#this has been a fight and a half to get this sodding computer up and running again

[whatacartouchebag]

Nevermind the disgusting taste in my mouth at finally needing to install win11 onto something, but kids these days sure are missing out on something if they never get the chance to do it straight from a CD/DVD drive.

This thing is screaming like it’s about to go into orbit, and sounds like it’s one fatal move away from skipping out of its tray and taking my fingers off Final Destination style.

[fromthewifecage]

Never Trust  A Cowboy With A Computer (AKA: Erron Black/Female reader smut)

I’ve had a lot of issues with this, I’ve had to edit the hell out of it, changing a bunch in the 1st chapter, so please reread Chapter 1 before jumping into the smut that is Chapter 2. It’s over 5k words, and it’ll be posted over on my AO3  https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeltAutomaton in a bit if you want to be extra kind and go give me kudos there :D Thank you again to @tomoka0013 @gojihime99 and @malicedragoness for your encouragement and all your help *blows kisses* Hope you like :D NSFW!

CHAPTER 1:

For once, the absolutely only time in recent history, your hair is behaving, thank the Gods! Actually, is there a God of Hair? Hmmm, maybe Kano would know? His stories of meeting Gods are always fascinating, even though he always exaggerates his role and prowess in encounters with said Gods. There is simply no way on Earthrealm that Kano could have stolen the Thunder God’s hat without being zapped into the Netherrealm. Plus, Kano has never produced this hat, so whenever he has one too many beers and starts on another night of tall tales, you nod along and feign complete belief in his words.

Maybe one day you’ll get to meet a God? Not likely whilst you’re stuck behind a computer for hours and hours every single day. Especially working alongside Erron-sodding-Black. He’s gone through at least 5 computers this year, 2 in the past three weeks! You swear he was doing it on purpose. In your steamiest daydreams he’s deliberately breaking his computers so you’ll have to travel to the ‘Black Dragon Boyz office’ (and yes, they spell it with a ‘z’) to spend precious time un-fucking his computer. Every time it happens, you swear you’re just going to tell him to go bother someone else, or get his arse down to PC World and find some spotty 17 year old work experience boy to bother rather than yourself. After all, you’re doing just as an important job for the Black Dragon as he is, well, almost. He might be a super amazing dead-shot sniper capable of assassinating even the most heavily guarded target, but you aren’t just IT support, you are a Black Dragon member too.

******** More after the cut! ***********

You spend much of your time hacking into Special Forces super secret files, reading General Sonya Blade’s horribly dry mission reports, or transferring money from one Swiss bank account to another before you could be traced. Well, that was why Kano had hired you. Yet these past few months you’ve been dragged to broken computer after broken computer by the obscenely handsome aforementioned Erron Black at least once a week. You hadn’t minded the first few times, after all, any time spent in Erron’s company makes you all giddy and wibbly-wobbly inside your knickers. His voice honestly does things to you, actually makes parts that shouldn't tingle at work, tingle. He has warm eyes that seem to sparkle whenever he speaks to you, or catch you staring at him, not that you stare at him. Much. OK, maybe a little. He has a smile that is likely illegal in half the known world. Long, strong fingers that you so often think about, especially when you watch him dance a coin across his knuckles when he’s thinking, his trick to keep his fingers supple. No, no no. No thinking about him. He obviously isn't interested in you. He’s a simple man when it comes to that. You’ve seen him make moves on people who catch his eye; he’ll watch them for a while, then walk up to them, give them a smile, tell them plainly what he wanted. Then you’ll watch them walk off together whilst your heart dissolves into self pity. A few months ago, you made a real effort to try to stop flirting with him. No more lingering looks while spending more time than needed helping him with his computer. The man was multi-talented with most things, just not computers. It probably didn't help that he didn’t grow up around modern technology. You gently tease him about being old and doddery around computers and he takes the jokes well, and really, you miss joking around with him, but it was for the best. Kabal jostles with you for mirror space, smoothing down his hair and giving the mirror a big grin. Why is it so easy for men like him? He probably rolls out of bed after 2 hours sleep with his face in a half-eaten curry and he’ll still wake up ridiculously handsome (the git). Whereas it takes a lot of fussing to even get your hair to behave, let alone look nice and shiny like Kabal’s does. Maybe you could make a small shrine in the corner of your bedroom to the Hair God? You nod to yourself, thinking Kabal must have done that. “Come on, you look beautiful. Now get your coat and scarf, and we’re outta here. If we don’t leave soon, we’ll miss it!” Kabal fusses with his coat buttons. Always unable to keep still, the man practically radiates excess energy. “I WILL BE SAD IF WE MISS THE FILM.” Tremor stands up from his own desk, the building shaking ever so slightly with the enormous man’s movements. “Not as sad as Kabal. He’ll start bawlin’ if he misses his boyfriend’s new film.” Erron spins round in his brand new swivel chair, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Johnny Cage is NOT my boyfriend and I don’t even care about missing the film.” Kabal bristles with indignation. He did care about missing it. He cares a lot. “I don’t even like his films, or him. I’m just watching it ironically.” Erron laughs. You feel that laughter, deep inside and it demands attention. Bastard. “Suuuure. Enjoy your boyfriend.” “He is NOT my boyfriend!” This was going to end up in another fight. Last week Kabal had called Erron ‘Old Man Withers’. Erron had retaliated by drawing on Kabal’s Johnny Cage calendar. (The moustache and glasses actually suited the ridiculously handsome movie star.) So Kabal put a mouse in Erron’s desk drawer and recorded Erron’s screams, playing them every so often whilst laughing. The feud had gone on until Kano forced them to apologise to one another, in front of everyone. This sort of idiocy happened probably twice a month. It had escalated to where people now made bets on how long each feud will last. The longest feud had lasted 23 long days before Kano had flipped. “I DO NOT WANT TO BE LATE.” Tremor tugs open the office door and the handle will need replacing. Again. You follow after the huge man, Kabal behind you is muttering about revenge. “Hey, Sweetheart, you goin’ too?” It takes a second before you realise that sultry Texan drawl is aimed at you. “Oh, yes. There was a spare ticket since Kira’s still stuck on a job.” Oh shit, you should have offered it to Erron instead. You’d been so excited to be included in the cinema plans that you’d been selfish and not asked if Erron had wanted to go. “But……” Erron’s face scrunches a little and he turns to his computer and hits a few keys in quick succession. “It ain’t workin’ again. Sorry, darlin’.” He gestures helplessly to his computer. “But… I only fixed it this morning! What have you done this time?!” You drop your bag to the floor, and peel off your coat with a frustrated groan. You are going to get fired, there was no way Kano would believe this. You are completely and utterly incompetent. No other reason. Your fault. “It’s those darn computer gremlins again.” He gives you an apologetic smile and shrugs with frustration at the computer gremlins. You sigh and wave goodbye to Kabal and Tremor, both eager to watch Ninja Mime’s latest adventure. This one was in SPACE and it was going to be amazing, and you were going to miss it. Nooooooo! You stomp over to Erron’s computer, your mouth twists into a grumpy pout. “That is it. No more computers for you! you want to do some work; then you can bloody well do it on a typewriter.” Erron replies with a “Heyyyyyyy” and a laugh. The throb between your legs from the laugh can just sod off. No more. Not when you were going to be unemployed and unemployable after this. Who was going to hire you? What could you put on your CV? ‘Failed IT support worker’? ‘Only capable of turning a computer on and even then it’ll probably turn itself off again when you’re not looking?’ ‘Can steal FBI or Special Forces secrets but can’t keep an old man’s computer running for more than 3 minutes before it’s broken again’? ‘Want to play Solitaire? Well don’t ask me, best try the sudoku in the newspaper instead’. You’re so engrossed in sulking you don’t notice Erron get up from his comfy chair to stand behind you as you perch on the crappy stool with no back (it had no back because Tremor had tried to sit on it). It was only when strong hands find your hunched shoulders and begin kneading at the tightly knotted and sore muscles, that you look away from the ‘blue screen of death’. “I’m sorry, but I’ll make it up to you, Sweetheart.” By the Gods his fingers are truly magic. His thumbs are rubbing magic circles into your shoulders and it feels soooo good. “Mmmhhhhh?” Maybe he is a God, the God of massage.? You close your eyes, your head rolls back and you enjoy the moment. Heat radiates from where his fingers touch you, heat that only gets stronger when it reaches your face and between your legs. He finds one particularly knotted muscle and you can’t help but groan your pleasure as his thumb circles the spot. His chuckled reply tugs you back to your senses and you quickly shrug his hands off you. Thank the Gods you have your back to him so he can’t see your positively flushed face. You quickly get back to tapping away at the keyboard, but your hands are shaking so badly from the intimacy, you struggle to hit the correct keys. “You sure you got that, Sweetheart?” The computer indignantly beeps at your clumsy fingers. “Says the man who has trashed enough computers to practically bankrupt Kano.” Your hands continue to shake and your thwarted desire swerves into anger. “I’ve made you mad.” “I haven’t been out in FOREVER, and just as I’m about to go out, YOU go break your computer. AGAIN!” “Ain’t my fault your boyfriend doesn’t take you out.” Why did he sound almost happy about that? Hang on… You spin around to face him. “What boyfriend?” “You know, the dwarf.” “The.. what?” “Your boyfriend, the hairy dwarf.” He folds his arms, and shifts his weight to one hip. He doesn’t seem too happy talking about this mystery boyfriend, whoever they are. “Is this some sort of joke?” You honestly have no idea what he means. Maybe he’s drunk or Kabal has told him this for a laugh? “I don’t think so?” One of his eyebrows rises in puzzlement. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t have a hairy dwarf boyf.. why do you think I have a hairy dwarf boyfriend?” Maybe you have a secret boyfriend so secret you don’t actually know you are in fact dating him? Piotr, who runs a very seedy strip club in the seedier part of the city, is a dwarf, (and you only know him because Kano is friendly with him, he’s a bit scary), but he’s balding. Who does Erron think you are dating? “You said you did. You know, you were talking about him being all small and his hair got everyw…. He’s a cat ain’t he.” Erron has the good grace to look embarrassed at his idiocy. “Obviously.” Is Kabal recording this? This is ridiculous. “Shit.” “Yup.” “Then.. uh.. you should go catch up with Kabal and Tremor.” “I still have your computer to fix.” This was going to be such an awkward few hours. Sitting in the office in silence because the pair of you are idiots. “I can do that.” He throws out a warm smile. “Really. The man who can’t even use a mouse without breaking it, can fix this mess?” You can’t help but roll your eyes. If he even so much as looks at the computer it will probably catch fire. “I maybe exaggerated my lack of skills.” His smile wavers, and slides from warm to worried. You are going to kill him if this was going where you suspect it is going. “I maybe might’ve deliberately caused the error.” He holds up his hands in surrender. Yup, you’re definitely going to have to kill him. “I maybe did some classes a few years back when I was at a loose end.” “…… I’m going to kill you!” “How ‘bout I make it up to you? I take you out for dinner, there’s this patisserie we can go afterwards for the best pastries in Moscow. Hell, you wanna watch that film, let’s go.” His eyes plead with you not to hate him, but right now, you really do. “I have a hairy dwarf who’ll be better company, thank you.” That he was possibly asking you out and that he wanted to actually go out on a date wasn’t registering. All you can think of is the waste of time and how humiliated you feel. Everyone probably knows and has laughed at how utterly clueless you are. Kano is going to fire you for being shit at your job - after he finishes laughing. “Heyyy, Sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just wanted to spend time with you.” He really does sound sorry. His eyes go all soft and warm and apologetic and Gods, he is beautiful and you really do want to believe him. “You really thought it was accidental?” He tries to hide a smile and can’t stop one eyebrow from raising quizzically at the thought that you’ve been so utterly clueless. “Well… you’re… there weren’t computers around when you were young…younger, I’m just an idiot aren’t I?” The-all-too brief warmth and fuzziness from thinking maybe there might actually be something there between you dissolves back into embarrassment from being tricked so easily. You grab your coat and bag and leave the office whilst Erron stares after you.

Chapter 2

The flat is dark and cold when you finally get home. The bus had been late, and Russia in autumn is hardly the most fun time of year to be kept waiting at a bus stop. Fur-lined boots and a thick fuzzy coat are nice enough, but do little to keep your body from freezing outside in the colder months. Still, the flat has semi-decent heating, and a thick blanket and a fuzzy cat happily purring on your knee whilst you drink coffee soon has you feeling a bit warmer.

Thinking back to earlier you have to admit you’d have liked a boyfriend, and no matter how humiliating what had happened earlier was, you still wish that this boyfriend was Erron. Your cat, Bob, was great company, and he would never play mean tricks on you, but great company as Bob was, he didn’t keep you quite as warm and quite as tingly as Erron possibly could. Sensing your traitorous thoughts, Bob nudges at your hand with his fluffy head to demand attention, purring happily when you indulge him and tickle under his chin. You give him a kiss on his fuzzy little head as way of an apology for being so utterly traitorous. Soon your thoughts switch to worries that you’ll be fired once Kano finds out about Erron’s trickery. Actually, Kano doesn’t fire people; he has them eaten by pigs or whatever it is that scary gangster criminal people do. Who will look after Bob? Your bottom lip quivers as you think about Bob, all alone in the dark, unable to open his tins of cat food without opposable thumbs, meowing sadly for someone to change his kitty litter. A moment later you force a smile. No more feeling sorry for yourself! You aren’t some pathetic pushover, this means war! You won’t just put a mouse in Erron’s drawer, you’ll put three rats in there and upload his screams to Youtube. He’ll find 30 chickens in his flat and you’ll steal his lunch every single day. You’ll swap all of his guns for water pistols and laugh when he cries about it. A loud buzzing from the doorbell pulls you from your thoughts of revenge. It’s probably Kano and some hungry pigs, so you take three deep breaths to prepare yourself. Scooping up Bob and tiptoeing to the door, you peep through the spyhole to instead see Erron waving at the spyhole. Muttering various threats, you open the door and give him your best pout. “Cute kitty.” He holds out a pink box with gold cyrillic lettering across the top. “I’ve come to apologise.” You keep up your pout and take the box with your free hand, then try to nudge the door closed with your hip. Erron laughs and strides into the flat, giving Bob a quick tickle on the head. 3 minutes later and Erron has taken over the kitchen. He has his own coffee, has eaten two of the amazing pastries he’d brought and Bob is his new best friend. The cat winds around Erron’s feet, meowing for attention, steadfastly refusing to stop even when you refill his food bowl. Traitorous beast! This must be payback for earlier. “You don’t like pastries, Sweetheart? I can go get somethin’ different?” The bastard throws you a smile that would normally have your knickers falling down, but you’re still feeling sorry for yourself, and Erron-Bloody-Black is not going to get off this easily. You have to keep up the pout so he won’t suspect your revenge plans. You shake your head and turn to tidy the counter-top behind you, thinking hard about a plan of attack. How about stealing his hats and replacing them with hats identical in every way except the hats were all just slightly too big? Your plan of attack is quickly ruined when strong hands find your hips and give them a gentle squeeze. Your spine tightens, and you hope your gasp of pleasure wasn’t audible. Lips brush your ear, and when he speaks, his warm breath sends a huge shiver right through you. “Please, Sweetheart, I’m sorry, don’t hate me. I promise, I’ll make it up to you. You want me on mah knees?” The thought of Erron on his knees is enough to make you shiver again. A hard pulse hits you right between the legs. Oh fuck, that was unfair. “It’ll take more than that.” “More cake?” He presses a very soft kiss just below your ear. Another pulse hits. Your legs quiver but you just about manage to keep yourself upright. Your knickers are going to evaporate. “You didn’t give me a chance to eat them.” Your voice is surprisingly steady but you chew on your lip to stop any pathetic noises escaping, just in case. “Dinner, every night for a week. We’ll get dressed up all fancy and go to the ballet, then spend the weekend in bed.” His voice is lower now, rougher. Another kiss sends more shivers through you, nerve endings sparking. Your fingers grab onto the countertop to stop you slithering to the floor. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you.” “You don’t wanna spend the weekend in bed with me?” Your stunned silence is answered by low laughter and him pressing a kiss to your neck. The tip of his tongue teases your tingling skin, and this time you can’t stifle your reaction. Erron takes your whimper as an invitation to slide his hands to your thighs and tug up your dress so his fingers can find bare skin. You lean back against him, his warmth quickly bleeding into you. More prickles of heat fizz through your nerves and aim straight for your core. Strong fingers dig into your thighs as he tugs your dress higher, inch by inch. Warm lips pepper kisses down your neck to your shoulders, lightly dancing his tongue over your increasingly sensitive skin, chuckling to himself with your every moan and whimper. You grip the edge of the counter harder and let your head roll to the side to give him more of you. Each touch from his mouth sends sparks down your spine and you can feel a slickness between your legs. Oh fuck... “This ok, Sweetheart?” Your reply is a mere mumble but he still gives you a moment to decline his touches, his mouth and fingers still upon you. You quickly force a “Yes, please”, and are rewarded by fingers sliding to your underwear, skimming so gently over the silken fabric to tease you. You whine at being denied his fingers and receive a gentle bite to your shoulder in reply. Then he’s gone. Your dress slithers back down to cover your thighs with you almost doing the same and slithering to the floor. You turn and watch him stride through the open door into your bedroom. Luckily he can’t see how your face scrunches into a desperate pout from being denied. “You comin’, Darlin’?” Your reply of “Well I would have been” is mumbled through gritted teeth as you trot after him, wishing you have even an ounce of self-control. He sits himself on the edge of your bed, reaching out to a hand, tugging you to sit on his lap, your legs straddling his as you face him. His large strong hands cup your face, and with a smile he presses the softest of kisses to your mouth. He waits for you to respond, then kisses you again once you kiss him back, a little harder and a little longer this time. His thumbs brush your face, then his hands are holding you close to him, close enough to feel both his warmth and his heart pounding as hard as your own. He is intoxicating, his heat, his mouth, his hands, and you want him more than anything. Your fingers find his face, stroking over his stubble prickled cheeks to learn how he feels, your touch light, nervous at finally being able to indulge yourself. He smiles at your touches and pulls you harder against him so you can feel his burgeoning hardness through his jeans, his smile widening when you wriggle to feel him, delighting in feeling his arousal because of you and enjoying your own arousal demanding attention. Your skin prickles with building desire and impulsively your hands leave his face to tug your dress up and off. He kisses you again, unbuttoning his shirt between every press of his lips to yours. His hands are then all over you, your back, your ass, stroking your skin, teasing you with the gentlest of touches then squeezing you hard enough to make you gasp between your contented sighs. His mouth moves from your lips to your neck, his teeth and tongue teasing louder gasps of delight from your kiss reddened lips. Your fingers stroke through his hair then roam over his chest and back, then moving over his thickly muscled arms, learning just how he feels. Erron murmurs happily into your ear and against your neck, and his fingers dig tighter into your ass, moving you against his groin, becoming more and more desperate to feel you. He tugs at your bra and when no objection is made, it joins the pile of clothing on the floor. He growls into your neck in approval at your breasts being free, and using the lightest of touches, traces the back of his fingers around the swell of your breasts and over your hard, sensitive nipples. Erron chuckles breathily at your whimpers and how you shiver from his touches, your need building as you grind down against his hardening dick encased in his jeans. Every touch of his mouth and fingers goes straight to your cunt and fuck, if he doesn’t fuck you soon, you’ll explode from the building pressure. Your fingers go for his waistband and fumble at the buttons with sweaty and shaking fingers. Erron drags his attention from your chest to watch you struggle with the stubborn fastenings. “You’re an eager one, Sweetheart.” “It’s your fault.” “Yeah, I guess it is.” He cocks an eyebrow, lifts you off his lap and lays you on the bed. Said eyebrow raises even higher when you wriggle out of your knickers and toss them aside, but it’s in jest, and he takes a long moment to gaze appreciatively at you, his smile genuine, warm and tinged deeply with desire. He tugs off his jeans and underwear with ease and tosses them to join the clothes pile, and then he’s on you. His tongue and lips find your breasts, his teasing your nipples harder ever so gently with his teeth has you tugging at his hair. You feel the graze of fingers trail down your body to your thighs that then grip you tightly enough to leave marks you’ll feel for the next few days. His long, strong fingers slide between your legs, moving them apart to finally reach your cunt. Again his touch is so light and gentle, a finger brushes over your folds before dipping between them. His thumb searches for your clit, circling around the sensitive bud as his fingers find your opening. He kisses you again, murmuring between the kisses, he whispers how beautiful you are to him, how he’s wanted you for all this time, how you feel, how hard you’ve made him and when he increases the pressure he pulls back to watch your eyes flutter closed and your teeth sink into your lower lip to stifle your pleasure. He continues to tease your clit, using your slickness to keep his touch feather light. He watches you writhe beneath him with tightly closed eyes, your back arching and one hand tangling in your own hair as he changes the pressure of his thumb on your clit, sometimes soft, sometimes rough, sometimes so feather light you beg for him to be rougher. Your feet kick against the bedclothes, rucking them up around you both as Erron pulls more and more pleasure from you. His thumb leaves your clit and he laughs at your indigent whines, instead he slides a long finger inside you. You’re so wet and needy that your cunt accepts him easily, and you soon beg for more. With a smile he adds another finger inside you, then a third, scissoring you wider, his fingers moving easily with your arousal. You whimper up at him, voicing just how good he’s making you feel, and how you want to touch him. He kisses you when you reach out to grasp his long, thick cock, stroking him harder, feeling the velvet softness of the skin over iron hardness. Your kisses quicken and deepen, tongues entwining, teeth biting at the others lips, desire building so quickly that every touch is almost desperate. When you whisper how you want him inside you he eagerly slides his fingers from you, pushing your thighs wider apart, staring into your eyes as he first strokes his cock harder, your arousal on his fingers coating his length along with the pearls of precum that weep from the crown, then rubs himself against your folds. He pauses, taking the moment to breathe, then tormentingly slowly, he pushes himself inside your hot, wet heat. His thickness feels so good, stretching you so wide you can’t help but voice your pleasure. He groans a reply and almost tauntingly slowly, he pushes deeper, his thick cock stretching you more than his fingers could. He pauses, allowing you both to catch your breath and adjust to just how perfect the other feels. He gazes down at you with heavy-lidded eyes that shine with more than just desire, his damp hair messy, strands sticking to his forehead. Agonizingly slowly, he pushes forward, his cock stretching your cunt wider and wider as you cling to him, until he’s filled you completely. Again you kick at the bed, the sensations overwhelming you, your head light and fuzzy, your skin buzzing as sweat beads along your scalp and chest, dampening the backs of your limbs, and between where you and Erron lie against one another. Erron groans with pleasure and kisses you open mouthed, eager and lust-filled, just so happy to be with you. He tears his kiss-swollen lips from yours to take deep breaths and you stare up at him, every nerve tingles with sensation, your cunt so tight around his cock. You stroke a hand through his damp hair and whimper uncontrollably as he snaps his hips first backwards, then forwards. You nerves delight in the friction and beg for more and you’re unable to stop from begging him to fuck you, fuck you hard and fast and to fuck you now! The pace starts out so slow, his fingers digging into your hips, his mouth on yours then moving to your neck, hot breath on sweat slicked skin. Your legs wrap around him, pulling your hips upwards, angling you so he’s even deeper with each thrust, his cock making your nerves sing from the friction and the need for more. Your fingers are in his hair, tugging and stroking and you whisper and moan your delight at feeling him inside you. When neither of you can take it anymore he speeds up his thrusts, still achingly deep, are brusingly hard, your cunt so tight around him that the sensation is almost too much. Sweat rolls down the back of your legs, prickles in your hairline and down spine. Your hands are everywhere, gripping at him, holding your writhing bodies together, and slipping on his hot wet skin. The tightness in your cunt starts to radiate to your thighs and spine. Your thighs grip him tighter and you whimper your pleasure and beg for more, desperate for a release. His replies are muffled, his mouth is in the crook of your neck and when his thrusts start to quicken yet further he lifts his head to gaze down in your eyes, watching as you come undone beneath him. He whispers encouragement, delighting as your pleasure builds into a fire that overwhelms and burns, every nerve aflame and so bright. You cry out and let everything wash over you, your body writhing as Erron keeps moving inside you to prolong the feeling and let you ride out your bliss. His hands paw at your hips as he comes mere moments after you, hips thrusts jerking and stuttering, spilling deep inside you, grunting loudly with his own overwhelming pleasure. He’s heavy as he lies panting on top of you, the pair of you struggling to breath again and calm your pounding hearts. Erron chuckles breathlessly, kisses you between deep breaths, rolls first onto his back, then onto his side to face you and props himself up on one elbow. “Think I’m broken.” You snuggle up against him, reveling in the afterglow, in how your hot sweat slicked skin feels in the cool air of your apartment. “Guess I have a talent for breaking things.” He smiles. He can’t keep his eyes off you. “I hate you.” “I know.”

[justthehiddleswrites]

After The Rain | A Luke Windsor Companion Fic

Note:  Based off of @redfoxwritesstuff The Things You Find (in the Rain) series.

Summary:  Luke has to deal with the aftermath of Tom’s “heroic efforts”.  This is why Luke keeps a solicitor’s number on speed-dial.  For the day he kills Tom.  Hilarity ensues as Luke untangles the mess.

Warnings: fluff, implied smut

-

Tom fucking Hiddleston.  The man seems like a charmer, like the perfect gentleman.  But only Luke had the privilege of being his publicist.  Tom fucking Hiddleston.  Luke spent a good portion of his days wondering what the hell that handsome tit of a wanker got himself wrapped into and how Luke would straighten the mess all out.  

That man would send Luke to an early grave. Today should have been an easy day. He scheduled Tom for a few meetings, a couple of interviews, and then a dinner meeting. After that, Tom was off the hook for the next few days and Luke relaxed at the prospect of no damage control for a few days. All that stupid man needed to do is keep out of trouble for 48 hours. He didn’t even last 24.

Luke grew concerned when Tom didn’t return his text late last night, but he shook the bad feeling in his stomach off as Tom going to sleep early. But once texts started flooding in the next morning, Luke’s blood pressure skyrocketed. BAD PUPPY ALERT. That’s code for a Hiddleston situation. Luke sighed as he hustled over to the computer and pulled up his Google Alerts.

HOMEWRECKER HIDDLES! HEARTBREAKER BREAKS JAWS! RUNAWAY BRIDE MEETS THE NIGHT MANAGER!

And the pictures. Oh Jesus, the pictures.

“That fucking tit!” Luke bellowed as he banged hands onto the desk.

He punched in the number he memorized long ago. Voicemail.

“Tom! Mate!” Luke tried not to sound outraged but failed. “Call me as soon as you get this message. There is a situation.”

He hung and texted Tom.

CALL ME.

Luke left his flat and headed into the office. People inundated his phone with messages. He ignored them until he reached Prosper’s office. 10 missed calls, 24 new messages, none from Tom. Luke’s stomach dropped. He opened his desk drawer and pulled the extra large bottle of antacids out and shook one out into hand, looked to the computer screen and shook two more out and chewed them down with no water.

Luke called Tom again, voicemail again.

“Listen, Tom, I’m not sure what you are playing at, but if you don’t call me back in the next 15 minutes, I’m coming over.  I need answers.”

He threw his phone onto the desk and turned to reading these social media posts and news articles. After 10 minutes, Luke discovered Tom confronted some guy and punched him in the face before leaving a hotel with his wife and later spotted kissing that same woman at the front door of his house.

Luke didn’t wait for the last 5 minutes. He got into the car and drove as fast as laws would allow him. In a flash, he pounded on the door of Tom’s home. After some time, Tom answered the door.

“Why the fuck are you not answering your phone, you sodding arse!”

“Luke…” Tom looked confused as Luke pushed his way into the home. “What’s going on?”

“Really, Tom?” Luke retorted, the sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “What’s going on?  I thought you went to Cambridge, prat.”

Luke took the silence to glance at Tom, looking for signs of scandalous behavior. Hickies, bite marks, something. Tom wore only wearing his underwear but no marks save the bandage on Tom’s hand.

“Where the fuck are your clothes?”

“In the bedroom?” Tom answered with a question.

Tom hoped to avoid this conversation. The longer he avoided it, the longer he lived in denial about today’s events.

Luke removed his glasses, pinching his nose.

“You are the reason I keep a solicitor on retainer.” he grumbled at Tom.

Tom’s face breaks into a small smile.

“Thanks, mate! You didn’t have to do that for me—”

“IT’S FOR ME, YOU RIGHT BASTARD!  For when I kill you and then hide the body.”

Tom’s expression akin to a puppy being told he “a bad boy.”

“Tell me about the girl.”

Tom walked into the living room as Luke followed. Tom’s relaxed and languid stride contrasted by Luke’s short, staccato steps. The man embodied anxiety and stress.

“Can I get you something, Luke? Water, tea? You are looking pale.”

“TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL, TOM! You can bullshit everyone else, but I know when you are stalling, you wank, so spill it.”

Tom sat on the couch and gave Luke the rundown of the night before, finding Maggie on the street, drunk off her ass, taking her to his place. Tom left out the part of somehow ending up in just his boxers.

“She needed to go get her things. Stood by as moral support. The guy was a total dick.” Tom chuckled, filled with nerves.

“And you’re the knight in shining armor to the girl in this scenario.”

“Maggie. Her name is Maggie.”

“Maggie, the married woman.”

“Not for much longer.”

“But still married now. And that…” Luke gestured to Tom’s bandaged hand.

Tom assumed the punch bruised his knuckles, but when the adrenaline wore off, they started to ache. He wrapped them and promised himself to go to a doctor in a few days.

“… Well deserved.” Tom puffed his chest out.  

Luke got up and paced the room. He pulled at his hair.

“You realize you’re the reason I’m going bald, right? It is all you, not Cat, not Nick, not Emma!”

“Luke, you are overreacting. She needed help. What was I supposed to do?! Leave her on streets?”

Luke sat down. The stomach acid burning his throat. Tom recognized that look, he left to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of antacid and handed to Luke.

“Thanks.” Luke popped two more. “You are aware you are not a prince, mate? You are not a knight in shining armor.”

Tom blushed.

“I’m aware.”

“Now that we got that cleared up. Let’s damage control. So this Evan bloke already told his side of the story, so we will need to play this with kid gloves. We don’t want it to seem like your some kind of marriage wrecker.”

“Which I’m not.”

“Of course, mate. And we need to keep the girl…”

“Maggie.”

“Maggie, away from the press until we figure out a statement. Where is she staying?”

Tom looked at the floor.

“Oh no,” Luke gasped, “Oh no you didn’t. Are you a fucking child?! ARE YOU A CHILD?  She’s here isn’t she? She is fucking here!”

Tom opened his mouth to respond, only to close it again.

“Where is she, Tom?”

Maggie, having impeccable timing, entered the room, wearing only one of Tom’s button-down shirts.

“Hey Tom, do you have—”

She stopped when she noticed Luke. The two men argued until they caught sight of Maggie and she attempted to slink out of the room, having no energy to dealing with more conflict today.

“You better come back here. This involves you too!” Luke demanded.

Maggie sat down next to Tom. Tom wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. Luke’s head exploded.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? You just met yesterday!!!”

Maggie smiled up to Tom.

“What can I say? He’s a good human.  A good man.” Tom returned the smile, squeezing her closer.

“NO, HE’S NOT! He is a fucking bloody wanking bugger twat bastard who is single-handedly ruining my life and career.”

Luke took a deep breath before falling back onto the couch.

“Feel better, mate getting that off your chest?” Tom asked, a smirk on his face.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Now explain this.”

Luke narrowed in on Tom and Maggie’s interlaced fingers.

“Shall I explain darling or you?” Tom inquired

Luke rolled his eyes.

“You do it. dear. Maggie nuzzled into Tom’s side.

“It’s simple, Luke. Maggie and I are looking to give this a chance. Fate going by the name of Bobby brought us together. And I don’t care about the press or social media.  Let them talk.”

Luke stared at the two of them. He lived through many of Tom’s relationships and he never recalled seeing Tom as happy as he appeared now. Tom’s happiness was almost enough for him to forgive him. Almost.

“How romantic. In the meantime, I have to control this. You—” Luke pointed at Maggie.

“You need to lie low. Stay at a hotel.”

“She is not going anywhere.” Tom draped a protective arm over Maggie’s shoulder.

Fixing the PR nightmare took priority over arguing with Tom.  He would save the fight for another day.

“Fine. She stays here. But the two of you stay inside. Order in, close the curtains.  I’m clearing your schedule for the next week and a half.”

“But—”

“I’m. clearing. your. schedule. Until this is under control. No going outside, no walks in the park with Bobby.”

Bobby perked his ears up at his name.

“And no photos, you tosser!”

Tom’s face moved into full puppy dog mode again.

“Fine.” Tom responded like a petulant child.

Luke lifted himself off the couch.

“I’m nothing more than a glorified babysitter.” Luke muttered to himself.

“What did you say?” Tom asked, Maggie giggled.

“Nothing. I hope you know what you are getting yourself into.”

Maggie smiled as she squeezed Tom’s arm.

“I’m willing to find out.”

“Both of you are bloody fools.”

“Let me show you out.” Tom chortled.  

Tom rose as well and walked Luke to the door. Once out of earshot, Luke turned to Tom.

“She seems nice.”

“Yeah.”

“You seem happy.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you say anything other than ‘yeah’?”

Tom laughed.

“Yes, my friend.”

Tom opened the door and Luke gave him a quick hug.

“You are aware I hate you, mate.” Luke said with a smile.

“No, you don’t. But thanks for saying it.” Tom patted Luke’s shoulder.

Tom moved to close the door.

“Good luck, mate.”

“Thanks. Take care.”

“Oh, and my phone broke last night, so good luck calling or texting and there may or may not be photos of last night with me carrying a very inebriated Maggie into my house.” Tom blurted as he shut the door in Luke’s face.

Luke’s eyes widened, and he banged on the door in vain.

“WHAT!? Open the door, you bastard!!”

[echodrops]

The Promises I Made (2019 Edition)

For the past thirteen years, I’ve spent every New Year’s Eve compiling a list of fifty promises I intend to keep or fulfill over the next twelve months. The results have been truly amazing, and I have kept some promises I never thought I could. 2019 was… a nightmare that I can barely believe I survived, but I still kept some promises that I honestly did not expect I ever could.

This year, for New Year’s, there will be a new set of promises for to me keep, but here are the old ones, for review!

The Promises I Made (2019 Edition)

1) Be more proactive about tracking and following up with struggling students to decrease the number of students who drop from my class when they realize they cannot pass. Status: Somewhat broken? I tried really hard to be proactive with my students; however, there were some massive issues outside the classroom this year that made it extremely difficult to keep the focus on the students. When administration drags your attention away from the class, there is not a lot you can do…

2) Find a place to put in volunteer hours because uhhhh like this is actually important to my work evaluation and I definitely need something to write in that section… Yikes, this spring is my last chance to do this!! @_@ Status: Kept. I volunteered with the Utah Shakespeare Festival and it was super fun!

3) Install the fire escape window in the Utah house, no matter how much it might cost, because I can’t get a totally unrelated tenant in that basement without said window… Status: Somewhat kept. Okay. This one is a LONG story, but to be fair to me, I worked my ASS off to try and make this happen; just every single thing in the world prevented me from completing this promise, up to and including the city telling me I needed a permit AFTER I had already dug a massive hole in the ground for the window…

4) Buy sod to add grass to the front portion of the lawn so that it no longer looks like garbage. Status: Broken, but I did buy grass seed and put that out there. Unfortunately only some of it sprouted, but there is indeed SOME grass now growing there…

5) Fix the bricks near the windowsills on the Utah house to prevent long-term damage. Status: Broken. After dealing with the stupid window disaster, I had no time for this at all.

6) Get a watering system for my roses at the Utah house because I think my bro is probably killing them and that’s just not cool. Status: Broken, see above.

7) Work on the patio at the Utah house before it just flat out falls down. Status: Somewhat broken. Again, I tried to make progress on this—I called a patio guy to come out and assess how much it would cost to fix the patio—but the price I was quoted was so high that there was nothing I could do at the time.

8) Paint the stairwell so that there’s no chance of anything like lead paint or asbestos being exposed. Status: Broken. The leftover wallpaper glue continues to confound me…

9) Trim the backyard bushes so the neighbors don’t hate us anymore… Status: Broken. We trimmed a few bushes and at least got to the trees out front, but definitely a majority were left uncared for.

10) Move into a new house in Texas where I can get real internet, please for the love of god… Status: Kept. I moved into a very nice house with no scorpions!

11) Save money for my upcoming trip to Japan! 2020 baby! Status: Uhhh, broken. I’m not sure how I thought I’d be able to move into a new house AND save money for an international trip at the same time…

12) Get my wisdom tooth removed because it’s still there and still killing me, yikessss. Status: Broken. AUGH. I’m an idiot.

13) Make an appointment with an eye doctor for like the first time in years. Good job, Yehn, good job. Status: Kept. I got my glasses fixed and even got a new pair of glasses too!

14) Get my prescriptions refilled because I’m dwindling on asthma medicine and like… I could die from this… I should never have been left to care for myself; I’m not mature enough for this responsibility… Status: Kept, surprisingly. But I still need a new doctor because the last one I was going to wouldn’t give me any refills…

15) FINISH THE GIVEAWAY PRIZES I PROMISED LAST YEAR because holy shit I am incompetent and the worst and everyone has permission to hate me for starting things and never finishing them, fuck. Status: Broken. So broken. I am the worst.

16) Go dolphin watching in the Gulf for real this time. Seriously, it’s $10 Yehn, you can do this. Status: Kept, amazingly. It wasn’t as impressed as hoped; however, there was a lovely sunset.

17) Return to the Channel Islands to take better pictures. D; Status: Broken. T_T

18) Level all my classes to 70 in FFXIV before next expansion, please. Status: Somewhat broken. I didn’t have everything to 70 before the expansion, but I kind of feel like I should get credit for this one, because HEY, look at me now:

19) Organize and properly label all the photos on my computer so that I’m no longer desperately combing through folder and folder in blank confusion, looking for a single picture in a sea of thousands… Status: Kept. It took me like eight hours of work, but I actually did this.

20) Update Home and a Half more than once? PLEASE??? The guilt I feel over this currently is crushing. Status: Broken. And the guilt grows…

21) Complete the online American Literature class I am designing on time and with no corrections needed. Status: Kept. I’m counting this as kept even though TECHNICALLY there was one thing I forgot to finish and it came back and bit me in the ass; however, I was approved with no corrections needed.

22) Earn 100% completion for Kingdom Hearts III. So excited! Status: Broken. Um… This just didn’t happen.

23) Update my calendar with important dates—holidays, birthdays, etc.—and be productive about sending cards and well-wishes. Status: Somewhat kept. I wasn’t any better about sending cards really, but I did at least save all the birthdays in my phone so I remember them.

24) Get the garbage disposal in the Texas house fixed ASAP so I don’t have to wash the dishes by hand anymore because I absolutely hate that particular chore. Status: Kept. Then I moved, so it didn’t even matter.

25) Finish all the books my coworkers and friends bought for me recently so I can thank them for their recommendations! Status: Broken. So broken.

26) Actually move into my new place instead of leaving it completely undecorated and lifeless. Status: Remarkably, kept. Nothing has plastic on it, unlike at my old house where the nightstand didn’t get unwrapped even after two years of living there lol.

27) Try hard to get Creative Writing into a different area of the general ed. core so that more people will enroll in it. Status: Kept. I’m counting this because I did my darn best, but we are still waiting on the state to tell us whether or not the class will be accepted.

28) Get caught up on my Ebird reports, even the old, old, old ones I never put in because I was slacking. Status: Kept, actually. Whoo.

29) Throw away/return/sort all the stacks of old mail in the house (OMGGGG they’ve made me look like paper hoarder and I’m nootttt). Status: Broken. There’s just… a lot of papers to go through…

30) Clean up the garage before moving so that I don’t have to fight spiders to move when the time comes. Status: Broken, in that I did not clean up the garage in advance and did, in fact, have to fight spiders when it came time to move.

31) Find a way to boost grading productivity so that each class takes only two days to grade, maximum. Status: Somewhat kept. I was definitely better this year than last year; however, I really think the “two days per class” thing was too optimistic, so for the future semester, I allotted myself three days per class and I think it will work better.

32) Go to a totally new restaurant and try their food. Status: Kept. We went to a Mexican restaurant and I had trompo tacos (al pastor) which is probably not anything special to anyone else but it was my first time so lol.

33) Cancel old credit cards to make sure my credit is good before trying to buy a house (although I just checked my credit score and I’m in the great range already, so this is mostly for posterity’s sake). Status: Broken. But it didn’t affect my loan, so I guess it was okay. And it ended up being good I didn’t cancel my Best Buy card because I was able to get good financing on the new appliances I needed for my house.

34) Get official contracts from my tenants so I can use my rental income in my next loan calculation. Status: Broken, but I ended up not using that as part of the loan calculation anyway >_> so…

35) Talk to an HR rep about my retirement savings so that I can consolidate all my retirement accounts into one. (Man, look at all these ADULTING promises.) Status: Broken. Look at me failing all these adulting promises.

36) Really finish decorating my office so it looks super cute and all my students want to visit me. Status: Broken, but I think it sucks that I have to write this because it was really not my fault I couldn’t finish decorating my office. Our offices were all moved and disrupted by building remodels so I spent the entire year basically working out of a couple cardboard boxes.

37) Not sign up for ANY more new responsibilities at work in the spring semester. This is the biggest challenge. D; Status: Kept, by technicality. I was able to avoid signing up for anything new in SPRING… But fall… was a whole other story. XD

38) Migrate all the rest of my books to the new Texas house instead of leaving them in Utah… SOMEHOW. Status: Kept. I’m going to count this as kept. The only books left at the Utah house are my manga—I managed to bring literally every other book, which is very impressive considering I had only my small Camaro with its tiny truck space.

39) Use my twitter account more often to make it worth following. I will try!! Status: Kept… sorta? I mean, since I didn’t use the account AT ALL before, making even one Twitter post kind of counts as using it more, right? >_>

40) Keep my hair cut nicely so I look less like a mess (than I really am). Status: Somewhat broken. Although I think I got my hair cut more often this year than before, I don’t think I looked any less like a mess. XD

41) Successfully find a bridesmaid dress for my friend’s wedding that matches the rest of the wedding party. Status: Actually kept! It was incredible. The wedding I was in was even featured in a magazine because of how pretty it was!

42) Make sure my skin is in good condition for the wedding so I don’t look like a disturbing ghost… Status: Kept? I mean, in the end, looking like a ghost ended up being the whole point since it was a Halloween themed wedding so I kind of won either way.

43) Complete my BNHA manga collection. Since my bro bought me a bunch of the volumes for Christmas, I might as well. Status: Broken… I bought like… one volume. XD

44) See a groove-billed ani. (It’s another type of bird.) Status: Broken. Very illusive bird. T_T

45) Respond to messages, asks, and comments more quickly. I promise I’m not ignoring people… D; Status: Um, broken. I left many people on read this year, sorry.

46) Lose ten pounds so that I feel more fit and comfy. Status: Broken. I didn’t exercise at all this year, uff.

47) Pay down credit card debt by at least 1/3. Yikesssss, I really need to do this quick. Status: Broken. It’s hard to pay down a credit card when you pour all your money into buying a new house…

48) I will finally fucking finish that chapter 73 analysis of Noragami… I swear to god… Status: Broken. Uh yeah. This didn’t happen. V_V

49) Reach 1700 followers on Tumblr. You should follow me—I’m only marginally a waste of time and space! Status: Kept. Over 2500 followers now!

50) I will keep these promises. LOLLLLL. Status: Somewhat kept/somewhat broken. One year I really will keep them all…

 Totals Kept promises: 18 Broken promises: 24 Somewhat kept/broken promises: 8

Well, there are more kept promises than last year at least… It was another really hard year, what with moving in the middle of the year, over-working, dealing with so much drama with the reaccreditation on our campus, and just EVERYTHING all at once this last year… I keep thinking things are going to calm down and then they never do. Please 2020… just let me rest…

My new set of promises will be up on the 1st!

[willidleaway]

Doctor Who, series 12, episodes 1 and 2

In short: I love two-parters and I’m glad Spyfall was a two-parter. The conclusion wasn’t entirely satisfying, parts of this felt like a retread of old favourite story elements (including from The Curse of Fatal Death—seriously!), and I think there was a bit of disjointness between the two parts, but this is still a very good start to series 12, and I’m 90% sure I’m not saying that just because he’s back.

In slightly less short, still without spoilers:

—Positives: good tension throughout part 1, including the cliffhanger (hangar?); loved seeing historical characters tag along and interact in part 2, in one of the better attempts of Chibnall!Who at being educational; strong performances all around from heroes and villains.

—Negatives: part 2 has me fearing for a regression from some of the positive aspects of series 11; the villains weren't really fleshed out enough, especially in their motivation.

Verdict: Go watch Doctor Who and the Curse of Fatal Death. It’s quite funny.

Oh, you mean about this two-parter? It’s good. Could have been great, though—almost should have been with its set pieces—and it didn’t strike me as great.

In less short, with spoilers:

OK, so I don’t even have much to say about part 1 because it really is all setup. We’ve got weird higher-dimensional ghosty things, they’re attacking spies all around the world and swapping their DNA out with something else, except they either won’t or can’t attack Yas and send her instead to some weird alternate dimension. Yas and Ryan go off to find out that Google are involved [0] in some sinister fashion because their CEO is totally in league with the aliens and is himself 7% alien, but it turns out the real mastermind is ... the Master! Dun dun dun. Very much the Dark Water reveal, right down to the gender swap.

So at the end of part 1, the situation is that the Doctor is in the same realm that Yas had ended up in, and her companions are in a crashing plane. So how is this all resolved?

Well, the second one is easy. It’s a time travel show. Do the Blink gambit! [1] Just go back in time after everything’s done, plant some signs and a recording on the plane, and they can land completely unscathed! In Essex! (I’d say ‘unscathed/Essex: pick one’, but obviously Graham feels differently.)

This is fine, but ultimately the companions don’t ... do much from there? It’s the series 3 finale thing again where they’ve got to go off-grid, except in series 3 where Martha is planting the seeds for, well, that conclusion. But she’s at least got some kind of agency in the story. Here, Graham and Yas and Ryan are ... chased? I mean, it did give us Graham laser-tap-dancing his way out of those situations, and I will be forever happy that that was a thing that happened, but overall they had so little to do other than have villainous speeches and antics spouted at them. Frankly, from a purely logistical point of view, it would have made very little difference if the Doctor had just picked them up on the plane before it crashed, because of course the Doctor had sorted everything out about the Silver Lady and the Kasaavins and all.

So I found that fairly unfortunate, especially given Yas and Ryan’s crucial actions (and their rather excellent performances) in part 1.

Resolving the Doctor’s cliffhanger seems a little trickier, and it leads to some of the disjointness I was talking about at the start between parts 1 and 2. In part 1 we’re led to believe that these pointy-hat white ghosts [2] are alien spies spying on Earth’s spies today. Here it turns out that, no, actually, they’re also spying on the Who’s Who of Earth computing and telecommunications.

This includes Ada Lovelace [3]—why she was also known as Ada Gordon is baffling to me given she was Lord Byron’s legitimate daughter and it’s not like Gordon was Byron’s surname (not blaming the show, just baffled at the apparent historical fact)—and later Noor Inayat Khan, the pacifist SOE hero with expertise in wireless telegraphy. It was really good to learn about them and their contributions, however briefly (although I have mixed feelings about the episode avoiding discussing Noor’s ultimate fate).

Thankfully they also get more to do than the companions—Ada hijacks a gun and fights off the Master while he’s distracted, while Noor hides Ada and the Doctor from Nazis and later feeds information to the Nazis to trap the Master. They then both go out and track down the Master’s TARDIS (although given his hubris it turns out to be not so difficult). That’s way more than laser-tap-dancing and being rather ineffectual otherwise!

My main gripe is how the Doctor wipes both their memories at the end—it’s not like the Doctor’s wiped the memories of Dickens or Shakespeare or even Queen Elizabeth! Anti-STEM discrimination, this is.

But overall I very much liked the Doctor in this power trio of women, although I think Ada got the short end of the stick out of the three of them. I suppose it may have been difficult because her abilities are relatively abstract—computer science is a bit more difficult to get across on screen compared to telegraphy and disinformation, so she has to make do with a gun instead.

So: strong companions in part 1 (although not so much in part 2), strong Doctor and historical figures in part 2. All fine and dandy. But let’s talk about the villains, because of course that’s the meat of the story.

OK, first off: that’s Lenny Henry?! God he’s unrecognisable. Goatee suits him, though. He looks sharp.

Daniel Barton, though, seems not so sharp, and not terribly interesting either. First off, he has all the information in the world yet can’t seem to be bothered to run a face recognition routine on Yas and Ryan when they’re undercover in his office as journalists. (Maybe he’s wilfully ignoring it. Maybe he just wants attention.) Then it turns out he’s 7% non-human, which is intriguing at the start but gets rather casually dismissed towards the end of part 2 as just him test-driving the DNA replacement idea.

But the real trouble was that I never found it terribly clear why Barton would have been interested in joining forces with the aliens to wipe out humanity. Did he just find the idea of using seven billion humans as data centres really appealing? Maybe, but what’s the use of all that data? Barton is most powerful as the head of basically Google, and all his data becomes utterly useless without the civilisation that actually needs it, surely.

Oh, then there are the Kasaavins themselves.

At first, their basic plan seems like it’s to wipe out Earth’s intelligence network, which makes sense as a step in an invasion. But then it turns out the ultimate point of their invasion is all about ... computers? And disk space, basically???

Why did they attach themselves to people like Ada Lovelace and Alan Turing and Steve Jobs? Was it to influence the evolution of computing in ways that made today’s computer architectures more vulnerable to ... whatever it is the Kasaavins later do through the Silver Lady and all of our modern devices? Sure, Ada Lovelace’s notes on computing engines were prescient and unquestionably influenced her spiritual successors like Turing, but I would personally have said more in the abstract. You'd definitely want to go after people like Woz, doing design on microcomputers much closer to our modern laptops and phones. I guess they figured it couldn’t hurt, anyway.

What exactly were they going to do with all that disk space? Why don’t they have their own massive storage devices? Why do they need to overwrite human DNA? Can’t they just build more DNA?

I dunno, maybe I’m overthinking it. I thought they were building towards a Matrix-style thing where all of human civilisation was going to just be someone’s cloud computing instance—but no, it’s hard drive space. It seemed a bit weak.

I think the Kasaavins suffered mostly for being in the same story as the newest incarnation of the Master.

The good thing about the Master, at least, is that he needs little motivation. He’s just mad. If he wants to wipe out all of humanity and the Kasaavins needing storage space happens to mean there may be a common interest there, the Master can just do that. That’s how the Master works.

He cuts an imposing figure at the start, I suppose—maniacal slick sort of fellow, shades of Simm’s incarnation in series 3 but still his own thing. But the way he works in this episode is just ... goofy. I mean, really? He just keeps tracking the Doctor through time? Can’t be bothered to keep tabs on whether someone’s trying to sabotage his master plan?

And then there’s the way the whole situation with the Nazis gets resolved.

I really thought he was going to go ‘seventy-seven years ... in a sodding twentieth century ...’, à la Jonathan Pryce’s excellent Master from Steven Moffat’s Comic Relief special. You know, the one from all the way back in 1999 where for the first half-ish, the Doctor and Master basically try to outwit each other through increasingly ridiculous time-travel hijinks, ending up with the Master having to crawl out a sewer for over nine hundred years.

Totally unlike this story, where the second half-ish involves the Doctor and Master trying to outwit each other through time-travel hijinks, and the Master ends up having to crawl out of his predicament for almost eight decades.

I’m not sure that’s a complaint, myself, frankly. For one thing, of course, when a show has gone on for over half a century, it’s difficult to avoid new stories running into old ones. But for another thing, saying something feels right out of a Comic Relief special isn’t necessarily a, erm, fatal flaw for Doctor Who. I prefer it when Doctor Who isn’t taking itself too seriously, just seriously enough.

Still, when you look at the big picture and look at all the retreads, I can’t help but think we’re heading back into the worst excesses of past new!Who.

For all its faults, I really enjoyed series 11 for how the narrative focus returned to the companions after much of the Moffat era’s obsession with ridiculously overpowered characters—Clara as the impossible girl, the Doctor as the Hybrid, the Doctor as literally where we get the word ‘doctor’, and so forth.

Well, now we’ve got the Master back and he’s gone and destroyed Gallifrey (negating the big winning moment of the 50th anniversary special, to boot) and it’s all because of some mysterious lie and it involves the Timeless Child that was mentioned for a hot five seconds last series??? It smacks of past new!Who arcs, especially under Moffat—and at least in my eyes those arcs have never gone terribly well. Those arcs have come at the expense of good companion characterisation as well, so overall it has me a bit concerned about series 12.

Sure, all these aspects of pre-series 11 Who returning to the show—the Daleks last year, and now the Master—maybe makes the show feel more like itself, much like how having a functional rebel force that’s not just confined to a single light freighter makes a Star Wars film feel more like Star Wars. I just worry that it’s a instinctive reaction against some of the mixed reactions to series 11, and that ultimately it’ll be an overreaction.

Good start, though, this two-parter. I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be the best story that series 12 gets.

Footnotes:

[0: Sure, they’re called Vor in the episodes, but first off they’re clearly meant to be Google, and second off it’s very awkward talking about ‘Vor’ being everywhere on the Internet and on everyone’s devices ... so for the purposes of this write-up I’m going to call them Google.]

[1: I know that in Blink, the Doctor and Martha are trapped in the past and have to plant the message in DVDs to get someone to get them out of trouble. But you know what I mean. Timey-wimey out-of-order rescue plan.

Maybe I ought to call it the Arrival gambit, after the excellent film from a few years back.]

[2: Makes them sound like alien Klansmen, doesn’t it?]

[3: What’s the opposite of née for the purposes of distinguishing maiden and married names in time travel stories? I guess mariée is as good as any ...]

[sama3033]

Whistling Past the Graveyard

I think I may just have headed off my very first panic attack - ever - walking through the park this morning. I’m the first to admit, I can be maudlin at times, inclined to dwell, perhaps too deeply on things I can do little to change, like the climate crisis. I recycle avidly, even knowing that it’s largely symbolic and that almost nothing actually gets recycled; we just hand our crap over to people in the global South to deal with, which generally means throwing it in the ocean.

But, for some reason, it really hit me as I was walking, just how dark and heavy the forces arrayed against action on climate change truly are. I mean, I’ve known it without knowing it, if you get my drift.

Even having read Bill McKibben and James Hansen’s work for years, the genuine gravity of the thing hit me like a brick. I had to stop and shake it off before it became a full-blooded collapse right there, among all those toddlers and their nannies. It wouldn’t have been pretty.

I know it was, in part, brought on by the situation at home. I was born and raised in the UK you see, grew up with its incessant grey skies and torrential rain. For twenty five straight years I endured that sodding torment. At a certain point you just stop shaking your fist at that accursed sky. We lived with the never ending dampness and threat of mold. We were all inured to it.

Two weeks ago the country had its highest recorded temperatures ever and is now deeply mired in drought. The UK…in drought. We’re famous for being soggy, day in, day out so this simply doesn’t compute for us. We don’t do A/C; there’s never been the need! Now we’re having wildfires - on a much smaller scale than California, admittedly, but they’re on the rise. The Thames is drying to a trickle. When this waterlogged land starts burning, that has to be some sort of pivot point, one would think.

Then again, Siberia has been burning as well. Fucking Siberia!

The world is on fire.

A few months ago the Democrats just managed to squeak through a major piece of legislation, the Inflation Reduction Act, of all things, that might, just might, begin to chip away at the vast impenetrable edifice that the fossil fuel industry has built for itself over the past forty years, trying (and usually succeeding) to convince us that they’re not the cause of these worldwide droughts and wildfires.

They are.

Paul Krugman, in the New York Times, asks if the Democrats might have just saved civilization. I think we all know that’s hyperbole but it’s a damn sight better than the nothing we had been doing. You know it has to be good when every single republican voted against the act. There’s real cause for hope.

Half the government, the conservative half, it has to be said, while only recently submitting to that which has been blindingly obvious to the rest of us, is clinging, with all its might, to the belief that the only way to mitigate climate change is through market forces.

Money.

Again.

My heart sank though when I thought of how powerful multinationals are still fighting any form of climate warming mitigation. Exxon, BP and Shell along with their government lackeys, are steadfastly resisting any change to the way they’ve gone about their business, even though they’ve been caught lying repeatedly about their complicity in all of this. They’re making more money than ever in the age of world-wide pandemic and recession. Seems there’s no global catastrophe these repellent people can’t mine for their own benefit. Disaster capitalism on only the grandest, grizzliest scale.

I ask myself how they can possibly justify this in the face of a warming world we’re now beyond certain is due to an over abundance of CO2. These are not stupid people after all; they know precisely what will happen if we continue on as we have been. Nothing short of the end of civilization. That much is undeniable. And yet they keep on keeping on. They are complicit.

The oceanographer and author, John Englander, having done years of research all over the world, has concluded that there’s too much momentum to global warming, that there’s essentially nothing we can do that will stop every last ounce of the world’s ice from melting…and then we really have a problem. His calculations are that if just ten percent of the ice in Antarctica and Greenland were to melt, which it is doing at a gathering pace by the way, then global sea levels will rise 20ft. Imagine, for a second, what that will do to the coastal cities around the planet. Englander’s book, High Tide on Main Street, is eye-popping and ought to be a wake up call for all of us.

https://youtu.be/MvqY2NcBWI8

Ten times 20ft? It will come. Probably not in my lifetime but London and New York will be little archipelagos of glass and steel by then. Florida will be entirely underwater. Bangladesh too. Island nations like the Marshall Islands and the Maldives are already looking at the extinction of their way of life. Miami is seeing high tides sloshing through downtown on a fairly regular basis.

While we’re at it, why aren’t we building huge desalination plants around the coast of every nation, sucking out seawater and turning it into badly needed irrigation for crops and drinking water? Perhaps the Colorado could actually be a river again. California should have seen this coming decades ago, surely? Isn’t this low-hanging fruit?

Some thirty years ago, NASA climatologist, James Hansen related his research to Congress and said then that any oil still in the ground needed to stay there if we were to avoid severe problems down the line. As prescient as he was, he was essentially laughed out of the building. As with so many visionary people before and after him, few would listen. Everyone thought he was nuts.

https://www.nytimes.com/1988/06/24/us/global-warming-has-begun-expert-tells-senate.html?smid=url-share

Well, not quite everyone.

Not Exxon. Exxon knew precisely what he was talking about because they’d already done their own research into what continued use of fossil fuels would do to the planet. Of course it mirrored everything Hansen was saying. So they did everything they could to push it under the rug. They’ve been funding climate change denial groups for forty years, keeping those waters just as muddy as they can possibly be.

The big tobacco playbook.

https://youtu.be/DxoZJ_NXGGk

And now here we are.

So, what are we missing? What is their reasoning, I keep asking myself. I'm dying to know.The people that run the fossil fuel companies and their flying monkey lobbyists will be just as much affected by runaway global warming as the rest of us. No amount of money is going to protect you from incessant 120 degree heat and megadroughts.

So, is it pure greed? Has a form of unabated lust for money entirely robbed them of their sanity? Are we at the whim of some extremely powerful people who have effectively lost their minds, signed on to some End of Days doom cult? I find it hard to explain otherwise.

There's another angle to this entire absurdity I've been looking at that's purely biological and, I admit, might seem entirely unrelated at first blush but, bear with me because I have a feeling the answer may lie in here. It has to do with an area in the brain called the amygdala. It's the part of this wonderous organ of ours that deals with fear and paranoia.

There's some serious study on the subject. You can Google it. Turns out that, in those of us who can loosely be termed conservative, the amygdala can be considerably larger, as though bloated on steroids. As a result, one can infer that the amygdala just might be working overtime and inducing a level of paranoia and delusion lacking in the rest of us.One might be more inclined to believe rabid Qanon conspiracy theories, for instance.

Is this ringing any bells? Anyone? Pizzagate. Hillary as a lizard person? Jewish space lasers. Global warming as an elaborate hoax. I'm thinking specifically of the bottom dwellers, Marjorie Taylor Green and Lauren Beobert here but, trust me, they're far from alone. Both of them with the IQ of a hubcap.

Anyway, even these people hew to the belief that if you throw enough money at already ridiculously rich people miracles will happen, just you wait and see.

And then we all wonder where the money went. Well, they build themselves dildo-shaped spaceships, for one thing - joy rides most of us can only dream of. Of course it will trickle down.

Hmm, okay. Maybe next time.

Nobody, as far as I know, is talking about prosecuting these powerful companies, even in the face of indisputable evidence that they’re already the cause of trillions of dollars worth of damage around the globe. Who pays when entire cities are submerged? There’s a scary logic to this that says it’s the scale of the crime that matters. If it’s of a size that’s beyond our imagining, you really can get away with it Scott free. Our minds sort of fracture. Maybe that’s what Exxon has been counting on.

The rest of us, those clinging precariously to their sanity, seem at odds as to how to deal with any of this. The whole thing is just too perplexing. The sheer scale of it has so overwhelmed us that we can’t see over it or around it. It’s just too big a thing, too thorny and complex an issue. We’ve created such a mess for ourselves that there simply is no answer. So, do we just throw up our hands and pray for rain?

I know many of us are feeling an existential dread, as yet undefined, an unease we can’t quite find the courage to dwell on. It’s fodder for so many forums on psychology right now. I’m guilty of reading more than my fair share, I’ll admit, while feeding my inner demons. Part of me believes that, in this pandemic era, we’re all tapped into the collective unconscious. In here is a slow-dawning recognition that we’ve already seen the very best of what will ever be. The pinnacle of civilization is already behind us.

Sorry, but it’s all downhill from here.

There’s clearly a level of heightened denial in everything I see in my reading on global issues. Outfits like Extinction Rebellion are screaming for action while our governments seem to be inclined to act only when the flames are actually licking at their capital doorsteps.

While we’re all pulling our hair out, looking for some sign, some recognition that we’re in actual peril here, there’s this strange immobility, this unwillingness to act, from our elected officials.

Seas are rising, rivers are drying up, ice shelves are collapsing, wildfires are raging and the permafrost is no longer frosty. Alarms are ringing people!

When are you going to fucking do something?

Sadly, this leaves the ground open for some really unsavory characters to step in and fill the void, unscrupulous people, only too willing to take advantage of our fracturedness, our disunion: kleptocrats and raging narcissists with tiny hands and orange skin.

I’m projecting and can't think of anyone in particular off the top of my head, but you get my drift.

On the brighter side, we’re finally seeing some genuine movement in the area of carbon sequestration, pulling it out of the atmosphere and sending it deep underground or repurposing it in such a way that it doesn’t do any damage and can, in some cases, be put to good use.

As encouraging as this may be, the current programs around the globe are absolutely miniscule compared to the gargantuan need. Like desalination, we need sequestration on a massive, global scale, sucking billions of tons of the stuff out of the air, day in, day out. And yet governments seem bizarrely hesitant to embark on any such programs, even after repeated, extremely dire warnings from the UN.

https://youtu.be/dRvkOFdfW7k

We’ve been pumping pollutants out into the air for the best part of two centuries after all; we’ve got some serious catch-up to do. Can we move on it…maybe today?

I know governments generally move at a glacial pace but, sweet Jesus, can we light a fucking fire under somebody with an ounce of wits and the willingness to actually tackle this thing?

I can’t get too giddy; there are dark storm clouds gathering even in this arena. Like a giant carbuncle on humanity's ass, the oil companies are sleazing their way into the sequestration game while the sleazing is still good. What’s giving them a stiffy is the idea of pumping CO2 into the ground so they can extract every last morsel of oil. Is this making sense to anyone besides the grim reaper?

Yeah, you heard me. They want to use old pollution so they can make new pollution.

Here’s the real pisser. Now they’ll be able to make money on both ends, producing all the world's pollution, then charging us a second time to suck it out again. Credit where credit is due. That is some fantastic business model. There’s a peerless, dark symmetry to it.

In my super-jaundiced future worldview though, they could hold us all to ransom by simply turning off the air scrubbers, us watching the sky turn a lovely tawny shade.

‘Pay up people…or choke to death.’

Would you put it past them? I wouldn’t. Not this bunch.

It's as if your pooch turned to you after you just scooped his poop and said, 'That's not free you know. That'll be $50 please.'

Am I alone in thinking these people should be taken to cells in a deep, lonely, disused mine and the door welded shut? No visitors, ever. Fed cold gruel through a tube in the darkness?

It feels just, to me anyway. That’s my really cranky side, reacting to the rapidly encroaching end of everything we know. Ignore it!

All I know is this. If we leave everything up to conservatives and their beloved market forces, we are all so screwed. They’re looking on as all of humanity is sliding over a cliff and wondering how they can monetize it.

Just know, I may not be able to avert the next panic attack because, I know…I’m not wrong.

SM

[discardedmilkywaywrapperwrites]

Return to TuFort

Activating Halloween Mode was, looking back on it, a very strange and especially stupid idea. The fact that it wasn't even a full moon, and was also the middle of July, did not give TF2 spy player and steam account name "staricipant" a large amount of confidence when the vote was originally brought up a few moments ago. The vote count then jumped to 99 votes in favor, which was about... participant slides to the side as a blast of appropriately named magic rushes right by their head. 99-24, that's seventy five votes more then were on the server. And of course, Merasmus guffawed as he announced the event.

staricipant, firing and hitting a revolver shot on the damned wizard, regrets having decided that it was simply a unique update, a reward several years lacking in the past. Now they knew it was false, of course, and if they made it out alive they'd have to write up the event and post it onto a creepypasta site. Still, the idea that TF2 was being updated again would be the more unbelievable part of the tale. There's a texan yell as an engineer, (staricipant stopped paying attention to team colors about a minute and a half ago), gets transformed into a chicken and his level two sentry transforms into bird feed.

The soldier begins taking a few steps back and the pyro muffles something that staricipant takes to mean "distract the wannabe wizard". staricipant whips out their watch, a trusty strange dead ringer that doesn't seem like such a waste of cash now with their life on the line, and then charges the wizard. Merasmus says something unintelligible, and then a greenish purplish blueish redish yellowish bolt with a few other colors mixed in that comes out to a shade of grey shoots out of his staff. Closing their eyes, staricipant *really* hopes this is less painful then it looks.

---

There is a computer, with no one nearby. The steam menu is up, and although it says that TF2 is currently running, the application is not up. It's quite fortunate no one was around, at least currently. The computer shorts out, the monitor going dark and the keyboard completely unrelated popping off the two 0 keys. The screen flickers back to life, with a new distinction.

A warping effect makes it hard to read, and a monochromatic filter does not help either, but it almost seems as if the steam library has folded in on itself. If you were there, which you aren't, you could squint, and you might be able to make out some mixed names. "Fist Full of Overlords", "Darkest Mania", "Portal to Monkey Island"...

"Return of the Team Fortress" is currently running, the steam menu says, but the application is not up.

---

staricipant wakes up, face down on hard flooring. A glance around solicits a groan from the beleaguered spy main. This wasn't some bizarre dream coming from too much playing of violent video games? No, this was good old RED spawn room, alright. They quickly check their armory, still not understanding now that they've fallen into the spy's shoes how they holster a revolver without a visible holster. The sapper, the knife, the strange dead ringer...

Opening the Spytron 3000 Disguise Kit raises an alarm, however. The cigarettes removed, in their place, a second screen. In fact, the regular screen does not display the options of disguises, but a team roster in their place. Confused, staricipant taps on the new screen. The player-list is all there, all 24 of the poor sods who decided it was a bright idea to play Tufort today. Unless this sort of thing happened on other servers...

Not a good thought. staricipant scans over the player list. Twelve on each side, all of them greyed out, even their own username. Instead of having the pings of each player, there is simply grey text saying "unknown". How strange. staricipant exits the new screen and returns to the old one. It does not seem like they can disguise, but they test it anyway, tapping on the Heavy Weapons Guy. It zooms in on his face, and a piece of text appears next to the icon. "[?], a Red Heavy, [?]". How helpful. What does any of this do or even just mean?

staricipant gives up, closing the disguise kit and pocketing it. Revolver out, although they're not sure how much good it'd do if Merasmus or any of those other beasts came back. The spy opens up the resupply cabinet, pulling out a few small med-kits and pocketing them, and then leaves the spawn room. Sure, it'd be faster to jump down off the balcony, but staricipant wasn't that confident in game mechanics to risk an injury. Better take the stairs, just in case.

It's still a relatively short walk to the bridge between the forts, and staricipant is glad they didn't pick soldier or heavy when this started, seeing how slow the two walk. staricipant's walking speed itself comes to a halt as they stare down at the charred corpse of a scout. They recognize them, of course, they're... staricipant's virtual eyes widen in worry. What happened? No, they're a scout, obviously, but what was their username?

The spy closes their eyes. They remember... well, their life before a madman wizard who may or may not even be real sucked them into the hit FPS, and they remember getting shot by that wizard and waking up here, but... what happened between those points? They knew they checked the list before, and they were here for the fights... where did they even fight Merasmus? This bridge? The intel room, and if so, which one? Was it outdoors or indoors? They never had memory problems before, and certainly none like this. staricipant feels more like a ghost then a real person right now, and they aren't technically wrong.

As they step around the poor scout, their pocket vibrates. staricipant takes a step away, and it stops.  A step back, and it vibrates. staricipant decides not to stick around and continues on into the BLU fortress- the doorways are barricaded. Resupply cabinets and tables block unwanted access. Counterintuitively, this gives staricipant hope. "Bonjour?" An annoyed cough. That's what they get for possessing a frenchman. "Hello? Anyone in there?"

But it's as silent as a ghost town. Only the wind answers, and it's not a very understandable source of information. staricipant looks at their other options. Not being a soldier, or a demo, or even a pyro, there's no way they could get to the balcony from here. The sewers were an option, and not even an unfeasible one. Just... yes, staricipant realized how stupid it was as they berated themselves, they were a bit scared of water over head height. And the TF2 mercs didn't swim as much as spam the spacebar to quickly hop back out of the water. Jumping in was a no go, at least, and since time did not seem to be of the essence, the spy turned to enter the sewers from RED base.

They don't make it very far, though. In fact, they stop almost immediately, glaring down at the corpse of the scout that dares to make their pocket vibrate. Finally, they pull out whatever it is... it's their watch. A lovely gold, and a bronze shimmer floats over it occasionally. It cost about a dollar and ten cents trading refined for it, but it was worth it. staricipant flicks open their watch and this isn't their watch. It... it shows the time, inside. It has an hour hand and a minute hand. staricipant isn't an expert in watches, or even in non-digital clocks, but they'd hazard a guess and say the time is 1:30, although on day and night they would have no idea.

It is still vibrating. The Dead Ringer, as much as staricipant knows, does not normally... ring, let alone vibrate, but what do they know? Maybe this is a common reaction to corpses that the Spy knows of but isn't important to the player. A unique piece of lore, maybe? Something to update the wiki about. Could it stop shaking, though? It's going to fall out of their hands- and it does. staricipant, still getting used to wearing fine gloves, flubs their chance to catch it, and it falls, rattling, onto the dead scout's ankle. The world goes dark, and video game player staricipant gets a killer headache.

---

"Med down! Oh ey, you want some too?" "Try! You idiot, get back here!" "I can take'm oh god oh I am on FIRE help me hel-"

---

staricipant stares, dumbfounded, at the flaming corpse of the scout. The voices in their head seemed so lifelike, and yet everyone in this scene is as motionless as a statue. The scout, falling over, was attempting to flee a pyro down the bridge, as a sniper in the direction the scout was running pulls an arrow out of the quiver for their bow. A spy stands next to the sniper, whiffing a revolver shot on the pyro. staricipant realizes that something is very off.

They can see, but there's no color anymore. They can't even tell which team the scout is on, or the pyro, or the sniper, although they can guess the pyro isn't on this team's side. A glance behind the pyro shows the dead body of a medic, assumedly the cause of this "Med Down" call from the scout. There's no one else around, really. But the entrance to the BLU base is unblocked, now! A sneaky way around a problem, and staricipant didn't even need to get their shoes wet. They proudly march inside, and stare at a black void. They touch it, and it repels them like a trampoline. How helpful.

It also hurts their head, again. Great. They walk back outside, staring up at a white sun. Something vibrates in their pocket, and they check the watch in their hand. Wait, no, that's not it. This time, the disguise kit is to blame. staricipant flips it open, anger slowly creeping under the ski mask. What now? Both screens are empty, but when it's open, that quickly changes. The right-hand screen begins... typing.

[24 names met their fates here, in these fortresses.] [It is your solemn duty to put name to face, and face to fate.] [Accomplish this, and you shall be set free.] [Fail, and remain stuck.] [Good luck.]

"Good luck?" The spy snarls, anger having been replaced by rage. "I get trapped in some bizzaro TF2, and the message is GOOD LUCK?" The disguise kit is slapped closed and shoved violently in their pocket. staricipant sits down suddenly, grumbling. "Oh, isn't this just magnifique. Magnificent, damn it all to hell. Fine, I'll solve a stupid puzzle. Just so I can stop being french."

[cloubleoh]

te volo

in which bond and q do fieldwork, or, the aftermath of q sleeping with bond and it's everything he's ever dreamed of, and then bond leaves and he still has to get up and go to work the next day

rated m ♛ 4.6k words ♛ mentions of sex ♛ ao3 link

There’s an incessant pinging noise in Q’s right ear and he has half a mind to leave Bond’s call unanswered, but he taps the comm anyway and sighs heavily as the doors to the lift slide shut and he slumps against the wall, letting his bags drop to the floor.

“Please, 007, it’s been a terribly long flight and I’d really like to find my room and have a rest.”

He can hear Bond chuckling on the other end, and Q has half a mind to tell the agent to sod off before Bond finally speaks. “And what’s the harm in having a quick chat with a colleague?”

“You know bloody well what the harm is. I’ve spent four hours on a cramped, rattling coach seat and several more after that on a bus that smelt horribly of manure, I’ve half a mind to castrate M once we’ve returned for lacking the foresight to alert me sooner about being assigned to fieldwork so I could book myself proper transportation, and you’re asking me if I want to have a chat.”

Bond’s responding laughter is enough to force Q to cut the connection with an indignant huff, and Bond’s already pinging him again before the lift doors can even open to Q’s floor. Q waits through one, two, three blips then answers with a reluctant groan.

“Apologies, Q, I wasn’t aware you’d had such a rough time coming in.”

“You wouldn’t, would you, not from your first-class seat and chauffeured drive into town. I should have switched out seating arrangements and made you sit with the lambs.” The only reason Q hasn’t hung up on Bond again is because his hands are full with luggage as he limps down the hall to his room and he cannot tap twice at the device in his ear to shut Bond up for five bloody seconds. He notes to himself, mentally, that he’ll have to work on voice-controlled comms when he gets back to Q-Branch. For now, he squints through smudged lenses for the placard that directs him to room towards the end of a long and winding hallway.

“Oh, they were lambs now, were they?

“Yes, 007, lambs, and I dare say I don’t need to elaborate.”

Q drops his bags again and rummages in his pockets for the room key before giving it a vehement swipe through the card reader and nudging the door open with his foot. The large windows drawn with blackout curtains and the plush couch in the sitting room is a welcome sight, and Q barely gives a thought to where he’s tossing his bags before he’s shrugged off his coat and collapses onto the couch.

“Well then, perhaps you should make yourself comfortable while I go have a look ‘round,” Bond says finally after Q has settled in to a mostly comfortable sprawled position along the length of the couch. Q finds himself nodding before he realizes Bond can’t see a nod over the comm, and he mumbles a very drowsy mmhm in response.

Even after all the trouble Q had been through to get to Savona, some part of him had to admit it felt good to get out of Six once in a while, breathe in different air and sleep in a ridiculously posh hotel room that was nothing like his homely flat back in London. Q wonders, idly, if this is what it’s always like for his agents.

“I’d join you but I’m afraid I’m much too tired to extract myself from this rather comfortable couch. You’ll have to go it alone, I’m afraid.”

“That’s alright,” Bond replies, “I’m quite used to doing these things without a Quartermaster in my ear, you know.”

“Says the one with the better room and the more comfortable couch.”

“That’s hardly my fault, I’m not the one that booked it, am I?”

“Cheeky bastard,” Q smiles, rather tiredly. It’s quite a few minutes later, after Q has already closed his eyes and has barely started to drift off before he speaks again. “007, I don’t suppose…”

“Yes?”

Q squeezes his eyes tight and presses his lips together in a flat line, turning the words over and over in his head. Don’t, you know you can’t, he’s not going to, there’s no bloody point—

It’s a purely selfish request, one Q cannot help but ask, now that they are so far away from Six, and in the end it just slips out unintended. “I don’t suppose…you’d see me off to bed, would you?”

Bond falls silent in a way that Q almost thinks he’s pulled out his comm, but when Bond does finally speak, Q’s heart sinks into his shoes.

“I should be going. Might as well scope the place out before tomorrow.”

“…yes, of course. I’ll leave you to that, then.”

Q almost doesn’t hear the line fall silent, but when he’s sure Bond is no longer listening Q allows himself a choked, almost angry sob as he scrubs a hand down his face, kicking out in frustration at the arm of the couch before growing still. Of course he doesn’t, why would he, he’s James bloody Bond and you can’t get him out of your head—

It was one time, dammit, he let himself go for one time, and you let him do it—

Q’s limbs suddenly feel encased in lead, and he no longer has the strength to do anything but sink further into the couch and tuck his head into the divot of a throw pillow. He wants to seek Bond out, but the fight is gone from his bones, and before he can even think to remove his glasses, Q succumbs to sleep.

               He awakes from a fitful slumber long after the sun has set to voices in his right ear, and it faintly occurs to Q that Bond must have forgotten to remove his comm after Q had gone to bed. Rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Q fumbles around in the dark for the lampswitch and opens his mouth to tell Bond to shut off his damn earwig, some people are trying to get some shut-eye, when he hears something that chills his blood ice-cold.

There’s a woman in the room with Bond.

Q can hear her voice, soft and lilting, every flirtatious word she whispers to Bond, and then Bond himself replying in turn, voice suddenly very husky and low in a way that’s got Q stumbling over his feet and collapsing onto the floor, nearly knocking into the lamp on the way down.

Q’s fingers curl into the loose carpet fibers and the wretched feeling in the pit of his stomach returns as Bond whispers lowly in the woman’s ear just how he plans to fuck her, and it shouldn’t shock him, really, Q’s heard this routine many times before today without hardly batting an eye. Everyone knew Bond has sex for information, but this time, this time Bond’s words have Q feeling as if he’s going to be sick.

In his small, cluttered flat, amidst tangled bedsheets and a tossed duvet, Bond had breathed the same lines in his ear too, and it hadn’t taken but a fraction of a heartbeat for Q to surrender to what he’d wanted, yearned for months.

God, what an utter fool he’d been.

He can hear Bond maneuvering the woman onto a bed, letting out a low growl as he does so, and Q’s cock traitorously throbs in response. It’s all Q can do to bite his lip and keep silent as Bond strips her, then claims her. He presses his head against the carpet and chances a ragged, shaky breath, trying very hard not to rut into the floor. Thankfully Bond doesn’t seem to notice, as he’s currently very engrossed in taking the woman apart, piece by piece, in words Q almost knows by heart.

Q could leave the connection open, listen to the way Bond breathes and moves against the sheets, and pretend there isn’t a woman beneath him. He could close his eyes and drift back to that evening he’d found Bond in his flat, bleeding out in the bath, and afterwards how Bond had pulled Q into a searing kiss that tasted heavily of scotch. In his right ear, Bond moans and Q is inexplicably harder than he’s been in months, and he almost gives in to the pure want that’s coursing through his veins to knead himself through his trousers.

Instead, Q rips the comm from his ear and throws it across the room, uncaring if it breaks as the earpiece smacks against the wall with a sharp clack. He storms out, pretends that Bond isn’t fucking someone three doors down from him, and his feet carry him all the way to the bar where he orders a glass of scotch, and another, and yet another still, downing them until his throat burns of it and he can no longer remember the sound of the woman in his ear, only the intoxicating taste of Bond’s lips against his own.

               Q finally gets to see the woman the following day, thankfully at a different bar than the one he’d drank at the night before. She’s tall and slender, wearing a deep red dress with a plunging neckline, one that’s got several men turning their heads in her direction as she boldly slides into the stool next to his.

“You are the Quartermaster, correct?”

Q’s grip on his own glass tightens, annoyed with how loudly she’s just announced to the whole sodding world his identity. It does nothing to help the vestiges of a hangover that pounds behind his eyes, though he greets her with an easy smile anyway, just to keep up appearances. The only reason Q is still in the same room is because she has information that MI6 is desperate to get its hands on, and Q is the only one able to crack it.

“Quentin,” he offers, reaching out to shake her hand.

“Nice to meet you,” the woman replies, and she gives her own name, though whether it is from the din of the people around him or from Bond’s voice in his ear, Q does not hear it and does not ask for it again. Like his own given name, hers is almost assuredly fake. Q will know this woman, this temporary armistice for all of a few days, and then she will disappear off the map as if she had never existed to begin with. There is no point to committing such a name and a face to memory, not when she still smells of Bond’s expensive cologne.

What he does do is offer her a drink, one she gladly accepts.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Mister Bond,” she says once the drink is in her hands, and Q fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“I’m sure it’s all been quite bog standard, that I’m here to hack your employer’s files and do quite a few other computer-y things that would take far too long to explain.”

The woman’s responding laugh is sharp, far too loud for his throbbing headache that had nearly gone away but is now steadily growing worse. Q isn’t sure if it’s her fault or the alcohol this time around. “Yes, it was something like that. ‘Youngest Quartermaster to join the ranks of Six,’ was the phrase he used, I believe.”

“Youth is no guarantee of innovation,” Q finds himself echoing before he’s realized it, and he punishes himself with another sip of his drink. Were Bond here, he’d have quirked his lips into a knowing grin and that smartass twinkle in his eye, just enough to set Q off but nothing terribly abrasive. But Bond is not here, and the private joke does nothing to soothe Q’s rattled nerves.

“Stealing my lines are you now, Q? I’m afraid that won’t work on her, though I can see why she’d be keeping you from finding our target for me. She is terribly easy on the eyes.”

Bond’s voice snaps Q out of his thoughts and he rubs his eyes, realizing Bond must have been speaking to him for ages now and he’d hardly noticed. “I’m sorry?”

“The target,” Bond repeats. “Where is he?”

“I’m looking for him now,” Q replies, focus now detouring to the mobile in his lap, rapidly swiping through security camera feeds before he stops on a wide angle shot of several blackjack tables. Q spots their target seated at the largest table, thankfully in Q’s direct line of sight from the bar. “Aha, found him.”

“A little more specific, Q.”

“Directly across from the bar, about three rows back. And if this woefully shoddy image is anything to go on, he’s playing a losing game. You should have no difficulty in gaining the upper hand.”

“Mm, if that’s the case, I might even have enough time to cash in my winnings and buy a drink for Madame—”

“Focus, 007,” Q reprimands. He tells himself he’s cut Bond off to keep him on track, and not because of the woman. “I will buy the drinks, and you must do your job of winning at playing cards.”

He can hear a soft chuckle on the other end of the comm as Bond enters the line of sight of Q’s video feed. “You should be careful, Q. You know what happens if you buy a pretty girl an expensive drink.”

No, I wouldn’t Q thinks and doesn’t say. “I’ll have to keep that in mind for when I spot someone on the cameras that catches my eye.”

Q watches as the Bond on his phone scans the area for surveillance before looking directly up into the camera Q is controlling, locking eyes with it and winking. Q splutters, nearly dropping his phone, and before Q can hiss out a curse or two Bond has already slipped on his impassive mask for the evening, polished and suave and approaches the tables, waiting for the game to end before sliding into an empty seat directly across from their target. Damn him.

“Is he good at cards?” the woman asks, and Q takes a moment to compose himself before looking up from his lap and pocketing his phone for now.

“Terribly good. If it weren’t for the fact that he always comes back with tenfold what we give him in allowances, my employers would have had his head on a silver platter years ago.”

She laughs as if Q’s little joke is the funniest thing she’s heard in years. “Good. He should easily gain the attention of my employer, then.”

“That does tend to be his modus operandi,” Q replies, more to himself than Bond’s mark.

The woman takes a sip of her drink and sizes Q up for a long moment before speaking again. "So, tell me. How long have you two been involved?"

Q nearly chokes on his drink and it takes him more than a few moments to recover. Several choice words fly through his head in rapid succession, all of which Q is sorely tempted to bite out, though he holds his tongue. It wouldn't do to blow the whole mission over a stray comment. Yes, we've fucked, if that's what you're implying, and I don't believe who I choose to sleep with is any of your bloody business.

“I’m sorry, what?”

The woman smiles at him and regards Q with eyes that almost seem to glint in the muted light of the bar. “You speak to him with such an ease one only finds in a partner. Though, if I may be frank with you, Quentin—”

Oh please, do Q almost spits out, instead choosing to grasp his glass tighter still.

“—I hadn’t guessed he’d brought someone with him. From what I’ve gathered, Mister Bond doesn’t…strike me as one to settle down, you know?”

While her question hardly dignifies a response, Q chooses to give the only one he knows best, in as steady as voice as possible given the circumstances. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am simply his Quartermaster, and nothing more," he says, eventually. His glasses have slipped and Q takes a moment to push them back up, stealing a quick glance at Bond, who seems to be doing very well for himself at the blackjack table. He can hear the faint voice of the dealer, the disgruntled mutterings of Bond’s target, and Bond himself in his right ear, and while normally it would be a comforting distraction Q finds himself on edge, his whole body thrumming with a nervous energy he rarely gets out in the field.

The scent of Bond’s cologne on the woman is overpowering now and Q licks his lips, fighting the urge to excuse himself to the bathroom to splash ice water on his face until the burning heat inside him bleeds out.

His gaze now lingers on Bond's hands as they slide cards across the green velvet of the table, strong, calloused and sure. He remembers those hands on his own body, once, reverently mapping out the planes and dips of his skin before cupping his arse roughly enough to leave bruises that lasted for days. Then, Bond’s hands were still marred with blood that the bathwater hadn’t completely washed away, leaving behind red stains on the pale expanses of Q’s skin, a counterpart to the red lines Q would score down Bond’s back. Hands that coaxed soft, pliant moans from his mouth, words he daren’t utter anywhere else, to anyone else. Q finally swallows hard, realizing he has lingered too long, and he tears his eyes away and turns back to the woman beside him.

Q is not here to stare after Bond, to wonder about his agent and the company he chooses to keep. His task tonight is to look after Bond's mark, and make sure no harm is to come of her, reluctant though he may be. This, and nothing more.

"I see," the woman replies. She regards Q with a strange, pointed look, before returning to her drink. "Though perhaps Mister Bond doesn't think of you that way."

               Miraculously, the mission hadn’t gone pear-shaped this time around. Bond had snapped a man’s neck inside his room with very little fanfare, and before casino security could be alerted Q had already erased the incriminating footage with a few swift keystrokes. He was almost disappointed Bond hadn’t gotten to test out the modifications he’d made to the agent’s Walther, though perhaps it was for the best that the weapon was going to make it home in one piece.

“Job well done, 007, I really must commend you this time for managing to not expend a single bullet. Q Branch will be so pleased with your efforts this time ‘round.”

“Cheeky today, aren’t we?” Bond says in turn, and Q can almost imagine the man is smiling on the other end of the comm.

“And the files? While you might have come here just for the thrill of killing a man I still have some ends left to tie up.”

“She’s got them transferring to a thumb drive now,” Bond replies. Q sags a little in relief, knowing their target hadn’t been given the chance to destroy the hard drive. In the end, the distraction of the woman had proved just enough for Bond to slip into the room and make sure that this was where the man would breathe his last. After all, there’s only so much one can do with a drive that’s been ripped out of the chassis of a laptop and been bludgeoned half to death. What would have become months of pulling overtime on data recovery had instantly been narrowed down to days, maybe hours if he was lucky.

“At this rate we might even catch our scheduled flight back to London.”

Q can almost hear the wry smile in Bond’s voice when he replies with a curt, “Why Q, you wound me, you know I’ve taken great care to improve my punctuality issues.”

“Mm, your efforts have been admirable but I’m sure there’s quite a bit of working room on that front.”

“Will you two stop going at it like old biddies and do something with this damn body?!”

The woman’s sudden interjection startles Q into silence, and after a moment’s pause he hears Bond shifting around, grunting as he hoists what Q can only assume to be the target’s dead body off the floor. There’s more shuffling, the sound of a door being slid open, and, oh no he couldn’t possibly—

“007, are you putting that in a closet?”

“Well there’s no bloody other place for it,” Bond huffs, “If you’ve got any better ideas why don’t you come down here and do it yourself?”

“I’d rather not, thank you. After all, I’m only here for tech support.”

Bond swears under his breath and goes back to attempting to shove the body of his target into the small linen closet, and Q tries to ignore the hot tingles racing down his spine at the gruff strain of Bond’s voice under duress.

               As agreed upon, Q meets her by the Lucky Seven slot machine. It’s an ostentatious thing, gilded with shiny gold-colored plastic and enough flashing lights and bells to trigger a migraine, but deep enough into the stacks and just perfectly out of range of the three cameras that sweep the room. The woman is there waiting for him when Q arrives. The red dress is back, though not as prim and wrinkle-free as before. Q tries not to think about where the wrinkles came from, or where else the dress has been. Instead, he swallows and holds out his right hand, awaiting the exchange of information.

The woman reaches between her cleavage with slender fingers and pulls out a thumb drive before placing it gently in Q’s palm. “I believe this is rightfully yours now, Quartermaster, as my employer is no longer around to make any use of it.”

Q pockets the drive and gives the woman a curt nod. “Thank you. I trust all the information is there? I’d hate to contact you again. We at MI6 can be very…persistent.”

She nods, clearly unaffected by Q’s veiled threat. “Yes, all you need is on that drive. I cannot promise it is unencrypted, though from what I understand that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

Q knows it’s meant to be a complement but he is done playing nice, done pretending to be Bond’s polite little boffin with the quips and the gadgets and the fancy computer. Now that Q has what he came for and is no longer bound by obligation, Q immediately says the most scathing thing he can think of. “Yes, I assume Bond charms every woman he meets into bed with tales of his Quartermaster’s hacking skills.”

The woman almost smiles at that, though her eyes grow narrow and flinty, a silent warning. “It’s unbecoming to harbor jealousy in the world of espionage, Quentin. Makes you lose your head, get your agents killed.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Q replies with a smirk, and though the woman gives him a knowing look she backs off. What Q doesn’t expect is for her expression to melt into something softer, and she steps closer, capturing his hands in her own and giving them a gentle squeeze. Q instinctively wants to pull away but the woman has captured him in a piercing gaze, one he finds he cannot look away from.

“Please,” she says, “for me. Look after your agent. He has…such lonely eyes, don’t you think?”

…what?

Q’s forehead wrinkles into confusion but the woman has yet to let go, so instead of pressing her further he gives a short nod, and the woman finally releases her grip on his hands. “Though I’ve enjoyed our time together, I’m afraid I must depart now. Please, enjoy your stay in Savona, Quartermaster.”

And with that, the woman in the red dress melts into the crowd and rows of slot machines, and is gone within seconds. Q supposes he could log into the security system at the casino and track her movements, watch her for a good long while and make sure she’s not going to compromise either of them, but he doesn’t. He’s spent the whole of this mission loathing the very air around her, the way she walks and talks and carries herself, but all that pent-up anger ebbs out of Q the moment the woman disappears, walking out of his and Bond’s life forever.

Q considers the woman’s words and wonders, briefly, if there’d ever been a Quartermaster that had lost an agent because of compromised attachments. Then, Q’s mind wanders to how many men and women alike had died because they got too close to Bond, seen things the agent had never meant for them to see, become too deeply embroiled into his life that it had killed them in the end.

Oh, bollocks Q thinks, what have I gotten myself into?

“Q.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder and Q whips around, startled, only to find Bond staring down at him, forehead knit into deep lines of concern.

“007?”

“I’d been calling after you for ages now. Our flight is in two hours, and we’d better get going before M starts thinking we’ve been delayed.”

Right, of course. The flight. Q gives Bond a tired smile and nods, letting out a shaky breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding in. “You’ve never been one to give into M’s whingeing, and I doubt you’re going to start now.”

“What were you thinking about, just now?” Bond asks suddenly, turning the entire conversation on its head and bringing Q’s mind to a stuttering halt. “I’ve never seen you that lost in thought before.”

“Oh, just all the hours of my life I’m going to get back, now that I don’t have to restore a banged-up hard drive this time around.

Bond makes an exasperated face. “You still resent me for that, don’t you?”

“All you double-oh agents think Q-Branch are magicians that can wave our hands at hard drives that’ve been beaten with a nightstick and kicked halfway ‘round London and poof, oh there comes that data M wants.”

“That was one bloody time, Q—”

“If you’d just learn to return everything in one piece—”

And just like that, they fall in step together, and it’s almost as if things are back the way they once were, before Q had pulled out the dental floss stitches from Bond’s skin as Bond bled permanent stains onto the floor of Q’s bathroom. It was ironic, Q had thought, that while the blood had washed out of his clothes, and his sheets, and his skin, he could never quite manage to get it up from the tiles, no matter how hard he’d scrubbed until his arms began to feel like overcooked noodles.

He senses Bond knows his answer was a lie, but thankfully Bond lets it go and doesn’t press further. Q doesn’t think he could deal with Bond knowing the truth, not now, not tomorrow, and possibly not ever.

Bond stops in front of the lift and turns to face Q. “I’ll be in my room. You can come collect me when you’ve finished packing.”

Q can’t help the smile that forms across his lips. “Is that a promise, 007?”

“Well,” Bond replies, matching Q’s widening grin, “what do you think?”

And maybe, Q thinks, just maybe, it is.

i also take prompts/requests!

[arabellaflynn]

How could I possibly not know my attachment style until I was a teenager, you ask? Well, mainly because I had nobody to get that attached to. My mother likes to tell people the story of my first steps. I was sitting on her lap one day at a family gathering, while she was chatting with the other adults, and I let it be known that I wanted a toy that was across the room. Nobody could be arsed to get it for me, or even walk over there and crouch beside it to encourage me to go get it myself. Eventually, I got tired of squalling, squirmed free, and toddled over to get it on my own. No stumbling, no falling; I just walked over, plopped down, and focused on my toy to the exclusion of all else. She thinks this is an adorable story. It would be if it were a case of 'took our eyes off the baby for two seconds and look what happened'. It was not. This was my mother's parenting technique through my entire childhood: Whenever the baby wanted something inconvenient, ignore her until she took care of herself. She's not a sociopath -- she was good with food, water, shelter, clothes, school, making sure I didn't just drop dead, etc. But any level of psychosocial interaction beyond what a pet might need was inconsistent at best. The most praise I ever got was when I was "independent", i.e., didn't bug her for shit. Dad followed Mom's lead, and to be brutally honest, the two of them were actually an improvement over the families they'd come from. Unsurprisingly, my mother and I got along increasingly poorly as I grew up. By the time I was a teenager, I could articulate the feeling that she wasn't listening to me when I complained, but it didn't do me any good. She could parrot back the words I'd just said, it just didn't appear to mean anything to her. At some point she'd just snap and shout, "What do you want me to do about it?" The actual answer was, "sympathize and comfort me," but by that point I'd been without it for so long I didn't know that was an option. I'd try to think up some practical solutions, find none, sullenly admit the answer was, "Nothing, I guess," and retreat to my room. As far as I can tell, she considered this to be her winning the fight. There wasn't anyone outside the family for me to get attached to, either. I didn't have a best friend as a kid. I didn't know this; there was a girl in my grade whose mother hung out with my mother, and I was informed that she was my best friend. In retrospect, she didn't like me much and wished I'd go away, but she had been ordered to play with me. Her mother was the kind of woman who enforced the 'no squirming while I do your hair' rule by clonking her on the head with the hairbrush, so I'm not surprised she did it. When I was eight-ish, I bought a set of those 'best friend' necklackes that are each one half of a heart. She flat refused to wear hers. I don't recall my mother having much reaction to this; I may not have bothered to tell her. Mainly what this taught me was that my affection was a goddamn nuisance, and if I wanted to make 'friends' I should probably not say anything about it. They would be, at best, confused. I got innumerable more lessons in same throughout grade school. I tried berating myself into not caring so much, but that didn't work very well, so I took the compromise position of never talking about it. I still have favorite people, I just generally keep it to myself. I can be glad to see someone without making them take time out of their day to deal with it. It was not until I was a freshman in high school that I met other humans who consistently acted like they fucking liked me. I still see people complaining that online socializing isn't "real" socializing, and I say a hearty FUCK YOU!, because without the internet (or at least crappy 14.4 mbps modems) I would not have had any friends ever, least of all at a time in my life where I was becoming increasingly stressed and despondent. My school district set up an online BBS that was ostensibly for "homework help", although I don't think I ever saw a single post in that forum. What we actually used it for was play-by-post role-playing games. A couple of guys set up a Star Trek game, and I wanted to join, so I sat down to read the background docs. I found them woefully inadequate. I was even less diplomatic as a teenager than I am now, so I wrote the guy who posted them and went, "You call that tech?" and he wrote back, "You think you can do better, you do it." I owned all of the published technical manuals for the various Trek series at that point, and I did in fact think I could do better, so I did. Bizarrely enough, this made us friends. Nerd lyfe, yo. I ended up fairly close with the two guys who ran the game, and with a girl they knew, all three from a neighboring high school in the district. I handled this very poorly. I had no idea how to cope with people who actually cared about my mental and emotional well-being. It had nothing to do with how they were behaving; they did successfully transmit the feeling that they cared about me, very much. I just didn't trust my read of the situation, at all. I felt as though I were on a tightrope the entire time, wondering how much they would tolerate from me before they snapped and admitted I was demanding too much attention, and told me to sod off. This was not their view of the situation at all; they uniformly thought my parents were horrible, and probably wished they could do more to get me away from them. By this point I had started having what in hindsight were clearly uncontrollable panic attacks, which my parents responded to by ignoring them. Literally -- I can clearly remember sitting at one of the computer in the living room, sobbing hysterically while I typed at one of said friends in a chat window, both parents within sight of this and having absolutely no discernible reaction whatsoever. I took to doing this more and more, dumping my irrational, incomprehensible feelings out into text, because for some reason they all put up with it. I always expected that one day they would just tell me to STFU, but they never did. One of the guys in the group had two sisters and therefore some idea of what you do about crying women, which was mainly hug them until they fixed themselves. He was very patient, and eventually became my first real 'best friend', a thing that surprised only me. When I was around seventeen, I was badly broken by the realization that he cared about me in a way that my own family did not, and that if push ever came to shove, my family could go fuck themselves, because I'd side with him. I remember sitting in the front seat of his car very late one night, babbling uncontrollably at him about this epiphany. I have no idea what he made of this, but he did continue to talk to me for several years afterwards, so it apparently wasn't anything bad. I still deeply mistrust the instinct that says someone is aiming to be that kind of friend to me. It is rare, and I try not to let myself want that too much, because it gets me into trouble. It involves a kind of emotional intimacy that other people view as inherently romantic -- I don't, and I cannot for the life of me comprehend why other people do, but it provokes a lot of jealousy in the wrong situation. Losing friends is bad to begin with, but that one is especially ruinous for me. From my point of view, it means I have to give up a connection to another human being because a third party has arbitrarily decreed I don't get to have it. The jealous SO unilaterally declares we're in a competition I don't want or understand, and I automatically lose. It scares me on a par with what I think normal people would feel at the prospect that their sibling had married a crazy person and would never speak to them again. The reward has to be pretty big for me to take the risk. This specific thing is the other reason (aside from a general lack of spoons and extroverted emotional energy) that I have decided I do not do closed monogamous relationships. There are seriously people who consider that kind of friendship to be 'emotional infidelity'. You can't see me right now, but if I were rolling my eyes any harder I'd risk retinal detachment. If this counts as cheating in a monogamous relationship, then clearly I am not natively monogamous, and I should not be in those. I really need that kind of emotional scaffolding, in various degrees from multiple people, to provide stability in my life, and I have no family capable of providing it. Any partner who told me, "you're too close to that other person, give it up or this relationship is over," would be immediately and permanently broken up with. from Blogger http://ift.tt/2yMkyFE via IFTTT -------------------- Enjoy my writing? Consider becoming a Patron, subscribing via Kindle, or just toss a little something in my tip jar. Thanks!

[saintsnsinnersbdb]

Drunken Delusions: Deliverance Part 8

Written by @FmrCopBONeal and @TohrSASRP

Butch: [The nightmares of Janey had been coming for over a week. Each time she came to me in my dreams she killed me in different ways. It had been usually choking to death or slicing my throat. But this last one shook me to my soul. It wasn’t the twelve-year-old boy anymore, it was me in the present and with my dagger to my heart I just simply ash away like one of the race’s enemies. 

After this nightmare, I hit the Lag hard to the point my liver was tapping out but I was still pushing it. What is going on? It’s never been like this. Nightmares every night cause me to feel ill and tainted. It has never happened like this, in all the years I had dreamed of Janey. 

I look at the clock and curse I am late for helping with the training. Great, that is all I need to deal with is Tohr riding my ass. One for the road, hell yeah. I grab the bottle of Lag and take a huge pull or five from it. Before heading out to Tohr’s office. @TohrSASRP

Tohr: In my office, I looked over the schedules one more time, furrowing my brow as a headache was slowly developed. I was certainly in no state to do any sort of administration but I was off rotation which meant I was confined to my desk or left pacing my room or the manse in general. Hell, I wasn’t even on call for a training session with the trainees, and the gym would be filled tonight with the young ones so that was a no-go as well. Nothing sounded any more helpful than pushing paper for the training program, so that had been where I had ended up, and hence the headache was a necessary evil to not going completely crazy. 

Butch was on teaching duty tonight, paired up with Axel, a young hopeful that had shown a lot of potential in class and could use some private mentoring lessons. For tonight Butch was set to look after his hand-to-hand, polishing it up and making it more powerful. A weak punch was no good on the battlefield after all. I fish out my phone and text the Cop, since he was about to run late. The guy was probably just trying to decide what leathers went with what shitkickers in that hoarder’s nightmare he called a closet. I then open up my office door and call in Axel, hoping at least someone had made it on time.   

Butch:  I have no clue how the fuck I ended up outside of Tohr’s office from the Pit or how the fuck I was standing upright. Here we go, ladies and gentlemen, I knock like the police were about to bust down your mother fucking door and walk in there, sitting on one side of Tohr’s desk is the trainee, Axel. 

When I look at Tohr, I can see he is fucking annoyed at me. “WHAT?” Looking at the clock damn. I am twenty minutes late. Trying not to slur my speech as I talk. “Sorry, I lost track of time doing ... things.” Did I just sway, I think I just swayed. “Axel, meet you out on the mats,” not wanting to hear it from Tohr. I turn and head out leaving them both sitting there. 

Tohr: When Butch finally showed his face, I was ready to give one hell of a talk-to drill-seargent style but he blew me off faster than I anticipated. Something was off though with my Brother. He was less… Shit, was chummy the right word? Normally the Cop was laid-back and relaxed, very casual but he seemed more … well friendly, but in a less restrained way. Like he wasn’t trying to camouflage his friendly side as much as he used to. Pair that with a hint of alcohol on his breath and I’m fairly sure I hit the shit jackpot. 

Either that or I’m getting paranoid … yeah, not going down that lane. I look to Axel and offer a nod. “Best get out on the mats and start warming up. Butch won’t take long to get ready.” I assured him though I knew I had to keep an eye on Butch. My paranoid feeling seemed insistent on hanging around.  

Butch: I quickly change and head out to the mats. Rolling my shoulders, I have a plan to let the little fucker, Axel, think he is kicking my ass than BAM. I would turn the table and make him cry, uncle. 

Cracking my neck and shaking out my arms as I carry myself to the center of the mat. I get in fighting stand and beckon the young trainee to attack. He is smart, he leads me to one side and starts making me move back. I stumble over my foot and he takes me down. Sloppy on my part.  Fuck, he has me in a neck hold and the squeeze he is putting on his arm is a match for match with Rhage or V.

In my still drunk haze of trying to act normal. Something snapped as he squeezed my throat, my sleep-deprived ass watched as Axel turning into a lesser, I could smell the acidy baby powder and when I attempted to inhale the lesser  It did not work. What the living fuck. My eyes grew wide. I immediately panicked that this lesser would get up to the main house and start killing infants and shellans. I shifted my footing and was able to flip the lesser to the mat and with my strength. I came down hard on the lesser knocking the wind out of him. I start punching right and left at the lesser's face. I could feel the bones of the lessers face breaking and him yelling out to stop. 

Tohr: As soon as Butch and Axel hit the mats, I kept half an eye on them as I continued my paperwork back in the office. It was no problem leaving the door to the admin office open a bit. Somehow listening to the sparring and trainees made me feel more at ease. Perhaps it helped me shut out some of the other thoughts haunting my brain for the time being. 

I watched as Axel seemed to really put up a good fight with Butch, practically dancing around him and luring him into a pretty good chokehold. My eyes widened as I saw Butch switch around on the kid, beating the everliving shit out of him, the rest of the trainees backing off. In a dash, I beat feet towards my brother and peeled him from the poor trainee. 

“Butch! BUTCH!” I practically scream into his face, wrestling Axel from his death-hold. “Stand down!” I command and look to a few trainees. “Get Axel to the medical wing, the staff will patch him up” when no one really moved, I narrow my eyes. “NOW!” making them finally get their fingers out their arses and moving. 

I looked back to Butch, growling at him as I dragged his ass back into the office, slamming the door behind us. “What the hell was that?! Are you trying to kill our trainees?!”

Butch: I push Tohr away from me. I start pacing back and forth like a caged animal. I shake my head at what I did, I swear that he was a lesser. What the fuck is wrong with me? I continue to shake my head as I pace muttering to myself. 

Once Tohr starts to yell at me, I whipped my head around at him, I growl.  “He was a mother fucking Lesser Tohr. I was stopping him before he got to the main house.”  I get right into Tohr’s face, “I was killing what I fucking needed to.” I was fucking losing my shit. I need to get out of here, I need to go back to drink. “Fuck this, I am out.” I head to the door flinging it open taking it off it off the hinges. I head to the game room of the compound, know that is where I will find the fastest drink. I didn’t even care what it is as long as it numbs my head. I get there to see half bottle of Lag and I pick it up undoing the top before taking a huge pull from the bottle, letting the drink burned my throat down to my gut. Everything as silent for a brief fucking moment.

Tohr: I heard Butch growl at me and I growled right back, not taking any shit. As it became clear to me that the Cop was not well, I didn’t respond to his ramblings but instead let him walk off to let him cool a little. I had a good idea of where he was headed given his scotch-breath. Fuck, he really stank and I should have never let him and Axel spar at all. 

I sent the rest of the trainees to the showers and headed into the admin office, writing a log of tonight's accident before calling a doggen via the office telephone to get the bus moving well ahead of schedule. No reason for the trainees to linger too much if they didn’t need to. 

On the computer I head into the Brotherhood schedule and pull Butch from the rotation completely, attaching a note to come to talk to me about the matter, in case there were questions from my brothers. No need to air the dirty laundry given Butch was already in a bad state. After finishing my admin work, I headed back up to the manse, going straight from the secret door to the billiards room, finding Butch in the middle of a solo drinking contest. Poor sod was obviously losing his mind over something but I found it better not to pry. The Cop had already growled at me once, and given what he had done to Axel, I’d rather not go head-to-head with the guy. 

I plopped down next to him, grabbing a bottle of bourbon and took a swig. “I don’t know what’s doing your head in and I’m not about to play psychologist,” I said rather shortly. “But whatever’s going on with you means you’re off rotation. Take some time to take care of you” I continue, leaving out the ‘We can't afford liabilities and loose cannons in the field’ shit for the next trainee lesson. Butch knew it well enough anyway.  

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Jamie is the towns local vet, he is about to close the practice for the day when Claire rushes in with a sick/injured Adso! Sparks fly between the two.

Jamie closed the last chart of the day and stretched, enjoying the soft rock playing over the clinic speakers. It had been an unusually long day, but his paperwork was finally done, and he was ready to close shop for the weekend.

Just then, a cloud of curls burst through the doors, looking about as distressed as the woman who bore them and, for that matter, the wee cheetie she was holding carefully under its belly. It wore a crest of painful looking porcupine quills; the work of a half-hour at least.

Yet his protest that it was a minute to closing died on his lips as he met with the woman’s golden eyes.

Dumbstruck as he was, it took him a minute to connect the crisp English accent to her.

“I’m terribly sorry for bursting in so late, it’s just that it seems there are no other veterinarians open at this hour, nor for the weekend, and I came home to find that Adso had picked the wrong fight -“

The kitten narrowed its eyes and let out a rumble of displeasure, as though remembering its foe and their undoubtedly bitter battle.

“Nae trouble at all!” Jamie said a tad too enthusiastically. “Ms...”

“Beauchamp. Claire Beauchamp.” 

“Jamie Fraser. Call me Jamie.” He replied, standing back and motioning the way to one of the exam rooms.

She visibly relaxed and followed him back. “Thank you so much. Lord knows the little fool deserves it -“ was it Jamie’s imagination, or did the “little fool’s” rumbling get louder at that? - “but I worry he’d hurt himself more if I left it for next week,” Claire continued, placing the cheetie on the exam table; either unfazed by its behaviour, or used to it.

Seems ye’ve caught a witch, Jamie lad. He stymied his thoughts before they could say any further stupid things.

“A porcupine, ye say? Weel he’s luckily he didna get it worse then.” Jamie commented as he placed a hand on the cat’s fluffy rear in an attempt to stabilize him.

Lightning-fast, he pinched the quill near its base and tugged, simultaneously freeing it and producing a loud yowl from the unfortunate critter.  

“One down, about seven more to go.” Claire beamed at him.

“Ooch the first is the easiest,” Jamie explained, “these last ones, weel it depends on the beast, but I dinna think yon cheetie will let them go without a fight.”

He was somewhat embarrassed to find his Scots accent deepening in her presence, and he wondered if she noticed.

“Shhh wee cheetie, dinna fash” he murmured reassuringly, petting its unquilled lower half as he slowly lowered his hand towards what currently resembled nothing so much as a sentient and very angry dustball.

A quick paw reached out and batted his hand away, hissing.

“Adso!” Claire admonished the cat, strikingly like a parent castigating a small child, “let the nice man help you.”

Jamie couldn’t hide his grin as Adso reluctantly lowered his paw, as though he understood his human’s words.

Weel if she is a witch, I’d let her enchant me any day.

She turned an apologetic gaze towards him, “I’m so sorry, he’s really normally sweet…”

“Aye, it’s the pain doing it. I’ve had it happen with horses, so a cheetie’s no trouble.” He reassured her.

“A horse? Really! I’d wouldn’t imagine they would be so foolish as to take on a porcupine.”

She shot an accusatory look at Adso, and he looked away with as much dignity as he could muster in the situation.

Jamie couldn’t help but smile even more broadly. He was uncomfortably aware that he’d been smiling far more than was normal. Complete dolt, that’s what she thinks of ye, lad.

“Not generally, but some sometimes the two startle each other and there’s a wee stramash.”

Claire laughed, and Jamie felt oddly proud to have achieved that. When, he wondered, had he become such a bonehead around women?

He returned his attention (or at least his eyes) to the kitten, gently questing for information as he divested it of its painful ornaments.

“Ye’re not from here, I think?” He asked.

“No, I’m new to Inverness. Moved here to… finish up my medical residency.”

Caught by the sorrow of her tone, he didn’t get his hand back fast enough, and found it instantly mauled by the offended feline.

Claire let out a huff of laughter, but the echo of sorrow was still there.

Jamie extracted his finger from the beastie’s wee claws and tentatively pushed her on it.

“A sassenach in Inverness? That’s an odd choice, if ye don’t mind my saying.”

For a moment she looked as though she would brush him off, but then she let out a breath and something about her seemed to relax, to accept whatever it was she had to tell him.

“I don’t, it’s just… I’ve just gotten divorced. Wanted a fresh start and all that. Some distance.” She looked past the room as she said it, but returned to the present after a moment, meeting his eyes in a manner that had a hint of a challenge to it.

Jamie held her eyes, hoping he was managing to convey sympathy instead of the pity he imagined she often received.

“I understand, though for what it’s worth, I’m surprised any man would willingly part from you.”

He felt the heat rise in his face once more. Ye damn clumsy fool. She’s being open with ye and ye decide the best response is to flirt? Ye should be happy if she claps yer ears and walks out. No less than ye deserve.

Yet she did not clap his ears, nor indeed did she walk out. Jamie seized on the silence to make amends.

“I’m sae sorry, that was rude of me, I-“

“No, no. It was fine, really.” She seemed to hesitate over her next words, and Jamie held his breath.

“It’s just been a while since… I don’t know, since such advances were welcome, I suppose.”

Jamie felt as though he was bolted to the spot. He knew he should say something, but his mind had gone completely blank.

Strident rock chords broke their bubble.

“HEAVY PETTING / COME UP BREATHING” growled the singer  

Jamie looked as though someone had dropped him in a boiling pot. Ears glowing bright enough to rival a phone booth, he leapt out of the room and fumbled with the computer, mumbling something about “damn playlist,” and “Alec’s nephew, wee sod.”

Claire burst into laughter at this sudden spectacle, gasping for breath and earning an inquisitive “mrrp?” from Adso that perfectly matched the expression Jamie turned towards her as he re-entered the room. This did nothing to help with the breathing situation, which was becoming quite dire, all sound having been cut off in her mirth.

“Are you laughing at me?” Jamie asked, grinning as he leaned against the door frame.

“Yes, I most certainly am!” Claire gasped, trying to regain her composure.

Jamie found himself unable to resist laughing with her.

Another delicate bubble of silence enveloped them as they recovered.

“I should be on my way. Weekend clinic tomorrow.”

“Oh, aye. Of course.” He agreed, clearing his throat and trying to hide his disappointment. And what did ye think ye’d do, hey? Invite her to yer home just after meeting her? Along with her cheetie?

Claire picked up her unhappy but now de-quilled kitten, tucking him in the crook of her arm to prevent him from squirming too much as he saw her to the door.  

She opened her mouth, her face seeming to indicate something was on her mind. But she seemed to decide against it, simply smiling, thanking him, and bidding him a good night.

He beamed, transfixed by the warmth of her smile; a heat he felt right down to his bones.

“Nae trouble, Claire. Good night to you as well.”

Jamie stared at the door for some time after she left, enjoying the flittering of butterflies in his stomach before he realized he’d not thought to ask for her number.

—

The following week was one of the rare busy weeks at the hospital, and as such, Claire pushed her plans to meet the hot vet once more to the back of her mind. Yet as luck would have it, life intervened to give her another chance.

A plaintive howl emerged from behind the nurse’s desk as Claire walked up to it, eager to confirm her shift was indeed over so she could go home for the weekend.

Nurses Hildegarde, Fitz and Duncan were crowded around its source.

“I dinna care if it’s ill, it’s a mangy dog, no’ a person!” Geillis griped.

“Oh no, is Bouton under the weather?” Claire asked, leaning over to get a look at the miserable dog. Affectionately known as the “petit docteur,” Bouton was a familiar presence on the ward, beloved by the patients and staff (save for nurse Duncan, who seemed to be the only person in the world he didn’t get along with), and known for catching things that even the doctors missed.

“I am afraid so. He has been under the weather for the past few days; I am concerned for him.” Nurse Hildegarde explained, casting a sympathetic look at the poor beast.

“I’ll bring him to a vet!” Claire offered, rather too hastily.

At the nurses’ raised brows, she tried to amend her enthusiasm. “It’s just that I know a very good vet, and I live close… well, close-ish…”

Seeing her rising blush, Nurse Hildegarde hid a smile. “That would be so kind of you, Claire.”

“No trouble at all!” Claire hastily threw on her coat and rushed out, bearing a somewhat startled terrier.

“A vet, then? Geillis grinned slyly. “Think that means he likes it doggy-style?”

Nurse Fitz whacked her with a chart.  

[fromthewifecage]

Never Trust a Cowboy with a Computer (aka Erron Black X F!Reader)

I actually wrote this several months ago, and kept stalling and being an idiot. About 1 month ago I asked the wonderful @tomoka0013 & @gojihime99 if they could help edit it. THANK YOU SO MUCH!! SO many kisses to you both :D Basic premise is Erron Black X F!Reader. Reader handles the Black Dragon IT  and they have a rather huge crush on Erron (because who wouldn’t?) Reader is about to go out to the cinema with Kabal & Tremor buuuuut… dun dun dun….. shenanigans ensue, This is Chapter 1 of 2. Chapter 2 is written but needs me to have a shout at it. If people like this then I’ll try to get it out within a week (Chapter 2 contains the smut). If you do like, then please like and reblog as Tumblr is hiding my tags and no-one will see this otherwise. Your support means more than you’ll ever know x

Never Trust a Cowboy with a Computer

Chapter 1 For once, the absolutely only time in recent history, your hair was behaving. Thank the Gods! Actually, was there a God of Hair? Hmmm, maybe Kano would know? His stories of meeting Gods were always fascinating, even though he would always exaggerate his role and prowess in encounters with said Gods. There was simply no way on Earthrealm that Kano would have stolen the Thunder God’s hat without being zapped into the Netherrealm. Plus, Kano had never produced the hat, so whenever he would have one too many beers and start on another night of tall tales, you’d nod along and feign complete belief in his words. Maybe one day you’d get to meet a God? Not likely whilst you were stuck behind a computer for hours every day. Especially working along side Erron-sodding-Black. He’d gone through at least 5 computers this year, 2 in the past three weeks! You’d swear he was doing it on purpose. In your steamiest daydreams he was deliberately breaking his computer so you’d have to travel to the ‘Black Dragon Boyz office’ (and yes, they did spell it with a z) to spend precious time un-fucking his computer. Every time it happened, you swore you were just going to tell him to go bother someone else, or get his arse down to PC World and find some spotty 17 year old work experience boy to bother rather than yourself. After all, you were doing just as an important job for the Black Dragon as he, well, almost. He might be a super amazing dead-shot sniper capable of assassinating even the most heavily guarded target, but you weren’t just IT support, you were a Black Dragon member too. You spent much of your time hacking into Special Forces super secret files, reading General Sonya Blade’s horribly dry mission reports, or transferring money from one Swiss bank account to another before you could be traced. Well, that was why Kano had hired you. Yet these past few months you’d been dragged to broken computer after broken computer by the obscenely handsome aforementioned Erron Black at least once a week. You hadn’t minded the first few times, after all, any time spent in Erron’s company made you all giddy and wibbly-wobbly inside your knickers. His voice honestly did things to you, actually made parts that shouldn’t tingle at work, tingle. He had warm eyes that seemed to sparkle whenever he spoke to you, or caught you staring at him, not that you stared at him. Much. OK, maybe a little. ******  Keep reading after the cut!!! *********

He had a smile that was likely illegal in half the known world. Long, strong fingers that you so often thought about, especially when you’d watch him dance a coin across his knuckles when he was thinking, his trick to keep his fingers supple. No, no no. No thinking about him. He obviously wasn’t interested in you. He was a simple man when it came to that. You’d seen him make moves on people who caught his eye, he’d watch them for a while, then walk up to them, give them a smile, tell them plainly what he wanted, and then watch them walk off together whilst your heart dissolved into self pity. A few months ago, you’d made a real effort to try to stop flirting with him. No more lingering looks while spending more time than needed helping him with his computer. The man was multi-talented with most things, just not computers. Probably didn’t help he didn’t grow up around modern technology. You’d gently teased him about being old and doddery around computers and he’d taken the jokes well, and really, you missed joking around with him, but it was for the best. Kabal jostled with you for mirror space, smoothing down his hair and giving the mirror a big grin. Why was it so easy for men like him? He could probably roll out of bed after 2 hours sleep with his face in a half-eaten curry and he’d still wake up handsome (the git). Whereas it took a lot of fussing to even get your hair to behave, let alone look nice and shiny like Kabal’s did. Maybe you could make a small shrine in the corner of your bedroom to the Hair God? You nodded to yourself, thinking Kabal must have done that. “Come on, you look beautiful. Now get your coat and scarf, and we’re outta here. If we don’t leave soon, we’ll miss it!” Kabal fussed with his coat buttons. Always unable to keep still, the man practically radiated excess energy. “I will be sad if we miss the film.” Tremor stood up from his own desk, the building shaking ever so slightly with the enormous man’s movements. “Not as sad as Kabal. He’ll start bawlin’ if he misses his boyfriend’s new film.” Erron spun round in his brand new swivel chair, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Johnny Cage is NOT my boyfriend and I don’t even care about missing the film.” Kabal bristled with indignation. He did care about missing it. He cared a lot. “I don’t even like his films, or him. I’m just watching it ironically.” Erron laughed. You felt that laughter, deep inside and it demanded attention. Bastard. “Suuuure. Enjoy your boyfriend.” “He is NOT my boyfriend!” This was going to end up in another fight. Last week Kabal had called Erron ‘Old Man Withers’. Erron had retaliated by drawing on Kabal’s Johnny Cage calendar. The moustache and glasses actually suited Johnny Cage. So Kabal put a mouse in Erron’s desk drawer and recorded Erron’s scream, playing it every so often while  laughing, and it had gone on until Kano had forced them to apologise to one another, in front of everyone. This happened probably twice a month. It got to where people made bets on how long each feud would last. The longest feud had lasted 23 long days before Kano had flipped. “I do not want to be late.” Tremor tugged open the office door, the handle would need replacing. Again. You followed after the huge man, Kabal behind you muttering about revenge. “Hey, Sweetheart, you goin’ too?” It took a second before you realised that sultry Texan drawl was aimed at you. “Oh, yes. There was a spare ticket since Kira’s still stuck on a job.” Oh shit, you should have offered it to Erron instead. You’d been so excited to be included in the cinema plans that you’d been selfish and not asked if Erron had wanted to go. “But……” Erron’s face scrunched a little and he turned to his computer and hit a few keys in quick succession. “It ain’t workin’ again. Sorry, darlin’.” He gestured to his computer. “But… I only fixed it this morning! What have you done this time?!” You dropped your bag to the floor, and peeled off your coat with a frustrated groan. You were going to get fired as there was no way Kano would believe this. You were completely and utterly incompetent. No other reason. Your fault. “It’s those darn computer gremlins again.” He gave you an apologetic smile and shrugged. You sighed and waved goodbye to Kabal and Tremor, both eager to watch Ninja Mime’s latest adventure, and this one was in SPACE, so it was going to be amazing, and you were missing it. You stomped over to Erron’s computer, your mouth twisted into a grumpy pout. “That is it. No more computers for you! you want to do some work; then you can bloody well do it on a typewriter.” Erron replied with a “Heyyyyyyy” and another laugh. The throb between your legs from the laugh can just sod off. No more. Not when you were going to be unemployed and unemployable after this. Who was going to hire you? What could you put on your CV? ‘Failed IT support worker’? ‘Only capable of turning a computer on and even then it’ll probably turn itself off again when you’re not looking?’ ‘Can steal FBI or Special Forces secrets but can’t keep an old man’s computer running for more than 3 minutes before it’s broken again’? ‘Want to play Solitaire? Well don’t ask me, best try the sudoku in the newspaper instead’. You were so engrossed in sulking you didn’t notice Erron get up from his comfy chair to stand behind you as you perched on the crappy stool with no back (it had no back because Tremor had tried to sit on it). It was only when strong hands found your hunched shoulders and began kneading at the tightly knotted and sore muscles that you looked away from the ‘blue screen of death’. “I’m sorry, but I’ll make it up to you, Sweetheart.” By the Gods his fingers were truly magic. His thumbs were rubbing magic circles into your shoulders and it felt soooo good. “Mmmhhhhh?” Maybe he was a God, the God of massage. Your eyes closed and your head rolled back. Heat radiated from where his fingers touched you, heat that only got stronger when it reached your face and between your legs. He found one particularly knotted muscle and you couldn’t help but groan your pleasure as his thumb circled the spot. His chuckled reply tugged you back to your senses and you quickly shrugged his hands off you. Thank the Gods you had your back to him so he couldn’t see your positively flushed face. You quickly got back to tapping away at the keyboard but your hands were shaking so badly from the intimacy you struggled to hit the correct keys. “You sure you got that, Sweetheart?” The computer made indignant beeps at your clumsy fingers. “Says the man who has trashed enough computers to practically bankrupt Kano.” Your hands continued to shake and your thwarted desire swerved into anger. “I’ve made you mad.” “I haven’t been out in FOREVER, and just as I’m about to go out, YOU go break your computer. AGAIN!” “Ain’t my fault your boyfriend doesn’t take you out.” Why did he sound almost happy about that? Hang on… You span around to face him. “What boyfriend?” “You know, the dwarf.” “The.. what?” “Your boyfriend, the hairy dwarf.” His arms folded, his weight shifted to one hip. He didn’t seem too happy talking about this mystery boyfriend. “Is this some sort of joke?” You honestly had no idea what he meant. Maybe he was drunk or Kabal had told him this for a laugh. “I don’t think so?” One of his eyebrows rose in puzzlement. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t have a hairy dwarf boyf.. why do you think I have a hairy dwarf boyfriend?” Maybe you had a secret boyfriend so secret you didn’t know you were in fact dating him? Piotr, who ran a very seedy strip club in the seedier part of the city, was a dwarf, (and you only knew him because Kano was friendly with him), but he was balding. Who did Erron think you were dating? “You said you did. You know, you were talking about him being all small and his hair got everyw…. He’s a cat ain’t he.” Erron had the good grace to look embarrassed at his idiocy. “Obviously.” Was Kabal recording this? This was ridiculous. “Shit.” “Yup.” “Then.. uh.. you should go catch up with Kabal and Tremor.” “I still have your computer to fix.” This was going to be such an awkward few hours. Sitting in the office whilst neither of you spoke since you both felt like idiots. “I can do that.” He threw out a warm smile. “Really. The man who can’t even use a mouse without breaking it, can fix this mess?” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes. If he even so much as looked at the computer it would probably catch fire. “I maybe exaggerated my lack of skills.” His smile turned, and slid from warm to worried. You were going to kill him if this was going were you suspected it was going. “I maybe might’ve deliberately caused the error.” He held up his hands in surrender. Yup, definitely going to have to kill him. “I maybe did some classes a few years back when I was at a loose end.” “…… I’m going to kill you.” “How ‘bout I make it up to you? I take you out for dinner, there’s this patisserie we can go afterwards for the best pastries in Moscow. Hell, you wanna watch that film, let’s go.” His eyes pleaded with you not to hate him, but right now you really did. “I have a hairy dwarf who’ll be better company, thank you.” That he was possibly asking you out and that he wanted to actually go out on a date wasn’t registering. All you could think of was the waste of time and how humiliated you felt. Everyone probably knew and had laughed at how utterly clueless you were. Kano was going to fire you for being shit at your job - after he’d finished laughing. “Heyyy, Sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just wanted to spend time with you.” He really did sound sorry. His eyes went all soft and warm and apologetic and Gods he was beautiful and you really did want to believe him. “You really thought it was accidental?” He tried to hide a smile and couldn’t stop one eyebrow from raising quizzically at the thought that you had been utterly clueless. “Well… you’re… there weren’t computers around when you were young…younger, I’m just an idiot aren’t I?” The-all-too brief warmth and fuzziness from thinking maybe there might actually be something there between you dissolved back into embarrassment from being tricked so easily. You grabbed your coat and bag and left the office whilst Erron stared after you.

[brookeap3]

Post-its and Paperclips Regina’s Birthday

Well it's a little late (I'm sure no one is surprised) but Happy Belated Birthday to Regina!

{ ffn } { Ao3 }

The idea had come from one of Roland's preschool projects. Belle has been teaching them how to make origami animals, flowers, and all manner of things. His boy has been quite taken with his new found hobby. Begging Robin to help him fold brightly colored paper into an entire Noah's Arc worth of creatures. Elephants and tigers, whales and crabs, more frogs than he can keep count of.

So when Robin had learned that Regina’s birthday was only a few days away, he’d decided to try his hand at some of the flowers. It’s cheesy and a bit ridiculous, but it’s become their thing. These little flirty, post-it battles and notes, always trying to one up each other. It’s his deep hope that she finds the bouquet he’s planning enchanting rather than silly.

Robin had even gone out and purchased a new pack of neon colored post-its for the project. Blue and pink and green and orange. He sits at the kitchen table, fingers large and clumsy as he attempts to fold the tiny squares into something resembling a petal. Youtube pulled up on the laptop laid open on the table, a woman who clearly has far too much time on her hands telling him in an overly sweet voice how simple it is. And look at that? Now you have a petal.

Well, she can bloody sod off, because Robin does not have a petal. All he’s managed is a wrinkled bit of orange paper vaguely formed into a cone shape that he tosses across the table in frustration. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea after all...

“Whatcha doing, Daddy?” Roland’s voice sounds through the room as Robin is scrubbing his hands over his face, just as he’s decided to give it another go, reminding himself that Regina will be charmed by the gesture and for all his struggles it will be worth it just to put that elusive but satisfying smile on her face.

Ocean blue eyes land on his son standing in the doorway, clutching his grey stuffed monkey to his chest, wild mop of brown curls even more unruly courtesy of the nap he’s just woken from. Robin smiles sheepishly at him, scooting his chair back against the linoleum with a squeak and opening his arms in welcome. One Roland happily accepts as he climbs up into his father’s lap.

He presses a nose to Roland’s hair, inhaling the scent of his shampoo as he explains. “I’m working on a surprise for Regina. Her birthday is coming up and I thought she might like it.”

“Her birthday!” Roland exclaims, the last dregs of sleepiness instantly forgotten as he twists in Robin’s arms with wide eyes. “Is she gonna have a party? Can I come? R’gina’s my friend I wanna wish her happy birthday!”

Chuckling at his son’s exuberance, Robin holds up a hand. “Slow down. I have no idea what Regina’s plans are.”

“We need to celebrate. Birthdays are the best day of the year. We gotta make it special.”

The serious and matter of fact manner in which Roland declares this has Robin fighting back a grin and silently snickering. “How would you suggest we do that?” He asks, curious what plans his son is concocting inside that imaginative mind of his.

“We could have a party for her here…” Roland suggests slyly, dimples puckering in his cheeks as he grins.

Hmmm...while Robin is certain at least fifty percent of Roland's motivation behind this suggestion is the prospect of chocolate cake and icing, it's not an entirely bad idea. Of course, he hasn't a clue how Regina would feel about it. In fact, it's even rather likely she already has plans. Though they've been acquainted for years, they've only just begun to truly know one another. Surely there is someone she typically celebrates the day with.

“And what did you have in mind for this party?”

Roland takes a minute to mull the question over, the tip of his tongue stuck out ever so slightly as he concentrates. “Well… we could make her dinner! And cake! And then we can watch a movie. Like when she comes over on Sundays!”

It comes as no surprise that is Roland's suggestion, but it amuses him just the same. Honestly, he's a tad surprised he hadn't listed his favorite things to do at his birthday with the assumption that surely Regina must want the same. Somehow, as wonderful as she is with his son and how quickly and easily they've bonded, Robin doesn't see her being all that enthusiastic about pin the tail on Uncle John and balloon animals.

Hoping to nullify him for the moment, Robin offers, “How about this? I will ask Regina if that's what she would like to do for her birthday, but if she has other plans we will just have to see her another day. Does that work?”

He thinks it over for a few seconds before nodding, curls bouncing around his face. “Okay! But she'll say yes!” Roland replies with complete confidence that both tickles and warms Robin's heart.

Roland’s attention shifts back to the table scattered with supplies. “They’re post-its, Daddy, like our Christmas tree. Regina will like that.” His son’s eyes twinkle as he asks Robin if he can help make flowers for Regina to which Robin agrees. And with Roland’s practiced skills in the art of origami the two of them manage to create a plethora of petals they carefully glue together to form the flowers they then group together with a rubber band and lay out on the kitchen table for Robin to take to work.

Who knew the help of a toddler was all it would take?

. . .

Today’s just like any other day. At least, Regina wishes it were. Except it’s her birthday. Which means a day consisting of a mixture of frustrations and painful longing for days long since passed. Doubly upsetting when she considers how much she used to love her birthday. So she’s not in the best of moods as she swings her car door closed with a gentle, yet firm bang and heads into the office. She would like nothing more than to get through this day and start over tomorrow. With another whole year before she has to feel this way again.

“Good morning, Regina.” Ashley greets her merrily as she walks into the office.

But she’s annoyed. Has already suffered an awkward and uncomfortable phone call with her mother this morning and the young girls youthful energy is too much for eight o’clock in the morning. Regina merely gives her a mild glare and ignores her, breezing past her desk on the way to her office.

Once there, Regina shrugs out of her coat and hangs it in the cabinet behind her desk before sitting down in her chair to power up her computer. She spends the next half hour wading through emails and answering this and that, double checking her scheduling for the day. Following it up with a conference call that lasts over an hour and leaves her with a dull throbbing in her temples. The day looking like it’s going to pan out exactly as she’d expected.

She’s just rubbing her fingers over the sensitive muscles along her hairline, eyelids closed as her hands move in soothing circles, when a voice sounds through the room. The one person in this office whose presence is a welcome distraction rather than an annoyance.

“Good morning, lovely.”

Robin stands in the doorway, arms clasped behind his back as he leans a shoulder against the frame. A subtle smirk gracing his features that has a slight smile forming on Regina’s own lips.

“Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

As he pauses to take in her appearance, Robin notes the minor signs of stress that emanate from her. The tense, hunched set to her shoulders, the vein that only pops up on her forehead when she’s agitated, her hair slightly mussed as if she’s been running her fingers through it repeatedly. “Rough morning?” Robin asks, frowning a bit. She still looks beautiful of course, but he’d hoped to find her a bit more cheery on her birthday.

“You could say that.” Regina replies, standing to round her desk and leaning back against the edge of it, waiting for him to enter the rest of the way.

“Hopefully I have something that helps with that. Or at least enough to brighten your day a bit.”

Striding a few steps into the room, Robin then brings his arms from around his back to present her with a brightly colored arrangement of flowers, that handsome grin etched onto his face. It causes one of her own to slowly spread over her face as she looks down at the bouquet, reaching out a hand to take it from him. When she realizes upon closer examination that it’s made up of little post-it notes Regina lets out a laugh and shakes her head at him.

“What is this?”

There’s a nearly invisible blush to Robin’s cheeks, so faint that if she wasn’t coming to know his facial features so well, Regina might have missed it. But it’s there and her heart trips a little at the knowledge that he’s bashful over his present to her.

“I thought you might like this better than a traditional bouquet.” Clear blue eyes meet hers, affection shining within them as he reaches out a hand to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, enjoying the feel of the silky strands for a second before he says, “Happy birthday, Regina.”

Surprise flickers over her face before her gaze drops to look at the neon groupings in her hand again. “How did you know what today was?” She questions curiously. Regina certainly hadn’t mentioned it.

“Little birdie told me.”

Frowning, Regina twirls the little bouquet between her thumb and index finger in a nervous gesture. “Oh really? And who might that have been?” Her birthday isn't Regina's favorite time of year. It used to be. But not since Daddy had died. Now the day just feels empty and lifeless, another year gone. It's become par for the course for her to not make a big deal out of it.

Guilt lances through her when Robin bites his lower lip between his teeth in clear confusion before supplying, “Mary Margaret.” Of course. The tiny, dark-haired, sprite of a woman in charge of their human relations department would be the one to go spreading that information around. Damn woman can't keep anything to herself. “Regina, have I done something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not.” Regina assures. She's being ridiculous and inconsiderate when he's been sweet enough to make her a flower bouquet out of brightly colored post-its.

Turning his back to her for a moment, Robin strides over to close her office door with a quiet click before returning to his place a step in front of her. He places a gentle hand on her elbow, touch light as he strokes his thumb over her exposed skin, just below where her sleeve caps off. “Are you sure?” He asks. “Because you don't seem too pleased with the gift.”

“I love the gift!” Regina is quick to exclaim, setting the origami flowers on the desk behind her before popping up on her toes to plant a kiss on his lips. Dropping back down to her thin stiletto heels she mutters quietly, “I'm sorry. My birthday isn't something I've really celebrated the last few years.”

Robin's fingers weave their way through her hair, as is his habit, gently massaging her scalp in that way he knows instantly relaxes her. He's unearthed so many of her quirks in the last near month and a half they've been dating, yet there's still so much they don't know about one another. This, for example. This troublesome wound that hasn't quite healed itself back to what it once was.

He's shockingly skilled at reading between the lines when it comes to everything she says though and Robin catches on to the root of her discomfort instantly. “Only the last few years? Because of your father?” He asks, those bright blue eyes she falls for more and more with each passing day so filled with understanding. They’ve talked enough about her father and how close she was with him, how hard his death was for her to cope with, that it’s not shocking to him to discover the loss has bled over into this occasion as well.

Nodding, troublesome, pesky tears threatening her composure for a brief moment before she blinks them rapidly away and confirms in barely above a whisper, “Yes.” Regina sighs and takes a step backward until her hips meet the edge of her desk and she can rest her weight against it. One of her hands reaches out to weave her fingers with Robin’s, tugging him closer to her and leaving them tangled together as she looks up at him.

“My father always went above and beyond to make my birthday special. For as long as I can remember he would plan something memorable for me, just the two of us. When I was really little he would set up a fairy garden for me to play in and I’d chase him through the back yard. He built me a castle when I was six. Just a play one but I felt like a princess. One year he even got me my own pony. By the time I got to be a teenager it was pulling me out of school for an entire day at the stables or taking me to a play. All through college he would plan a little trip for us. Just a few days somewhere we’d never been to sightsee and explore. To relax.”

Regina has to take a second to pause, her heart clenching painfully as the many wonderful memories she has with her father on this day overwhelm her. Three years without him and it still hurts so much. Grief is a funny thing that way. But Robin is there, ever thoughtful and understanding. He doesn’t push her. Merely runs his nose along the side of her forehead and wraps an arm around her to pull her into his embrace while she collects herself.

Breathing in the familiar scent of him, Regina buries her nose into his chest while she fights back tears for a few minutes. His hand strokes gently up and down her spine in slow passes that eventually have her settling again.

Pulling away just enough that she can look into his eyes again, Regina continues. “It’s been tough. Without him here. My birthday just isn’t as exciting anymore.” She brushes away a stray tear with the side of her index finger and then scoffs when she says, “And it’s never been of much interest to mother. Not once has she ever fussed over the day. It was always Daddy.”

Robin’s palm shifts to cup her jaw, thumb stroking over the apple of her cheek. Every new piece of information he learns about this woman leaves him in awe of her, proving how strong she is, how resilient. All he wants to do is give her the world, to see her smile, and make her feel as adored as she is. “I’m sorry. I wish he could be here.”

“Me too.” Regina sniffles, letting her head rest in Robin’s palm. “I’ve been in a funk all morning. I didn’t mean to appear like I don’t appreciate your gift. I love my flowers.” She assures him, though Robin is quick to dismiss her concern over him. Today is about Regina.

“Do not even worry about that. I only want today to be a happy one for you.” Robin hesitates for a few seconds. It seems a bit odd to ask her over for dinner after such a heavy admission, but perhaps it will do her some good also. Take her mind off of her father. So he continues with, “Actually, I was also coming to ask you a question. I was wondering, if you don’t already have plans, of course, if you would like to come to dinner tonight.” Robin bites his lip a bit sheepishly before admitting, “Roland wants to celebrate with you. And to cook you dinner.”

Regina chuckles, perfectly picturing the image of the little boy insisting to his father that he wants to celebrate her birthday. It’s enough to lighten the mood out of the somber atmosphere she’d created. “Only Roland?” She teases with a watery smile.

“I would certainly like to spend the evening with you also, I assure you.” He leans down until his lips are an inch away from hers and mutters, “There may be a surprise or two waiting for you if you agree as well.” Her laughter brushes over his mouth with a quick burst of air as she places a hand in the center of his chest and gently pushes him back.

Regina thinks the offer over for a moment, though she certainly has nothing better planned. Or anything at all really. Then asks, “Are you sure, Robin?”

“Completely.” He replies with no hesitation, gripping both of her hands in his and squeezing. “Let me make this birthday special for you again. Please, Regina.”

Her grin spreads like molasses over her face and then she’s nodding in agreement. “Alright. What time shall I come over?”

“Seven.” Robin answers, leaning in to kiss her for a full thirty second before drawing back and muttering something about letting her get back to work, asking if she’d like to grab lunch later to which she informs him she already has plans. Robin smiles and tells her he’ll see her at the staff meeting later then. And then he’s gone.  

Regina returns to her desk, a silly smile etched firmly on her face as she realizes with the prospect of an evening with her two favorite boys that this birthday might not be such a terrible one after all.

. . .

It’s their tradition. Lunch on her birthday. Regina doesn’t have many people that she’s close with. Ones she trusts, who’ve never let her down. But Mal is one of them. They’ve been friends since college, had been paired together for an assignment in their gender studies class and the woman had swept into her life like a tornado. There’d been no going back after that.

Regina is already seated, tapping out a quick email on her phone, fingers racing over her screen when the blonde arrives. Looking stunning as always, of course. She's dressed in one of her powerhouse suits, paired with thin heels and a matching hat to boot. Her hair is curled in tight ringlets and pinned to the nape of her neck, lips painted a bright red. When she spots Regina, her mouth curves into a smile as she quickly and regally strides over to her.

Leaning down, Mal places a kiss to Regina's cheek, careful not to leave a smudge of lipstick behind, before taking the seat across from her. “Happy birthday, darling.”

“Thank you.” Regina replies. Coming from Mal she doesn't feel like she has to put up any front, can simply accept her well wishes gracefully and honestly. This is a part of her birthday she genuinely enjoys.

Mal studies her for a moment, with that intense blue gaze that always makes Regina feel as if she can see straight into her soul, even if she's used to it by this point. “So, tell me dear, how is thirty-three treating you thus far? Though you still don’t look a day over twenty-five. You bitch.”

Regina chuckles, sipping on her white wine and grinning at the woman across the table from her. “Oh please. Like you aren’t drop dead gorgeous. And we can’t all be 5’9” platinum blonde, badass district attorneys. We have to have something else going for us.”

The other woman merely lifts a single eyebrow and shrugs her shoulder nonchalantly, doing her best to hide the way her lips curve subtly in a smirk of her own. “True. We do make a lovely pair.” Her eyes dart down to the leather menu in front of her, though it’s merely a distraction, she always orders the same thing when they come to this particular restaurant, as she asks, “Truthfully though, how is this birthday looking up? Any word from the insufferable mommy dearest?”

The sigh Regina exhales is both weary and expected as she focuses on her own menu for a moment, debating between the garlic black pepper chicken and the red curry. “Yes. She called early this morning per usual. At five o’clock in the morning mind you. Apparently she forgot about the time difference between here and London.”

Mal rolls her eyes so hard, Regina thinks for a moment they just might stick that way, before she scoffs, “Always so considerate, your mother.”

Shrugging her shoulder, Regina replies, “It is what it is.” She truly wishes that she and Cora had a better relationship. That they could talk for longer than twenty minutes without it turning incredibly awkward. That she could feel even a semblance of the connection she’d had with her father. Unfortunately, the two of them have never understood each other and it’s made it impossible for them to form any sort of real mother daughter relationship.

But it’s a sore subject for her and Mal knows it so she quickly moves on. “Let’s not talk about her anymore. Please tell me you have some sort of big birthday plans and you’re not intending to sit at home on your couch all night.” She pauses, angles her head down to give Regina a firm look beneath her lashes. “I will drag you out this year if I have to.”

Count on Mal not to take any of Regina’s excuses. She’d bitched at her last year for moping about because her father would not have wanted that for her. So Regina is pleased to be able to answer with, “As a matter of fact, I do have plans this evening.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Regina can’t contain the silly smile that forms on her face as she admits, “I’m going over to Robin’s. He and his son are making me dinner.”

Mal hums consideringly, “Mystery man, huh?”

“He is not a mystery man.” Regina replies in exasperation, though she knows her friend is only teasing her. They are interrupted by the arrival of their waiter, however, and their conversation pauses as Mal orders her own glass of wine and an order of hot pepper chicken. Regina ends up with the curry, in the mood for something with a bit of kick and then they pick up where they’ve left off.

“Well I haven’t met him yet. How do I know he even exists and if I drop by unexpectedly tonight I won’t find you in leggings and that ragged Boston U tee you’ve owned since you were a freshman?”

Laughing, Regina sips from her wine glass and shakes her head at Mal. Things are still new between her and Robin. She hasn’t been quite ready to unleash her dragon of a best friend on him yet. Though, Regina has to admit, the image of them two of them facing off together for the other’s approval is a rather amusing one. “Robin exists,” she answers instead, “and you’ll meet him soon enough.”

Resting her glass back down on the table, Regina leans forward and lowers her voice, still touched by his gift. “He made me a flower bouquet out of post-it notes. It might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever given me.” She feels almost foolish saying it, but the gesture had been adorable and thoughtful and (after she’d examined it in a bit more in depth) time consuming. A warm feeling still rises up in her belly just thinking about it.

She’d relayed everything that had happened on Christmas Eve to the other woman shortly after, so she’s aware of the history behind it, has heard all about their little post-it wars and despite her sometimes cynical attitude toward the world, Mal’s lips twitch. “And you were charmed by this adolescent display?”

“Yes I was,” Regina giggles. “It was sweet.” Mal teases her over how dorky their entire little game is some more, not for the first time, until the arrival of their meals, but Regina lets it roll off of her, too pleased with her relationship with Robin to care.

Scooping rice and sauce up onto her fork, Regina’s dark brown eyes focus directly on Mal’s, telling her with complete sincerity, “Honestly, he’s wonderful. I know it’s happened at lightning speed, but I’ve never been with anyone who makes me feel like this. He’s caring and thoughtful and makes me laugh. Not to mention I’m absolutely crazy about his child.”

Nodding as she picks over her own dish, Mal comments in an even tone, “I haven’t seen you this happy in awhile.”

“I haven’t been this happy for a long time.”

She waits a minute, seemingly considering her next words before saying, “Well, then I suppose I have to give the man some credit.” She picks up her wine glass, takes a deep drink from it before steadying her gaze on Regina. “I’m happy for you. Truly. You deserve it. All of it.”

“Thank you.”

The pair chit chat for the remainder of their lunch, Regina catching up on what’s been happening in Mal’s life and listening to her bitch about her boss. Something she can certainly relate to with Gold for a boss. Not long after, the women part outside the restaurant with an affectionate hug and two quick kisses to each of the other’s cheeks and promises of wanting to hear how Robin measures up with this birthday dinner in a few days.

When Regina gets back to the office that afternoon, she feels even more uplifted after her lunch with Mal, ready to power her way through her meetings this afternoon, including a full staff meeting, before going home to get ready for dinner with Robin and Roland. There’s a goofy grin on her face at just the thought of this evening as her heels click on the marble floor of their lobby, all the way into their portion of the building.

She passes Ashley at the reception desk, shooting the woman a sunny smile that she had most certainly not had this morning when she’d arrived. Greets Leroy on her way past his desk into her office, ignoring the cranky remark he replies with. That’s when she sees it.

A paper to-go cup in the familiar and tell-tale red cup of her favorite coffeeshop sitting on her desk. She smiles, a bit puzzled as she continues the rest of the way inside and rounds her desk. Beneath the cup lies a post-it and Regina’s mouth instantly curves into an even wider grin. Dropping her purse, she picks up the cup, still warm, even through the cardboard sleeve wrapped around it, to read the familiar scribble on the yellow square.

Hope lunch went well. An afternoon pick me up for the birthday girl.

Regina laughs softly and shakes her head at Robin. The man could win an award for being the king of charm. One of the many ways he’s stolen her heart so quickly.  

She’s still grinning stupidly at the note when Jefferson ducks his head into her office, “Meeting’s starting in five.” And Regina shifts her gaze from the post-it in her hand to him and nods, informing him she’ll be right there. As silly as it might be, Regina gathers up her notepads and papers and then tucks the little square in between the pages. Gripping her coffee and heading off to the conference room. She spends the next hour alternating between taking notes as Gold rambles on about numbers and quarterly goals and beaming at the note then glancing at Robin across the table.

He smirks back at her, bites his lower lip every time she takes a sip from the red cup and it’s utterly distracting. Entirely unprofessional. Yet, neither of them seem to be able to help themselves, silently flirting with each other in the middle of a meeting.

And if she happens to grab him after the meeting concludes, pulling him into the supply closet for a quick make out against the shelves of printer paper and shipping boxes, well, who can blame her?

. . .

Regina raps her knuckles on Robin’s front door in a quick rapid succession and then bounces on the balls of her feet for a moment, shivering as a burst of chilly air gushes across the porch. The cold is quickly forgotten though as the door swings open and Roland’s smiling face is the first thing to greet her.

“R’gina! Happy birthday!” He exclaims, barreling through the doorway to strangle tiny arms around her thighs, shoving his face into her stomach, and then looking up at her to show off those pearly whites.

She chuckles softly, one hand falling to fluff his moppy brown curls as she grins back down at him. “Thank you, sweetheart.” Even if everything else today had happened to fail to brighten her spirits, this little boy’s pure and youthful excitement over the prospect of a birthday would have been enough to make her day wonderful. Oh how she adores him.

Shifting her gaze from the lovable dimples staring up at her, Regina spies Robin grinning like a fool at both of them from just inside the foyer. “You two coming in or are we going to let Regina freeze on her birthday?” He asks teasingly.

Roland gasps and grabs Regina’s hand, pulling her behind him into the house. “We made you dinner, R’gina.” He informs her as Robin smirks at her, resting a hand at the small of her back as their lips meet for a quick smooch before her focus is back on Roland and he’s helping her out of her coat, moving to hang it in the closet.

“Did you?” Regina plays along, as if she wasn’t aware that is precisely the reason for her being here tonight. Whatever it is that they’ve put together smells absolutely delicious though. Rich scents wafting in from the kitchen and permeating throughout the house. Herbs and spices. Roasted peppers.  

“Uh-huh. I got to mash the potatoes!”

Lord he is cute. Regina feels as if the smile splitting her face is enough to light up her entire being. Already, she’s having her best birthday in years and the evening has only just begun. The magical effect of a precious toddler apparently. “Did you?” She says in a tone that conveys she is thoroughly impressed. “I bet they taste yummy.”

Roland nods eagerly and then Robin is telling him, “Why don’t you go check and see if the oven timer has gone off yet so we know if the chicken is done?” And she watches him scamper off.

Turning toward Robin, Regina smiles when he immediately encircles his arms around her waist, clasping his hands together at the base of her spine. She reaches up to loop her own around his neck and then their mouths meet in a proper kiss of greeting. Robin’s tongue darting out to run along the seam of her lips, silently requesting permission to deepen the kiss, which Regina happily grants.

Once he finally pulls away he drops his forehead to hers, chuckling when Roland’s loud voice shouts from the kitchen, It’s done, Daddy! “He’s been over the moon about all of this since I picked him up from preschool. I hope you enjoy chicken and potatoes with veggies.”

“I’m sure it will taste delightful.” Regina assures, stepping back and reaching out a hand for his, locking their fingers together as they make their way further into the house.

“Surprise!” Roland exclaims when they step into the kitchen.

There is a large grouping of balloons on the kitchen table and streamers twisted around themselves hanging from corner to corner in the room, resulting in Regina coming to a complete halt to turn a questioning gaze at Robin. “What’s all this?”

“Roland insisted that we give you a party. You can’t have a party without streamers and balloons I’m told.”

Her heart seems to swell to an impossibly large size inside her chest as she grins at him. Once again incredibly thankful to have both of them in her life. Then she releases his hand in favor of walking over to where Roland is stationed in front of the oven. Crouching down to his level, resting one knee on the floor, Regina bops a finger to the tip of his nose. “Thank you, Roland. I love my balloons.”

“I picked them out myself!” He states proudly, puffing up his chest.

“They’re perfect.”

He and Robin go about preparing the rest of their dinner, offering her a glass of wine while she watches the two of them work, trying to help, though she is met with a firm refusal from the both of them. They end up in the dining room, more balloons stationed in here as well and making Regina laugh at the extent of which they’d gone to make tonight a real “party”.

Dinner is wonderful. Full of laughter. Roland tells her all about each and every one of his birthdays. All four of them. Though he doesn’t remember the first two and it cracks Regina up. She shares a few more of her own memories, days spent with her father. Rather than making her sad thinking of them as it has in the recent past, sitting here with both of them, feeling nothing but cherished, Regina can remember them fondly, grateful to have had someone who loved her so deeply. Somehow they’ve managed to help give her a completely different outlook on the day than she’d started out with.

The three of them eat until they are overly stuffed full of the baked herb chicken Robin had made and mashed potatoes, grilled red and yellow peppers, and broccoli. She and Robin have had a healthy amount of wine to Roland’s milk and Regina’s feeling loose and happy when his little voice pipes up.

“Is it time for cake now, Daddy?” Roland asks, a tad too innocently, in a way that makes it entirely clear he’s been waiting through all of their meal to ask this very question.

Robin chuckles. If there’s one thing he can always count on, it’s Roland’s preference for sweets above all else. “Well, I think that should be up to Regina, don’t you?” His eyes move from Roland to the dark haired woman sitting across from him, her lips quirked up in the beginnings of a smirk she can’t quite hide as she watches his son.

“Can we, R’gina? Pleeeeeease.” Roland pleads, looking sheepish when Robin chides him lightly that they don’t whine for things. He bites his bottom lip the same way Robin does, and Regina’s heart trips over in her chest at the sight, a little miniature of his father. Her affection for both of them and all they’ve done for her today suddenly bubbling up to the surface.

She hums for a moment, tapping her index finger against her cheek as she pretends to mull his question over. “I don’t know… I’m awfully full from your delicious dinner. Are you sure there’s still room for cake?”

Roland’s eyes morph from a brief moment of disappointment to enthusiasm all in the space of a few seconds. “There’s always room for cake!” He exclaims and the seriousness in his tone finally has Regina breaking, a bold laugh erupting and causing her shoulders to shake with her mirth as she finally tells him, Yes, they can have cake now.

Whooping, Roland jumps up out of his seat, dashing through the archway toward the cabinet to retrieve the candles they keep on hand. Regina starts to stand and gather their plates, but Robin is quick to stop her. “No, no, you stay there. I’ve got these.” He picks up her plate, sets it atop his and Roland's, and then leans down so his mouth is nearly pressed against her ear and murmurs conspiratorily, “Roland’s quite proud of the cake. He decorated it for you himself.”

Pleasure spreads through her as Robin pulls away and their eyes meet, “Really?” He nods, grinning at her before turning away and disappearing back into the kitchen to deposit the dishes he holds into the sink. She’s touched beyond words at the care he and Roland have put into this evening.

She’s just taking a sip of her wine when the lights dim and an off-key chorus of Happy Birthday begins as Robin and Roland walk back into the room. Robin carries the cake with both palms flat against the bottom of the platter, candles burning bright in the darkened room as Roland skips along in front of him until he reaches her seat and can climb up into her lap. Once the cake is in front of her, the two of them continue the song, and Regina can feel herself grinning from ear to ear.

Haaaapy birthdaaaay toooo yoooou.

“Happy birthday, Regina, make a wish.” Robin tells her.

“Yeah! Make a wish, R’gina!”

Her eyes twinkle up at Robin, shifting to Roland’s big brown ones, and over to the chocolate frosted cake before her. What else could she possibly wish for? She’s already gotten the best birthday present she could have ever hoped for, having this man and his child in her life, the affection and dare she think it, love, they give her. There’s nothing else that she wants. Still, she closes her eyes, silently thinking of her wish before opening them and sucking in a breath to blow out the candles, Roland exclaiming that he wants to help too while they jointly blow the flickering flames out.  

Robin walks back over to the switch on the wall and turns the lights back up, grinning at her. That’s when Regina is first able to get a good look at the cake they’ve made and her delight with the whole ritual rises several notches. The entire thing is generously decorated with brightly colored strips of icing. Her and Roland and Robin all standing together holding hands. They’re all wearing birthday hats and balloons float around the edges. A shakily written Happy Birthday in Roland’s large and blocky lettering.

“I drew it for you and Daddy helped.”

Regina's eyes sparkle as she tightens her arms around Roland's waist and gives him a little squeeze. “Thank you, Roland. I love it.”

His tiny little dimples wink out in his cheeks as he grins and bounces in her lap. “Can we eat it now?”

Laughing, Regina nods and watches as Robin shifts the cake closer to him, cutting into the dessert and squaring off several pieces. One for each of them and transferring them to plates, handing one to Roland and one to her.

She digs her fork into the fluffy chocolate, scooping up a corner of the cake and plopping it into her mouth, moaning at the taste. Robin watches her, grinning at her enjoyment, before starting on his own slice. Roland is already well on his way to devouring his portion, causing both of the adults to laugh.

There are only a few crumbs left on each of their plates when Roland gasps and turns his attention to his father. “We forgot R’gina’s present!”

Robin chortles. He hasn't forgotten anything. In fact, he has several things to give Regina still. But the one is from both of them and Robin gives Roland a wide eyed look of shock. “So we have. Do you want to go get it for her?” He nods rapidly and then darts down from her lap to race up the stairs.

“You did not have to get me anything. You've already done more than enough to make tonight special for me.”

Shaking his head, Robin tells her wryly, “The night is not over yet, milady.”

It isn't long before Roland is dashing back into the room carrying a rectangular shaped packaged wrapped in a pretty red and gold striped paper. He holds it out to her proudly and Regina takes it gingerly, smiling at him when he shuffles onto Robin’s lap. Matching sets of dimples grinning at her as she begins to open it.

Her heart aches in the most pleasant of ways when she flips it around to see what it is. A picture frame. One of the ones with multiple slots. There's a photograph of the three of them from Christmas Day, sitting in front of the lit up Christmas tree, Roland in Regina's lap with Robin's arm wrapped around her shoulder as she leans into him. She loves this picture. Beneath it there are two smaller photos that they’d taken over the last month. One of her and Roland, Regina pressing a kiss to his cheek as he laughs and another of Robin doing the same to her. Her eyes water at the sight of them and she beams up at the pair of them.

“Thank you. This is wonderful. I know exactly where I can hang it.”

“Yay!” Roland exclaims, pumping a tiny fist into the air. “It was Daddy's idea but I helped put the pictures in.”

Regina smirks. “You did a fabulous job.” When her gaze shifts to Robin's the look in his eyes is enough to halt the breath in her lungs. It's filled with so much affection and joy that she actually experiences the sensation of her heart falling over a cliff. At the rate they are going she's likely to find find herself head over heels in love with him, the both of them, before too much longer.

Mouthing a silent, thank you, to him, he nods and then tickles Roland's side, making the boy squirm as he informs him it's time to clean up if they are going to still watch their movie before bedtime.

This time Regina insists they let her help, won't hear a word otherwise, so she and Roland roll up their sleeves and dig into the water filling the sink. She dumps a generous portion of dish soap into the water that forms a heap of bubbles, rising up to the rim.

Robin spends the entire time laughing both at and with the pair of them as the act of cleaning turns into an all out bubble war between Regina and Roland. Each of them tossing globs at the other, landing on Regina's nose and in Roland's curls. Though Robin isn't spared either as he stands a few steps away dutifully loading plates and utensils into the dishwasher. Regina turns her focus to him, determination etched over her face as he holds up his hands in surrender. It does him little good however as she pulls her arm back and throws bubbles at him, landing directly over the eye he just barely manages to squeeze shut and results in another round of giggles from Regina and Roland.

Eventually they managed to get everything clean and dried and Roland runs off to the living room to pull out the DVD while Robin tosses a bag of popcorn into the microwave. Regina distracts him against the counter as the kernels begin popping with light, teasing kisses to the side of his neck. She has him trapped between her body and the cabinets at his back, their hips pressed together. A place Robin is more than happy to be.

Sucking at his pulse point, enjoying the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he gulps, Regina murmurs, “I'm having a lovely birthday.” Her fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck as her nose runs over his skin before she tips her head back to look at him. “Thank you. You reminded me what this feels like.”  

His own hand slips into her hair, scratching blunt nails along her scalp. “How what feels like?”

“Being happy.” Regina answers almost shyly.

Capturing her lips in a soft kiss, Robin mutters in reply, “You're welcome. It is my great pleasure to make you happy, Regina Mills.”  

Roland's anxious voice calls from the other room, asking what's taking so long, just as the microwave beeps and they part from each other. Laughing. Both feeling light and airy.

When they walk into the living room, hand in hand, Roland's already in position in the middle of the couch, the menu for Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory displayed on the screen, remote in hand. Robin sets the popcorn bowl down on the coffee table and they take a seat on either side of the little boy.

They settle in, watching the frantic search for the golden ticket. It's the original version with Gene Wilder and Regina appreciates that little detail, that Robin is exposing his son to a classic. It brings back memories of her own childhood, watching this very movie with her father and she has a moment of nostalgia, not quite as painful as it has been or how she would have expected it to be. Not when Roland is snuggled into her side and Robin's fingers play lazily with the ends of her hair as they watch the story unfold.

It's cozy and comfortable and one of the best birthdays Regina has ever had, surprisingly enough. Although it probably shouldn't be. Robin has a way of surprising her like no one else. It's rather refreshing.

Regina agrees to help put Roland to bed when the credits finally roll and Charlie and his grandfather and Willy Wonka fly off into the sky. As Roland sleepily trades his jeans and sweater for a soft cotton pajama set with arrows over it, Regina stands in the doorway watching him and Robin. She's roped into reading him a story, not that she puts up much of a fight. None actually.

His eyes have dropped shut and his is breathing slow and even by the time she shuts the book and smiles at Robin over his head where he’s sitting on the edge of the other side of Roland's toddler bed. He jerks his chin toward the hallway and Regina nods in agreement.

Just as she's about to leave, placing a light kiss to Roland's forehead, his tiny voice mutters so softly she barely hears it, “Did ya have a good birfday party?” His words are slurred sleepily and they make Regina chuckle.

But she answers him anyway, replying, “Yes, Roland. I had a wonderful party. Thank you.” And with that he's out like a light.

Regina retreats as quietly as possible into the hallway, shutting the door behind her and turning to find Robin beaming at her.

“So we managed to make your birthday a special one then?”

She nods, loops her arms around his neck and kisses him. They stay like that for awhile, trading lazy kisses, letting them deepen into something more, a bit needier. Robins teeth nip at her bottom lip, biting into it and drawing a loan moan out of her. He chases it with his tongue.

Breaking away he states a bit breathlessly, “I have one more thing for you.”

Regina lets out an exasperated sigh. “Robin, you already got me something. I don't need anything else.”

He laughs, “Well I have it all the same. It's in the bedroom. Come open it?”

“Alright.” Following him to his room, Regina stands beside the dresser as he disappears into the closet for a moment, returning with a small package wrapped in the same paper as the other one, handing it to her with a nervous and pleased grin. “The picture frame really was enough. More than enough.”

“That was from Roland and I. This is from me. Just open it.”

Still side eyeing him, Regina shoves her finger beneath the seam of wrapping paper, easily ripping it until she's unwrapped a square box. It's obviously some sort of piece of jewelry and a mixture of nerves and anticipation skitter through her as she gently opens the lid. Then her breath catches at the sight of what lies within.

It's a gold necklace. A tiny post-it charm with a scripted engraving of a date. 12.24.16. She stares at it for what seems like forever before wide and touched eyes lift to meet his. “Robin—”

Grinning hopefully at her, he asks, “Do you like it?”

There's a touch of uncertainty to his voice and Regina is quick to assure him, “I love it! It's perfect. Where on earth did you find it?”

“Have you heard of this site called Etsy? It's a wonder.” The corner of his mouth twitches playfully and Regina laughs softly, smiling at him and then shifting her gaze back to the necklace. “I know it's a bit unusual, but I wanted to get you something that represented that night. A token that showcases how special it and you are have become to me.”

It’s so thoughtful, so like Robin that she struggles not to let her emotions overwhelm her. Pinching the clasp of the chain between her fingers, Regina lifts the necklace from the cushion it’s resting on, admiring the charm more closely before holding it out to Robin. “Will you put it on?”

Happy to oblige, beyond pleased that it seems like his gift was such a hit, Robin takes the chain from her, waiting as she spins around and pulls her hair to the side before he reaches around her to secure it around her neck. She turns back to him, smiling from ear to ear, a hand lightly touching the little golden post it before she’s spinning around to look in the mirror on the dresser. Bending forward to get a better look while wearing it.

Robin can’t help but take the opportunity to admire the way Regina’s ass looks in the dark wash skinny jeans. When her eyes meet his in the mirror with a knowing smirk, Robin merely shrugs. Caught. It’s not like she doesn’t know how attractive he finds her.

She turns back to face him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “I love the necklace. It’s too much after all you’ve done, but I love it.”

“Good.” Robin states, reaching toward her, obviously having something else to say. “I know it wasn't the plan…” He interlocks his fingers with hers, swings their joined palms out and around until they resting between their bodies, pressed against each other's chests as they lean into one another. “But would you like to spend the night?”

The slight hesitance, mixed with the obvious desire for her to say yes is an irresistible combination and Regina grins at him. “I would. Though it means an early wake up call so I can swing by my place before work.”

“A small sacrifice.” Robin promises. And one that is more than worth it if it means he gets to fall asleep with her in his arms for another night.

Regina laughs, a glorious, happy sound that is music to Robin’s ears. “Then I’ll stay.”

He gives her one of his oversized t-shirts to sleep in and Regina slips into the soft and worn cotton material gratefully as it falls to the middle of her thigh. It smells like him. Like pine and fresh laundry. And she tucks her nose into the collar for a minute before she finishes up with her nightly routine, utilizing the extra toothbrush Robin’s left sitting beside his in the cup by the sink since New Year’s Eve. That first night she'd slept over.

When she exits the bathroom, he's already tucked in bed, the comforter bunched around his waist as he does something on his phone. But his gaze darts up when he hears her enter and he groans quietly. “I will never tire of seeing you in that.”

Chuckling at him and her own pleased reaction to his appreciative glances she pads softly over to the bed and climbs in under the covers, sliding over toward the center of the bed until she can feel Robin's body heat radiating off him.

“You ready for bed?”

“Mmhmmm,” She hums sleepily, angling her chin upward and waiting for a kiss. Both of them smiling into it when Robin chuckles and bends his head so their mouths meet before he reaches over to switch on the bedside light and they shift into a more comfortable position.

His nose is tucked into her hair, one arm draped over her waist as Robin cradles her in his arms, spooned behind her, and their breathing slows. Regina runs her fingers up and down his forearm for a few minutes before she whispers to him, “Thank you. For making this one of the best birthdays I've ever had. You and Roland.”  

Robin presses a kiss to the side of her neck, replying quietly, “It was our pleasure.” And with that they both settle and gently drift off to sleep.

[echodrops]

The Promises I Am Making (2019)

Well, 2018 is over. Uff, I feel like I can finally take a deep breath! (This is merely an illusion; the stress is coming for me NEXT WEEK, eek.) My twelve-year tradition of fifty promises continues, despite the urgh… lack of progress last year. This year, as always, I decided to carry over some of the promises that I failed to meet last year; I am going to work hard to make 2019 the year of taking care of business like a REAL adult! I have from now until January 1st, 2020, to keep these. Good luck self!

 1) Be more proactive about tracking and following up with struggling students to decrease the number of students who drop from my class when they realize they cannot pass.

2) Find a place to put in volunteer hours because uhhhh like this is actually important to my work evaluation and I definitely need something to write in that section… Yikes, this spring is my last chance to do this!! @_@

 “The Utah House” promises:

3) Install the fire escape window in the Utah house, no matter how much it might cost, because I can’t get a totally unrelated tenant in that basement without said window…

4) Buy sod to add grass to the front portion of the lawn so that it no longer looks like garbage.

5) Fix the bricks near the windowsills on the Utah house to prevent long-term damage.

6) Get a watering system for my roses at the Utah house because I think my bro is probably killing them and that’s just not cool.

7) Work on the patio at the Utah house before it just flat out falls down.

8) Paint the stairwell so that there’s no chance of anything like lead paint or asbestos being exposed.

9) Trim the backyard bushes so the neighbors don’t hate us anymore…

Now back to our regularly scheduled disorganization:

10) Move into a new house in Texas where I can get real internet, please for the love of god…

11) Save money for my upcoming trip to Japan! 2020 baby!

12) Get my wisdom tooth removed because it’s still there and still killing me, yikessss.

13) Make an appointment with an eye doctor for like the first time in years. Good job, Yehn, good job.

14) Get my prescriptions refilled because I’m dwindling on asthma medicine and like… I could die from this… I should never have been left to care for myself; I’m not mature enough for this responsibility…

15) FINISH THE GIVEAWAY PRIZES I PROMISED LAST YEAR because holy shit I am incompetent and the worst and everyone has permission to hate me for starting things and never finishing them, fuck.

16) Go dolphin watching in the Gulf for real this time. Seriously, it’s $10 Yehn, you can do this.

17) Return to the Channel Islands to take better pictures. D;

18) Level all my classes to 70 in FFXIV before next expansion, please.

19) Organize and properly label all the photos on my computer so that I’m no longer desperately combing through folder and folder in blank confusion, looking for a single picture in a sea of thousands…

20) Update Home and a Half more than once? PLEASE??? The guilt I feel over this currently is crushing.

21) Complete the online American Literature class I am designing on time and with no corrections needed.

22) Earn 100% completion for Kingdom Hearts III. So excited!

23) Update my calendar with important dates—holidays, birthdays, etc.—and be productive about sending cards and well-wishes.

24) Get the garbage disposal in the Texas house fixed ASAP so I don’t have to wash the dishes by hand anymore because I absolutely hate that particular chore.

25) Finish all the books my coworkers and friends bought for me recently so I can thank them for their recommendations!

26) Actually move into my new place instead of leaving it completely undecorated and lifeless.

27) Try hard to get Creative Writing into a different area of the general ed. core so that more people will enroll in it.

28) Get caught up on my Ebird reports, even the old, old, old ones I never put in because I was slacking.

29) Throw away/return/sort all the stacks of old mail in the house (OMGGGG they’ve made me look like paper hoarder and I’m nootttt).

30) Clean up the garage before moving so that I don’t have to fight spiders to move when the time comes.

31) Find a way to boost grading productivity so that each class takes only two days to grade, maximum.

32) Go to a totally new restaurant and try their food.

33) Cancel old credit cards to make sure my credit is good before trying to buy a house (although I just checked my credit score and I’m in the great range already, so this is mostly for posterities sake).

34) Get official contracts from my tenants so I can use my rental income in my next loan calculation.

35) Talk to an HR rep about my retirement savings so that I can consolidate all my retirement accounts into one. (Man, look at all these ADULTING promises.)

36) Really finish decorating my office so it looks super cute and all my students want to visit me.

37) Not sign up for ANY more new responsibilities at work in the spring semester. This is the biggest challenge. D;

38) Migrate all the rest of my books to the new Texas house instead of leaving them in Utah… SOMEHOW.

39) Use my twitter account more often to make it worth following. I will try!!

40) Keep my hair cut nicely so I look less like a mess (than I really am).

41) Successfully find a bridesmaid dress for my friend’s wedding that matches the rest of the wedding party.

42) Make sure my skin is in good condition for the wedding so I don’t look like a disturbing ghost…

43) Complete my BNHA manga collection. Since my bro bought me a bunch of the volumes for Christmas, I might as well.

44) See a groove-billed ani. (It’s another type of bird.)

45) Respond to messages, asks, and comments more quickly. I promise I’m not ignoring people… D;

46) Lose ten pounds so that I feel more fit and comfy.

47) Pay down credit card debt by at least 1/3. Yikesssss, I really need to do this quick.

48) I will finally fucking finish that chapter 73 analysis of Noragami… I swear to god…

49) Reach 1700 followers on Tumblr. You should follow me—I’m only marginally a waste of time and space!

50) I will keep these promises. LOLLLLL.

Wish me luck!

[allofusandco]

Bloody hell

with @theycomeuninvited - Enzo

Spike and Enzo knew each other a long time ago, and have just encountered each other again.

Spike:

Slam poetry night. Never exactly the easiest crowd but Spike was ready for a fight. He’d been up half the night reciting his little ditty over and over again until he was pretty sure he’d be able to recite everything even if he did get into a brawl.

But.

Bloody thing had been cancelled. It was enough to make him want to tear the place apart. If not for his sodding soul, he might have. Damn thing did itch when he did something he knew he shouldn’t.

He was barreling back out again when he crashed into a suspiciously strong body. Which might have been the only reason he didn’t vamp out and scare them back to hiding behind their mother’s skirts.

“’ere, watch where you’re going, mate,” he snarled, glancing up, pulling the collar of his jacket up.

But. Familiar brown eyes. Pointy ears. This was a face he knew well.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “Is that - Enzo? I heard you were dead.”

––

Enzo:

Boredom had, quite often these days, led Enzo out at night venturing into clubs and bars much like the one he was heading towards now. He didn’t have much interest in the events they hosted, just the people they brought in and tonight was no different.

Except it was…

The man he’d run into wasn’t much of a man at all but a vampire and he was about to launch into yelling at him to watch where the bloody hell he was going in retort but stopped dead when he heard his voice calling him by name.

“Could have said the same for you,” he grinned looking the other vampire over. Alright so he hadn’t heard he was dead but it’d been safe to assume he was with as reckless as he was. “What happened to your bloody hair? I almost didn’t recognize you.”

––

Spike:

Spike stood straight - had Enzo always been that short? - and ran his hand over his hair. Since the advent of the cell phone he actually knew for a fact that it looked exactly the way it was supposed to (no more silver backing on a mirror getting in his way, or silver nitrate film hiding his handsome self) - he was extremely sensitive to criticism. He frowned.

“So you missed Billy bloody Idol completely then, mate? Ere, this was quite the look in the seventies, and the eighties, and I’d a mind to avoid touching what clearly wasn’t broke.” He forced his hands into his pockets. “And for the record, your hair looks bloody stupid, mate.”

He tossed his chin over his shoulder.

“I was going to sod off and see if the butcher left a window open, but since you’re here, buy you a gin?”

––

Enzo:

Well that explained it then didn’t it? Some strange fashion trend that Enzo had missed out on, well he couldn’t say he was too upset over that one.

“Low blow mate,” he scoffed rolling his eyes as Spike walked away from him. In reflex response his hand moved up to card through his hair making sure it was all in place where he liked it. There was nothing stupid about it, Spikes was bloody stupid.

“That was my plan,” he mumbled following behind him into the bar. “What have you been up to anyways mate?”

Better he ask first and try and dodge any conversation about Augustine and the past few decades of his own life. Last thing he needed was the other vampires sympathy.

––

Spike:

Oh. Oh! Chance to talk about himself? Spike never got that. He raised his eyebrows, and approached the bar.

“Matter of fact,” he said, quite cheerfully, “I’ve had an eventful few years. Ditched Drusilla, of course,” and alright, that might well have been stretching the truth a little bit, but since she was dead anyway, it didn’t matter much. Not like she could contradict him. “Crazy women aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, if you’ll pardon the pun. Let’s see… Bottle of gin, couple of glasses,” he said to the bartender.

“Oh,” he said to Enzo. “And I saved the world one time. Very heroic. On second thoughts, mate, since you can do the magic eyeball thing and not pay, I’ll keep my hard-stolen won cash and you can pay.”

––

Enzo:

“You’re better off without her mate,” Enzo said at the mention of Dru. It was still an auto pilot response from days gone by and the fact that it was amused him to no end. Enzo had never been the crazed vampire’s biggest fan, then again he didn’t do too well around crazy anyways.

“Bloody cheapskate.” he laughed but caught the bartenders eyes, “We’ve already paid mate,” he said watching the compulsion take hold as the man cleared the tab. Taking the bottle and glasses he turned back to his old friend.

“Tell me more about this saving the world business,” he said leading the way to an empty table, “last I checked that wasn’t exactly your thing mate. You’re not going soft on me are you, I’d hate to drive a stake through your bloody heart if you are.”

––

Spike:

Well, it went without saying, but it was nice to hear. Even if there was still a part of Spike that missed Dru terribly and felt suddenly like throwing Enzo under a bus. But quite aside from the fact that Enzo was that other species of vampire, he was also bloody ancient, and therefore not ripe to be messed with.

“I’d offer my left bollock to be able to do that trick,” he mused. Compulsion looked like so much fun. He’d get away with anything.

He dropped into a comfortable enough chair, and reached for the bottle. “Well. As I said, it was all very heroic. Did it for a bird, of course, you know me. Thing of it is, now she thinks I’m dead, doesn’t she? Feel a bit bloody stupid chasing her down all, look at me, not that dead after all. Ah, never mind, she was too good for me anyway. But it involved wearing a necklace and bursting into flames to stop hell from spilling into the world. And then I was a ghost for a bit, and thanks to a bit of magic, I’m alrigh’. What about you? Dropped off the planet around World War II, while I was munching on Nazis, if I’m not mistaken.”

––

Enzo:

If he’d ended up a vampire like Spike was Enzo was certain he’d have run himself through with a sharp piece of wood long ago. There were no perks to it, other than immortality mind you though for some odd reason the slayers seemed to gravitate towards them more too. No, Enzo had enough trouble on his own without needing that bit of trouble too.

“Ew fire,” Enzo shook his head in dismay. “Blood hate fires. Got myself captured and ended up being part of some dodgy vampire experimental thing, met another poor bloke that was thrown in with me, saved said bloke, but he didn’t see it fit to return the favor. End up almost burning to death myself before rotting away in the clanger for another fifty years.”

That was putting it all lightly but he didn’t see the point going into too many details. Instead he grabbed his gin and opened it pouring himself a drink.

“Guess love hasn’t been kind to either of our poor damned souls,” he laughed.

––

Spike:

“Now why is it they enjoy experimenting on vamps so much? Now, see, the Germans were doing the same thing. But they bit off more than they could chew, and we all got out, had ourselves a nice little party in a submarine. Ate all the bad guys, and some of the good guys, too. And then a few years ago, the government put a bloody chip in my head. You know, a computer chip. Stopped me from biting humans, even bad ones, if that makes any kind of sense at all. It’s sorted now, though. But bloody hell, that sounds like a right pickle. Oi – if you’re up to a road trip for the purposes of bloody revenge, you know I’d help,” Spike said. Actually, now that he was back to being allowed to bite anyone he wanted, he was sort of keen to do just that, and it had been way too many years on plastic flavored bagged blood.

“Can’t believe a fellow vampire would do that to you, mate.” Disgusting bloody behavior, and some people just had no respect. “But you’re out, good for you. Let’s drink to that.”

––

Enzo:

“They’re jealous, that’s what it is mate. They can’t have what we have without turning bad and they bloody hate it.” Really though what were the chances that both of them would wind up getting stuck in some form of bloody captivity where the main game seemed to be torture. If you asked Enzo it was a damn good thing these places never found out about each other.

“I’ll drink to that,” he laughed and tilted his drink towards Spike. “Have to admit though most of Augustine has been sorted you know, not a bit lot of them actually. Mostly some creepy members of a founders counsel back in Mystic Falls, Virginia. Traveling tip my friend, never go there.”

Taking a long drink of gin he looked over at his friend contemplating him.

“I can’t offer a murder spree but if you’ve got the free time I wouldn’t say no to getting the hell out of dodge and see where the road takes us,” he shrugged. Since leaving Mystic Falls he hadn’t found a place to settle down and it wasn’t likely this was the place he’d pick.

––

Spike:

Mystic Falls. Spike narrowed his eyes. He’d heard of that place, though he couldn’t think of the context. If memory served it was something of a beacon. Probably sitting on yet another bloody hellmouth. They seemed to be a dime a dozen, enough to make a bloke feel less special.

“Well, in a happy coincidence, so have most of the Nazis who done me in in the war. And the modern lot, too. Different circumstances. This one scientist pulled a bunch of demons apart and turned the lot of them into these weird hybrid whatsits.  Nasty piece of business, that, but it’s done for now. There’ll always be a new lot.”

No murder spree? Was Enzo living on the straight and narrow? Well, since Spike was, too, more out of habit than anything else, he figured he couldn’t judge.

“Getting the hell out of dodge sounds like a plan,” he said, raising his glass and draining it, reaching for the bottle again. “Haven’t been on a road trip in a good long while. Course, we’d have to drive at night, unless you’ve got one of those fancy rings floating about – knowing my luck, it wouldn’t work for me anyway,” he finished, glum. He really had drawn the short straw in the vampiric race stakes.

––

Enzo:

That sounded bloody awful, demons being torn apart and fixed back together. Modern day Frankenstein, gross, appalling and somehow made him a little thankful he’d not landed with some fucked up mad scientist. Apparently Augustine could have been a lot worse, despite his initial thinking. The other vampire was right about one thing though—there was always a new lot of sick fuck up’s looking to bugger the supernatural population to hell.

“Road trip it is then,” he agreed with a grin happy to have the company, “Met a lot of witches this summer before blowing out of town for good. Maybe we can find one along the way that can fix you up with one. If not…well just be glad you didn’t end up a full fanger.”

Spike may not be all fancy and proper vampire like him but Enzo would rather the deformed features over small pointed fangs like some vampires any day of the week.

“Where shall we head first? Where have you been?” Personally he’d not seen a lot of anything the new modern world had to offer so he was up for anything and anywhere.

––

Spike:

Spike wasn’t entirely convinced. “You might dread the thought of ending up one of those bastards but at least they can walk around in the sodding sun,” he complained. “You know, I did have a ring one time. Not for long, few hours. Got a bit power mad, but that was before this new and improved Spike.”

Maybe he was a little obsessed.

“But if you know a witch who can bedazzle my finger and stop me burning up in the sun, I’m all in. Better than hiding in the boot of the car with a tarpaul- the trunk,” he corrected himself. “We have to talk like them, don’t we. I miss the Queens’ English.”

He thought.

“I wouldn’t mind avoiding California completely, to tell the truth. And there’s a Hellmouth in Cleveland I’d rather not get within sniffing distance of. And I’ve heard enough tales of Mystic Falls to give Virginia a very wide berth. But beyond that, I’m up for anything, mate. Just be happy to have a bit of company for a while. And no bloody women. I’m done with the whole sodding gender for the conceivable future. Unless it’s for dinner. They’re mad, whole bleeding lot of them. Road trip! I’ll drink to that.” He raised the gin in the air. “Bottoms up.”

––

Enzo:

“We’ll see what we can do,” he answered giving a curt nod. Couldn’t be that hard to call in a favor or two and get a ring for Spike. Enzo needed his traveling buddy to be able to go out in the sun and exist during the day, not just hang around the bloody trunk all day.

Hell mouths, yeah Enzo was perfectly fine with avoiding those at all costs. The last thing he wanted was to stumble on another town riddled with issues of the supernatural sort. What he was really looking forward to was hitting up a few busy places, kicking back where he could drink, relax, and just live his life. It was going to be great.

Lifting his drink he took a sip in toast before settling back in his chair once more.

“I say we grab a map, toss a coin, and just go where it shows us,” he laughed suggesting the idea. God only knew where they’d end up when it was all said and done.

––

Spike:

“Well,” Spike said, warming to the idea more every minute – he refilled their glasses and leaned conspiratorially across the table. “You know Tennessee’s riddled with werewolves. So’s Oregon. So we’ll flip the coin, but we’ll veto anything with too many creepy crawlies. About time we owned a town, wouldn’t you say, mate? And we’ll have to watch for slayers. World’s got a lot smaller since they all went and got their sodding selves activated. Can I tell you, there’s no place in the world more dangerous for the likes of us than Scotland. Huge training facility. Sixteen year old girls who could tear your –”

Nah.

“Well, my head off, anyway.”

Talk about the short end of the stick. And if he died, no one would ever know for sure; he’d be dust. Some vampires got all the luck.

“And to think I was actually letting myself get all miserable. Bit of luck I ran into you. They cancelled a slam poetry night in ’ere tonight, and I was right down in the dumps about it.”

––

Enzo:

Ew werewolves, slayers—no Enzo would like to avoid those as well. Bloody hell it was going to be difficult to pin a place down for them to head out to. With his amazingly bad luck it was more likely they’d manage to run in to it all on their way to wherever it was they were heading.

“I’m going to grab us some more drinks and we can head out,” he grinned pushing himself to his feet. “Get a few more bottles in me and we can have our own bloody slam fest thing back at your place mate.”

Grinning he headed back to the bar to do just that.

That day, despite the late hours they’d both knocked off to sleep, Enzo hadn’t been able to sleep much. It was stupid really, bloody nightmares always getting in his way. It left room to deal with Spikes little sunlight issue though and to get a car…a car with windows so black Enzo had been half convinced they were painted at first.

Parking outside the motel room they’d picked to crash in during the day he headed back inside. It wouldn’t be long till the sun was down and spike could come out to play. Nudging his knee against the bed he shook it.

“Wake up you bastard,” he growled, “I got you a present.”

––

Spike:

Spike was dead to the world, fast asleep in his clothes, right down to the leather jacket he’d snagged in Italy,  on top of the covers, right up until the moment he wasn’t. He woke suddenly and sat up, shouting.

“These aren’t the droids I’m looking for!”

… well. Not as bad as the footwear thing, and one day he was going to slit Andrew’s throat and bathe in his blood. Whatever, nothing to see, moving on.

He eyed the blinds. They cut out enough light, but apparently it was well and truly daytime. And there was Enzo. Two of him, for a second.

“A present?” he asked hopefully, raising his eyebrows and swinging his legs off the bed. He stood up and crossed his arms. “One of those magic rings, then? Because I thought about that while I tossed and turned and I don’t mind telling you that if I don’t get one, I’m liable to sulk.”

Though he was far from convinced the thing would work. They weren’t cut from the same cloth, and they both knew it. If this wasn’t going to work out, he definitely wasn’t going to lie in the boot – no, the trunk – while Enzo drove. He reached for one of the gin bottles that wasn’t totally empty, and took a fortifying gulp.

“Well, let’s see it.”

––

Enzo:

Listening to Spike grumble Enzo rolled his eyes and pulled the ring from his pocket tossing it to the grouchy hung over vampire. He was positive it was going to work, more than sure even. Why? Because he knew his witches well and this one was going to pull through for him though in reality it was because he could listen to Spike whine over it not working.

“Just put the bloody thing on,” he said grabbing a bottle of gin from the table and taking a drink. What he did next was probably going to be mean but at least they would know if it worked or not.

Giving it a second he watched to make sure the ring was on before grabbing the curtains and pulling them open to let the light flood into the room.

––

Spike:

Spike stared at the ring for a long time. The way he had so long ago, with the Gem of Amara; but this… he hadn’t had to take this away from someone else. He was a better man, now, and it was tedious as hell some days but he liked himself better, too.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he said, slipping it onto his finger. Simple thing, dark blue and silver. Next thing he knew, the curtain were being thrown open and instinct sent him flying across the room, hiding from the sun.

“Easy, mate!” he called. “A little at a time, maybe? Bloody hell.” But he sat up, cautiously looking up over the edge of the bed, and he didn’t burst into flame.

Bit of alright, really.

He stood, holding his hand out in front of him. “Bloody genius, Enzo. Best present anyone ever got me. I’ll have to find a way to return the favor one day.” Top bloke, Enzo, even if he didn’t have much of an appreciation of poetry. “Well, than, mate, let’s hit the road, shall we? Fancy something to drink – warm and fresh, by preference – and then a change in scenery. You find a car?”

––

Enzo:

There was no helping the laugh that fell from his lips when Spike shot across the room a hundred plus years of instinct driving him away from the sun. Eventually he’d get used to it but Enzo had a feeling he’d be walking in shadows and dodging windows for a few days out of habit and honestly he couldn’t wait to watch it.

“Don’t be a baby Spike,” he rolled his eyes teasingly and stepped away from the window. “It was nothing, don’t worry about it yeah. I’ve got us a car we can head out whenever you want. We can go someplace sunny or whatever now…you pick seeing as you’re a daywalker now.”

Crossing his arms over his chest he watched his friend.

“So what is it that Spike the daywalker wants to go and do first?” he asked wondering how much of a difference the ring would make for him. He’d once known a vampire who had opted to sit in the sun for no less than two days after getting a ring. Gesturing for Spike to follow he headed towards the door and outside where the car was.

––

Spike:

“Daywalker. Got a ring to it, dunnit? Pardon the pun. Or don’t. Don’t really care.” He grinned, standing in the light, and followed Enzo to the door.

The sun was incredibly bright. He’d noticed that last time. He grabbed the full bottle of gin off the little dining table, and squinted into the sun. This was gong to take some getting used to, but since he had an eternity to do it, it really didn’t bother him.

Maybe now he could go back and find Buffy… nah. Other things to do, and he preferred her remembering him as a hero, anyway.

“Nice wheels,” he said, remembering the last time he’d been in a car he’d had to tape layers of newspaper to the windows. This one was heavily tinted, which might at least stop his retinas from screaming too much. He climbed into the passenger seat – looked like Enzo wanted to drive, and he had a whole bottle of gin.  Plenty to do while he caught his first tan in too many years to count. He pulled the door shut, adjusted the seat and stuck his feet up onto the dashboard.

“Just drive, mate. Let’s see where the road takes us.”

~complete thread~