to be sure, but a welcome one at least. There was still a massive amount of paperwork awaiting her and then an evening of schmoozing and networking. But that’s later, she reasoned with herself. Plenty of time to worry about it later.

“You excited for tonight?” Jules’ eyes were bright and she watched Rosemary intently. She was nearly vibrating out of her chair with not so suppressed excitement.

Rosemary shrugged. “Yes and no.” She took another sip of coffee to gather her thoughts. “This is a big deal. It’s a fantastic cause and its great exposure for us. But the idea of spending hours in heels is not my idea of a good time.”

“Maybe you’ll meet someone…” Jules offered, wriggling her eyebrows.

“Yeah,” she shot back, “Or not. Really Jules, I think that after everything with Adam I’m ready to just be for a while.”

Jules nodded in understanding. “Fair enough.” She took a bite of her sandwich and looked pointedly at her friend. “But it can’t hurt to look.” She held her hand up to cease Rosemary’s protest. “I’m not saying you have to do anything. But looking…” 

Rosemary picked off a small piece of bread from her sandwich and chucked it at Jules’ head. “Hush.”

“Never,” Jules shot back with a self-satisfied grin. “Not going to happen.”

                                                           ___

 Rosemary smoothed her dress over her hips and smiled. She felt beautiful, slightly out of her comfort zone, but lovely nonetheless. She was grateful for the hair and makeup appointment Jules had good-naturedly bullied her into making. She looked stunning. It was something that she would not have been able to reproduce with any level of accuracy on her own.

The hire car, she still couldn’t wrap her head around that, would be there in less than fifteen minutes. She paced around the living room, torn between excitement and panic. This was a large event and an even bigger deal for both her and her business. A bit of panic was warranted she tried to reason with herself. She felt a bit like Cinderella and she half feared what midnight would bring.

The gala was in full swing, music and conversation swelling through the crowded room by the time she’d arrived. Rosemary slowly sipped her glass of wine, watching the various people milling about. The auction was set to start in forty minutes time and she hoped the wine would help settle her nerves. She’d recognized several faces in the crowd and found herself more than a little star-struck. Well Mathews, she laughed to herself, here’s to not making a complete and utter twat of yourself.

She made her way around the room, stopping to chat with various guests and hosts alike. As she talked and carried on she found herself slowly relaxing and simply enjoying herself.

“Rosie?”

She froze in mid conversation with one of the benefactors of the event. Taking a steadying breath, she turned and found Tom standing behind her. His eyes were radiating warmth tinged with a sense of uncertainty and disbelief. She marveled at the picture he made; hair neat and trimmed, a fashionable day and a half’s worth of stubble on his cheeks and chin, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, dark suit cut perfectly to his lithe frame. He’d always been gorgeous and time, it seemed, had certainly done wonders for him.

“Tom,” she whispered in reply. “Hello.” A small involuntarily smile broke across her features.

She’d found herself wondering, from time to time, over the three years since they’d last spoken how she’d react if she saw him again; what she’d feel. If she’d be happy or angry or indifferent. And now that she was face to face with him she couldn’t deny how, underneath the uncertainty and nervousness, nice it was to just see him again.

He offered a grin of his own in response and she taken aback at the way it seemed to light his face. She had nearly forgotten just how handsome he was when he smiled. “Hi,” he echoed, “I thought that it might have been you, but I wasn’t sure. You look incredible.”

She tried, but ultimately did not succeed in, fighting the blush that crept across her features. “Thank you. You clean up quite nicely yourself. 

The cleared throat that sounded behind her brought Rosemary out of her daze. She whirled around, apologizing profusely for her rudeness.

He waved her off. “Oh it’s quite alright. I see you and Mr. Hiddleston are already acquainted.”  

She nodded, “Yes…We met several years ago. Though it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

Tom smiled graciously and offered his hand. “Harold, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Rosemary watched the two men get reacquainted; discussing the charity and its impact and their mutual goals for the coming year. She found herself swept up in the passion of the conversation. She’d almost forgotten how passionate Tom was. No, that was a lie. She’d not forgotten more like she’d purposefully not thought on it. It was a wonderful sight, regardless.

Sensing that she’d lost both of her conversation partners to each other, Rosemary quietly excused herself and entered back into the fray of the evening. This was her night and she had every intention of enjoying it.

                                                           ___

 “For our next item up for bid we have a first edition of…” He held up said book, showing it to the room at large, “donated by Stories Untold, an independent bookseller in central London. Let’s start the bidding at…” 

Rosemary found herself reflexively holding her breath. She glanced nervously around the room, feeling more than a little foolish at her ridiculousness. It was not like she’d be graded on how well her donation did at auction.

“Breath.”

She flinched, clutching a hand to her chest. Tom had settled quietly into the opened seat beside hers and in the process, seemed, in her mind, to steal ten years off her lifespan.   “Seriously, Tom. Wear a bell!” 

He grinned, “Sorry. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you.” He’d rested his hand over hers and she did not bother to move it.

“It’s fine. I’m just being ridiculous.” She shrugged and smiled self-deprecatingly. “How are you?”

If Tom was taken aback by her random question he hid it well. He simply continued smiling and rubbed her hand. “I’ve been well. Busy but well. You?”

She returned his smile, “I’ve been well too. Shop’s doing well. We’re actually in the process of expanding.”

“Really? That’s amazing.  Congratulations! I’m so very pleased for you.”

The conversation between them, though superficial, was pleasant. Rosemary hadn’t really realized just how much she’d missed just simply talking with Tom. They could, and very easy had in the past, talked for hours about anything. Knowing that wasn’t lost was an elating feeling.

The evening wore on around them but neither seemed to take much notice. They’d interacted with others around them but always seemed to gravitate back to each other. Rosemary did her best not to think too much on what was happening between them and what, if anything, it meant. She tried to let herself live in that moment and simply pretend to be catching up with an old friend. Because that was all Tom could be. No matter what her heart seemed to protest. 

“It was lovely seeing you again.” Tom stood awkwardly aside as she gathered her wrap and headed for the door. Her driver had texted that he’d pulled in at the side of the building and Rosemary knew her fairy tale was coming rapidly to a close. Just as well. It’s gone midnight and I’m liable to turn back into a pumpkin at any moment.

She nodded. “Yeah it was, Tom.” And she had meant it.  “Thank you for a pleasant evening. Take care of yourself, okay?”

He cautiously opened his arms and, without letting herself overthink the matter, Rosemary stepped into them, taking the warm hug he offered. It was brief and innocent but she couldn’t deny she felt comfortable in his embrace. That she had missed it. And that would certainly never do. Stop it. Just stop it.

“Goodnight, Rosie.”

Next Chapter

[tryingthisfangirlthing]

A Fobwatch and a Sapphire-Studded Choker (4/?)

Summary:  After the Doctor’s latest regeneration, the TARDIS crashes on Vhampre Four, and needs time to recuperate. One issue: the Doctor is wanted by the local authorities and can’t be seen on this planet. Issue Number Two: everyone seems to think Rose and the Doctor are a couple, including the fobwatched Doctor herself. And Issue Number Three: the native vhampiiri drink blood… Pairing: Thirteen/Rose Rating: NSFW (just to be on the safe side, but nothing graphic yet) Word Count: ~4.8k Content Warnings: Police Interrogation, Intimidation, Imprisonment, Terrorism Mention, Authoritarianism, Drugging, Confiscation of Property, General Dickish Police Posturing

Also on AO3

Part 4 of my @dwsecretsanta gift (from last year, ohgod I am so sorry I am so behind!) for @natural--blues.

I could not do this without @chiaroscuroverse​‘s invaluable insight and @tinknevertalks​‘ encouragement. Thank you both.

This chapter will be a bit plottier than the previous, and in case you couldn’t tell from the tags, it is not a happy one. I’m halfway through writing the next chapter, though, and I’ll try not to leave you all hanging too long.

Silently, J’aen offered her hand, palm up, not quite meeting Rose’s eyes. Swallowing, Rose took it, lacing their fingers together, and grabbed the suitcase. A half-eaten plate of chips and a nearly motionless animal lay on the table behind them as they made their way out of the restaurant. Rose tried not to think too hard on it.

The melancholy flutter of J’aen’s eyelashes sent guilt spearing through Rose’s lungs. But she could hardly tell her, You're really someone else, someone who isn't a bloody vampire, and I miss him — her. Both — even if I didn’t really know her yet. She knew the Doctor, and that was what counted. Even if it seared to have the man she loved wrenched away from her like that and replaced with someone new, the Doctor remained the Doctor, somehow. She'd been through regeneration once before — but never the Doctor not as hi-herself.

The customs line had shortened by the time they joined it again, moving fluidly now. “What was the hold-up before?”

J’aen glanced at her. “Well, I can hardly know for sure, but my guess would be something like chemistry equipment, DNA samples, the like. Anything that might possibly be used to help commit identity fraud is very strictly controlled. Deadly poisons or weapons might also be an issue, or infection with certain pathogens. There have been terrorist attacks in the past, though relations with other species are largely peaceable now.”

“Terrorist attacks?” Rose shook her head in bewilderment. “What was their agenda?”

J’aen let out a short, joyless laugh. “Do they need an agenda aside from inciting fear? There's been intended genocide, because some still consider us ‘a scourge upon the galaxy.’ Some misguided attempts to change the system here as it is in relation to offworlders. Or for any of a myriad of other reasons. Take your pick.” She sighed. “Not much in the way of missiles or explosives gets through the extraplanetary domain patrols, but specific electronics, chemicals, or pathogens are much harder to detect within a ship.”

Ahead of them, people set their baggage on a belt that conveyed it through what looked more like an MRI machine than a baggage scanner, though Rose guessed it showed even more than that. After yet another of the DNA scanners — the Doctor had been right; this place really was riddled with them — each person stepped into a large scanner themself. Nothing beyond the checkpoint was visible.

“You really are big on security here, aren't you?” And she'd heard air travel in her time was a bloody nuisance.

J’aen glanced at her, slightly askance. “Well, wouldn't you be?”

“I suppose,” was her slightly reluctant response. She felt the leather around her neck acutely. Didn't she and the Doctor rely on anonymity to slip around someplace unnoticed, right what wrongs they could, see the wonders the place had to offer, and slip away again without fanfare? She had some inkling of how he-they might have previously come to the attention of the wrong people here, though there had to be more to it than that. The Doctor was hardly the sort of person to shy away from confrontations with so-called authorities, or to flee from danger. Neither of them were. “And if you've not been through the proper security checks? Or registered in the system?”

J’aen arched her eyebrows as she set their suitcase on the conveyor belt. “I've heard there are people who live here like that, but I can't imagine how they'd evade checks for very long, or even buy food.”

With a polite smile at the security guard, J’aen swiped her hand over the DNA scanner, and stepped into the body scanner. Rose waited her turn, doing her best to quiet nerves that refused to be entirely quashed. What if enough of the Doctor was still there for the scanner to pick up? Reflexively, she smoothed a hand over her jacket pocket, pressing the watch a bit closer to her.

A security officer gestured for her to come forward. The DNA tag scanner didn't protest, at least, when she swiped her ring over it, and, with a quick inhale, she stepped into the body scanner.

It was, in essence, a wide, vertical metal tube, the air inside practically crackling with the amount of energy running through it. ���Please extend all appendages away from your body to their fullest extent, and close or otherwise protect any visual receptors or light-sensing organs,” intoned a mechanical voice. Rose complied, spreading her legs and holding her arms straight out as she closed her eyes. It wasn't a pose she was unfamiliar with, from the occasional Torchwood security patdown. The impersonality here, though, especially coupled with her lack of vision, made it somehow a more vulnerable position, not less of one.

A flash left spots dancing across the inside of her eyelids. She grimaced, squeezing her eyes more firmly shut.

“Thank you for your cooperation. Our security officers will inspect you more closely. Please exit the scanner and comply with all directives issued to you by any of our security team.”

Stomach dropping, Rose did as the computer had instructed. She hardly seemed to have very many alternatives.

“Gentleperson.” A black-uniformed guard confronted her the moment she exited the scanner. “Please step into the inspection area.” Ey gestured to a small booth off to the side.

Rose stopped, looking around for J’aen. “Can I ask what the problem is?” she stalled, taking a deep breath.

By the conveyor belt, J’aen folded her arms as another security officer lifted their suitcase onto metal inspection table and opened it. But, the TARDIS wouldn't pack anything that would get them in trouble…

Rose's guard glanced between her and J’aen. “I will speak with your sponsor as soon as possible. Now please, let's not hold up the line,” ey requested, more firmly.

Rose shook her head. No way was she getting taken someplace on her own. “J’aen!”

J’aen turned, wrinkling her brow as she saw Rose with the guard.

“Gentleperson.” Fingers closed around Rose’s forearm, and she glanced back at the security officer. “Let's not make a scene. I'd prefer not to have to insist.” The last word was almost a hiss.

The officer with their suitcase said something to draw J’aen’s attention again, but she held up a hand in the universal “wait” gesture, and strode towards Rose. Something in the way she moved reminded Rose of a panther, smooth and intent. “What seems to be the problem?”

The guard cleared eir throat. “Your companion has an unidentified object on her person. It is required we search her and inspect this object.”

“I would like to be present for that search.” J’aen crossed her arms over her chest. Her tone left no room for it to be interpreted as a request.

“As is your right as her sponsor, gentleperson.” The guard’s words carried a smooth, mollifying cadence. “But I believe my colleague also requires your attention, and we need to keep the inspection line flowing.”

J’aen practically glowered at em. “I insist she stays with me. We'll go through both the baggage search and the personal search together. It's my good name on the line as well as hers, after all.”

“Gentleperson, we cannot delay searches.” Seeming to sense the commotion, more guards were gravitating towards them. “Once a suspicion has been raised, we are obligated to act upon it in as timely a manner as possible. However, all inspections are recorded per protocol and can be made available to those with the right to access it.”

J’aen glanced at one of the approaching officers, and set her jaw. “I will want access. Rose,” she said, and softened, laying a hand on Rose’s arm, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. There must have been some kind of mistake.”

Rose could only nod. “Yeah, ‘m sure it's just some sort of mistake.” The words rasped over her tongue, and she cleared her throat. “I'll be all right.” It felt like a lie.

J’aen gazed at her for a moment longer, lightning flickering in her eyes — that brush of her thumb stealing Rose's focus, a split second  — and then she was returning to the baggage inspection.

“Now that's settled…” The guard gestured meaningfully towards the booth again. “If you would please accompany me for inspection.”

Swallowing, Rose allowed herself to drift slowly towards the door. She could probably take on a guard or two and run, but where would that leave the Doctor? (And J’aen?) They had to live here, for however long. And Rose couldn’t leave her alone.

Then the door to the booth slid shut, sealing Rose and the guard inside.

Chains hung from the ceiling and one wall, like the strands of a spider’s web. Opposite them stood a table and chair, plain, sturdy metal, bolted to the floor, with a post to attach cuffs, the spartan décor of an interrogation room. A soft hum filled the room, not unlike inside the body scanner. No one-way window was visible, but Rose was willing to bet there was one all the same. Maybe running would have been the better decision.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to relax. “So what happens now?”

“I’m going to begin with a pocket search.” The guard cleared eir throat, pulling a tube of some sort of paste out of eir pocket. Ey daubed it into eir palms, and began rubbing eir hands together, smearing the substance like lotion over the rest of eir skin. “Please raise your hands above your head and keep them there.”

The fobwatch weighed down the right side of her jacket, and Rose’s heart sank with it. “I think I know what set it off. It's just a watch,” she tried. “I can show you if you li—”

“Hands above your head, please.” It was half a bark, and at that point discretion was likely the better part of valor. It just looked like some fancy old watch, really. But she remained tense. If anything were to happen to it...

The lotion left a thin, shiny film on the guard’s hands, like skintight plastic gloves. Slowly, achingly, Rose lifted her hands, and watched as ey unzipped her pocket and pulled out the fobwatch.

Ey turned it over in eir hands, examining the engraving. “What is this?” ey demanded, almost angrily. “What sort of device is it? Is it electronic, or explosive?”

She nearly laughed, out of sheer bloody irony. “It's mechanical. It's a watch — a small clock. It tells time. It's a very old human technology.”

“How?” Eyes narrowed, ey peered at her from beneath eir lashes.

“May I have it back so I can show you?” Carefully polite, nonthreatening.

“I can't do that. Tell me how it's supposed to function.” Ey crossed the room, to the opposite wall.

Eyes on the fobwatch, Rose followed. “I'm not an engineer, but I can explain the basics. It's —”

A compartment opened in the wall, and the guard set the watch inside. Then the compartment slid shut again.

“What are you —?” she half-cried, before biting down on her lip and purposefully lowering her shaky voice. It burned, this compliance with a system she'd already begun to think of as an enemy, but over the years she had learned to employ her rage and stubbornness with a little more precision. “Why did you do that?”

“Please take three steps back.” The guard’s shoulders were tense, eir chin lifted stiffly.

Swallowing, she put a little more space between herself and em, to purposely seem less threatening. “What was that for?” She swallowed, trying to further even her voice. “I could’ve just shown you how it works, that it's not a bomb or anything, and then I could’ve been on my way already.”

The guard glanced at her, but didn't respond. A display lit up on the wall, text scrolling too quickly for Rose to really read the portions of it the TARDIS did translate. What she did see looked like chemistry equations, something about unstable radiation and biological material…

Noticing her watching, ey frowned and swiped away the readout. “Is kei zhel’t?”

Rose’s stomach churned. “I’m sorry, I don’t — I didn't quite understand. Could you say that again?”

“Haye-nhish jeil’t’j sdio. Hashel’t lii’il vhampre’ed.” Ey spoke harshly, gesturing towards the wall compartment. “Dzhak. Is kei zhel’t? ‘Watch,’ natel’t’d,  ue nhi?”

“Yeah, it’s called a watch, a pocket watch.” She crossed her fingers, both that the TARDIS was at least translating her words, and that she was offering whatever information the guard was looking for. “When you open it, there are numbers on it, and the little hand — pointer — tells you the hour, points to it. And the longer pointer tells you the minutes. In Earth time. But you have to wind it, usually, uhm, add mechanical energy every so often so it keeps running, because it hasn’t got a battery or anything. It’s really, really old. That one, it doesn't work quite right. I just keep it for sentimental purposes. Reminds me of home.”

“And you always keep it on your person?”

Relieved, Rose let out a breath. “Yeah —” Of course she would, though that might not be the safest — “I mean, no, not really. I’ve been keeping it with me while we traveled, just, for safekeeping and all. But I don't carry it everywhere with me. I usually keep it someplace at home, nightstand, dresser, you know.”

Ey hummed thoughtfully, noncommittally, regarding her closely. “And how long have you had it?”

“Not very long.” The fewer lies you told… “Picked it up at a bazaar somewhere, one of those antiques sellers.”

“And yet you claim it carries significance for you.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, it's from Earth.” She shrugged, finally finding something like a rhythm, a role she could play. “I mean, I'm God knows how many billions of miles away. What's this all about, anyways?”

The guard shook eir head. “Above my clearance.”

Behind her, Rose heard the click of the latch, and turned to see the door sliding open again. Two more black-uniformed officers filed in, one after the other. One of them nodded towards the guard who had originally taken Rose out of the customs line. “You may go.”

Ey executed a half-bow, and the tension in eir shoulders dissipated as ey stepped out the door.

Rose swallowed, eyeing these new police, or whatever they were. “Security enforcers,” or some other pretty name, no doubt. They sported cuffs and holsters on their belts, and stripes of gold across their chests — the auburn-haired, more feminine of the two wore one sash-like diagonal band, and other, darker-haired officer, two. Drawing eir brows together, Two-Stripes stepped towards Rose, and she took half a step back, on pure instinct.  One-Stripe clicked eir tongue, and when Two glanced at em, ey looked meaningfully at the upper corners of the room. Rose saw nothing as she followed eir gaze, but Two grumbled inaudibly.

“Please take a seat, Rose Tyler.” Two enunciated eir words loudly and clearly as ey gestured towards the chair closest to the chains.

Eyeing em warily, Rose saw nothing for it but to lower herself into the seat. She glanced at the nearest ceiling corner. At least they acted like there were cameras. “I'd like my stuff back, please, and I'd like to know what all this is about.”

Two narrowed eir eyes, and One pressed eir lips together, glancing crossly at the first, who glared right back. They'd reminded her of whatever unknown, critical eyes might be privy to the footage of this, and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to use it. This was going to be a theater performance, not an interrogation, and everyone in the room knew it.

Two-Stripes sat down opposite her, while One remained standing, behind and to the left of what seemed to be her superior officer. “Your… device is being held as possible evidence in an investigation. Once said investigation has concluded, you or your sponsor may petition for its return.” Calmly, coldly courteous, if barely that.

Rose sat back in the chair, a small noise of disbelief escaping her. They had to be kidding. She needed — the Doctor needed — “Well, that's just fan-bloody-tastic,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else in the room. “What's this investigation about, then? How long do you think it's gonna go for?”

“We can't predict that.” Smoothly, deliberately, Two-Stripes laid eir hands on the table, palms down, and leaned forward. “Let's cut to the heart, Rose Tyler: what do you know about the Doctor?”

She’d been expecting — fearing — something like this. “The Doctor who?”

“He simply goes by ‘the Doctor.’ Quite a unique sort of man. Last of his species, and rumors say he can change his face.” Two sets of eyes, possibly more, watched her carefully.

She lifted one shoulder. “‘S that supposed to impress me?”

“Do not play with us, Rose Tyler. Answer the question: do you know of this Doctor?”

“I don't know, maybe?” Spreading her hands, widening her eyes, she did her best to play innocent ignorance, to think as if she were her role, the oblivious foreign housewife. (She was not at all meant for this position.) “Has he been on the news? I might've heard of him, but with the moving to a whole other planet and all, I’ve been sort of preoccupied lately. What do you want with this bloke, anyway?” Not a bloke anymore — hopefully that would work in her favor. “What's he done?”

“He is in possession of technology able to compromise security measures and personal identities.” The sonic could probably muck up all their scanners, yeah, and good riddance. Did the Doctor — did J'aen still have that on her? “He has attempted to reveal state secrets to the general public, and we believe him to be involved in the formation of an extremist movement.” A careful pause, then: “You are curious. Yet you say you do not know him?” The words were carefully polite, but Rose could feel the sharp edge lurking just beneath.

“No.” She shook her head, silently seething. Whatever the Doctor had done here, she was starting to think he hadn't done nearly enough. “Don't know a thing. I think it's pretty normal to be a bit curious about the reason you're being searched and bloody interrogated.”

“Hrm.” Two glanced back at One. “Depiction.”

Ey adjusted eir hands behind eir back, and a holographic model appeared on the table in front of her. It was her Doctor, her first Doctor, mid-run, sonic in hand, leather jacket flapping out behind him, the beginning of a panting, empty smile on his lips and a lost sort of look in his eyes.

She stiffened, and swallowed, and kept herself from smiling fondly. Of course he'd be running. “What's this from? I'm guessing that's the bloke you're looking for.”

“If you know anything, Rose Tyler, now would be the time to tell us,” One spoke up again. Two-Stripes swiveled eir head and glared at em. One bowed eir head and took a step back.

“My colleague is correct, though you have already been offered more than enough chance to be honest with us.” Patronizingly, Two continued, “But I'm willing to be lenient.”

They all waited, allowing silence to swell and fill the air. Finally, Rose shook her head. “I don't know that man, and I don't know why I'm here.” Her voice bent and cracked, part desperation and part just plain, sudden exhaustion.

“There was Time Lord DNA all over your device.” Ey let the statement sit in the room.

Rose closed her eyes briefly, shaking her head again. “I've got no clue how it got there. If it's older, the DNA, well, I haven't had the watch very long. And everybody wants to look at it, the customs agent when we left, the bloke on the shuttle wondering what that lump of metal in my pocket was, all of you…” She lifted a hand to indicate, vaguely, the generality of it.

“Are you insinuating you may have met and conversed with him recently?” Two's biting accusation came swiftly, like the crack of a whip.

“What I'm saying,” she enunciated, with some force behind her tone, “is that I could've met this bloke without knowing it, and that's how his — DNA got all over my stuff. You said he could change his face, yeah? So how on Earth was I supposed to know?” She lifted her hands in exasperation. “Is it even his DNA?”

She wasn't a xenobiologist (though she probably knew at least as much as any scientist Torchwood had hired for that official position), but she really doubted her new new new Doctor's signature matched that of her first Doctor.

She seemed to have hit the mark; they exchanged meaningful looks again. “I have already told you: he is the last known individual of his species.”

“Last known. So basically, you're not actually sure.” She crossed her arms.

“Both the Time Lords and the Daleks perished in the Time War, girl,” Two snapped.

No they didn't, she just stopped herself from saying, and pressed her lips together. Not the Daleks at least. Not every single other Time Lord either.

“All of them, because this one —” ey stabbed a finger at the hologram on the table — “killed them all. And while the universe may be grateful for that, we damn well know he's capable of anything. Wherever he goes, people die. By S'varekha's talons, if you don't tell me what you know…” Ey trailed into a growl more eloquent than any words.

“Have you ever thought maybe people die in spite of and not because of him?” The words just slipped out; at some point she couldn't not defend the Doctor. “People die whenever firemen are around, too, doesn't mean it's their fault!”

“You are taking the side of a man you claim to know nothing about.” The subtle triumph in eir tone hit Rose like a slap.

She tried to keep her shoulders from hunching up defensively, but she cast her gaze down. “No.” It stung, to force the word out. “I'm not taking his side. I'm just saying maybe you haven't got all the facts yet.”

“What did you think an investigation was for?” Two bared eir pointed teeth, leaning further across the table.

One-Stripe hissed, quietly, increasing the volume until Two stiffened, and slowly sat back. “You'll excuse my colleague. What ey meant to say was that this is not a trial, not of you nor anyone else, right now. Of course we don't have all of the facts yet, which is why we need you to enlighten us if you can.” One tilted eir head. “He was generally considered a special protector of Earth and Earthlings — humans — at one point, was he not?”

“So maybe he touched the watch ages ago, I dunno.” Rose shrugged, purposely obtuse, and twisted her features into what she hoped was a recognizable mixture of exhaustion-desperation-might-be-about-to-cry. “I don't know anything. I just want to go home with my wife.” The word came so easily. “Please.” There were only so many times she could say “I don't know” without the words beginning to sound meaningless even to her own ears.

“She nhar serlit zhel'j'i. Kherzir'j'i'sh en hel'av zharek'ed.” One was no longer speaking to her, though it still would've been nice to know what was being said.

Two looked like ey wanted to argue, but after a moment, ey swallowed and bowed eir head. “Kei es haye’t.”

“Nhar siem zhel't,” One snapped, before turning to Rose. “Vilay't zhel'j'i.” The accompanying gesture was small and brisk, but in human it meant “come with me,” so Rose stood. Maybe she'd gotten wrong who was the superior officer here.

A door slid open on the wall opposite from where she'd come in, and Rose stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, clutching it more tightly to herself. “Where are we heading?”

“Your sponsor has been summoned to claim you and answer some questions herself. Afterwards, we'll determine how to proceed.”

“Do I get to be, like, released into her custody or something?” How was she supposed to look after the Doctor if she was locked up somewhere? Though right now, if she and the watch were the main link between the Doctor now and the Doctor they were looking for, maybe it would be better if they weren't connected — except they already were connected, and she was just about sure something wasn't right with the Doctor's brain, and —

Thoughts whirling, she followed One down a stark white hallway, hearing Two's footsteps behind. “Don't you run out of space, keeping so many people locked up?”

“Confinement is widely considered the most humane method of dealing with potential dangers to society, and as a first step we've found it an acceptable compromise in matters concerning non-vhampiiri.” Left, right, then left again; Rose tried to compose a mental map of the place, but doors blended almost seamlessly into the walls until they slid open, and she doubted she'd be able to make her way through here on her own. Hansel and Gretel came to mind, though maybe not breadcrumbs. The floor was an off-white, slightly smudged. Was rubber still a thing here? Then the officer’s words registered properly. “Compromise for non-vhampiiri? What do you do with vhampiiri? And what comes after the compromise for the others?”

“We have a… not a truth drug, but a substance that makes vhampiiri more… compliant, submissive to authority, and this is our first course of action with them. Our second recourse for offworlders is generally to use the same on them, though we can never know precisely how it will react with any particular species or hybrid biology.”

“That's barbaric!” Guttural horror burst from her. If J'aen was fed this stuff...

“It's effective,” One countered from in front of her. “The truth is in everyone's best interest.”

“But you shouldn't take away someone's right to privacy!” She was likely digging herself deeper, she knew. She bit her lip, resolving to keep he reaction to whatever came next bottled up.

“We're not prying into their personal memories. The recipient still retains a significant degree of control of their faculties. And it's far more humane, and efficient, than most other methods.” One's tone brooked no rebuttal, as ey stopped and set eir hand to a small scanner pad. The door slid open, revealing a small, sparse room. A wall sectioned off what looked to be a shower stall, and a sofa-sized flat cushion and small desk occupied the other side.

The officer gestured for her to enter. Frightful certainty seized Rose. “What if I need to use the ladies’?”

They exchanged looks that wavered between puzzlement and exasperation. “The sanitary facilities are multifunctional,” Two finally added, in a tone probably intended to be professional but that ended up more condescending.

“How long will I be shut up in there?” Her voice came out smaller than she would have liked.

“That depends on your sponsor. Now, please.” One repeated the “go in” gesture, with a bit more force.

Seeing little other choice, Rose stepped inside. The doorframe intoned, “Rose Tyler, interned by: Z'herie, at: Sigma Six Delta Quad Era Khavesh,” and she heard the door click shut behind her.

***

First the suitcase radiating abnormal temporo-spatial particles (which they hadn't been able to find the source of, but security had finally given up and let her and the luggage go, given said particles seemed benign ), and now this. Whatever this was about.

But J'aen submitted to this, too, closing her eyes as the relaxant entered her bloodstream, mentally running through all the different bonding and inhibition-lowering chemicals in the cocktail as she began to feel their effects. She still felt remarkably clear-headed, though her tongue and eyelids were heavy, the corners of her mouth automatically curling up.

“J'aen'haraya, what does the name ‘the Doctor’ mean to you?” There were several security officers in the room, and she wasn't quite sure which of them had asked the question. It didn't much matter.

“It's familiar, but I can't quite seize why.” Pain seared through her temples, for only a split second, and left her gasping in its wake.

“Have you or your charge, Rose Tyler, ever had contact with a Time Lord?”

“Time Lord” was familiar, too, but she didn't know why, or what either term meant. And she was just about to to tell them this — but Rose. She had to protect Rose, and herself, so that she could continue protecting Rose, from — from anything. Her head throbbed, but she kept her mouth closed until she had carefully chosen her words. “No encounters that I recall.”