#From the desk of Lovelace
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Can’t stop thinking about Childhood Best Friend!Simon Riley. So here.
TW: Mentions of bullying, based heavily off my own childhood, Reader is GN and a child (and presumably American), Fluff and a sprinkle of angst, Autistic!Reader, Simon’s backstory
You meet him when your locker is placed next to his in the second grade. He’s a scraggly little kid, quiet with studious, curious eyes. He doesn’t talk much, like you. You like him almost immediately. Then he opens his mouth, telling the boys who always pick on you to ‘sod off’. He has a funny accent, and you like it.
His name is Simon, which you think is a pretty name. And like all childhood friendships, the bond is as strong as it was quickly sealed. When your teacher calls all of you to the carpet for a lecture or a lesson, you and him always sit together, criss-cross-applesauce like you’re supposed to. When you get fidgety, you bump your knees against each other’s, a silent little language only the two of you know.
Where once both you and him were very quiet, together, you come out of your shells. As much as your teacher likes seeing the two of you blossom, she does have to remind you not to chat during class when there’s work to be done. But it’s hard! You’ve never connected with someone like you have with Simon.
At lunch, you both sit together, always. Usually you sit in a quieter part of the cafeteria, at the end of the long tables where few people sit. During lunch he tells you about his brother, Tommy, and you think he talks so much to distract you from the fact that he has precious little to eat. You don’t like how little he eats, so you parcel out portions of your own (admittedly meager) lunch for him. He insists you don’t have to, but you insist that you do, because that’s what friends are for! He likes being your friend. From that day forward his stomach rumbles a little less each day.
At recess you and him play the wildest games, either just the two of you or with another group of kids. After all, the playground is the neutral ground- all rivalries, all bullying stops the second the recess bell rings and everyone steps out into the mulch. He’s really fast, and a little too strong for his age and size, and you think maybe sometimes he lets you win. Never once do you stray too far from one another; you and him both silently fear that leaving even once will reveal that the other is merely an illusion.
You think differently than most other kids. Simon does too, and in that you find kinship. When numbers jumble in your head, he helps you, solving problems with ease, and when he struggles to get through his writing assignments you guide him through each paragraph. Art class is a favorite you share. Watercolors stain your little fingers, and a dot of pink paint remains on your nose from when he dabbed just a bit on the tip. Together, you make works of art that your teacher is left in awe of.
Where once classes were an endless boring struggle, time passes in a golden, hazy bliss with him at your side. He has the same mind as you, something you’ve never encountered, and it’s magical. Suddenly all the bullies, the cruel kids and the indifferent teachers, cease to matter, because you have the bestest friend in the whole wide world. He takes the bus home, and you get picked up by a parent each afternoon, and every time you have to part for the day you hug and promise to bring him something nice to eat for lunch tomorrow. From the car window, your parent watches on, thrilled that their child has made such a wondrous friend.
Weeks turn into months turn into years. Simon cries when you make him a Christmas gift in class, you hug him so tight he can barely breathe when he leaves a Valentine’s gift in your locker, the only one to do so. You beg your teachers and parents to keep putting you in the same class as him, and blessedly, they allow it. From second to third to fourth grade things remain the same. It’s hard sometimes, but Simon is going through the same things. It’s nice not to be alone, and even when everyone else turns against you, he stays by your side.
It’s in fifth grade that you both finally convince your parents to have him over for a night or two. And when Simon comes to your house, your parents go a little quiet. You don’t know why- yeah, he’s a little scrawny and thin for his age, and he gets banged up sometimes, but who doesn’t? You’re too young, too sweet, to know the truth behind the visible ribs and the endless bruises and scars on your friend’s body. But your parents are keen, and when they realize the extent of Simon’s situation, they know they have to do something.
The next morning, your dad cooks a huge breakfast for all of you, and Simon is thrilled to be eating so much delicious food! Your parents, though worried and protective, are utterly enchanted by your friend. They make sure to keep you and him occupied over the weekend while they do what they need to do. Neither you nor him overhear the endless calls they make in adjacent rooms to various services. The final straw is when you accidentally knock something onto the kitchen floor, and Simon panics. When your parents come in to see if you’re alright, he puts himself in front of you and orders them in a voice far too mature to leave you alone. As if they’d do anything to you, as if they’d hurt you. As if he needed to protect you.
That night, you and him share a sleeping bag because he has nightmares about snakes and men in skull masks. You give him one of your stuffies to hold. Deep into the night, two people, skittish and dirty and scared, are welcomed into your house.
Simon’s mom and little Tommy.
Through the school’s counselor your parents got ahold of Simon’s mother, telling her to pack what she could and come to your home, where she and Tommy would be safe. Simon is both confused and happy to see his family at the table for breakfast the next morning, and you’re thrilled to meet his family. But the talk around the grownup table is all serious, and so you and Simon and Tommy are left in another room to play.
In the afternoon CPS comes knocking, to interview Simon and his mom. They look him over, jot down his address, and leave, and only a few hours later they call your parents again to inform you all that Simon’s dad has been arrested. He’ll never touch Simon or Tommy again.
After that, things are kind of a blur. Simon’s mom gets full custody when his dad gets life in prison for his crimes, which you learn more about as you grow older. When the house next door to yours opens up, you help the Rileys purchase it, and the fence between your adjacent lawns gets taken down. More years pass, as you and Simon and Tommy grow up all together.
Some things get worse over time, but Simon is there. Always. And he’s not going anywhere.
#simon ghost riley#Simon Riley#cod ghost#call of duty#cod x reader#Ghost X Reader#Simon ghost Riley x reader#Simon Riley x Reader#Fluff#kid fic#I feel like if I had grown up alongside him I would have turned out better.#I think we would have been friends. I think that would have been lovely.#From the desk of Lovelace#my writing
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Hi Vespertine!! First off I wanted to say that I’m super impressed with how amazing your writing is considering English is your third language!! It is mine too, after Spanish and French, what about you?
Anyways I say your requests were open and I thought I could jump in and give you an idea. It’d be a König x female reader, in which she is a worldwide recognized sniper, but they only know her alias, so when she accepts a job at KorTac, König is smitten with her instantly, maybe she’s in the shooting range training at night and he comes up to her? What do you think?
Hello, anon!
What a lovely message, thank you so much! My languages are Danish, Italian, followed by English 😙 I took Spanish & German in school, unfortunately I don't remember much!
I love the idea! Hopefully I managed to write something you can agree with!
𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞
König x F!Reader
Summary: On a late night, you find more at the shooting range than you expected.
Keywords: König, female Reader, reader is a sniper, you have fun shooting guns in a safe environment 👍 König is giving puppy fanboy energy.
Wordcount: 1206.
Bang.
Another shot rings throughout the empty, indoors shooting range. You lower your weapon, and unsurprisingly, your bullet ripped through the tacky, free sticker that came with a pair of shoes you bought recently. It might not be a normal use of stickers, but hey, you’re anything but normal… and the sticker was free.
You press a button and the long-distanced fiberboard creaks towards you.
They dubbed you "Lovelace''. After the mathematician. All due to your sharpened mind being able to perform extraordinary feats of warfare and calculations, all through the small scope of a sniper rifle. Companions have been noted to refer to you as either 'Love' or 'Lace', depending on the situation (and your relationship)—but those companions have been left behind for the time being. KorTec’s mercenaries are your companions now, though you have yet to actually meet any of them.
With the board coming to an abrupt halt in front of you, you peel off the damaged sticker, replacing it with another, before sending the target away again, tracking it through your scope.
Your ears perk at the sound of someone entering—even with the noise cancelling headphones—so you hold your fire and listen.
From their footsteps, you can tell they are not attempting to disguise their approach towards you. So you mind your business, emptying your lungs before taking the shot—bullseye—and lower the rifle onto the desk before turning towards the newcomer. Sliding down the ear-protectors to rest around your neck.
“Late-night practice?” Comes the question from the stranger, and you clock the Austrian accent almost immediately. You have toured there before for a mission. Great coffee.
The answer to his question is an obvious one, but you humour him, and offer him a curt nod and pleasant smile. “Got it in one,” you say with welcoming tone, wiping your hand on your thigh as you approach him for a handshake. “I’m—”
“Lovelace. I—I know.”
You blink. You had not expected to hear your callsign to be said with such… enthusiasm. While you cannot see his face, the awe is undeniable on his tongue. His infatuation showed freely in his eyes—almost sparkling. Such piercing blue eyes, you think absentmindedly as your hand is shaken. He seems almost reluctant to let you go, and you cannot help but quirk a smile. You are rarely, if ever, met with such boyish fascination.
“I have been following your career,” he says, straightening his back. “You’re an incredible sniper, it’s an honour to have you on the team.” His fingers twitch. It’s almost overwhelming meeting you in person. “I’m König,” he says, finally remembering he (rudely) interrupted your introduction.
His stature is impressive, formidable even. And your eyes never leave his as you step backwards until you can lean against the desk—and funnily enough, he follows you. The image reminding you of a puppy trotting after its master. “I’m honoured you keep me in such high regards,” you say with a chuckle, mirth arising from your throat as one leg comes to cross over the other in a casual, relaxed posture. “It’s all very cute.” You glance up at him, a smile pulling up one corner of your mouth, your eyebrow raised just enough to tell him that he is not as subtle as he might think. “King.”
You translating his callsign should not affect him as much as it does, aber Scheiße does it cause him to do a double take. He clears his throat, coming to stand near you. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to say. So he goes for whatever the both of you have in common. Guns—more specifically, sniper rifles.
“I, uh. I tried becoming a sniper once,” he says, eyeing the discarded rifle on the surface behind you. You follow his eyes, the only thing you can see of his face, and you unceremoniously hold the rifle up to him. Brow arched.
“Then you must have some training. Mind showing me what I’m working with?” Your tone is inviting, almost playful, as you encourage him to let loose. “-and if you want, I don’t mind giving pointers.” The last thing you want is him thinking you find yourself superior. You know how frustrating it can be, when others force “suggestions” on your techniques. Unfortunately, you have been the victim of many such men.
Thankfully, König seems thrilled to have your expertise at his beck and call, and lines himself up in the booth. You give him the space he needs. “Hold fire,” you order, inspecting his posture, his grip on the rifle, and suddenly you can’t help but imagine yourself back at the many sniper courses you’ve attended. You see his trigger finger twitch, not enough to fire, but enough to make you comment on it. “Steady fingers, König.”
“Apologies. I am… excited,” he admits with a faint chuckle. He cannot help himself. He cannot help himself so he sneaks a glance at you, and he’s thankful that his expression is veiled, because he’s smiling.
“Alright, I’ve grilled you long enough. Compensate for bullet drop, and impress me.”
He’s not sure if you caught him staring or not, but if you did, he’s thankful you didn’t mention it. “Yes,” he says, exhaling to empty his lungs as he prepares his shot.
A short silence follows, and then…
Bang.
The rifle shot echoes around you. Both your ears are, more or less, insensitive to it at this point.
You squint your eyes as you check the target. Not a bullseye, but a few centimetres north of your original sticker-shot. You find yourself nodding in approval. König hasn’t moved a muscle after the shot, awaiting any further instructions.
“Not a bad shot, König.” You pause, quirking a smile. “Go ahead and finish the magazine. Rapid fire.” Might as well put him through his paces, you’re curious to see how well he aims when pressured.
“Yes, ma’am.” Comes the response.
Shot, after shot, after shot, after shot rings out. You are quick to notice that the more shots he’s firing, the less stable his posture is. But when the rifle empties its last bullet, König breathes a sigh as a hand disappears beneath his hood to rub his jaw. The gun rests on the tabletop, spent.
Wordlessly, you press the button to call the fiberboard.
“You have a hard time standing still,” you comment in a light-tone. A casual observation, not a reprimand. “Your pinky started twitching after the fourth round, and you kept repositioning your left leg.” Alright, that might have come off as reprimanding. “...but otherwise, good. Very good, even.”
König rubs the back of his neck, almost embarrassed at the observations. “I doubt you would be surprised to know, that’s what kept me from graduating. That and my height.”
You reach up to pat his shoulder before turning to the board.
What you find is not what you expected.
A perfect circle encasing your bullet-hole. The shots almost perfectly aligned with two centimetres between each. You look to König, baffled at your discovery, and he chuckles as he notes your expression. You wait for an explanation, and he gives it after a moment.
“Der König beschützt die Königin.”
The King protects the Queen.
#cod mw2#cod mw2 x reader#cod x reader#cod mw2 imagine#cod imagine#cod modern warfare#modern warfare 2#call of duty#reader imagine#könig x reader#könig#könig cod#cod#call of duty modern warfare 2#cod mw22#x reader#reader#fanfiction#female reader
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Songbird - Ch. 1 - The Handsome Stranger
Summary: The year is 1969. The place is the International Hotel. Valerie Pedretti, an aspiring singer, has a chance encounter with one Elvis Presley in an elevator that will change her life forever.
Notes: To me, 1967-1971 EP is kind of peak Elvis, and so I wanted to write a fic with him smack dab in that time period. In the 1969-1970 period, especially, Elvis was probably the most handsome and alluring man in the galaxy.
Lots of anachronisms and historical inaccuracies in this one, but just roll with it because it's fun! I based Valerie, in a sense, off of a mixture of Kathy Westmoreland, Joyce Bova, and Linda Thompson. Kathy met the real Elvis for the first time in an elevator, and that really inspired this work. Priscilla exists in this universe but she and Elvis get a divorce far earlier than in real life. Theirs, in some ways like real life, is a marriage of convenience and an "arrangement." Lisa Marie does not exist in this universe.
Las Vegas, Nevada, 1969
*
Vegas was shimmering mirage of bad decisions just waiting to snare me—a sucker-punch I never saw coming. The lights, the noise, the impossible promise of it all crashed over me in kaleidoscopic waves as my cab cruised down the strip towards the International Hotel. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching slack-jawed as sequined showgirls and vacationers blurred by in streaks of neon and rhinestone.
The cabbie swerved to the curb with a jolt, snapping me out of my daze. "International Hotel," he barked, his voice an ice bath to my face. I shoved a crumbled wad of bills into his hand and stumbled out and into a swarm of hairspray and cigar smoke congregating under the hotel's blazing marquee. Blinking in confusion, I took in the frenzied scene unfolding—beefy security shoving their way through the sea of pompadours, vendors hawking glossy headshots, teddy bears and "I 🖤 ELVIS" pins. The realization hit me like a freight train. This wasn't just any weekend at the International. It was the kickoff of Elvis Presley's residency. Ground zero for absolute Elvis mania.
The irritation set in, simmering beneath my skin. "Shit," I muttered, suddenly feeling foolish for forgetting. Of all the rotten luck. Out of all the times to visit Las Vegas, I had unwittingly chosen the kickoff of Elvis's shows—an event drawing crowds I had no desire to mingle with.
I wove through the throng, lugging my cumbersome suitcases behind me. Inside the lobby was even more chaotic—a swirling kaleidoscope of big-haired fans and cigarette smoke lingering over shag carpet. Elvis was everywhere, his angelic face beaming down from posters, gold records, life-sized cardboard cutouts. A veritable religious shrine. Groaning internally, I caught my bedraggled reflection in a mirrored column. Of course I would show up to the Presley Promised Land looking like something the cat dragged in. Normally I'd at least try to pull myself together for check-in, maybe swipe on some lipstick or fluff my chocolate curls into place. After all, I didn't want to look terrible in front of people dressed to the nines. But after the day I'd had, I couldn't muster the effort.
My flight from Chicago had been delayed six excruciating hours due to "mechanical issues," which apparently was airline-speak for "sit tight while we screw you over." By the time we finally took off, I'd already stress-eaten two sleeves of Oreos and read the in-flight magazine three mind-numbing times. To top it off, I'd spilled coffee all over my only nice blouse right before landing. Clearly, some divine power had it out for me today.
Feeling sweaty and vaguely nauseous, I trudged to the front desk. The angular blonde behind the counter, Brenda, barely glanced up from her well-thumbed issue of Variety as I approached.
"Welcome to the International Hotel. Checking in?" She smacked her gum, eyes never leaving her magazine.
"Yes, uh, reservation should be under Deena Lovelace."
That finally got her attention. Her penciled brows shot up as she inspected me, taking in the coffee stains and rumpled slacks. "Wait, you're Deena? The Deena who told me she booked for the Sinatra audition tomorrow?" The doubt was palpable.
I gritted my teeth into a tight smile. "No, actually. I'm her friend Valerie. Deena got sick at the last minute, some kind of exotic flu, so I'm filling in for her."
Suspicion clouded Brenda's face, but after a long beat she shrugged. "Huh. Well, takes all kinds, I guess." She signaled to a bellhop in a red monkey suit and thrust a key into my hand. "Room 2806, elevators are that way. If you need anything, ask for Hector."
Hector the bellhop scurried over and hoisted up my bags with surprising ease for such a slight guy. I made a weak attempt to protest, but he just grinned and ushered me through the cacophonous lobby to the first hallway. The doors slid open and I thanked him, pressing a few crumpled bills into his white-gloved hand.
“I can take it from here, Hector.”
As I walked along, I looked at my reflection in the mirrored wall and exhaled slowly. My nerves buzzed like an exposed wire as I thought about tomorrow's audition. Landing a spot in the Sinatra chorus line seemed about as likely as shooting the moon at this point. I barely knew the song Deena had been rehearsing for weeks, my go-go boots had a broken heel, and my voice was ragged from practicing the whole weekend.
But damn it, this was the first real shot I'd had in ages to claw my way out of the chambermaid grind and actually make something of myself. To prove Ma right for always saying I had stardust in my veins, even when it landed me more trouble than applause growing up. I had to at least try. For all those thankless nights warbling in dim lounges, waiting for my big break. For Deena, who I knew would kill for this chance.
I'd barely begun my little pep talk when someone brushed by me, sloshing their vodka tonic onto my sleeve and snapping me back to the present moment. I weaved through the crowd towards another inner hallway, clearing my throat.
I turned on my heel and started hoofing it towards my room. The hotel's layout was an absolute dizzying mess of twists and turns in every direction. My thudding, ungainly footsteps were muffled by the shag carpet and the dulled roar of fans congregating throughout the hotel.
As I trudged on, the ambiance shifted gradually. The hum of voices faded away, replaced by an overwhelming silence that signaled I was getting farther away from the bustling core. Exhaustion tugged at my bones while I navigated the maze of hallways. My room was somewhere in this labyrinth, but my bed felt worlds away at this point.
My steps sank into the plush carpet as I drifted into a quieter, dimly-lit corridor that seemed less traveled. Finally, I found myself alone in front of a bank of elevator doors. I stabbed the call button and waited impatiently, my arms aching from the weight of my overstuffed suitcases. God, why did I pack so much useless junk?
"Must be close now," I muttered out loud, my voice barely audible.
With barely a thought, I slipped out of my heels and bent my toes backwards and forwards, allowing my sore feet to relish the heavenly softness underfoot. It was soft, springy, and absolute relief for my aching soles. Automatically, I began humming a familiar, nameless tune under my breath - just a few sweet, absentminded notes I always turned to for comfort when I needed it. The thought of finally washing this endless day off my face and jumping into a crisp hotel bed was the only thing on my mind as the gilded doors opened with a tinny ding.
*
The cab was empty. Relieved to finally have a moment to myself, I dragged my heavy bags inside and slumped against the mirrored wall. As the doors started to slide closed, a large, ring-adorned hand suddenly shot out, halting them.
I straightened up with a jolt, my exhaustion replaced by a flash of irritation. Great, just what I needed, another overzealous Elvis fan trying to cram into my personal space bubble.
But as the interloper stepped into the elevator, my breath caught in my throat. Standing before me, in all his smoldering, technicolor glory, was the man himself. Elvis fucking Presley. The aura he gave off was undeniable, that much was sure. And I recognized his face immediately, the same one splashed all over the posters and knick knacks in the lobby. There he was, outshining the garishly glitzy elevator cab like a supernova eclipsing neon. And next to him, a well-built redheaded man, his hand resting at something shiny on his hip. Bodyguard, most likely. Quickly, I shoved my feet back into my heels, silently cursing myself for having taken them off in the first place.
I blinked hard, convinced I must be hallucinating from sheer fatigue. But no, he was unquestionably real, from the polished black shoes to the perfectly coiffed onyx hair that shone like quicksilver in the light. His lean, powerful frame was draped in an immaculately tailored black suit, a shock of pink peeking out from the silk scarf knotted at his throat. But it was the penetrating, electric blue gaze behind tinted shades that truly unraveled me.
I'd never considered myself much of an Elvis fan. Sure, I could appreciate a catchy tune like "Don't Be Cruel" or "Teddy Bear," but I'd always been immune to the mass hysteria he incited in his besotted admirers. Yet here, in such close proximity to his cosmic charisma and undeniable sex appeal, I finally understood. This man was a force of nature.
The redhead caught my awestruck stare and chuckled knowingly. "I see you've met my friend Jon Burrows here," he said with a wink.
But this was no "Jon Burrows." I knew who it was, plain as day. And his affect on me was immediate. Was I dreaming? My pulse started racing. Should I say something? And just how the hell did this happen? I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing hard. Play it cool, Valerie.
Any lingering self-consciousness about my frazzled appearance just evaporated in the sheer force of his presence. Though judging by the unmistakably mischievous curl of his lip, my travel-battered state didn't seem to faze him one bit. His perceptive eyes met mine, always accustomed to the spotlight but now studying me with curiosity. He took in my slumped posture and visible fatigue without a hint of judgment.
"You've had yourself a long day, haven't you, honey?" That voice, richer than a Mississippi smokehouse, sliced right through me.
I could only nod dumbly, a lump forming in my throat. "I—uh, yeah. No. I mean... yes, you could say that," I stammered like an idiot. Get it together!
His smile was pure bewitchment. "Well, you'll be tucked in in no time, I reckon. I hear the beds are mighty comfortable here."
I looked up at the ceiling in silence, tracing the swirling pattern with my mind's eye and trying to give off a vibe of cool indifference. But my stomach was actually rolling.
To my surprise, he kept talking. "Pardon my manners. My name's Elvis, and this is my pal Red. Who might you be?"
My throat locked tighter than a cowboy's bullwhip. "Valer—?"
"Valerie." He drew the name out, savoring each note and curve as if testing its ring. Each single syllable seemed to undergo some mystical transformation, alchemized to pure liquid amber from his lips. "A pretty name for a pretty little songbird." A ringed hand discreetly adjusted the bejeweled cups shielding his gaze, maybe hoping to make out my sides better.
Elvis was still steadily playing the blue suede shoes off me, from his elegant bent stance to the teasing half-smirk barely shadowing those indolently hungover features—the whole routine daring me to go chasing his bait. But I was far too busy trying not to spontaneously combust. I screwed my eyes tightly shut for a half-moment, desperately grasping to regain some sense of composure with an oxygen-deprived brain.
How did he know...?
Dumb question, Sherlock. The very notion conjured images of me, sweat-glazed and punchy-tired, mindlessly vocalizing sweet lullabies straight from my Off-Off-Broadway chambermaid days while I waited for the elevator. Of course he would've overhead that.
I cinched my mouth into what I hoped was a blasé half-smile, refusing to come completely uncorked by his pet name. I replayed the embarrassing moment in my head, wishing I could dissolve into the elevator shaft. Every breath I pulled in seemed to crackle with electricity. First I randomly share an elevator with The Elvis Presley, and now he'd overheard my nervous vocalizing and was complimenting me on it?
"Baby." A rich, salt-cured chuckle melted off his tongue, resining deep in my nerve center. "I got ears like a well-tuned radar dish. You in town for a show?"
I shook my head slowly. "Technically yes, but no. Just an audition," I replied, my heart thundering in my ears. I hoped he couldn't hear it pounding.
"Who for, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired with that laser gaze.
I sucked in a steadying breath. Might as well take the bait since I'd already been barb-hooked but good. "I'm here for an audition, actually. Tomorrow. For Sinatra. I'm a singer. I mean, not like you, but hopefully one day..." I paused, unsure of how much backstory was worth burdening Elvis with. "Just got a last minute sub-in for a friend who's under the weather."
Something flickered across Elvis' handsome features before the mask of idle curiosity slid back into place. "Is that right?" His gaze raked over me again, slower this time, more deliberate. "And what will you be singing for Ol' Blue Eyes?"
Shit. Why was he asking me so many questions? My palms started to sweat as I racked my brain for a suitable answer. It wasn't like I could admit that I barely knew the material, that I was flying by the seat of my pants on a far-fetched favor for a friend. So I settled for a half-truth instead.
"Oh, you know. Just a little medley of standards. 'To Keep My Love Alive,' 'I Can Cook, Too,' that kind of thing."
Elvis nodded slowly, a shadow of a smirk still playing on his lips. "A classic set list. I'm sure you'll knock 'em dead, honey."
I started to stammer out a thanks, but Elvis was already moving past me towards the door as the elevator finally shuddered to a stop. He paused, throwing a glance back over his shoulder. There was a new intensity in his eyes when they met mine, a dark promise that made my toes curl involuntarily in my heels.
"I'll be rooting for you, songbird. Break a leg."
And with that, he was gone, leaving me weak-kneed and dizzy in a cloud of his smoky-spicy cologne. I sagged against the wall, trying to collect myself. What in the ever-loving hell had just happened? Had I honestly just been shamelessly eye-fucked by Elvis Presley in an elevator?
More importantly, why had I liked it so much?
I shook my head, trying to dislodge the treacherous thoughts as I finally stumbled out into the harshly lit hallway. It was late, I was tired, and I had an audition to rest up for. The last thing I needed was to dwell on smoldering looks from a celebrity Casanova that I had no business panting over in the first place.
But even as I went through the motions of unlocking my room and sinking face-first into the marshmallowy duvet, I couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the electric encounter in the elevator. The way Elvis had stared at me, equal parts scorching and inscrutable, as if he was trying to crack some tantalizing code. There was no way I could have imagined that. The effortless command he'd exuded, the sheer magnetism rolling off of him in waves. How ridiculously, unexpectedly good he still looked, hips swiveling in slow-motion in my mind's eye...
I punched a pillow in frustration, annoyed with my traitorous libido. This was so far beyond the scope of anything I'd anticipated when I'd agreed to sub in for Deena's audition. But one thing was certain—my time in Vegas was shaping up to be a hell of a lot more interesting than I'd bargained for. And something told me that a chance run-in on a hotel elevator was only the beginning.
#elvis presley#elvis#elvis fanfiction#elvis fanfic#elvis fic#elvis x oc#elvis presley fic#elvis presley fanfic#elvis presley fanfiction#songbird#elvis fans
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WIP: The Portrait
This is the most self indulgent thing I'm writing, but I'm putting this opener out to see if it works at all... feedback welcome.
Lord Gortash requests a portrait of his paramour. The pay is good, the contract legitimate. It seems almost too good to be true...
The request came to the guild house with gold already attached. Wanted, portrait artist. Female subject, three sittings. Half pay upfront. He did not recognise the seal, but Darcus told him it was from the newly minted Lord Gortash, also known as Enver Flymm, also known in certain parts of the back cities as Flymm the Bloody, where they still dared to say such things. The purse held more gold than Guy had ever seen, and Litton laughed at his face when he opened it.
“Oh, dear boy!” he chided, drawing the string again and placing it in the middle of the table. “You are too swayed by money. What of passion? What of love of the craft?”
It was easy, thought Guy, to care only of craft, of passion or love or whatever else you might want when you were the third son of a Patriar, and mummy dearest paid for your garret upfront for the year so you could slum it a little, just for fun. When you had a real life, a real wife, a real child, love started to mean something very different.
“Give it here,” he said. “I’ll take it. If it’s Kerrie Lovelace again, I still have the sketches from the Ravengard commission.”
Lovelace was popular with the Patriars. A half-elf with the wettest eyes he’d ever seen and a permanently quivering, full lip. She was the lover or some, and the favoured subject of far more since Litton had painted her as a beautiful mermaid to mark The Breaking a few years before. The last piece Guy had painted of her had been a garish facsimile of the original with only surface changes, but it had paid fairly. Money seemed to disappear these days. Between clothing and food for little Eva, new dresses for Sal and keeping up with all of these idiots, he was running dry again.
“I’d be careful if I were you,” said Darcus, his tankard resting against his belly. The moon was barely up and he was already deep in his cups. “These new Lords, they ain’t to be trusted. No honour between them.”
“And I’d take it,” said Litton. “Not personally, of course. But you should take it now before Fevras gets wind. At least you might make something worth hanging.”
And so he finds himself being ushered into full halls of the home of Lord Gortash, a surprisingly unassuming and tasteful villa in the new style, all white stone and iron-wrought glass, every wall crammed to the ceiling with art and curios. There are paintings here from the old masters that must have cost a fortune, plenty of Litton’s best (including The Mermaid, he notes, last in the possession of the Jannath’s), and odd pieces of fine mechanica and automata the likes of which the Halls of Wonder would envy. He almost wishes to stop, take it in, but his patron’s pace is unrelenting as he strides through to the very end of the house. It does not seem wise to keep him waiting.
“I hope it is sufficient light,” says Gortash, opening the door himself to a handsome chamber with full glass windows, a handsome solid desk and a nicely appointed parlour. “You are seeing into the most intimate parts of my estate. I will be present tending to some business while you work, if that is alright with you. I do so like to see a master at their craft.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” Guy says as he hands his cloak to a dwarf standing in the centre of the room, who does not move to bow as she takes it. The woman looks at him with some curiosity, and looks over to her Lord with a sharp smile.
“Ah,” starts Gortash, taking the cloak from her and holding it out. An elf in fine brocade sweeps in to take it, and the woman watches with still amusement as they depart. “This, Saer Ceasebourne, is your subject.”
He feels his stomach churn as he looks at her again. She cocks her head in curiosity as she stares back at him. She does not look angry, but now he looks again she does not look amused. No, the look in her eye is something else entirely, and it makes him feel rather sick.
“My apologies, my Lord, I didn’t-”
“Oh dear fellow, do not fret. Though I keep my servants in better finery than this one wears, for future reference.”
“You forget yourself, Lord Gortash.”
The woman’s voice is dark, deep as the Chionthar, and dripping in threat as her eyes flick from him to Gortash. He takes the momentary reprieve from her gaze to cast an eye over her properly. It is hard to see her body under her plain dark red robes, but he can tell from what flesh is exposed at her neck and down her forearms that she is likely to be freckled all over her pale skin. Copper hair is heaped atop her head in a neat bun, her face marked with long lines of a tattoo that traces her strong jaw and pulls into her eyes.
Her eyes. They are quite extraordinary. At a first glance brown, but as the light pulls into them they shine an almost pinkish hue. Like unblooded meat.
Gortash smiles at her, bowing his head ever so slightly. "I apologise for the perceived slight. You are my guest here today. And I hope we will both show proper decorum, for the occasion."
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Doug Eiffel set to "Run Away to Mars" by TALK.
Animatic idea from my morning commute that will never happen because I am not a visual artist and do not have the motivation to learn said skill for a project as big as a full-length song.
Your colour’s fading
'Cause I kept you waiting
It’s a wild, wild world
And you’re a wild, wild girl
Zooming in on a polaroid of Anne and Eiffel smiling. The color becomes stronger as we get closer, and by the time it takes up the full frame it's no longer a fading polaroid but an in-motion memory of them playing air-guitar in a public park. We also see flashes of Anne growing up without Eiffel.
Our sun’s still shining
But it seems half the size
And it’s a wild, wild world
Out here
We're back on Earth, post-canon maybe? And there's comparison shots between Sol in Earth's sky and Wolf 359 as seen from the Hephaestus, both in its smaller red stage and its larger blue stage.
Before my time runs out
What If I run away to Mars?
Would you find me in the stars?
We see the initial launch, maybe Cutter offering Eiffel the job when he's in prison. Eiffel staring out a shuttle window as he gets his last glimpses of Earth, the planet quickly shrinking into nothingness. A brief shot of Kate and Anne glancing at the night sky, maybe while they carry in groceries. Nothing to suggest they're actually looking for Eiffel.
Would you miss me in the end
If I run out of oxygen?
When I run away to Mars
Some of Eiffel's initial struggles on the Hephaestus, including the time he nearly drowned on a spacewalk. Also featuring Eiffel coughing on knock-out gas while Minkowski is trapped outside the airlock during Hilbert's initial betrayal.
I can’t tell which way's home
I’ve been gone for so long
It’s an empty world
Up here
Shots of them being unable to orient themselves because Eiffel didn't keep up the star charts. Eiffel alone in the storage room sifting through the boxes of junk. Shots of each of the first four characters alone in a different room or hallway of the Hephaestus. Glimpses from "Am I Alone Now?"
I skip stones and wonder
How long till I'm discovered?
It’s a quiet life
Up here
Long, quiet shots of Eiffel counting and fiddling with his illicit cigarettes, in between sending out hails into space and receiving static in return.
Before my time runs out
What If I run away to Mars?
Would you find me in the stars?
We see Hilbert's experiments on Eiffel, when he's coughing and can't breathe. When he nearly dies. He's a ticking timebomb himself.
Would you miss me in the end
If I run out of oxygen?
When I run away to Mars
We get Hera saying to herself "Some days I wonder if I’ll miss you after you go away forever, Doug." We also get her threatening Lovelace and Hilbert over Eiffel's life.
Three, two, one, I miss you
I’m sorry, I got issues
A shot of the polaroid taped to his desk. Eiffel explaining it to Minkowski. Eiffel yelling at his imaginations/hallucinations of his crew during the USS Horrible Unending Nightmare.
What If I run away to Mars?
Would you find me in the stars?
The launch of Lovelace's shuttle with him trapped aboard. Hera and Minkowski scanning space for him desperately. Long, hopeless shots.
Would you miss me in the end
If I run out of oxygen?
When I run away to Mars
While Eiffel rations food and cryogenically freezes and thaws himself, looking closer and closer to death each time, we see Minkowski, Hera, Lovelace, and Hilbert getting sadder, more tense, and more snappish on a space station that is falling apart.
The answer is yes, they would miss him in the end.
#Doug Eiffel#Wolf 359#Thoughts#Man they do run low on oxygen a lot. I didn't even get to Minkowski trying to send Eiffel home and him banging on the door begging her not#to do this. Or the destroying memories scene. Or the final goodbye scene.#Sorry this is just the first two seasons. The song isn't long enough and I have never relistened to Season 4.#personal#liveblogging stories#SoundCloud
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A Christmas Prince; The Royal Wedding
Chapter 2: Krampus
Summary: Dawn faces difficulties with his new wedding designer while tensions boil in Alderly. The family's Christmas get-together is interrupted by a surprising visitor...
Words: 2.5k
Characters:
Dawn Harvelle and Rosa Yaxley @potionboy3
Quincey, Olympia, and Isabella Alderly
Pandora Lovelace and Lainey Bell by @gcldensnitch
Rocky Weasley by @magicallymalted
Beginning | Next Chapter
Want to read the first fic in the series, A Christmas Prince? Click here!
Chapter 2: Krampus
“We have many preparations to do and very little time,” Rosa Yaxley said, flipping a white board showing several sketches from flower bouquets to table settings, and photographs of what Dawn assumed, were traditional Alderlian wedding attire.
“Uh…” Dawn started but was silenced by a stern look from Pince.
“The Bavarian orchestra will start precisely at your entrance with the release of the Barbary doves.” Rosa explained, producing a pointer stick from somewhere and demonstrating all the items she mentioned. “South African wildflowers will adorn your path down the aisle.”
“Oh…” Dawn uttered. When the queen had said that Dawn would have a say, he hadn’t realized she had meant that she and Miss Yaxley had already planned everything and that he would just have to sit here and nod dutifully.
Rosa continued: “I mean, you won't, and I mean it, you won't be able to take a step without a Namaqualand daisy between the floor and your shoes.”
Dawn was beginning to really see that she didn’t particularly want to be in this position. He wondered if the queen had made her, as a punishment for her transgressions last year.
“Hmm…” he simply said.
“There will be a roast pig from each of Alderly's seven provinces. Montrachet Grand Cru will be in every goblet,” Rosa went on. “But of greatest importance... Is your outfit.”
“Is that what those are for?” Dawn asked, vaguely motioning towards the pictures of clothes. The designs looked like somewhere between a mix of Bavarian and Slovenian folk clothing with something distinctly… Christmassy about them.
“Is it customary to wear traditional dress to weddings?”
“Not for at least a hundred years but the queen felt that it was important to show how committed to our culture and traditions you are.”
“The queen… look,” Dawn started, and went on despite Pince’s warning glances. “I am committed. I’ve never been this committed to a goddamn thing in my entire life, but I feel like this might not go over well with the… well you know, the public.”
“Whyever not?” Pince chimed in.
“Well, I am a foreigner and maybe they will want to see me actually participate in their culture before taking on its symbols?” Dawn posited it as a question, but it really wasn’t. “Especially when this is just a publicity stunt, and I didn’t even pick the outfit.”
Rosa bit her lip but Pince went on: “Nonsense, of course you will wear the traditional costume.”
“I was really hoping that I could wear something… simple, something that’s a little more me.”
“What?” asked Pince.
“I mean these outfits are beautiful,” Dawn continued. “But I don’t want to play a part for my own wedding. Maybe I could wear one of these a year from now to an event where they’re actually worn in still?”
“I don’t think you understand the sort of situation we’re in,” Pince said. “Half the country is in an uproar because we haven’t seen this kind of financial hardships since the war, not to mention their monarch is pretty much going against every strong held value they’ve been instilled with since birth.”
“I sympathize with the depression, not so much with the homophobia,” said Dawn and noticed Rosa just barely concealing a chuckle. Maybe Dawn stood a chance after all.
~
“This protocol is driving me crazy. It's like Bridezilla in reverse,” Dawn complained later in a video call to Rocky and Pandora.
“Forgive me if I don't ooze sympathy from the night security desk of Noodle Chalet's corporate office,” said Rocky. Ever since the downfall of Beat Now, Rocky had been a security guard at Noodle Chalet, and it wasn’t lost on Dawn how his problems might probably seem somewhat quaint.
“Hey, at least you've got a job,” Pandora chimed in. “I've been living with my parents for the last three months.”
“Well, that’s tragic,” said Rocky.
“Yeah, ever since Now Beat shut down.”
“Now Beat?” asked Dawn. “It was Beat Now.”
Dawn was happy he was no longer working for Kerry Crouch, but he couldn’t help but miss having a normal job and normal problems. Especially with Irma Pince breathing down his neck at every turn.
“Whatever,” said Pandora with a shrug. “It’s gone now.”
“But Dawn, you’re having some royal pains?” asked Rocky.
Dawn chuckled. It was a pain just to be one, it seemed. “Well yeah, but I mean…”
“Have you talked to Quincey about any of this?” Pandora cut in.
“I haven’t seen him today.”
“They know how to keep a king busy,” Rocky said.
Dawn knew things were going to be busy, but he truly felt alone in the castle. He wasn’t even allowed to spend time with Tess and his dad, or at least not as much as he would have preferred. He was a little bit worried that this was how the rest of his life was going to look. Just protocol and event after event with only small respites in-between to actually hang out with his husband-to-be. He’d next be seeing Quincey when they all headed to town for his speech, and he didn’t expect there to be a lot of time for chit-chat.
“Just hurry up and get here already,” he said.
“Counting down the seconds, mate,” Pandora said.
~
Rosa had left Dawn with a folder full of designs for the wedding. Dawn flipped through it, examining the plans with growing dread. This whole ordeal didn’t feel at all like a wedding he would want for himself. Not that he had ever thought about getting married before this past year. He almost wished he and Quincey had just eloped. He’d rather have Elvis marry them in Vegas than whatever this was shaping up to be. Dawn slammed the folder shut and let it fall on the bed. He was going to have to complain to someone who would understand, or he’d end up committing arson. Or worse.
~
When Dawn went looking for Olympia later, he found her in the middle of an argument with her mother, the queen.
“You must understand that his whole thing is frivolous,” Isabella was saying.
“Well mother, it’s important to me so I don’t particularly care.”
“This is about the image we portray to the world,” Isabella tried. “A princess can’t be an actress.”
“I was in many plays as a child.”
“That was different.”
“This is for a good cause.”
“It doesn’t matter. You know what kind of situation we’re in with your past actions and your brother’s life choices.”
“It’s not a life choice.”
Isabella sighed. “You know what I meant.”
“No, I don’t, and I’m also doing the play, I don’t care what you think.”
“Don’t you speak to me with that tone, young lady.”
Dawn, suddenly realizing he was quite rudely eavesdropping, stepped into the room, fully pretending as if he hadn’t been listening. “Oh, hello Your Majesty, Your Highness.”
“Dawn, great timing, mother was just about to wring my neck,” said Olympia.
“Olympia–,” the queen attempted.
“I have to talk to you Dawn, if you don’t mind,” Olympia said and walked up to Dawn, grabbing his arm. “Preferably somewhere away from her…”
“Alright…” said Dawn, casting an apologetic glance at Queen Isabella. They had their differences, but Dawn was determined to get along with his mother-in-law.
~
Olympia led him to a smaller room, let go of his arm and dramatically fell into one of the priceless antique armchairs.
“What was that about?” Dawn asked.
“She thinks it’s common to do the play.”
“Oh, of course she does.”
“But I’m still going to do it,” Olympia continued. “I can’t wait for you to see it, it’s kind of like an arthouse reimagining.”
“Oh, wow, alright,” said Dawn.
“You could come see the dress rehearsal?”
“If I can get away from my own dress rehearsals…”
“Right, how’s that going, anyway?” Olympia asked and sat up straight. She had messed up her hair, slumping onto the chair.
“Well… It’s going.”
“You let me know if you need any help.”
Dawn knew he needed all the help he could get, but after hearing the conversation between Olympia and the queen, he wasn’t sure it was the best idea to rope Olympia into it.
“I’ll keep that in mind, thank you, O.”
~
That afternoon, the royal retinue made its way to town. Quincey’s speech took place in front of Alderly’s House of Parliament and the square in front of it was packed. Aside from the adoring crowd, though, there was a smaller but no less attention-grabbing group of protesters behind them. Dawn, ever the journalist, kept an eye on them. They were holding signs proclaiming the bad financial situation in the country and demanding to be paid or get their jobs back. Miss Pince, standing next to Dawn, was glaring at the crowd with hostility, when Quincey took to the podium. While many cheered, waving Alderlian flags, the protesters booed. Dawn shifted his weight from one foot to another uncomfortably.
“Behind me stands an enduring symbol of Alderly's historical strength. Before me, and all of us, lies our current revitalization project, a symbol of Alderly's shining future,” Quincey started. From Pince’s sudden shift in posture, Dawn deduced that the speech was written by her.
“For crops to flourish, rain must fall. Likewise, today's temporary hardships will soon spur on a bountiful future for all.”
Amongst the cheers, Dawn heard someone shout out: “What about our jobs?”
“The country's going broke!”
“Shame on the king!”
Security had to step in to rein in the protesters. Quincey couldn’t have missed the incident, but he continued like he had, as Dawn was sure he had been instructed to do.
“A new Alderlian chapter is about to begin. And I'm honoured and excited to share that journey with each and every one of you. I wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year.”
~
After Quincey got off the stage, Lainey offered him a bottle of water.
“Thank you.”
“That went… alright,” she said. At least she was honest.
“I feel like a total fraud reading out that propaganda,” Quincey said with a sigh.
“Your ideas make perfect sense,” said Lainey. “I just don't understand why they're not working.”
“Neither do I.”
Dawn, pained by Quincey’s tired and slightly pathetic expression and sick of not knowing the details of this initiative, piped in: “When numbers don't add up, there's usually a reason.”
Quiney and Lainey turned to him, and Dawn continued: “I’m going to be prince consort, I want to contribute, that’s why I’m coming to the meeting tomorrow.”
“The queen said you would be exceedingly busy with wedding preparations so you wouldn’t be able to make it,” said Lainey.
Dawn and Quincey exchanged looks and said almost in unison: “What?”
“We should be doing everything we can to help the kingdom, right?” Dawn asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Maybe there should be a revitalization effort to bring the royal family into the 21st century, too…”
That’s when Pince came back, saying: “An excellent speech, Your Majesty. Now I need you to come meet the press with your most confident smiles…”
~
After returning to the palace, Dawn, Quincey, and Olympia had tea with the queen. It was an exceedingly uncomfortable hour to top off an exceedingly uncomfortable event.
“The press office assures me your speech today will do a world of good,” said Isabella from across the table.
“Less than a year into my reign,” Quincey started. “I feel like I'm running the kingdom into the ground.”
“Oh, you put much too much pressure on yourself.”
“It's my initiative, mother.”
“Quentin,” said the queen. “As you know, your father first proposed the need for such a program, but I oversaw the implementation, with the country’s full backing.”
“Yes, but…”
“Economic fluctuation is a fact of life,” Isabella stated and set her teacup back on its settee.
“Yes, but I can't help but feel father would be disappointed.”
“Oh, nonsense! You mustn't let this put a strain on the season. Or the wedding,” said Isabella and turned her attention to Dawn. “I hear the stress has been getting to you.”
Olympia took a deep breath and said: “Can we not have a single conversation without it being observed and reported?”
“Darling,” said the queen, laying a hand on her daughter's arm. Olympia withdrew, annoyed. “I just want all of you to be happy.”
“Well, it would help if you stopped meddling into our business,” Olympia suggested, clearly running out of patience. “We’re all adults here, after all.”
Isabella sighed. “I’ve decided to resume my active role in the governing of this country. In particular to help with the financial difficulties.”
“What?” asked Olympia. Quincey didn’t say anything and had an unreadable expression on his face. Dawn still felt too out of the loop with the country’s goings-on to say anything.
“But you seemed happy to retire?” argued Olympia.
“Only because I found it too difficult to go on without your father,” Isabella explained.
“Mother…” Quincey finally spoke up. “Thank you.”
~
That evening, everyone gathered together to decorate Queen Isabella’s Christmas tree. Dawn and Quincey’s families all sitting together in the same room gave Dawn some kind of whiplash. He never imagined this would be his life. While Tess and Olympia chose matching baubles, Dawn sat next to Quincey on the couch closest to the fireplace and took his hand. Ever since the speech, he’d been in low spirits and Dawn couldn’t exactly blame him.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” replied Quincey. “I feel like I should apologize.”
“For what?” asked Dawn.
“For making you feel left out.”
“Am I feeling left out?” asked Dawn, incredulously.
“Are you?”
“Well, a little.”
“The pressures I'm facing as king are no excuse. Can you forgive me?”
“I really would like to help.”
Quincey smiled and squeezed Dawn’s hand. “Mother’s help will come in handy; she has a few decades of experience on this front.”
“Then I’m glad she’s decided to postpone her retirement.”
Dawn wasn’t exactly sure if he was glad but if the queen’s involvement would help Quincey’s workload, then it wouldn’t be all bad. He wished he could be more of use and that he would have already started his studies in political science. He had applied immediately after realizing he was going to actually have to do some governing, but he’d been advised to postpone his enrollment by a year. He’d done a semester of it already in university during his second year, so he wasn’t a complete beginner but now he was determined to get a Master’s. He had had fun writing his blog this past year, but he wanted to do something that could do some actual good in the world.
Suddenly a palace aide entered the room, looking quite disheveled.
“Your Majesties, you have a guest,” he said.
“Whoever could it be?” wondered the queen out loud. Dawn thought it must be Krampus because who else would it be showing up to the palace and causing a ruckus at this hour.
“Oh? Send them in,” instructed Quincey and got up.
After a few moments, a man entered the room. A very familiar man whom Dawn had been looking forward to never seeing again.
“Evander,” said Olympia venomously. “What are you doing here?”
Krampus indeed.
tag list: @lifeofkaze, @gcldensnitch, @endlessly-cursed, @cursed-herbalist, @magicallymalted
(ask if you want to be included or removed)
#fic: the royal wedding#a christmas prince au#dawn harvelle#quincey alderly#dawncey#*my writing#i'm obsessed with irma pince i'm gonna be real with you#she's just like#dawn: *does anything*#irma: can you BELIEVE this common bitch#a cliffhanger whoooo!!!
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Perspective at the end of the Wolf 359 finale
TL;DR: The last 25 minutes of the Wolf 359 finale are almost entirely from Minkowski's point-of-view and not at all from Eiffel's. And I'm emotional about that, particularly in relation to Eiffel’s memory loss and the crew’s return to Earth.
General Thoughts on Perspective in Wolf 359
When I talk about point-of-view or perspective in this post, I'm obviously not talking about anything visual. Instead, I'm talking about which character's perspective we (the listeners) hear a scene from. Or, to put it another way, which character's (auditory) experience of the scene most closely aligns with that of the listener. Who does the editing of the scene encourage us to identify with?
In the early episodes of the show, the framing device of Eiffel’s logs determines the audience perspective - we hear things 'through' the recorder. In a sense, this indirectly aligns our perspective with Eiffel's; although we aren't hearing things as if through his ears, the recorder largely functions as an extension of his perspective.
After this framing device is abandoned, the lack of narration in the show (with a few exceptions) can make it easy to assume that we're always hearing things from a neutral perspective, a perspective not aligned with any particular character. However, the show often makes choices to indicate that we are experiencing a scene from a certain character's point-of-view.
Sometimes this is in fairly obvious ways: we hear things from one side of a crackling comms line, we follow the characters into spaces that don't physically exist, we share their hallucinations or imaginings. Sometimes it's more subtle, coming down to things like when a scene begins, which side of a door the listener starts out on, which sounds and voices sound louder/quieter, or how the audio perspective moves through the space. And I’m pretty certain that if there's a single character whose point-of-view we share most often throughout the show, then it's our main protagonist, Doug Eiffel.
Perspective at the end of the finale
The part where I find this issue of perspective most interesting is the end of the finale. Because after the last scene inside Eiffel's mind (when Hera runs a purge on the mindspace), I think almost all the choices about the show's perspective align the listener with Minkowski's point-of-view. And that feels significant, especially since Eiffel has been our primary point-of-view character throughout the series.
INT. U.S.S. HEPHAESTUS STATION - LABORATORY
The first scene I want to talk about begins as Minkowski and Lovelace go into the lab where Eiffel's hooked up to Pryce’s machine. We enter the room with them, and they are at this point the only ones who are conscious. We see Eiffel in our mind's eye because Minkowski says he's there. So if the listener is aligned with a perspective in this scene, it's that of Minkowski and/or Lovelace. This makes the brief dramatic irony more painful. The listener knows what is happening to Eiffel, but Minkowski and Lovelace don't know until Hera tells them, so we experience the horror of learning about it for the second time through them.
INT. GODDARD H.Q. - MAIN SPACE - 1300 HOURS (FLASHBACK)
After Eiffel gives his farewells, the scene is interrupted by the flashback of Minkowski and Eiffel's first meeting. This flashback starts with Rachel addressing Minkowski outside Rachel's office, and then we follow them through the door to where Eiffel is waiting. The scene could have started with the moment where Rachel introduces Minkowski to Eiffel, or it could have begun with whatever Eiffel was doing in Rachel's office before the others entered (knowing him, it seems likely that he was talking to himself/ whistling/ messing about with something on her desk).
But because the scene starts outside the office with Minkowski, it’s clear that this is Minkowski's flashback, not Eiffel's (I suppose it could also be Rachel's point-of-view, but the audience hasn't been primed to identify with her and she's only really in this scene as a narrative device). Distressingly, it makes sense that this scene is from Minkowski's perspective, because she is now the only person who remembers that conversation. She's the one who might think back to her first meeting with Eiffel, now that she's going through a second kind of first meeting.
INT. U.S.S. HEPHAESTUS STATION - LABORATORY - 0100 HOURS
Then we return to the present. Eiffel asks Minkowski whether he knows her, my heart breaks, etc. But in terms of the point I'm making here, what matters is that when Lovelace passes out and when Hera goes offline, the scene continues. Every character who is in this scene (if we count the halves before and after the flashback) is at some point unconscious, but it's only when Minkowski loses consciousness that the sound fades out. As her awareness of the surroundings fades, so does that of the listeners. The audience's experience is tied to that of Minkowski, so we are right there with her in that moment of despair with the alarms blaring and Eiffel asking her what they need to do.
The listener's experience of Minkowski's perspective becomes even more internal - there’s a point where all we can hear is what seem to be her thoughts ("What am I doing? I need to move. We can't be here. We need to move.")
INT. U.S.S. URANIA - INFIRMARY - TWO DAYS LATER
We rejoin the action when she wakes up - the show entirely skips over the time during which Minkowski is unconscious. As a side note, the time jump is interesting in itself, because it means that two events that in another version of this show might have been the finale's climax (the crew getting onto the Urania and the Hephaestus falling into the star) happen 'offscreen'. We only learn what happened while she was out as she does.
INT. U.S.S. URANIA - CORRIDOR/CREW QUARTERS - 2 HOURS LATER
Then there's the scene where Eiffel is listening to his old logs. I think I've said before that we re-encounter Season 1 Eiffel through the new version of Eiffel, but that's not quite it. The framing of that scene means that, when the audience witnesses Eiffel's re-encounter with his old self, it's not through his perspective but through Minkowski's. The scene begins with the sound of the door opening and Minkowski's heavy sigh (I think there's an intimacy to hearing someone's breath that suggests our perspective is close to that breath). We hear the log for a little while and only after that is Eiffel's presence confirmed by us hearing his voice.
To illustrate the deliberate choices in this scene, I think a good contrast is the scene in Securite where Minkowski hugs Eiffel (yes, I do love to bring it up at every opportunity). The set-up in both these scenes is similar: Eiffel is alone in a room doing something at a computer, Minkowski enters, and they have a conversation. But the scene in Securite begins with the sound of Eiffel typing, before the sound of the door opening. This places the listener in the room with Eiffel before Minkowski enters, which encourages us to view the subsequent hug from his perspective (which I think works well to emphasise the unexpected-ness of Minkowski's loss of composure).
They could have done the same sort of thing with the scene in the finale- we could have had a moment of hearing the log as Eiffel listens to it before Minkowski opens the door. But instead, the scene starts with Minkowski entering the room and with her sigh when she sees Eiffel. We are placed in the doorway with her, watching a character we've grown to love trying to work out who he is now.
INT. U.S.S. URANIA - BELOW DECKS - 2 HOURS LATER
The possible sticking point in the point I'm making here is the scene where, with the support of Lovelace, Hera talks to Pryce. Minkowski's not in this one, so it can't be from her perspective. I do think this scene is very emotionally significant, but I'm not going to focus on it here. I just wanted to acknowledge that there is a short scene in these last 25 minutes that isn't from Minkowski's perspective. But, perhaps significantly, it isn't from Eiffel's perspective either.
INT. U.S.S. URANIA - OBSERVATION DECK - 1 DAY LATER
Then there's a final sequence of interwoven scenes. Minkowski talks to Jacobi, then to Hera and Lovelace, then to Hera and Eiffel. She's the only character who is involved in all these conversations. She's the constant thread that ties that final sequence together. If you look at the script, you'll see the sections of this sequence are all linked together with directions like "She [Minkowski] OPENS A DOOR, going into - INT. U.S.S. URANIA - COMMON ROOM - CONTINUOUS". These directions make it clear that we are following Minkowski around the ship, which suggests again that we are sharing her perspective.
What's the significance of all this?
If it's true that - as Gabriel Urbina once said somewhere that I now can't find - the core of Wolf 359 is about conversations between Eiffel and Minkowski, then the show begins with the listener's perspective positioned very much on Eiffel's (often rather misleading) side of those conversations. But it ends with us positioned with Minkowski's point-of-view. There's a way of thinking about this that makes me feel sad and a way of thinking about this that makes me feel hopeful, and I don't think the two are at all mutually exclusive. In fact, I think they complement each other.
The sad thought:
The use of Minkowski's perspective gives a particular emotional resonance to Eiffel's memory wipe. We experience that loss through the point-of-view of one of the characters who will feel it the most deeply. And by ending with a perspective character other than Eiffel (who would have been the obvious choice), the show creates a sense of distance between the listener and post-memory-loss Eiffel. There's a shift in the listener's relationship with him, just as Minkowski is navigating the shift in her own dynamic with Eiffel.
Whatever your stance on Eiffel's identity post-memory-loss, the Eiffel we see after the memory wipe seems less perfectly suited to being our point-of-view character than the Eiffel we've known for most of the series. He seems quieter, less likely to be the one telling the story, more likely to be the one listening.
By cutting us off from Eiffel's perspective, the show adds to the uncertainty about whether he is still the character we've come to know. When he asks "Am I still that same person?", it feels like more of a question - or at least like a different kind of question - because we experience it from an external perspective.
The hopeful thought:
For four seasons, Minkowski has struggled with the question of whether she's in control of her life. For four seasons, she's been striving to make sure her crew gets home safely. With that in mind, it feels fitting that we experience the crew's return to Earth from their Commander's perspective. It feels fitting that she speaks the final lines of the show. It's a bittersweet ending, but it's her moment, and she's earned that.
#Maybe I am overthinking this#But I do think w359 uses perspective in some really interesting ways#it's one of the ways in which it feels very cinematic for an audio drama#I’d be interested to hear other people’s thoughts about it#w359#Wolf 359#renee minkowski#Doug Eiffel#w359 spoilers#Wolf 359 spoilers#the empty man posteth#Celebrating surviving my month of endless assignment deadlines by basically writing an essay for fun haha
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Two Plates
Romance short. A crotchety bookshop owner receives regular visits from the sex shop-owner across the way.
3k, rated M. Just something short and sweet, with a grumpy old man reluctantly letting his neighbour in. Age gap, kissing, lots of banter and sharp back and forth. Note some mentions of past sexual abuse.
On Patreon / / On Medium
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Ezra’s back aches, his eyes are dry even though he dimmed the lights an hour ago, and his head is a mess of overlapping thoughts and considerations – he needs to order in about twelve requests tomorrow morning, needs to chase up that fucking order of poorly-penned thrillers so that they actually arrive before their author’s reading on Monday morning, and it’s taken him half an hour to chase after the last irritating old woman out with a paperback in her hands.
He'd forgotten to lock the door, evidently, when he flipped the door over – he’s in the middle of tocking up tomorrow’s float when he hears the bell jingle, hears it shut and then hears it lock.
“Go away, Mr Black,” growls Ezra.
“Good evening, Mr Lovelace,” chimes Odhran Black without even the remotest bit of hesitation, and Ezra finishes counting out the ten-pound notes before lowering his glasses and looking across at Odhran, who has set aside a covered plate of something to go through the room correcting displays and setting them right, nice and neatly.
For all the young man fucking irritates him, Odhran’s got an attention to detail and knows exactly how to set a display, which is what he does now. He does have book displays in his shop, after all – the vast majority of them are for silicon cocks and straps and leatherwear and what-have-you, but he does have books on display, Ezra knows.
He's never actually been in the horrible little cave, but he’s seen through the door, caught a glimpse of a neatly arranged display of books beside the various DVDs on the other two shelves.
“Nothing very fanciful today, Mr Lovelace,” says Odhran as he flicks a cardboard box of Maeve Binchy out from behind a bookshelf and slots its contents into the cradle of his arm, proceeding to slot them into the gaps on the shelves in effortless, speedy title order, “just a chicken penne arrabbiata and some garlic bread.”
Ezra grits his teeth so hard he can hear his jaw creak, and focuses on counting up five-pound notes. He does not look over at Odhran as he flattens the box and tugs out another, taking out two last volumes before he does a quick scan and survey of the shelves surrounding him and then scoops up the plate.
“Go away,” he growls again as Odhran approaches.
How many times has he brought Ezra meals these last few months? Far too many times – four or five days a week, of recent, always just at closing, although he started six months ago when he took over the shop.
It had belonged to his aunt’s ex-husband, who’d died last year, a thoroughly average-looking man that Ezra had never even learned the name of, let alone learned about in any detail, only that he’d owned the sex shop and the flat across the road. Odhran’s cleaned the thing up, and it gets far more traffic these days, a lot of young, queer clientele that often stray into Ezra’s territory, too.
Ezra only wishes Odhran wouldn’t do the same.
Odhran comes to a stop in front of the desk with the plate in his hands, clasped in front of his belly. This close, Ezra can smell it, smell the tomato in the marinara sauce and smell the garlic butter on the bread even through the tin foil wrapping, and against his will, his stomach gives a rumble that makes his cheeks burn with how mortifyingly audible it is.
“You need to start closing the shop for lunch, Mr Lovelace,” says Odhran in softly superior tones. “It’s not good for a man to keep skipping meals like you do.”
“A man like me, you mean?” demands Ezra, his voice so sharp as to almost hiss. “A man my age?”
Odhran’s expression doesn’t change, his lips remaining curved slightly into a beautiful smile – he’s infuriatingly beautiful. A man who owns and operates a sex shop should, by all rights, look decrepit and unpleasant, should perhaps have some malodorous aura, should perhaps look moist with sweat at a glance.
Odhran is so young and attractive and shamelessly, openly gay as to be a sort of memento mori for a tired old man like Ezra, and his existence is somewhat infuriating in itself, even before he began this habit of insinuating himself into Ezra’s life, inviting himself over, tidying the shop, making him meals.
“You really aren’t that old, Mr Lovelace,” says Odhran, and walks past him, nudging the door open and ascending the stairs to Ezra’s flat. “And for a man of forty-nine,” he calls down behind him, “you really look quite well!”
“I’m forty-eight,” Ezra snaps back, and he sets his jaw when he hears Odhran’s laugh echo down the stairwell, an easy, joyful sound just before the door clicks shut. “For pity’s sake,” he mutters, finishing up the float and setting it down, then he takes up the tray of the day’s earnings and follows Odhran up the stairs, walking past him to his office and going for the safe. He can hear Odhran moving about in the kitchen, hear him taking out a knife and fork and a plate, it sounds like, probably to put the garlic bread on.
When Ezra comes into the kitchen, Odhran has set a place for him at the kitchen table, the penne set down on the plate with the bread on a side one, just as Ezra had thought, and he’s put the tin foil into the recycling bin.
The sauce is a beautiful red and smells of all the herbs Odhran cooks with, fresh from the garden on his balcony; the chicken is uniformly cut throughout, mixed in with the rest, and Ezra knows from experience with Odhran’s cooking that it won’t be remotely dry; there’s the perfect amount of cheese sprinkled on top, only the barest hint of it.
The pasta looks very good against the sleek black porcelain. It smells divine, and it looks impeccable, artfully arranged on one of Odhran’s handsome black dishes, which doesn’t at all match Ezra’s chipped yellow side plate.
Christ knows why he ever thought that yellow would be a handsome colour for dinner dishes – they’d been a bequest from Adrian Delaney when he’d died in 2007, because Ezra had always complimented them whenever he’d been at Adrian and Bevis’ home for dinner, which he had been all the time as a teenager, always in and out, but he’d been a young idiot with no taste, and besotted with anything from the 1970s.
There are photos of the two of them up on the wall, Adrian and Bevis, and sometimes of recent he finds himself standing in front of them and just staring at them, remembering dinners with the two of them, watching the two of them laugh together, wash the dishes, the easy companionship they’d had when they moved back and forth, how they’d looked as if they were dancing no matter what they did.
“Were you raised by your grandparents?” he finds himself asking, and Odhran looks back from where he’s wiping his hands on a tea towel, having just washed them in the sink.
“That your theory?” asks Odhran, looking amused at the prospect. “I was raised by my grandfather alone, spent long hours in his solitary company, isolated from peers my own age, and subsequently I find comfort in the presence of the elderly?”
“Were you?” asks Ezra, choosing not to point out that forty-eight is not, in any sense of the word, yet elderly.
“No,” says Odhran plainly, folding the tea towel and setting it aside. He turns to look at Ezra with his arms crossed over his chest, and Ezra looks at what he’s wearing – a pressed floral shirt under a surprisingly fashionable cardigan, a pair of jeans so tight they might as well have been painted on. “I was molested by my grandfather until he died when I was twelve – my maternal grandfather, that is. My father’s father died when I was four, I think, I scarcely remember the man.”
Ezra stares at him, his mouth abruptly dry, aware that his eyes have gone wide.
“I suppose I am comforted by the presence of older men,” says Odhran. “I’m more attracted to older men, in any case, and when I hook up, it’s normally with daddies. I haven’t really been cooking for you these past months as a sexual overture though, Mr Lovelace. I was under the impression you were celibate.”
Ezra’s stares at him, feeling heat bleed into his cheeks, the two of them abruptly blushing so hotly they feel as though they might well spark with flame. “I’m not celibate,” he says, amazed at how indignant he sounds, and Odhran raises two handsome dark eyebrows, tilting his head slightly to the side. He has black hair worn with a centre-parting swept back from his face, shaved in an undercut, and when he tips back in flops handsomely.
“Oh,” says Odhran softly, the pink tip of his tongue touching to his lower lip for a moment, tantalising, like a ripe fruit. Smirking, he goes to the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It wasn’t an invitation,” says Ezra.
“Enjoy your meal, Mr Lovelace.”
“I’m not in the habit of robbing cradles, young man!”
“See you tomorrow! I’ll go out of the side door, save you locking the shop one behind me.”
And then he’s gone with no more word about it, and Ezra, infuriated and defeated, sits down at the table to eat.
He washes the plate, dries it off, and walks across the street, slipping into the alley behind the opposite row of shops and ascending the back fire stairs, rapping his knuckles on the backdoor of the balcony.
It’s a little after eight – Ezra’s hours have always been eleven to seven, because he’s never believed in getting up before nine – and Odhran answers the door still dressed, but wearing slippers instead of shoes, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and one of his cats, a sort of toasted marshmallow creature called Pachinko, is wrapped around his neck.
She’s purring audibly, and she gives Ezra a slow, affectionate blink.
“Who— Who is Pachinko?” he asks, because the words “thank you” die on his tongue. “Is she a character in something?”
“Pachinko’s a game, Mr Lovelace,” says Odhran. “It’s a gambling game – sort of like bagatelle crossed with a pinball machine?”
“Oh,” says Ezra, looking through the balcony window to Galaga, a great beast of a silken black cat who’s sleeping sprawled in one of Odhran’s armchairs, all four of her paws in the air. “Galaga isn’t a character either? I thought they were comic book characters or something like that.”
“Galaga’s a game too,” the young man murmurs, reaching up and scratching Pachinko’s head. “You shoot at alien space ships.”
“Right,” Ezra mutters. “Well. I’ll just—”
“Would you like to come in?” asks Odhran before he can say his goodbye. He does this, from time to time, invites Ezra in, and Ezra wonders how it might look, going in only after the occasion where Odhran’s revealed he has sex with older men, that Ezra is his type, so to speak.
He didn’t say that, of course.
Ezra’s being in an age range hardly means—
“I’ll put some more cocoa on,” says Odhran, stepping back and holding open the door. “Come.”
Ezra steps inside.
Galaga’s head shoots up as the door clicks closed, and she pounces up from her place on the sofa and rockets toward him, shoving herself between Ezra’s ankles and weaving between them, making him laugh and stumble.
“You used to have cats, right?” asks Odhran as he takes milk out of the fridge. “You have pictures up on the walls.”
“None of them were mine,” says Ezra. “The big Persians, they were all Adrian Delaney and Bevis Mode’s. One of the ginger ones belonged to Catherine Brighton, another to Del Smythe. The big white one with blue eyes, her name was Pashmina, she was deaf. She belonged to a woman called Florence.”
Odhran is silent for a few minutes as he sets the pot on the hob, flicking on the heat beneath it before he starts to chop up squares of chocolate with a large knife, casually, as though that’s what the chopping board is ordinarily used for. Pachinko is apparently utterly undeterred by the regular loud knocks of metal on wood and the shift of his shoulders, because she stays resolutely where she is, lolling about his neck like a stole.
“All your old friends,” says Odhran quietly. “Most of the photos are older, in any case. AIDs?”
“Mostly,” says Ezra. “Adrian was prostate cancer. He and Bevis, they all but appointed themselves by fathers – mine threw me out when I was fifteen.”
“Ha,” says Odhran, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Mine too.”
“That’s why you thought that I… You thought I was celibate.”
“I’ve never seen you out, never seen you on Grindr,” says Odhran. “Never seen you with a man.”
“A dry spell, that’s all,” murmurs Ezra, trying to inject a bit of humour into his voice, although it’s been so long he barely remembers how. A part of him – an irritatingly chipper part of him he’s spent a long time attempting to silence – points out that he ought be grateful that this young man is so intent on socialising with him, putting himself in Ezra’s life. “Going on five years now.”
“Your poor cock,” says Odhran. “I expect if you get an erection it sputters out dust like a disused set of bellows.”
Ezra’s laugh takes him by such surprise that it starts him coughing, and Odhran sounds far too pleased with himself as he laughs as well, taking the chopping board over to the pot and sweeping the chips of chocolate directly into the pot.
“You don’t have to fuck me, you know,” says Odhran, and Ezra stands in the kitchen doorway watching the lines of his back under his jumper, even obscured as it is by the underside of Pachinko’s thick coat. “I’d really rather you not to do out of sympathy.”
“I frequently tell you I don’t want you cooking for me out of sympathy.”
“We both live alone,” says Odhran, “and I’m terrible for actually eating my leftovers. It’s nice to make a plate for two, if I’m cooking anyway, and you’ll go without a proper meal otherwise.”
“That’s not sympathy?”
“It’s practicality.”
“I’m not here out of sympathy,” says Ezra lowly.
“You don’t normally come in when I invite you, that’s all. Would you like to have sex?”
Ezra’s breath catches in his throat, in his chest, and it arrests even more when Odhran turns to look at him, his pink lips parting slightly, his eyebrows raising in expectation. Ezra imagines it for a moment, seeing him underneath the neatly pressed clothes he wears, feeling his body against Ezra’s, crushing him down and riding him, feeling his—
He swallows down a sudden thick lump in his throat.
“Not tonight,” he says finally.
“Alright,” says Odhran, as casually as if Ezra had turned down the offer of a biscuit, and he stirs the cocoa, reaching for a container of some sort of spice and tipping a little of it into the mix, which is swirling creamy brown and white as the chocolate melts. “Would you like to watch a film?”
“I don’t own a television,” says Ezra. It slips out of his mouth automatically, snappishly, the way it often does when people mention films or TV – when was the last time he saw a film?
Something he saw in the cinema, probably, years ago, or maybe something on Adrian’s hospital bed, when he was sitting beside him and they were squinting at the little screen on the other side of the room, straining to hear the dialogue of The Birdcage over the fella coughing out his lungs in the next bed.
“That may be,” says Odhran evenly, “but I do.”
The embarrassment crashes over him in a wave, but he manages to weather it. “Alright,” he says weakly. “You’ll have to pick it.”
“I was going to anyway,” says Odhran, and Ezra looks down at Galaga as she plops her weight down on top of his feet, half-rolling over and displaying her prodigious belly to him, for all the world as though they’re good friends already. “Take a seat, I’ll bring this in soon.”
“Thank you,” says Ezra. “Odhran.”
“You never use my forename,” says Odhran softly, with a secretive smile that seems almost private, his head turned so that Ezra catches only a glimpse of it, and aches to see more. “Ezra.”
Ezra steps out of the room and it occurs to him how absurd this all is, coming over to the apartment of a boy young enough to be his son just because he’s got a bleeding-heart tendency of cooking him dinner, and now, what? Snuggle together watching a film? Drink cocoa together? Kiss on the doorstep before he goes back to his own shop and his own misery, and pretend this hasn’t happened – or worse, embrace it? Be one of those pathetic old men with a boytoy half his age, and one who owns a sex shop, at that?
He takes one step toward the door and stumbles on the cat – Galaga is standing directly in front of him and is more than large enough to stumble on. He swears under his breath, but she just looks up at him with big, soppy green eyes and purrs with a rumble like an engine.
They stare at each other for a moment, him stiff and awkward, half-bent over, her purring loudly with her mouth open, sitting back on her fat little haunches.
“Fine,” he whispers to her. “But I’m not staying for the whole film.”
Galaga gets up on her feet and guides him, her tail in the air, over to the sofa; as soon as he sinks back into it, the leather creaking under his weight, she hops up onto his thighs. Ezra Lovelace is not a particularly small man, but the leather creaks far more loudly under their combined weights than it did under just his own.
“Heavy little girl, aren’t you?” he asks her, but he reaches under her chin and scratches her there nonetheless, and he laughs breathlessly at her weight in his lap, at the way her whole body vibrates with her purrs. His eyes threaten to water for a moment, but don’t quite.
* * *
When he finally goes home, two romcoms later, Odhran kisses him at the door before he can protest, and Ezra loses himself in the heady haze of it, finds himself pinning the young man against the wall and kissing him properly.
It must be ten or fifteen minutes of this ridiculous, immature behaviour before he finally tears himself away and hurries home – Odhran all but moans Ezra’s name after him as he departs, and the sound plagues Ezra in his dreams so much that come morning, he finds himself cooking breakfast for two, setting it out on two chipped yellow plates.
“I’ve always loved these plates,” says Odhran covetously when they sit down to eat.
It makes Ezra’s heart ache, and instead of swallowing the memory, he opens his mouth and tells the young man why.
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𝓑𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓼: 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓣𝔀𝓸
A Ballad from The Venus Lounge
Warnings: Violence against women, swearing
The Dreaming
He finds her first in the dreams of her mother. Thalia, the joyous one. He remembers her laughter, suspects he will never forget it. But her dreams grew sombre with the birth of the child, the colour slipped from them, the silence,
profound.
In these dreams the child is an infant, red faced, squalling. Then a little older, dark haired, toddling. He delved deeper and deeper, searching for a name, but even in sleep Thalia is careful not to speak it, calls the child; her baby, her pet, her beauty.
There is one nightmare however, a sky on fire, unspeakable horror. She whispers the child’s name over and over, then the skein of Thalia’s life is cut.
But he has found her.
The Waking World
Cassie drops into the bar stool beside Belle with a contented sigh, she fishes in her clutch bag, pulls out her lipstick and begins to touch it up using the back of a spoon as a mirror. Evelyn, who had been drying off the cutlery strewn across the counter with a towel snatches it back.
Cassie gives her a sweet, reproachful look, but knows to pick her battles, so she turns to Belle, “Sweetie you’ll never guess what I saw outside.” Cassie is beautiful and her enthusiasm is infectious, Belle can’t help but smile “Go on, tell me.” Even Evelyn is dawdling in her work, just to catch the story.
“A pervert bird!” Cassie laughs. Belle wants to ask what she means, but they hear Venus’ car pulling up outside so they each endeavour to look busy.
Venus had been christened Mary Patricia Bernadette O’ Malley and this had been her greatest misery in life. The day she turned eighteen she had the name expunged from all public records and had it replaced with Venus Lovelace, which was equally ridiculous, but far more evocative. She affected a French accent at all times and was immaculately groomed. She was as out of place in shabby little Pleasance as it was possible to be and that was exactly how she liked it. A single candle shines all the brighter in a darkened room.
She bought the local dive bar on a whim, with money from her most recent (and most successful) divorce and transformed it into The Venus Lounge. The clientele were still the same old tired faces and there was nothing to be done for the dank stench of loneliness that lingered in every room but Venus worked hard to give the place a rarefied air. She liked her girls (her staff, all female, all pretty) to be talented, she wanted writers, dancers, singers, artists. Venus felt that their wide eyed hopefulness might brighten the place up a little.
“Bonjour mes enfants!” She trills, her heels play a rapid staccato across the tiles. The women mumble their hellos. Venus is plotting something. She scans the room.
Evelyn, Cassie, Belle.
Belle.
Mais oui.
Venus click-clacks towards the table Belle is wiping. “Ma chérie, I would speak with you. In private.” Evelyn and Cassie toss her a look.
Venus’ office is decorated with pictures of herself. There is a plate of macarons on the desk, either fake or very ancient, Belle cannot be certain which, but refuses them immediately when they’re offered.
“Ah ma chérie, I am going to ask you a favour” Belle begins a mental audition of viable excuses.
“You will of course refuse, but that is why I will give you this now.” Venus slides a sizeable stack of cash towards her “and this after.” She waves a larger stack in her left hand, just out of Belle’s reach.
Belle wonders how illegal this favour is likely to be.
“What do I have to do?” She asks, she cannot keep the suspicion from her voice. Venus sighs. “Jane, she has left. I have no singer.”
Jane had been threatening to leave for weeks, she wanted to marry her boyfriend Donny a former patron of The Venus Lounge, but he wouldn’t agree to it as long as other men leered at her. It didn’t seem to bother him that not six months earlier, he had been one of the men leering.
“Venus, I don’t sing.” Venus waves her hand as if she is swatting flies “Nonsense, everyone sings and besides, I don’t even really need you to sing, I only ask that you hold the microphone and look pretty.”
It is a lot of money, enough to leave Pleasance, which has been proving more difficult than Belle had initially thought.
“Why not ask Cassie or Evelyn?”
Venus makes a vague noise, her gaze trained on a portrait of herself done in oils, hanging above the door of the office.
“So they said no?”
Venus bristles “Yes, but I wasn’t going to pay them half as much as I’m paying you!”
Belle picks up the money, feels the heft of it.
“One week Belle and then I’ll find a replacement for Jane, unless you like it of course…” Venus is smiling now, she knows Belle will agree.
“One week” says Belle and pockets her escape route.
The Dreaming
Dream’s Raven shifts uneasily from foot to foot, glancing up at The Dream King with a look, that had he been human, would have expressed extreme discomfort.
“So… This is a kidnap mission?”
Dream of the Endless is affronted “Matthew we are retrieving the Siren from The Waking World and bringing her to safety in The Dreaming”
“But you’re not going to explain any of this to her? You’re just going to do your sand thing and bring her here?”
“I doubt an explanation will make the situation any less… Unexpected”
That may be true Matthew thinks, but Dream of the Endless’ threshold for the unexpected is likely to be a hell of a lot more expansive than the average human’s.
“Sir, maybe just try? Talk to her first? I mean it can’t hurt.”
Dream sighs. “Fine.” He is pouring out his sand and then they are moving, falling, twisting through worlds.
The Waking World
“There’s the bird!” Cassie shrieks, gesticulating wildly to the high window of the ladies toilet. The bird in question is a raven, who to his credit and the women’s delight, has the decency to look almost mortified at being caught spying on them and takes flight immediately. “Stop squirming” Evelyn chastises, slapping Cassie’s head gently with the back of the hairbrush. She is working Cassie’s hair into a bouffant that on any other person would look comical, but on Cassie looks like a golden halo.
Venus peeks her head around the door.
“Vite, vite, mes enfants! It is busy tonight.”
Evelyn and Cassie hurry towards the door, not bothering to clear away the mess behind them. Women don’t come to The Venus Lounge, the ladies toilet is their impromptu personal dressing room.
Belle, stands for a moment, surveying herself in the mirror, gathering her nerve. She would have sung for a lot less, but Venus doesn’t need to know that.
She doesn’t hear him come in, but she sees his reflection in the mirror. Their eyes meet in the glass and she turns, heart pounding.
The most important thing, the thing you must remember in these situations is not to be afraid, fear is blood in the water. Whatever happens, do not give them your fear.
She puts her hands on her hips, hopes he doesn’t see them shake. There is a weight to his gaze that makes it hard to meet his eyes but she does it anyway. “You’re not supposed to be here” she smiles, in a voice she hopes is casual, sweet, mollifying. He doesn’t move, he opens his mouth as if to speak but closes it again
Venus’ head pops back around the door. “Belle they are waiting!” Belle, still shaking, hurries to the door, “Sorry Venus I was just talking to-“ she turns to gesture to the dark haired stranger, but, he’s not there.
~
In the alley beside the bar Dream of the Endless is giving his raven a dressing down. “Your plan is too difficult.”
Matthew squawks. “I never said that you should approach her in the ladies room! What did she say when you told her? Did she freak out?”
Dream is silent and in a small voice he murmurs “I did not tell her. I felt.. Uncertain”
“You’re not sure it’s her?” Matthew flaps his wings anxiously, Dreams lack of confidence perturbs him.
“It is her, there is no doubt. But, it suddenly seemed like a terrible burden, this knowledge, and I-“
Dream sighs heavily “At any rate she has not used her powers.” Dreams coat flaps in a breeze that tumbles old newspaper down the alley. “How can you tell?” Matthew asks.
“All magic leaves a mark, it lingers on the user like a scent, if she had used her powers she could not stand in that bar without risking being torn apart.”
“Fuck.” Matthew sighs “So how would she use them, her powers I mean?” Dream casts his eyes over the flashing neon sign of The Venus Lounge. “Through song”.
From the bar comes the screech of microphone feedback. “Uhh, boss, maybe you should go back inside.”
~
Cassie and Evelyn have planted themselves behind the bar but Belle, thinking of the money in her duffel bag, moves further towards the makeshift stage in the centre of the lounge.
Venus is standing under the flickering spotlight, microphone in hand, the patrons look up wearily. Belle wonders why Venus bothers, all they want to do in here is drink and forget. But now she’s introducing Belle as The Venus Lounge’s very own Nightingale and folding herself elegantly in front of the piano.
Belle ascends the stage to half hearted claps and a giddy whoop from Cassie.
Venus whispers to her “Sing something sweet dear, I’ll follow along!”
Belle clears her throat, trying to think of ‘something sweet’. Mimi had been sweet. Mimi sang a song about a rodeo and a rock and roll band and a kiss. The song made Chester cry.
Remembering them feels like choking. She wants to climb down off the stage and hand back the money, but she has to get out of Pleasance by Summertime or she never will.
So she sings.
Had singing always felt like this? She doesn’t know, she hasn’t sung since she was a child when she would sit in the bath with the woman called Mother and their voices would bounce against the tiled walls.
Singing feels like… Like nothing else, it feels warm and good and right. It feels like jumping from a pier, like the first drag of a cigarette, it feels like being held and loved. It feels like standing exposed on a hilltop, it feels like everything.
Belle does not notice that Venus is not accompanying her, that the woman is simply staring, not quite at her, but through her almost, as if she is trying to see inside Belle to where the music was coming from.
Cassie and Evelyn are holding each other, having dispensed entirely with the charade of being anything other than madly in love.
The patrons are staring too. Some of them are weeping, some of them are on their knees but all of them have their eyes fixed on Belle.
Dream of the Endless watches too, tries to think through the song but the music is quicksand.
The song ends.
Everything happens all at once.
Venus leaps up from her stool, her hands reaching for Belle’s throat, the men rush the stage en masse, their hands open and grabbing and Evelyn and Cassie are twining their fingers and leaving through the front door. The man from the bathroom is moving towards the stage and he has something in his hand.
Silence falls, the men’s eyes have rolled back in their heads but before Belle has time to scream the man has grabbed her wrist and she is spinning, falling and rising in a whirl of sand.
Authors Note: Thank you for reading, feedback welcome!
PS. For anyone who’s interested, the song referenced in this chapter is Papa Was a Rodeo by The Magnetic Fields, I do have a playlist for this fic, which I’m happy to share if people would be interested!
#dream of the endless fic#dream x reader#dream of the endless#the sandman#the sandman fic#the sandman x reader#morpheus#morpheus fic#morpheus x reader
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Hiii <3 Would you have any recommendations for sub!naruto x dom!hinata?
Yeah!�� A few of these are more RTN!Hinata rather than Dom!Hinata.
Sub!Naruto x Dom!Hinata
"I'm in Here" by @bunny-hoodlum - Rated E, RTN Canon-Divergent, One-shot. Thanks to Hinata's newly acquired boldness, she and Naruto begin to explore their boundaries with each other -- partly for distraction, partly for fun -- But is Hinata the same Hinata anymore or not? Ino definitely has changed. How much of a problem could all of this be?
“Honeymoon” from “In your eyes” by @char-lotteral - Rated E, Canon-Compliant, One-shot. “She can ride me blind, I’ll give her anything she want.”
“Emi Lovelace” by TroubledThoughts - Rated E, College AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. I never thought I’d be thanking my uncle for being a pervert. I never thought I’d find myself in a bookstore with a beautiful erotica writer. I never thought I’d learn Hinata’s biggest secret. Turns out, I am happy to be wrong.
“A Chance Meeting?” by MandalorBoba - Rated E, College AU, Multi-chapter, Incomplete. During day he is a Lit student at a local university during night however he is an expensive high class gigolo. He was given instructions to arrive, make no small talk, undress and let the client do as she wished with his body.
“Lord Seventh Hokage’s, Office Struggle.” by MandalorBoba - Rated E, Canon-Compliant (lol), Multi-chapter, Incomplete. Hinata was leaning over the edge of the office table, her legs spread, hanging off of the desk, where in between those very legs, lay Naruto the savior of the world, Lord Seventh Hokage on his knees.
“Blurred Lines” by @vegebulsoup - Rated E, Police/Crime AU, Multi-chapter, Complete. Detective Naruto Uzumaki is having a hard time staying focused at work due to an elusive, dark-haired beauty.
“Calming the Beast” by Goldfishlover73 - Rated E, Canon-Divergent AU, One-shot. Naruto can’t understand why his relationship with Sakura just isn’t working. Hinata has a solution.
“to build a kingdom” by magnoliasrot - Rated M, Canon-compliant. Short one-shot. Hinata wants control and Naruto gives it to her.
“The Study Session” from “Endless Lemons” by agitosgirl - Rated M, One-shot. She’s covered in piercings and leather, and has a bad attitude. But she takes an interest in him. A very special interest…
“Professor Passion” by omegas - Rated E, College AU, One-shot. Naruto is a new university student with a crush on his professor; Hinata Hyuga. Shy first dates and kisses quickly turn into a relationship, and Naruto discovers his professor’s provocative secret – along with one of his own.
Those are the ones I can think of! Anyone can feel free to add on more.
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Hey kids, wanna fuck some zombies?
Taglist:
@gothghostiie @adrianrainesfangs
Edit: Enjoy the improved Moodboard!
#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#Smut#COD smut#dark fic#dead dove do not eat#Mind the tags once again fellas#AO3#my writing#From the desk of Lovelace#Archive of our own#Call of duty#Simon Riley#COD Ghost#Zombie!Ghost#Fanfiction
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“I know we’re facing a level one crisis right now. But can we just talk about how our lives are dependent on a puzzle? The hardest puzzle I’ve ever had to solve. So, excuse me for being a little excited.”
Georgia Christopher Lightwood Lovelace - LBAF Series
Art by @thorndale @elisial. Click for better quality.
A short story about Gigi under the cut before you meet her again next week 💜
“Okay. I came as soon as I got your text. What happened?”
Georgia winced and held up the lab coat. “Sorry.”
Camila blinked and broke out in laughter. “Is that it? Gigi, I was so worried.”
“This is like the fourth lab coat I burned. You shouldn’t let me borrow them anymore,” she sighed and put the damn thing away.
“You know what? You’re right,” Camila hummed.
Oh no. Gigi had just been joking. Well kind of.
Camila had been kind and generous enough to let Georgia work in the research lab in Alicante.
Georgia didn’t really work there or anything. She just mostly observed what everyone else was doing and helped Camila with whatever she needed.
Camila’s research focused on using ichor to help treat mundane illnesses. Gigi loved demon ichor and had been experimenting it with her whole life.
So, it just made sense.
She had never thought that she would be allowed to work here - since she was still rather young.
But Camila seemed more than happy to have her.
Unlike some people.
“He is just really introverted,” Camila had said in whisper, her eyes darting across to the boy in the lab, her gaze lingering on him for a moment too long. “Don’t worry about it.”
It’s not that Gigi had an issue with Marcus per se. You need to talk to someone to have a problem with them.
Marcus barely acknowledged her presence.
Camila kept talking about how amazing and brilliant Marcus was -and Rafael was the same.
Gigi wished Marcus would let her in on some of his brilliance. No such luck though.
But it was fine. Georgia was happy enough to work with Camila. She was really cool and very smart too.
“You don’t need to borrow my lab coat because I got you your own one!” Camila announced.
Gigi all but screamed and grabbed the white coat.
It was a perfect fit. And it had her name on the front pocket.
“This…This is so kind. Thank you,” Georgia whispered.
“No need to thank me,” Camila tutted. “You’re my lab partner. And you earned this.”
Georgia smiled and put it on. “How do I look?”
“Like a scientist,” Camila winked. “Do you want me to take a photo?”
“Yes please,” Georgia nodded excitedly and handed her phone to the other girl.
“Say nitrogen,” Camila chuckled.
Georgia laughed and Camila look a picture. Gigi immediately sent it to Roman - who was currently in MIT. And then to Lexi too - who was in Tokyo.
She was drowning in heart eye emojis and keyboard smashes from the two of them when she smelled something burning.
“Shit!” she yelled and ran to her desk.
Marcus was already there, dumping a glass of water on the beaker that was on fire.
“Sorry,” Georgia said awkwardly.
The boy didn’t respond. He simply walked away and sat in a corner, poking at a seraph blade.
Georgia frowned and walked back to Camila. “What’s he working on?”
Camila shrugged. “Do you think we should ask him to help us with our project?”
“No!” Georgia said quickly.
She didn’t want Camila to work with Marcus. She wanted Camila to work with her.
Camila frowned.
Georgia sighed. “Sorry. I just…I’d rather you work with me. I know Marcus is super smart and he has an actual degree and he is a tech genius and…You know what? It doesn’t matter. You are trying to do something really important here. If working with Marcus would help-”
“Georgia. I simply asked if we should ask for help,” Camila chuckled. “I’m not kicking you out.”
“No?” Georgia blinked.
“Marcus might have graduated from Columbia,” Camila said. “But he didn’t design a weapon that killed a prince of hell.”
Georgia blushed at that. “Well, it was just luck-”
“It was a lot of thinking and hard work,” Camila corrected. “And you know what? Let’s stick to our little team. We can always talk to Marcus if we get stuck. But for now, it’s you and me, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan,” Georgia smiled.
She turned around and looked at the other boy - who was inspecting a stele closely.
So what if Marcus was really smart?
She was too.
She can figure this out.
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Warning: bad things happen here. Looking into the mirrors is the prerogative of the foolish.
Contrary to the description from the game, nothing bad happens here, unless you count Bad Post Sunday. You can call me R. they/them. I’m in my 20s, I’m disabled, I’m queer, and I live in the United States. Currently in grad school for an MFA.
If you ever tag me in something and I don't respond, please let me know because tumblr does not notify me for mentions. Webbed site
You can also find me on pixel cat's end as acetimetraveler, and on cohost with the same username as here.
My writing:
Find me on AO3 (snow_and_moon), where I post for both FL and sskies with things about the Masters, revolutionaries, and ocs, with more focus on the subjects of Mr Wines, Mr Fires, dreams/nightmares, and the Liberation
My OCs:
Meet my player characters with bio posts I’ve written about them. Please send calling cards! Their profiles are their first and last names as listed here.
The Preoccupied Professor, Orsinio Elderwood, and the story of his journey through Nemesis
The Laconic Captain, Samuel Weatherbee, and his connections to the East
The Tenacious Doctor, Lucretia Doherty
The Avid Apprentice, Miles Darlington. Rumor has it that Miles used to go by the name Lovelace before vanishing into the North. Don’t pay that much mind. All shall be well.
The Intractable Storyteller, Captain Min, my sunless skies OC (this is an old post and needs updating)
Moodboards for my OCs and my ocs in historical picrew
Also, look at this compilation of art of my OCs by @thedeafprophet (find more on their blog)! And this piece by @vonlipvig. I appreciate all of you who can draw and draw for me <3
Highlights of Lore Discussion:
A retrospective on Seeking Mr Eaten’s Name
A retrospective on Ambition: Nemesis
Headcanons about Mr Wines my favorite evil bat whom I love to torment
Not a theory about the Discordance
Some fanmade futures and destinies after the launch of Irem
Picrews I made of the Judgements (I'm always looking for it so it's getting pinned lol)
Tag list below the cut:
Ask box is open, and if you need a specific trigger tagged, just ask me.
I try to tag: fl spoilers, es spoilers, hd spoilers, lf spoilers, bal spoilers, hd spoilers, railway spoilers, nemesis spoilers, smen spoilers, irem spoilers, city in silver spoilers. But be aware I can’t catch everything and this is not a spoiler free blog. I post mature content from time to time, typically tagged with #suggestive.
I tag #sskies playthrough for my liveblogging of the game and #lore discussion for deeper analysis of the games.
For the periodic negative rambling, I also tag #fl crit, #fl negative, #anti smen, #motr response, #motr crit if you want to filter those.
More random/personal things are tagged as: #from the desk of R or #disability tag. Stuff made in cahoots with Prophet is tagged with #two of them and/or #my step blorbos. Check #meme archive or #bad post sunday for funny times.
A little more about me:
I started playing Fallen London in December of 2020 after being recommended to it by a friend, and since that day it has consumed my waking thoughts. I’ve done more or less everything in the game to this point: Railway, Discordance, SMEN, Paramount, Irem. I have played all the ambitions except Light Fingers, but I don’t intend to do that one, though I have friends who told me the whole story minus the triggering parts lol. I’ve finished all four ambitions in Sunless Skies. Don't intend to play Sunless Sea. Still working my way through Mask of the Rose... I wasn't a huge fan of it lol.
I love the Calendar Council/Revolutionaries and I play Black on the chessboard. At the same time, I love the Masters because I love villains and I love bats. The Masters are scary powerful, the Masters are cartoonishly evil, the Masters are fluffye, the Masters are comically incompetent clowns, etc etc. In addition to Fallen London, I love math, literature, and history. Looking at social issues in fiction is important and interesting to me. I'm so very gay for space.
Here’s my first OC introduction post for the archives, although it’s quite outdated at this point.
A final note:
By nature, this blog is an inclusive space. No sort of bigotry or harassment is tolerated here, nor is any sort of “fandom discourse.” I’m too tired for that. It isn’t anyone’s business what fiction someone consumes in their personal time, and it’s your responsibility to avoid content you don’t want to see, and that’s the end of the argument.
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September 11th, 1997
Crossing the Bridge
Somewhere Else Under the King
In today's entry, Trilby decides now is the time to read the prophecies he figures in and Martin talks Jon into a love song:
Trilby knocks on Claire’s doorframe. “Got a minute?”
Claire hums her agreement.
He steps inside and places a letter on her desk. “Could you please encode this message directly into the paper? I want to be sure anyone who finds it will be able to understand what it says, regardless of whether they can read my writing.”
She picks it up and looks it over. “I can, but I can only guarantee it will apply to Earth human life. No guarantees with extraterrestrials should they exist. Beings of the Ethereal Realm aside, of course.”
“Of course,” Trilby says. “How long will it take?”
“Not long. You can drop by and get it sometime after you take lunch?”
“That’s fine. I have a meeting with Yarrow anyway. Thank you, Claire.”
Yarrow steps into his office for the meeting but jumps back with a start at the three suited figures with their three masked faces turned towards him. He coughs and goes, “Yes, very funny. Well done. You’ve finished that part of the job.”
“I don’t know, I kind of missed this,” Trilby says.
“You didn’t even have to wear a mask for your part of it,” Yarrow mutters.
“And I kind of like it,” Lydia adds. “No makeup, no need to school my expression...”
“Well, you two can keep it up if you like, but I’m too hot,” Jim says, taking off his hat and pulling off the mask. But after he does, he puts the hat back on.
“So, how’d I do, Trilby?” Lydia asks. “I’ve been curious about it ever since I made my escape.”
Trilby sniffs and goes, “Overall, you did very well from what I was able to vicariously observe. Technically, I wouldn’t have let myself be seen if I could have avoided it. But since ‘me being seen’ was part of the operation, I can’t fault you for that. Or you, Jim.”
Jim says, “Pfft! I was just a courier at the very end.”
“But still useful to take focus off of Miss Jarvis,” Yarrow says. “And I trust you had an easy enough time with the police considering you were home when the others were seen?”
“Could have done without the baton in my face,” Trilby says. “My guest didn’t care for it, either.”
“That would be a problem with the police,” Yarrow replies. “But they have been let in on what they needed to know. There shouldn’t be any further investigation, at least not at your flat.”
“Could have done that before the heist,” Trilby grumbles.
“And break the illusion?” Yarrow asks. “Especially after investing the efforts of three different espers to help maintain it.”
“So what are we doing with all of it?” Jim asks.
“It’s actually pretty simple. There isn’t really a place to keep it here, not without worrying about someone encountering it or, worse, intentionally destroying it. At least, not on Earth.” Yarrow smiles. “I’ve gotten in touch with NASA, and we’ve made arrangements to have John DeFoe’s remains and possessions launched into space.”
“Space?” Lydia asks. “On a manned mission? Or by itself?”
“By itself,” Yarrow answers. “We have a storage container ready, and we should finish preparing it today. Trilby, you’ll see the container across the Pond. You’ll get your trip itinerary and tickets soon.”
Trilby nods. “Understood. Miss Wyndham is encrypting a letter to be placed with the remains. I’ll get it to you as soon as she’s done.”
“Fine,” Yarrow says. “Unless there’s any other business on the matter, we’re done here. You’re dismissed.”
Lydia and Jim get to their feet. Jim heads to the door first, Lydia stopping a moment to take her mask off. Trilby remains seated.
“Something else?” Yarrow asks him while the others file out.
“Yes, do you still have Lovelace’s book?” he asks.
“I do,” Yarrow answers. “It was useful in building our case to our American contacts, which led to bringing NASA on board. But I’d like to keep combing through it, if I may. I’m interested in finding connections besides the DeFoe Manor Incident. Unless you need it back now?”
Trilby shrugs. “You can keep it until Lovelace asks for it back. I’ve obtained an annotated version, and I think I’ll benefit more from that copy.” He’s grateful for the mask, allowing himself a hidden glare. “You can understand it?”
“Bits and pieces,” Yarrow says. “Enough to grasp the concept of the bridge and knowing that completing one would only further the cult’s plans. As interesting as it is to read about, I have no particular desire to actually meet Chzo or any entity like him.” He folds his arms over his chest. “If the DeFoe Manor Incident was indeed part of the bridge, you and Mister Fowler are in the book, you know. As was Mister Jarvis.”
Trilby makes a little click with his mouth and goes, “You didn’t send AJ knowing that, did you?”
“Not that part of it, no. The goal was to investigate possible supernatural causes for the manor’s long history of murder-suicides. We were aware of the Order and the Prince, but not of the connection to DeFoe Manor until we received word of the wooden idol.” Yarrow shrugs. “The problem with some prophecies is you’re unaware of what they mean until they have already come to pass and snap into sharp hindsight.”
Trilby nods, grim, and finally takes off his mask. “I think it’s about time for me to read the Book of the Bridge for myself.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Yarrow says.
-
Martin-
I don’t know if I’ll be able to fit everything on a page or even this notebook, if for no other reason than because this is the sort of thing that is better done by living it than trying to put it into words. But I will try to explain what I mean by wanting to love you the way you should be loved.
I have seen the way you love me. I’ve seen the work you’ve put into it, the work you put into caring for others, and how many times it’s been unfairly dismissed. Too many of those times were my doing. I can’t erase those times, but I want to give you the rest of my life to outweigh them. You’ve seen me at my worst, my ugliest, my most shameful, and yet you still loved me unfailingly and unflinchingly. I want to love you that very same way.
But beyond that, I want to fully know you.
Not from any ability to pull up whatever information I want, even if I could still do that, but because you choose to trust me with yourself the way I trust you with everything I am. I want to shoulder your burdens the way you’ve helped me carry mine for so long. I want to know all the things that bring you joy so I can give you the world you want after giving up the one you knew. I want to know what to do that will make you feel the same warmth and comfort I know when you bring me a cup of tea, the same stutter in my heart when I read a poem you wrote for me, the same safety when you wrap your arms around me.
I want you to know, no matter how the day to day goes, that I love you and will always be with you.
You gave me that promise yourself: where you go, I go. What else can I do but offer the same?
-Jon
-
Martin finds his notebook sitting open on the kitchen table when he comes to Jon’s flat.
He stills when he sees it. He didn’t know how long it would take for Jon to write what he wanted, and his heart pounds at the thought of what might be there.
“Jon?” he calls out, just in case he’s here and somehow missed him. But as far as he can tell, he’s alone in the flat.
He puts on the kettle, sits at the table, and reads.
-
“I’m home,” Jon calls when he comes in, hearing the kettle on the stove.
Martin doesn’t answer, only just finishing a little before Jon got home. He’s still processing everything he’s read and doesn’t trust his voice at the moment.
“Martin?”
But before Martin could say anything, Jon sees him at the table. His face falls, and Martin frowns a little in confusion before it catches up to him that he was crying and Jon wouldn’t know why.
“Was it that bad?” Jon asks, gesturing to the notebook.
“No!” Martin answers. “Not at all! Just-” He laughs a little. “-kinda realized this was a love letter while I was reading it. I mean, I knew somewhere in my brain it was going to be, but never got one before.”
“Oh,” Jon says, soft. “Sorry it took so long for you to get one.” He’s smiling now, if a bit sheepish. “Ah, what do you think?”
Martin scrubs at his face with his palm. “Have to admit, I’ve spent so long just thinking about being with you, full stop, that it’s been hard to really consider anything beyond the bare bones of it. Difficult to ask for more when you can’t even think of more. I didn’t think...” He sniffs. “Guess I didn’t think about you wanting for me what I want for you.” He turns his hand towards the letter. “This is… Is the phrase ‘beyond my wildest dreams’ too much of a cliché here?”
Jon steps closer and tentatively rests his fingers on Martin’s shoulder. Martin turns in the chair and hugs Jon’s middle, pressing his face to his chest. Jon returns the hug, threading his fingers through Martin’s hair.
“That’s what I want for you, Martin, the person I want to be for you,” Jon tells him. He kisses the top of Martin’s head. “So, first love letter, hmm? Any other firsts I get to be?”
Martin turns his face a little so he can speak. “Well, I’ve been thinking about how you used to be in a band...”
Jon chuckles. “Of violent immortal space pirates.”
Martin tilts his head back to look at Jon, but he’s smiling as he does. “Somehow that doesn’t match you at all and fits perfectly at the same time.”
“Sing you a song about tragic fairy tale space lesbians?” he offers. “If I’m the only member left here, I should go through the whole catalog at some point.”
“I mean, I could be into that,” Martin considers. “But I was just angling for a love song.”
“Well, don’t think I haven’t been thinking about it,” Jon says. “It’s just that somehow every song I think of either doesn’t fit us or fits far too well.”
Martin hums at that. “Does it have to fit exactly? What if it just had the right feelings for it?”
Jon considers this, his fingers toying around in Martin’s hair. But then he stops, and a smile spreads on his face. “Do you want to know what I was feeling when I first saw you here?”
“You mean the feeling you broadcast to a good bit of London?” Martin asks. “Yeah, all right.”
Jon slips his hands down Martin’s arms until they’re holding his hands, gently pulling him to his feet. “I’ve just seen a face, I can’t forget the time or place where we just met, he’s just the guy for me, and I want all the world to see we’ve met,” he sings.
Martin laughs and cuts in with, “Made sure of that, didn’t you?”
Jon pulls him into a sort of dance form, still keeping a hand in his. “Had it been another day, I might’ve looked the other way, and I’d have never been aware, but as it is I’ll dream of him tonight.”
Martin doesn’t say anything else, can’t say anything else. The kettle in the kitchen is whistling, but it doesn’t matter. Because Jon’s singing a love song to him, and they’re half-dancing in his flat. And when Jon’s not singing, they’re laughing. And when they’re not laughing, they’re kissing.
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HPMA AU; A Christmas Prince
Chapter 1: A Wayward Prince
Summary: Dawn’s boss Kerry Crouch requires he fly to the tiny kingdom of Alderly to write an article on the succession crisis that has been brewing there for almost a year. After the death of the previous king, the crown prince has been shirking his responsibilities, allegedly jet-setting all over the world, living the high life. Now, the interregnum is drawing to a close and if Prince Quentin doesn’t step up, the whole country could be plunged into chaos.
Words: 1.9K
Characters:
Dawn Harvelle, Evan Harvelle, and Kerry Crouch by @potionboy3
Pandora Lovelace by @gcldensnitch
Rocky Weasley by @magicallymalted
Beginning | Next Chapter
Chapter 1: A Wayward Prince
Dawn stared at the cursor blinking back at him from his computer screen. The article he was editing was utterly incomprehensible, not to mention several hundreds of words over the maximum limit. He was not getting paid enough for this. He got up and scanned the office for Fischer Frey, the culprit behind his current headache. It didn’t take long to find the man, chatting away at the coffee maker.
“Get a load of my next piece,” Fischer was saying. “Ugly Christmas Jumpers of the Stars.”
“Celebrity jumpers?” asked his brother Colby. They were twins, but out of the two of them, Fischer was definitely the worse. “That’s riveting.”
“It’s going to be brilliant; I tell you,” said Fischer.
“Hey, Fischer,” Dawn interrupted.
“Not now,” Fischer said.
“This’ll take just a sec,” Dawn continued, ignoring him. “I just had a couple of questions about your article, the Fashion Week piece that I'm editing.”
Fischer turned towards him and gave him a withering stare. “What about it?”
“Well, see, the thing is that Kerry wanted 300 words, and this is 650,” Dawn explained. “And one of the designers you quoted wasn't even on the floor, so...”
“Look, Dawn, I really don’t have time for this,” said Fischer and took a sip of his coffee. “Just clean it up.”
“It's not just a clean-up, it's a major rewrite.”
“What are you, the executive editor now?” Fischer snickered.
“No, I'm just trying to explain that–,” Dawn tried. He was starting to get really annoyed, which was saying a lot, since Fischer pissed him off on most days.
“Just fix it,” Fischer said and walked away. Colby gave him an apologetic look and followed his brother. Dawn sighed and headed back to his desk, just to see Rocky and Pandora waiting for him.
“That went well,” said Pandora.
“Let me guess, you're gonna rewrite his stinky old article because you don’t want to lose this job?” Rocky asked.
“It’s sort of part of the job description, isn’t it?” Dawn said and sat on his chair with a heavy sigh.
“Technically we’re junior editors, not writers, so–,” Pandora started.
“I’m just going to muddle through this one and maybe one day I’ll become a real journalist,” Dawn interrupted. And maybe he was also going to murder Fischer Frey in his sleep.
“Maybe we can grab pints after work and shit-talk Fischer?” Rocky suggested.
“I’m in,” said Pandora.
“I’m probably going to need to rope you guys into a murder plot while we’re at it,” said Dawn.
Suddenly, the door to Kerry’s office flew open, and the boss himself peeked out. “Dawn, I have to talk to you, get in here,” Kerry called. Dawn looked at his friends.
“He couldn’t have heard me plot Fischer’s murder, right?”
“That old man has the ears of a fox,” said Rocky.
“He’s like the Chuck Norris of editors-in-chief,” Pandora added helpfully.
“You guys should’ve become stand-up comedians,” said Dawn and got up, heading towards the boss’s office.
~
“How can I help?” asked Dawn upon entering.
“Urgent business,” Kerry replied, taking a seat behind his desk.
“If this is about Fischer’s Fashion Week article–,” Dawn started.
“Forget about Fashion Week, this is something else,” said Kerry in an uncharacteristically enthusiastic tone. “Sit.”
Dawn took a seat.
“What do you know about the royal family of Alderly?” Kerry asked.
“Uh… the tiny country in Central Europe?”
“Yes,” said Kerry.
“Wait,” said Dawn, remembering following the news coverage last year. “Their king died, and the prince who's supposed to take over is a total flake.”
“A flake, an international playboy, a scandalous socialite…” Kerry added.
“Playboy Prince Quentin took off before daddy died, which wouldn't be a problem, except they have this interregnum thing…” Dawn said, trying to remember.
“The time between two reigns,” Kerry explained. “In Alderly, it's a maximum of a year, which is about to expire.”
“So, they need a butt in the big chair by Christmas day,” said Dawn. “But if the prince is MIA, then what happens?”
“That's exactly what you're going to find out,” Kerry said. “His Royal Highness is due back this weekend, but just in case he abdicates, I need somebody there to capture the fireworks.”
“In Alderly?”
“They have a press conference scheduled for the 18th, and I need boots on the ground.”
“Not to shoot myself in the foot here,” Dawn started. “But why me?”
“None of my regular writers can spare spending Christmas away.”
“Right,” said Dawn. He should’ve known it wasn’t about his talent. “I’ll think about it.”
~
Dawn, Rocky, and Pandora hovered over Dawn’s computer screen, looking at articles written about Prince Quentin of Alderly.
“This bloke is your assignment?” asked Rocky. “He certainly gets around.”
“Oh look,” said Pandora, clicking open another article. “Another secret girlfriend.”
“Brilliant…” muttered Dawn. He was annoyed just by the sight of the prince.
“Seriously, Dawn, this assignment could jump-start your career,” Rocky said.
“I know…”
“I say do it,” Pandora offered.
“I…” Dawn considered. He had planned on spending Christmas with his dad, and he wasn’t sure he could just leave him alone for the holidays. But then again, Rocky was right. If he pulled this off, it could really do wonders for his career at Beat Now. “I’ll talk to my dad.”
“Guess that means rain-check on the drinks?” said Rocky.
“Yeah,” Dawn agreed.
“Well,” said Pandora. “This is exciting.”
~
After work, Dawn went to visit his father. Evan Harvelle had put up a few Christmas decorations and was now making tea in the kitchen. Dawn was beginning to feel like he definitely couldn’t spend Christmas in Alderly while his dad was alone at home.
“Hey, listen. Christmas Eve,” Evan said, brigning two steaming cups of tea to the living room. “Instead of doing our regular pizza, I was thinking maybe we could go eat somewhere a tad fancier,” he suggested and then noticed the look on Dawn’s face. “What? Dawn, what?”
“My editor has given me a story to cover,” Dawn blurted out.
“Your own story?”
“It's about the royal family of Alderly,” Dawn explained. “The prince, he's a bit of a playboy, he might even abdicate.”
“Kiddo, this sounds like it's going to be your big break.”
“Yeah, but the thing is, I'd have to be away through Christmas, and I know that you'd be alone. I just–,” Dawn began, but his dad cut in.
“Sounds like you need a bit of Fatherly Advice 101,” Evan said. “Sometimes you just have to take a chance.”
“That’s… really deep, dad, thanks,” Dawn laughed.
Evan laughed too, and said: “What I mean is, you really want to write your own stuff, you’re always talking about it,” he took a sip of his tea. “So shouldn’t you stay true to your dreams?”
“Sounds like a fortune cookie,” Dawn commented.
“All right,” said Evan, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, the point is, don't worry about me, you go over there to Aldi-whatnot–”
“Alderly.”
“Alderly, that's it,” said Evan. “And you make me proud.”
“Alright.”
“And maybe learn to appreciate my advice, it’s great.”
“Sure, dad…”
~
It had snowed in Alderly, because of course it had. Everything about the tiny country looked like it was intentionally made to look like Santa’s village. Dawn followed a hoard of other journalists out of the airport and joined a queue for taxis. It was a crisp day, and Dawn wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck.
“When is the prince supposed to arrive?” he heard one of them wonder out loud.
Another replied: “An hour ago, maybe he’s missed his flight.”
“Probably shacked up with some countess somewhere,” the first man continued, snickering.
Then Dawn was finally up for a taxi, and as he opened the door, a man rushed past him and got in without so much as a glance at him. Or maybe there was a glance, but as he was wearing sunglasses, it was difficult to tell.
“Hey!” Dawn protested.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “I really have to go.”
“No but this is my taxi!”
“My apologies.”
“You can't just do that, you selfish twat!”
The man pulled the door shut behind him and the car sped away. Apparently, the cozy Christmas vibe was only for show in this country.
~
“First time?” asked a nice lady in a gray pantsuit once they’d all filed in to take their seats in the room reserved for the press conference.
“Sorry, what?” asked Dawn.
“First time covering the royals?” the woman continued.
“First time covering anything,” replied Dawn. He was beginning to realize he was in way over his head. “Any words of wisdom?”
“Pick a new career,” the lady laughed.
“Oh,” said Dawn. “Thanks, I guess?”
Right then, the double doors swung open, and a palace aide walked in. He made his way to the podium in the front of the room.
“I wonder if he’ll show up this time?” whispered a man behind Dawn.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the aide into the microphone. “Thank you so much for coming today. I realize you've traveled a great distance to be here, but I'm sorry to announce we're going to have to cancel the press conference. Prince Quentin is... unavailable at this time.”
“More like he's avoiding the press,” the man behind Dawn said.
“Does this mean that the prince is abdicating the throne?” asked the woman next to Dawn.
The aide looked distinctly uncomfortable. and said: “I can assure you, his coronation is very much on schedule, and will take place at the annual Christmas Eve Ball.”
“Then where is he?” someone in the crowd asked. Everyone raised their hands and thrust their recording devices forward, shouting out questions at the same time. The poor aide scanned the room.
“Uh, the polite young man with the red scarf,” he said, and Dawn realized he was looking at him. Many pairs of eyes turned to him, and Dawn cleared his throat.
“When are you rescheduling the press conference?” he asked.
“We, uh, don't have any plans for that at this time.”
“Is it possible to arrange an interview with Prince Quentin?” he persisted. He needed this story after coming all this way.
“There will be no interviews with the prince,” said the aide with a finality that dampened Dawn’s spirits. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“King Stefanos would never have done this,” someone said.
“Talk about a real jerk-around,” the man behind Dawn complained.
“Should've known it would happen with this guy, what a waste.”
“Drinks on me back at the hotel?”
As the crowd started to spill out of the room, Dawn made a spontaneous decision. He was not going to go home empty-handed.
~
Dawn used the commotion of scraping chairs and chatter to slip out of the room from a side door, instead of the main entrance. He wondered, briefly, if Alderly had the death penalty and if so, how lax they were with its implementation. He removed his press pass and stuffed it in his pocket. The door led to a fancy hallway decked out for the holidays. Nobody was there so Dawn took out his phone and snapped a few photos. He walked down the hall and entered another, similar room to the one that had held the would-be press conference. The walls were decorated with paintings of long dead people. Dawn was taking more pictures when he suddenly heard someone clearing their throat behind him. Dawn spun around, dread creeping up on him.
“May I help you?” asked a stern voice. Dawn was so screwed.
#hpma fic#fic: a christmas prince#dawncey#dawn harvelle#pandora lovelace#rocky weasley#quincey alderly#*mine#*my writing
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Rules for buildings and land use at historic Peggy’s Cove under review
For the first time in three decades, the provincial rules around what buildings in historic Peggy’s Cove should look like and be used for is undergoing a review.
A community meeting will be held Thursday to update area residents on the latest draft proposal for the Peggy’s Cove Land Use Bylaw, a set of rules that will eventually land on the desk of Nova Scotia’s economic development minister for approval.
For some, it’s a move that’s been long overdue in a place that’s visited by hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, all drawn to the charm and character of the fishing village and its famous lighthouse.
“It’s a challenge,” admits the owner of the Sou’wester Gift Shop and Restaurant, which has been open at Peggy’s Cove since 1967.
John Campbell says coming up with the new rules is about balancing the needs of those who live here with the businesses that have come there since.
“I think that everybody would agree that a commercial operation would have to go through a more rigorous approval than a residential would, so I think that was part of it,” he says.
Draft bylaws have been put together which divide the community into certain zones: residential, core (largely a commercial zone), and fishing.
Within each zone, there are certain rules around what buildings should look like and be used for.
For example, short-term vacation rentals wouldn't be allowed in the residential zone unless the operator lives there.
New dwellings also wouldn't be permitted in the protected zone set aside for fishing activities.
“Residents primarily are saying, ‘We want to be able to encourage residents to stay so that we stop the outmigration of the families,’” says area councillor Pam Lovelace, “and residents also want people to understand that this is their home.”
For businesses, there are a myriad of other proposed rules around everything from parking to signage.
Artist Neil Depew, who has been painting Peggy’s Cove for 25 years, understands the need for cultural preservation, even though he’s not sure the four-by-six foot sign outside his new gallery and shop will make the final cut.
“People still live here and fish from here and you'd hate to see anything happen to that quaintness and charm,” he says, “and hopefully the bylaws will make sure that stays in place.”
As another busy tourist season gets underway, a number of shops and businesses are doing last-minute fixes and renovations.
Lovelace says others are waiting for guidance from the new bylaw. That means she’s hoping they will be in place by the summer, although after the community meeting, a public hearing by the Peggy’s Cove Commission would still have to take place.
“Most important is to get it right,” says Campbell. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to rush it just to get it done. Look at how the people that live and work here, and have businesses here can proceed in the short-term, and take your time with the bylaws and get it right,” he adds.
The meeting to update the community on the Land Use Bylaw is scheduled for Thursday at 6:30 p.m. at St. Peter’s Church Hall on Peggy’s Cove Road in Hacketts Cove.
from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/9mJv8rT
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