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dillydedalus · 3 years

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march reading

kinda forgot about this i guess. anyway feat. uh, magical ships, dubious mental health institutions (plural) & a parisian building with 99 rooms.

the forever sea, joshua phillip johnson (forever sea #1) i firmly believe that more fantasy lit should be set on ships bc ships are inherently a sexy setting & you could have pirates which are extremely sexy. this has ships (and pirates) and also a sea made of grass? a magical plant sea on which ships sail via magical fires, so conceptually i’m very into it all. the plot is fine, but the protagonist kindred has a very bad case of Main Character Syndrome so prepare for mild annoyance throughout. also while i generally enjoy book magic vs wild magic i wish more works would treat them as two ends of a spectrum rather than ~book magic bad and boring, wild magic cool and *~natural*~. but overall i think this series has potential. 3/5

jagannath: stories, karin tidbeck ([partially?] translated from swedish by the author) really cool collection of sff stories by tidbeck, many of which veer into mild horror and some of which are influenced by swedish folklore and especially swedish fey stories. i enjoyed most of these a lot, especially the existential call centre horror story, the ‘god won’t let me die’ one, and a taxonomy of a cryptid that goes a little off the rails. 4/5

annette, ein heldinnenepos, anne weber a novel in verse about anne beaumanoir, a real person who was a résistance member during world war 2 and later supported the algerian national liberation front, for which she was sentenced to 10 years in prison (she escaped to tunisia and later algeria). she’s clearly a very impressive and interesting person & i conceptually enjoyed the idea of writing a modern hero(ine)’s epic, but i feel like the language could have been a bit more stylized to match the form. 3/5

salvage the bones, jesmyn ward (audio) bleak but ultimately hopeful novel about a black family in the days before and during hurricane katrina, although the focus is on the family dynamics, the 14-year-old narrator discovering that she is pregnant, and the kids trying to keep the puppies their dog china just had alive and well. enjoyed this, altho i did it a bit of a disservice but listening to it a lot of short chunks. 3.5/5

regeneration, pat barker (regeneration trilogy #1) set mostly at a military hospital for soldiers with shell shock during world war 1, this novel explores the existential horror of war, psychological treatment (& the horrible absurdity of treating traumatised men just enough so that you can send them straight back to Trauma Town), and the meeting between siegfried sassoon & wilfred owen. i find i don’t really have much to say about it, but it is very, very good. 4/5

how to pronounce knife, souvankham thammavongsa a short story collection mainly about refugees and migrants from laos to canada, many focusing on parent-child relationships and being forced to work in low-paid jobs, often ones that are damaging to their health. the stories are very well-observed and emotionally nuanced and detailed, but with 14 mostly very short stories, the collection as a whole felt a bit samey, which i guess is something i often experience with short story collections. 3/5

faces in the water, janet frame horrifying semi-autobiographical novel about a young woman stuck in new zealand’s mental health system, moving to different hospitals but mostly from ward to (more depressing) ward in the 40s/50s. while there is a shift in attitudes during her stay that sometimes makes the wards more tolerable, mostly the patients are neglected, abused, and the threat of electric shock therapy and lobotomy always hangs over them. 3/5

the upstairs house, julia fine fuck why did i read so many books about mental health conditions this month??? this is another entry in my casual ‘motherhood as horror’ reading project, in which a new mother develops post-partum psychosis & imagines the modernist children’s book writer she’s writing her dissertation on and her poet sometimes-lover haunting her and her child (margaret wise brown & michael strange, who are real people i was utterly unaware of). this does pretty good on the maternal horror front, but i wasn’t entirely sold on the literary haunting. 2/5

1000 serpentinen angst, olivia wenzel a very interesting novel about a woman struggling with grief over her brother’s suicide, an anxiety disorder, the (non)state of a (non)relationship and discrimination/marginalisation based on her identity as a black, east-german, bi woman (while also being, as she notes, financially privileged). much of the novel is written in a dialogue between the narrator and an unnamed (& probably internal) interlocutor, which was p effective for a novel more focused on introspection than much of a plot. 3/5

atlas: the archaeology of an imaginary city, dung kai-cheung (tr. from chinese by the author, anders hansson, bonnie mcdougall) fictitious theory about a slightly-left-of-reality version of hong kong and how maps (re)construct the city, very heavy on the postmodern poststructuralist postcolonial (and some other posts, i’m sure). in many ways my jam. unfortunately my favourite parts of this were the author’s preface and the first part (fictitious theory of mapping alternate hong kong); the rest felt very repetitive and not particularly interesting, altho i’m sure i was also just missing a lot of cultural context. 2.5/5

under the net, iris murdoch .........i liked the other two murdochs i’ve read (the sea, the sea & a severed head) quite a lot so either i was not in the mood for her very peculiar style of constructing novels and characters or, this being her first novel, she just wasn’t in full command of that peculiar style yet but man this was a slooooooooog. don’t stretch out your modern picaresque with an incredibly annoying narrator over more than 300 pages iris!!!! 2/5 bc this probably has some merit & i just wasn’t into it

the impossible revolution: making sense of the syrian tragedy, yassin al-haj saleh (tr. from arabic by i. rida mahmoud) collection of articles and essays saleh (a syrian intellectual & activist who spent 16 years in a syrian prison) wrote from 2011 to 2015, analysing the reasons for, potential and development of the revolution, as well as some background sociological discussion on the assads’ regime. very interesting, very dense, very depressing. wouldn’t necessarily recommend it as a first read on the topic tho. 3/5

angels in america: millenium approaches & perestroika, tony kushner the page to tumblr darling quote ratio in this is insane (”just mangled guts pretending” and so on) and also it just really slaps on every level. also managed to get me from 0 to crying several times. brilliant work of theatre, would love to see it staged (or filmed). 4/5

life: a user’s manual, georges perec (german tr. by eugen helmlé) 99 chapters, each corresponding with a single room in a parisian apartment block; some chapters are basically ‘here’s the room, here’s a long list of objects in the room, that’s it bye :)’, some are short insights into the lives of the people living there, some (the best, mostly) are long, absolutely wild tales that are sometimes only tangentially connected to the room in question. why are the french like this. 61/99 rooms

sisters in hate: american women on the front lines of white nationalism, seyward darby (audio) nonfiction about women’s role in white nationalist hate movements, mainly based on the stories of three women who are or have been involved with various contemporary american alt-right/racist/neonazi hate groups, while also looking at general social trends and the history of white women’s role in white supremacy. interesting and engaging if you’re interested in this kind of thing. if you’re both politically aware and internet poisoned, it’s probably not much that is completely new to you but still worth reading. 3/5

starting in april i will be Gainfully Employed (ugh) & thus probably not read as much or read even more bc i have no energy for anything else

#the books i read #long post

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livingmybestfakelife · 4 years

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The Favorite -1 of ?-

Paring: Tommy Shelby x Black Reader

Summary: Tommy and his fellow English men and women prepare for the arrival of an African noble

It’s been a while since you’ve been on a ship, ever since the sinking of the Titanic your parents have been hesitant about you traveling to places that you couldn’t get to by train or automobile. If there was a time where you absolutely had to travel overseas then the crown would make sure that the families royal ocean liner was up to par, plus enough lifeboats just in case the unfortunate were to happen.

The last time you were on the HMS Natukunda was in 1927, three years later and here you are back on giant ship, ready to take you and your parents to the United Kingdom, you have been there once, but you were only two years old at the time and obviously had no memory of it.

“Your highness, his and her greatness will not be attending the trip with you, they asked me to give you a copy of the schedule for you once you arrive in London”

Your personal secretary hands you a folder that you quickly skim through, one of the lines you noticed was with a meeting with some of the the local MP’s. You hold back rolling your eyes and close the folder, you never cared too much about politics and did your very best to stay away from it. Every member of the family that was of age had a responsibility to the crown, either you had to join the countries armed forces, attend university or had some kind of job working for the country, which most likely delt with something political.

“Can’t I just have tea with a member of the royal family?”

He chuckles before shaking his head, Abel felt bad about putting this all on you but it was his duty, he tried often to get your grandfather to change your schedule but his word was nothing to compare to ones of the King of Delhana. When he read over his copy of the list he let out a heavy sigh, this was going to be a hell of a trip, but at least the ship had all the best amenities to keep them entertained, it still didn’t calm your irritation, you would spend days trying to be cordial with the people who were still upset at the fact that their ancestors were unsuccessful in the colonization of your country and also that you were an independent nation, rich in oil, diamonds and other valuable resources, you dreaded the fact that one day you might become queen, and hoped for your grandfather and father to have a long lives, no way do you want to be under that kind of pressure.

Meanwhile all the way overseas in London, the MP’s were discussing the upcoming visit of Delhanan royalty. When Tommy arrived to work all he saw was people rushing around the giant office building, before he could get to his office he was able to catch one of the lower level workers to see what the commotion was about.

“Didn’t you hear sir? Princess YN of Delhana is coming to London”

He was trying to think of how your name was familiar to him, he had heard about Delhana, it was a country in North Africa, known for it’s generational wealth and supposed hoarding of jewels and oil, it was also popular for it’s coffee and tea, not to mention the women were gorgeous, many of Tommy’s old war buddies who took jobs over seas told him about how many goddesses they saw when they were stationed there. Once he made it to his office he’d gotten straight to work, the news of the visitor quickly left his mind, a few hours later there was a knock on his door and one of the last people he wanted to see entered.

“Mr. Shelby, nice day this morning isn’t it?”

He had that silly stupid smirk on his face that he absolutely loathed, he didn’t have time for any of his shit today.

“How may I help you Gregory?”

He could tell that he didn’t like the less formal greeting in return but decided to let it go, there were bigger things he could could argue with him over, less petty ones.

“Oh nothing in particular, just came by to ask if you heard about a certain visitor coming to our dear country”

“Yes, I heard, a Princess if I’m not mistaken”

“Princess YN, she’s second in line to the Delhanan throne and is...just too beautiful for her own good”

“I’m sure she’s a looker”

“She can make a blind man see and a dead one come back to life, if only I were a rich African so that I can have a chance with her”

“Don’t forget fifty years younger”

“That too, still the women in that family have their men in the palm of their hands, her cousin, Princess Iman, is married to a man who hand made the tiara that she wore on their wedding day, the jewels in it came from the mine that his family owns”

“That’s very interesting”

Greogry opened the newspaper that he had in his hand then tossed it over to him on his desk. Tommy looked at him for a moment before picking it up and looked at the page that he turned to.

“Princess YN?”

“No, that’s Iman”

“Princess wears three inch earrings, gold veil, scarlet skirt, red jacket”

“These people are sitting on a gold mine I’m telling you, and if this visit goes well the prime minister is confident that they’ll share their resources with us more often and ease up on all the rules and restrictions��

“Yeah, we’ll see, so everyone is going out of their way to impress her?”

“Well of course, she’s going to be a guest at Buckingham palace to have a dinner and she is to be staying at Fairweather Manor”

“Fairweather manor, only the best for Her royal Highness”

“Indeed...well, I’ll let you get back to work, and don’t forget, we have a meeting after lunch to discuss Delhanan customaries”

“Right”

Once he finally left Tommy put the paper down and leaned back into his seat, if she’s as beautiful and important as he says then he couldn’t wait to meet what the fuss was about.

———————-

“Your highness, what would you like for dinner? The usual I’m guessing.”

“Yes Abel the usual”

“Tsebhi with chapati coming right up”

He bows his head before closing your bedroom door, honestly you weren’t all that hungry, but you knew your mother would be less than pleased at you skipping a meal, you could feel her glare right now at even the thought of it, you stood up with a sigh and walked over to a portrait of one of your great great aunties, the painting looked as though it was staring into your soul, but it gave you some comfort, hopefully the feeling would last during your trip, if the English people were as unbearable as your Babu says then you would need all the blessings that was prayed over you before leaving.

“Keep me in your prayers dear Auntie, and bless you”

You curtsy to her portrait before going back to your dinning table.

#tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders #black reader

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masteroftheblade · 3 years

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What are your favorite and least favorite animes? Why do you like/dislike them?

oh god here we go lmao 🤠👍 prepare for an entire novel as always lol

my favorite animes atm are Naruto, Dragon Ball, Attack on Titan, and Claymore. Overall, my favorite genre of anime is shonen (and in case you dont know what that is, its basically shows that are marketed to young boys. it'll have shit like superpowers and poorly written female characters). My least favorite genre is Shoujo (marketed at young girls). I honestly don't hate the entire genre, I just hate how much romance is in there since im pretty romance-repulsed. If there were more Shoujo series like Claymore, I'd probably be in love w/ it. I'll start talking about these shows individually, starting w/ Naruto.

1. Naruto.

Honestly, the only reason I started watching Naruto was because my friends peer pressured me into doing it, and it actually differed from what I expected it to be story-wise. The beginning of the show started off amazing; it had excellent world building, magic systems, interesting characters, and it attempted to address how messed up the whole shinobi system is. But then Naruto got on the front page of Shonen Jump, and everything went down from there. It started to focus more on cool fight scenes than the actual plot. I wont get too much into that, because you can literally find entire blogs dedicated to dissecting that, but Naruto killed itself w/ its own popularity. That said, I love the characters and world building and I can look past most of its flaws anyway.

Would I recommend reading/watching it? Yes, but only to say you did it for bragging rights. Don't go into watching Naruto if you want deep looks into imperialism and militarized governments, because you will get the complete opposite of that :P Also the best way to watch it is to watch it with friends.

2. Dragon Ball.

I only started watching DB about a month ago, so take what I say with a grain of salt, but I think its a garbage series. The fight scenes have little to no weight to them, because no matter what, the protagonist of that episode will always succeed in some way. For example, when Goku (a 12 y/o boy) was fighting Giran (a 10ft tall godzilla man) and was getting his ass beat until Goku just... randomly grows back his tail that was cut off earlier and wins. We are never told why he grew back his tail, and i think he only gets it back so he can have a cool fight scene in a later episode. Goku can literally be battling genocidal gods and he will still always win. The show also goes out of its way to sexualize/show a female character being harrassed. Every. Fucking. Episode.

That said, it is a fun show, and I really enjoy watching it. Like Naruto, I really love the characters and the world they are in, I just hate the way it was handled, and its painfully obvious that DB was made by a bunch of old men in the 80s. Unlike Naruto, however, I really appreciate how simple it is. It doesn't force a narrative about space genocide or whatever being bad, and I'm very thankful because that kind of narrative would be absolutely botched in this kind of series. It's also nice to have a show that doesn't take itself too seriously. Shows like AOT are amazing and important, but those shows can be overwhelming with their heavy subject matter. I would only recommend watching DB if you want to see some really good art/character design. Don't take the show seriously, and you'll have a good time.

3.Attack On Titan.

This anime was actually the first I've ever seen! I saw the very first episode when it aired in 2014, so I'm definetely biased in that regard, but I still try to look at this show in the most objective way I can. This show does almost everything right. The pacing, the characters, the art, the plot, you name it. It takes a concept that looks silly on paper and turns it into this grueling story about war, politics, and the trauma of being a soldier. It never treats it's characters like they're only one-dimensional, or like they are there just for one purpose only. These characters feel human in a way Naruto and Dragon Ball could never be. But there is one thing that has me concerned about this show, and its about the weirdly anti-Semitic undertones it has.

You probably heard the controversy already, but it really effected the way people on the outside of the fandom view the series. The show is heavily inspired by European culture, specifically that of Germany, and there are an ethnic group of people called The Eldians in the show that are pretty anti-Semitic in this kind of setting. The Eldian people have the capability of turning into Titans, and the Titans are what divided the world and killed millions. As a result, another group of people started doing the shit the Nazis did to Jewish people, basically making the Eldians into this weird allegory for the holocaust??? Which was kind of a shock to me when I first realized that was the angle they were going for. I genuinely did not expect that considering what the series started off as. The foreshadowing is there and all, I just didn't think they'd use real-world events as inspiration.

Now, this actually has the complete opposite problem Naruto and DB had. Naruto and DB had amazing ideas and concepts that went to shit, AOT's whole holocaust narrative was trash from the beginning.

The show could have easily had a different kind of social/political commentary without even going near the holocaust narrative. It comes off as kind of a half assed idea that people put way too much effort in, so it's kind of in this weird grey-area between "modern anime masterpiece" and "what the fuck were they trying to get across with this show?". If you asked me what the moral of the show was, I wouldn't be able to tell you.

Now, because of the fact that the Eldians can literally turn into man-eating beasts, this makes the comparison of Jewish people and Eldians very racist, and it doesn't help that Japan is still full of legitimate Nazis, making the whole situation look even worse. Since I am not Jewish, I wont speak for other Jewish people. There is a very heated debate on whether the show is racist, and frankly I don't think it's within my right to say if it is or isn't. What I will say, is that I really loved the show and appreciated the social commentary it provided, and I think a lot of people would benefit from watching it, but I think it's also important to listen to Jewish people's views on the show. For this reason, I specifically avoid reblogging AOT stuff, but I do love that show and I wont hate on people who do reblog stuff from it. It's definitely not a light watch, but it does provide a lot of thinking material.

4. Claymore.

This. Show. Was. Amazing. But. Underrated.

First off, this is a shonen show that is led by a majority female cast and a female protagonist, and all of those women are badass swordwielding lesbians and I love it. Second, the art style is beautiful. Third, the story is really interesting from so many angles, so much so I am not even going to mention what its about because you dont need to know, you just need to watch it and see what happens. The first season was an absoloute ride of a show, and if you love shows like AOT or Berserk, you'll love Claymore. Honestly, this show was what AOT should have tried to be. It also has its fair share of militarized imperialist commentary, but this is the only show on this list that actually fucking critiques imperialist ideals and has a main character that actively refuses to participate in that kind of oppressive system, choosing to fight it all together.

But the show got fucking cancelled right before the first arc even finished. You can thank shows like Naruto for that 🙃🙃🙃

10/10 Would reccomend, but just be prepared to be left on a major cliffhanger. You can try reading the manga, but it's kind of hard to follow since all of the warrior girls look the same.

#i spent too much time writing this #oh well #im not gonna tag the shows i talked about in this bcuz if i do ill get discourse blogs to start shitting on me #so im just gonna avoid it all together lol #also didnt write abt my least faves because this was too long to write as is #anyway as promised we can now get married any time you want @kindasortasalty /j /p #👩‍🦲

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dinosaurtsukki · 4 years

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across the sea | a bokuaka fanfic (act. III)

inspired by the movie ‘portrait of a lady on fire’ by celine sciamma which is sad and lesbian

pairing: bokuto koutarou x akaashi keiji

word count: 21.8k words

contains: historical setting (actually the setting is vague bec if i tried to describe it more it would take 5 extra pages), heavy angst, slight fluff, greek mythology references, implied smut

summary: when Bokuto accepted a portrait commission for the young, engaged Akaashi Keiji, he never expected him to be so beautiful. he knows it's a mistake to be attached, a mistake for them to fall in love in a time when they know it's impossible for them to be together.

a/n: i’m a sad gay who loves sad lesbian movies and portait of a lady on fire is peak film. a lot of the things here are based on the film so i suggest you check out this beautiful movie, but i added a few tweaks here and there to make it my own.

chapters: act. I, act. II., act. III

Bokuto only saw Akaashi two more times since he last left the Elysium Manor. The first time was three years after that unforgettable summer in a secluded house. Thanks to finishing the portrait commission that pleased Mikoto, a woman of relatively high social standing, Bokuto gained a bit more status within the artist circles. Rich nobles commissioned him for portraits, scholars and other writers and artists commissioned him to create paintings of fantastical scenes, and almost any painting that he made was guaranteed a spot in a museum. Bokuto was invited to join the upper social circles at their dinners and luncheons or visits to the opera, but he would politely decline. He couldn’t imagine himself being a part of that social circle and let them paint a picture of mystery around him.

Instead, he decided to teach. He used his money to open a studio for young artists and taught them the basics of sketching and painting with different mediums, instructing them the way his master did. Bokuto had his own studio situated on the floor above where he would teach that came with a bedroom. At night, he’d open the windows for the smell of turpentine and oil to air out, but he’d keep the windows closed, the lights off, and the backdoor open for Kuroo to come in.

He was a male model, one quite famous with fellow artists for being a good one. There were probably a number of sculptures in the nearby museum, Asphodel, based on his physique. He didn’t discriminate when it came to preferring the company of men and women and hit his preferences just as well as Bokuto did. Kuroo was a nice man, a kind one, and Bokuto knew that maybe the dark-haired model had feelings for him. And yet, he never crossed that line. Most likely, Kuroo could see that faraway look in Bokuto’s eyes when he woke up in the morning, his eyes searching for the sea and whatever was across it.

The first time he saw Akaashi was in Asphodel. Bokuto had recently finished a painting that was going to be a centerpiece in their main gallery. On that day, he wore his best shirt and tried to wet his hair and comb it down but to no avail. ‘It’s alright. You’re known for your skills. Not your looks,’ he told himself before putting on a coat and heading out to leave.

The museum was already packed when he arrived with a good number of people circled around his painting. Bokuto pushed his way through the crowd, muttering ‘Excuse me’ along the way, until he was standing near it with his back to the wall. He was aware that he was drawing attention to himself looking like a sentinel instead of the painter but he couldn’t help but wonder about the things people would say. One of the viewers, a young couple, were in conversation as they scanned the painting.

“It’s that Greek legend, isn’t it? The one with Orpheus.”

“Yes. And his wife Eurydice. He traveled to the Underworld after she died with the hope of being able to bring her to life again.”

“I remember! But then there was a condition, right? He couldn’t turn around.”

“That’s right. Although… most painters and writers depict Eurydice already just as Orpheus turned around. In this one, it’s as if he turned around just in time to see her fall.”

“Kind of like he expected it?”

“Maybe. It’s quite an interesting take, if you ask me.”

“Indeed, it is.”

Bokuto smiled to himself, satisfied at the exchange generated by his painting. It was all about the exchanges, the different conversations that his art generated. He stayed by his painting for a few more minutes, listening to conversations, before deciding to stroll through the museum and peruse the other collections. His best sources of inspiration were other artists, but during this visit, it wasn’t just inspiration he found.

It was another portrait of Akaashi Keiji.

It hung in one of the museum wings that they dedicated to portraits. Bokuto rarely needed inspiration for those but something about that day pulled him into the wing to view the collections until he caught a familiar painted face. ‘Is it really him?’ he wondered, eyes flying to the placard to the right that confirmed his suspicions: Portrait of Akaashi Keiji, oil on canvas. It was him. In the portrait, Akaashi was sitting on a chair, elbows on a desk, hands holding up a book. His posture was impeccable as always but his face was completely absorbed in what he was reading. But it was him: same high cheekbones, same curly brown hair, same delicate fingers, same emerald eyes.

Bokuto didn’t know how long he stood there just drinking in the portrait and attempted to memorize every detail when he came to the book in Akaashi’s hands. The worn spine, the burgundy leather jacket, even the size of it: it was his book on Greek Mythology. The book was angled just so, enough for the viewer to see the top corner of the righthand page. “Page 57,” Bokuto whispered, overcome with sheer sadness and joy at the encounter, “You remember.”

The second and last time Bokuto saw Akaashi happened two years later at the Museum Greek History, this time in a different city. Bokuto was there working on a commission for a noblewoman who wanted portraits of each of her children. It was a lot of work, but the money was good and he got to see much of the city. Bokuto decided to explore the museum during a day off. His favorite part was the collection of ancient texts and scrolls that were each displayed in a glass case. He couldn’t read anything that was written, but he liked knowing that they had such a collection. ‘Maybe this time they won’t keep the homosexual subtext out of translation,’ he thought with a smile. He still held out hope that maybe someday, people would accept that Achilles and Patroclus were lovers.

With that thought in mind, Bokuto decided he was done looking around for the day and get ready for the amount of work he would have to do on the way back home. He was walking down the flights of stairs, deep in thought, when a voice shook him out of his thoughts.

“Bokuto-san.”

He had to hold onto the railing to keep himself from falling. It was just like that time he saw Akaashi’s portrait two years ago. Nobody else said his name like that: all crisp syllables and with more than a little warmth in the tone. Bokuto remembered the last time he actually saw Akaashi back at Elysium Manor, and turned around.

There he was, standing at the top of the staircase. He looked as if five years had barely laid a finger on him and looked just as surprised as Bokuto did. Akaashi took a hesitant step forward and walked down two steps. Bokuto felt as if he was back in Elysium Manor as their surroundings fell away.

“It’s you.”

“It’s me.”

“H-how… how have you been?” Bokuto stammered. So many questions overwhelmed his mind and yet he could only pick out that one. An inkling of a smile appeared on Akaashi’s face as he nodded his head in understanding. ‘Even now, we still have this connection,’ Bokuto thought.

“I’m alright. Married. We live in a nice house. My wife is kind, beautiful, friendly. Sometimes we play card games at night,” he enumerated, tapping absentmindedly at the railing of the stairway. “A good life actually.” He looked back at Bokuto. ‘But you’re not in it,’ he seemed to say. “How about you?”

“I could say the same,” Bokuto managed a smile. “My paintings have been pretty famous. I get commissioned often. I teach young artists. I make enough to keep my studio and do some traveling here and there.”

“Sounds like a good life.”

“It does.” But it was just that: good. Bokuto opened his mouth to say something when a child came running down the staircase from above.

“Father!” he exclaimed, barreling into Akaashi’s side. ‘Father,’ Bokuto echoed in his mind. The little boy looked to be about five or four years old. He mostly took after his mother as he had fair hair and fair skins, but when Bokuto looked at closer, he could tell that the boy had his father’s eyes.

“Hiro. Please don’t run down the stairs, you could slip,” Akaashi gently scolded him, leaning down a bit to fix his tie. It was such a small gesture but it made Bokuto’s heart ache just to watch.

“I saw this really cool looking spear in the Weapons Wing. It looked just like the one in the book you read to me!” the young boy exclaimed excitedly.

“Is that so? I hope you remember it well then,” Akaashi fondly patted his son’s head before turning to Bokuto. “Hiro, this is one of my… good friends, Bokuto. Bokuto, this is Hiro. My son.”

“Nice to meet you,” Bokuto smiled down at him. Hiro cocked his head and waved shyly, making Bokuto chuckle. “He has your eyes, Akaashi.” During the past five years, Bokuto had held out hope that maybe he and Akaashi would cross paths again, that maybe they could run away like what Akaashi dreamed of. But now, he knew that he was too late. Ever since he left Elysium Manor, it was all too late for that.

“It was great seeing you again, Akaashi,” Bokuto cleared his throat and feigned a smile. “I… I have to take my leave now.” He didn’t want to leave. With every fiber of his being, he didn’t want to leave. He would hold this encounter in his heart for the rest of his life but nothing good would come out of him speaking his mind.

“Alright, say goodbye, Hiro,” Akaashi said, tight-lipped. ‘You know it too,’ Bokuto thought.

“Bye,” Hiro waved shyly. Just as Bokuto was about to turn and leave, Akaashi quickly ran down the rest of the steps and wrapped both of his arms around him before he could say anything. Bokuto held his arms awkwardly at his sides before wrapping them around Akaashi’s waist. He wondered how much Akaashi had tried to hold himself back from doing this.

“Koutarou,” he whispered. “Until now, do you…?”

“I do. I think of you every single day,” Bokuto whispered back. “I still love you, Keiji.”

“I’m glad,” Akaashi swallowed and pulled back, leaving the feeling of that loss of warmth that Bokuto would carry with him for the rest of his life. And with that, he nodded once, and left.

Five more years passed. Bokuto had begun to grow tired of the fame and attention and decided to move to a provincial town along the coast. He left his studio to one of his young apprentices, packed up his materials, and bought a small house with a garden that sat near a cliff, overlooking the sea. He still painted, it was something he never grew tired of, but he chose to paint nature or the people at the countryside instead of the portraits of noblemen and fantastical scenes. He liked getting to know his neighbors, going to the festivals held at the town square, and looking out of his window to see the birds that chirped on the trees or dove into the sea for food. He was sitting on his chair outside, trying to sketch the charming woodpecker he saw that morning from memory, when Kageyama came.

“If it isn’t Elysium Manor’s most loyal butler,” Bokuto grinned at him as he saw the familiar head of black hair approach his porch. He looked different from the last time Bokuto saw him. His arms were thicker and his complexion was slightly tanned. But it was still him.

“It took a while for me to find you, Bokuto,” he returned the smile.

“Find me?” Bokuto said, puzzled. “Did you suddenly become a fan of my paintings?”

“No, it’s…” Kageyama paused and exhaled, the look on his face somber. “Can we talk inside?” Bokuto felt his stomach drop. He knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it is Kageyama was going to say.

“Sure. I’ll make tea.”

Once they were sitting at the table with two mugs of tea between them, Kageyama broke the news.

“Akaashi-san passed away last winter.”

The news hit Bokuto like cold water to the face. Akaashi Keiji. The man that Bokuto had loved ten summers ago. The man he just saw five years ago. The one that haunted him at midnight, tossing and turning and longing for that touch and wondering about all the what-could-have-been’s. His Akaashi Keiji. His Akaashi Keiji whose sketch Bokuto still kept in a small pocketbook close to his heart. Who grew up a lonely, sickly boy in a house full of books. His Akaashi Keiji, who would mumble ‘Koutarou’ every time they woke up together during those numbered mornings. His Akaashi Keiji.

“I’m sorry, Bokuto. I truly am,” Kageyama sighed, reaching out to touch his fingertips.

“How—how did you know?” he stammered.

“I received a letter,” he said. “It said that he contracted tuberculosis from a trip abroad and, well you know how sickly he is. He wasn’t able to survive it.”

“God…” Bokuto rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I… I didn’t think… of all things…”

“I know,” Kageyama nodded. “The letter said that I was mentioned in Akaashi-san’s will. He entrusted two items to me to deliver to you.” With that, he pulled a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twin from his satchel and placed it on the table. Bokuto made no move to accept it. All he wanted was Akaashi back. He didn’t care if had to take ten, twenty more years for them to meet again. He just wanted to know he was alive somewhere and still thinking of him.

“I…I think I know why he had these sent to me instead of having them delivered directly to you,” Kageyama cleared his throat. “Akaashi-san cared about you, and yes, I know he cared about you in that way. I could see it in the way he looked at you. I was skeptical at first of your relationship but ten years after, the moments I witnessed of the two you stand out starkly.”

At this, Bokuto could feel himself collapse with his head on the table, the dam of tears finally breaking as he sobbed into his arms. “It’s true. We did love each other.”

“I know he thought of you in those last moments,” Kageyama consoled him. “You were too important for him to think of breaking the news to you through just a letter.”

Bokuto didn’t know how long he had cried there on the table for. He could hear Kageyama busying himself in the kitchen and the smell of dinner being cooked, as if they were both back at Elysium Manor. Finally, when his tears had all run out, he sat up to open the package that Akaashi had entrusted to Kageyama. Inside, there were two books: the Greek Mythology book that Akaashi loved so much, much worn down than the last time Bokuto had used it to sketch a portrait of himself, and a soft, leather-bound notebook.

It was late so Kageyama stayed the night and slept on a roll-out cot beside Bokuto’s bed before he left the next morning. “It’s a nice place,” he told him, as they stood at the cliffside overlooking the sea. “I could see why you chose to be here.”

The next few months after that was the longest that Bokuto spent without painting. Every time he tried to pick up a brush or a piece of drawing charcoal, his hands shook and all he could see in front of him was the half-finished portrait of Akaashi, and Akaashi himself posing in the distance. And at night, he’d find himself looking over his shoulder more than once to see that vision of his beloved, pale as a ghost.

Finally, he picked up the leather notebook that Akaashi left for him. He had expected it to be a diary but it ended up being slightly more than that. It was a story: about a lonely boy who spent his days reading books in an empty house and the beautiful painter who entered his life and made it worth living. ‘He came on a little lifeboat from across the sea,’ it began. Bokuto found himself tearing up again at the sight of Akaashi’s handwriting.

Every day, little by little, he read a bit more of the story, mostly while he was sitting on a chair near the cliffside. He relived everything: the time Akaashi drank the sea from his cupped hands, the look on his face when he saw the ruined portrait, Akaashi dancing around the maypole with his crown of chrysanthemums, the summer night kiss, the feeling of their bodies pressed together, the sound of his voice when he read out loud, Akaashi’s emerald green suit in the portrait, their last night together, the morning after and the sketches to remember each other by, Akaashi illuminated by a single shaft of light in the middle of the floor, the portrait of him hanging in the museum with the pages of his book turned to the 57th page, the last time Bokuto heard Akaashi say his name.

At the very last page of the notebook was a note, directly addressed to him: I know for a fact that there are others like us, Koutarou. Afraid of the punishment, afraid of the scorn. I don’t think I’ve ever cared about what people would think of me once I died, but if there is one thing I want people to remember about me, its that I was yours, always yours. Maybe someday there will be a place for people like us, a better place. And I want them to know that we’ve always been around. We’ve hid. We’ve suffered. We’ve lost. But we’ve also loved.

“We have loved, haven’t we Akaashi?” Bokuto whispered, closing the notebook. He knew that he was going to finally pick up his charcoals and later on, his brush. He remembered what Akaashi said about how texts were continuously misinterpreted to remove the homoerotic subtext and as much as he knew it would be difficult to do so with Akaashi’s journal, Bokuto wanted to further ensure how history would remember them. He would sketch and paint everything he could possibly remember. But for now, he wanted to finish his day staring out across the sea.

Kageyama knew why Bokuto purposely chose to make his home here. The town and house he lived in was just on the other side of the sea, across where Elysium Manor still reportedly stood. Nobody went there and it was still Akaashi’s name, but the land and the manor would eventually be donated to the nearby town. Under the condition that Akaashi Keiji’s final resting place wouldn’t be disturbed.

“That clause in his will was only allowed for me to hear,” Kageyama had said a few months ago before he left. “That small plot of land next to where Akaashi-san is buried is entrusted to me to be passed on to you. Bokuto-san, I will ensure that that will be your final resting place. And if I pass on before you, I will entrust the task to my nephew. I can promise you that.”

“You do love your Greek myths, don’t you Akaashi?” Bokuto smiled to himself. He could almost hear his laugh in the back of his mind. As he looked out to the sea, he could just barely make out what lay across it. It made Bokuto remember how Orpheus and Eurydice’s tale truly ended. After losing his wife a second time, Orpheus wandered the Earth, lost and mourning, until he was torn apart and killed by Maenads, Dionysus’ traveling followers. When Orpheus soul traveled down to the Underworld, Eurydice was there, standing on the banks of the River Styx, arms outstretched to her lover who finally came home.

#across the sea #bokuaka #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji #bokuaka fanfic #haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! fanfic #across the sea: act. III

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maleficarfic · 3 years

Text

Of Unicorns, Virgins, and Other Such Things

Pairing: Female Lavellan/Solas

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Only partially crack

Summary: A noble attempting to curry favor with the Inquisition gives Inquisitor Lavellan a unicorn. It gets in the way. A lot.

On AO3: Link

“But what is it?” the Inquisitor asked, ears flicking with annoyance as she peered at the massive white beast stomping around her courtyard, nickering nastily at everyone who wasn’t Cole. It was quite pretty, with a flowing mane and tail that shimmered like starlight. Its hooves and horn glimmered gold in the brilliant light of early afternoon.

“A gift,” Josephine said, a bit too cheerfully. “From a noble who seeks to curry your favor. It is a rare, almost mythical unicorn.”

The Inquisitor peered at it. “It doesn’t have a sword through its face like the other one.”

“Because this is a natural unicorn,” Josephine said with infinite patience.

The Inquisitor’s right ear twitched, her expression flattening. “You said mythical.”

“I said almost mythical.”

“And this from you,” Varric interjected, leaning against a wooden post and giving the Inquisitor one of those shit-eating grins. Her ears twitched again. “The woman who does at least ten impossible things before breakfast.”

She pulled her lips back and gave him a snarl. Any normal person would have seen that expression and pissed themselves, but Varric just laughed like this was all good fun. It was infuriating how she was supposed to be the most deadly person in Thedas – though, probably, the Hero of Ferelden was more so – but none of her companions seemed to treat her with the respect deadly people deserved. Actually, now that she thought about it, no one did. It was always Inquisitor, fetch this thing or Inquisitor, take this other thing to the place with the people or even Inquisitor, my wife is dying and my son knows how to cure her so please go to him but, oh, no, he won’t come back with the potion or even given you the recipe he’ll just give you the potion to bring back to me necessitating you making future trips to bolster the Inquisition’s reputation. Not that she had strong feelings about this.

“Also this unicorn is not dead.”

“Fluffy,” the Inquisitor said with sharp enunciating, “is not dead. She is respirationally challenged. More importantly, why doesn’t this one like anyone except Cole?”

Solas, who had been hovering at the edge of the courtyard with a studious expression on his face, swung toward her at the question. “Lore surrounding unicorns posits they prefer the company of virgins and will defend a virgin quite violently.”

The Inquisitor went still. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Oh,” she finally managed.

“Indeed.” Solas slipped closer to her. “Given the unicorn’s nature, it might be best to have—”

He broke off as the unicorn, with a whiny loud enough to burst eardrums, rounded on them and charged. He threw himself to the side, snapping a barrier into place around himself, Josie, the Inquisitor, and Varric, and stumbled. He righted himself only with Josie’s help.

“Oh,” the Inquisitor said as the unicorn paced in a circle around her. She felt heat rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of being a virgin. That didn’t bother her at all. It was just that a four-legged beast with a spike growing out its head was telling everyone in Skyhold that she’d never gotten laid.

Twenty-four years old, leading one of the most powerful political forces in the world, surrounded by men and women who pretty much oozed sex appeal, and she’d never had sex.

This was her life.

She dragged a hand down her face as Varric made a noise of pure delight. “Inquisitor, he seems to like you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she muttered.

The unicorn’s muzzle rubbed against her face. It lipped her ear. With a shriek, she bolted away from it.

“He really seems to like you!” Varric called after her as she tore across the courtyard, the unicorn prancing happily after her.

She tried hiding in the great hall. She tried hiding in the tavern. She climbed the ladder to Cullen’s Blighted bedroom and crawled under his bed – much to his sputtering horror – and the damn thing somehow managed to follow her everywhere. When she decided to go out on missions, it was waiting in the stables, somehow saddled, looking at her with huge, watery eyes that seemed to say Ride me, beautiful virgin, and she’d go red to her ears.

Passing judgments was next to impossible. The Tevinter shem who had led the Wardens astray had taken one look at the unicorn standing proudly beside her throne and dissolved into giggles. Ser Ruth, who had turned herself in around the same time the Tevinter mage was brought before her, took one look at the unicorn and started choking. Ostensibly on laughter, but the Inquisitor hoped the woman swallowed her tongue.

“You can’t follow me everywhere,” she told the damn beast as it followed her across one of the ramparts. She and Cole kept putting him in the stables. He kept escaping. Somehow.

Vivienne thought he was possessed, and Bull tended to agree, but everything was demons and despair with those two anyway.

“You need to let me do my job.” He stared at her with watery eyes. She attempted to remain unmoved. “You need a name, too.”

He pranced, hopping from hoof to hoof as if he understood. In the back of her head, she heard Solas intoning, Unicorns are widely believed to be incredibly intelligent creatures. Do your best to be polite. That horn isn’t for show.

“Pokey?” she suggested.

The unicorn gave her a look that pretty clearly said, You’re shitting me.

“Fine, fair, I agree, it was a bad idea.” She was bad at naming things, though. The other day, she’d scraped together enough lambswool to make a new set of robes for Solas, and when asked by Dagna and Harritt to give the coat some kind of identifier, she’d just said, “Sheep’s Clothing.” They’d looked at her like she’d grown two heads before declaring it Resisting Magical Something or Another.

She had told Solas about the incident. He hadn’t approved, though she couldn’t fathom why.

Tugging on one of her braids, she gave the unicorn an assessing look. “You kind of look like a Bob to me.”

He blinked at her and that blink somehow managed to convey his dripping disdain.

“Not Pokey. Not Bob.” She chewed on her lower lip, and the unicorn made a sound that might have been horsey delight. It disturbed her. Deeply. She stopped chewing on her lip. “We could go with something noble. Charger?” He shook his head. Or ruffled his mane. Or something. She took it to be a no. “Dasher? Dancer? Prancer?” She paused. “Now that’s just ridiculous. You’re not making this easy, you know.”

He shuffled up to her and rubbed his nose against her shoulder. She, meanwhile, eyed the exceptionally sharp tip of his horn as it bobbed next to her face. Tentatively, she stroked the unicorn’s neck. “What about Hanal’ghilan? You’re not a halla, but it’s a noble name.”

He whickered and caught her ear with his lips. With an indignant shriek, she tore across the parapets.

In a rare moment of unicorn-free time later that afternoon, she slipped into Solas’s room to study the murals he was painting. And possibly to snuggle up to him and make him incredibly uncomfortable. There was something to be said for flustering him, and it was so delightfully easy that even a virgin could do it.

In her defense, she wasn’t much of a virgin. The unicorn might count her as one, but she’d done more than her fair share of playing poke and tickle with some of the other youths in her clan. She’d just never gone far enough to jeopardize her position.

“Solas,” she greeted cheerfully.

His head snapped up, his eyes darting all around her. Then he relaxed. “I see you’re without your stalwart protector.”

She slipped up to him. He wasn’t painting, was standing beside his table with a book in one hand. His fingers, long and lithe and delightfully wicked, were splayed across the pages of a book that lay open on the table before him.

Dancing her fingers up his tunic, she drew closer to him. “Stolen moments are so rare,” she purred, watching with delight as his eyes widened slightly.

“Inquisitor, I—”

“You?” she asked, rising onto her toes to brush her lips against his. It wasn’t even close to a kiss, but it was enough to get her a little tingly and a lot interested in actual kissing. She wanted real kisses, the fiery, passionate, he-shoves-his-hands-in-her-hair kinds of kisses. Kisses that involved tongue, but not Fade tongue. Fade tongue only got a girl so far.

He swallowed and made a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t think…”

“Oh, but you do,” she murmured. “Entirely too much.” She canted her head to the side, sliding one arm about his neck. His book tumbled to the ground as his arm went around her waist, tugging her flush against him.

Their mouths were so close, his eyes so intent and filled with burning, desperate wanting.

From above them came a mighty crash.

“Confounded creature!” Dorian shouted. He followed that shout with many more, none of them understandable, all of them Tevene.

Solas all but shoved her away from him, throwing himself at the scaffolding to the side of the room as she heaved a heavy, beleaguered sigh and Hanal’ghilan tore into the room looking like a demon. He snorted, chest heaving, head lowered, and charged straight at Solas.

His horn missed Solas’s butt – and what a tight, sexy butt it was, she thought as he scrambled up the ladder – by inches.

Hanal’ghilan skidded to a stop between her and Solas, scratching the stone floor fiercely with his hooves. He huffed, dragging one hoof over the stone as if readying to charge, and she sighed heavily. “We need to discuss personal boundaries,” she said to him, patting him on the back.

It took her and Cole promising Hana’ghilan the best oats and a stupid amount of sugar cubes to get him to leave Solas’s rotunda. It took even longer to get the unicorn back to the stables, where the Inquisitor assured him up and down that she wouldn’t go anywhere near Solas ever again and he needn’t worry about her losing her virginity in the near to immediate future. He snorted, clearly not believing her, which was pretty much the right response because that night, Solas barged into her dreams with all the subtly of a charging druffalo.

He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, and she threw her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist and forcing him to hold her. They stumbled until her back pressed against a wall, and his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her, and it was so good.

Except for the part where it wasn’t real.

“I’m going to kill that creature,” Solas growled against her mouth, working his hands under her tunic to cup her breasts. That was also good. It was better than good. Heat lanced through her, and she dragged his mouth back to hers for more kisses.

She’d done a lot of kissing in twenty four years. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t as though she’d popped out of the womb and started kissing people. Maybe it was more like twelve years, unless she counted that time she kissed Theron when she was six. It hadn’t been a good kiss. She decided not to count it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she growled back, tugging at his clothes, wondering why he bothered with them in the Fade at all.

Probably because they never got much further than kissing shirtless. He always balked at that point.

“What have I done?” he asked as he caught her lower lip in his teeth, tugging gently.

She responded by grinding her hips against his, making him gasp with pleasure and shock and, really, he should be used to her doing this like this by now. “Nothing, hahren,” she replied in a throaty murmur, and he pressed closer to her, his eyes flickering with lust. “And that’s the problem.”

She heard something crash. It was a splintery sound. Rather like what wood might sound like when it shattered. She went stiff in his arms, and he noticed immediately. “Vhenan?” he asked, drawing his hands down her sides.

“Oh, by the Dread Wolf’s hairy ball—” The Fade dream fractured as a very large something pounded up her stairs and neighed loud enough to wake the dead. She bolted upright from her nest on the floor – she still wasn’t used to the concept of shem beds – and hurled her pillow at Hanal’ghilan’s face.

It hit his horn and stuck.

As he shook his head wildly, trying to dislodge the pillow, she threw another one. “It was a dream!” she shouted, hurling a third pillow. “It was just a dream, I was dreaming, and how did you even get in here?”

In the end, her pillow went flying off Hanal’ghilan’s horn and straight out her open window. It soared over her balcony and disappeared into the snowy mountains. Hanal’ghilan had the good sense to bow his head and give her those sad, watery eyes that were almost as guilt-inducing as puppy eyes.

“I’m still mad at you,” she groused as she patted a spot next to her pile of blankets. Hanal’ghilan happily settled there, and, after a moment, she dropped a pillow on his side and curled up against him. It wasn’t so different from sleeping with a halla.

The next morning, she stumbled into the tavern for breakfast with Hanal’ghilan on her heels, and Varric, who was always obscenely cheerful at all hours, saluted her with a mug of that wonderfully bitter, disgustingly perfect drink the shems called coffee. She made grabby hands at it and he surrendered it to her. “Looks like you’ve still got your unicorn chastity belt,” he said and she dragged her hands down her face, pushing the coffee aside and leaning across the table.

“All I want,” she hissed, “is to kiss him.”

“Who, the unicorn or Chuckles?” Varric asked, waving a serving girl over for another cup of coffee.

She pinned Varric with a glare that could probably melt silverite. At the very least, it should have seared the flesh off his bones.

Varric, however, was immune to such looks. She knew this. She still tried to employ them. They always failed. “My hahren—”

“That’s what the kids are calling it these days?” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“That,” she sputtered, “is a term of respect for an elder and not some – some—” She broke off, still sputtering.

“Some salacious pet name?” he supplied.

Dorian dropped into the seat next to her. Aside from Cole, Dorian was the only man Hanal’ghilan let touch her. “Who are we giving salacious pet names to? Can I be next?”

She dropped her head to the table with an audible thunk. “It’s bad enough everyone knows I’ve never had sex with anyone,” she complained into the wood.

“And all you want is for Solas to throw you down and have his wicked way with you, but you have one very large, very white, very horny problem,” Dorian said with far too much cheer for the time of morning.

There was a beat of silence. Then he and Varric broke into laughter so loud it probably reached the Creator’s in the Beyond. She wanted to claw their faces off, but that wasn’t what civilized Inquisitors did.

The door to the tavern banged open, and she turned her head to see a very surly Solas in the doorway. He stopped there. Saw Hanal’ghilan. Hanal’ghilan saw him.

Some kind of energy snapped between the two of them, Hanal’ghilan pawing at the hardwood floor as she hissed at him to behave. Solas spun about on his heel and left. With a cheerful whicker of pleasure, Hanal’ghilan nuzzled against her shoulder.

“I’m going to die a virgin,” she groaned.

“Was this even an issue before our friend showed up?” Dorian asked. He had tried to pronounce Hanal’ghilan’s name once. She had told him if he ever tried again, she would burn all his silky robes and force him to wear cotton. The horror on his face had been priceless.

“No,” she moaned, reaching blindly for her coffee.

One of them, Creators bless them, pushed the mug into her hands. She picked her face off the table and hunkered over the steaming mug, taking small sips of the still too hot drink. It was black and bitter – as bleak as her sex life. She pointed to the mug. “This coffee is my sex life.”

“Hot and steamy?” Varric asked.

“Bitter and black and awful.”

“I thought you liked coffee,” Varric said.

“I don’t. I hate it.” She drank it anyway. “It’s just a good kick in the ass in the morning so I’m awake enough to wrangle all of you. Like whiny little halla who don’t want to go in their pens.”

“We have pens now?” Dorian asked. “That’s rather deviant, Inquisitor.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, throwing back the rest of the coffee in a single gulp.

She began to plan. She went to Cole, because Cole was the only one in Skyhold other than her, apparently, who was a virgin. It was awful. It was terrible. Because of Hanal’ghilan, she knew more about the sex lives of everyone in the Inquisition that she ever wanted or needed to know. The reverse, of course, was also true, and the only one who didn’t seem to care was Cole. Everyone else teased her mercilessly.

“Still have your white shadow,” Leliana had said idly in the War Room two days ago while Hanal’ghilan had lowered his horn at Cullen and proceeded to push the Commander around the room – the Inquisitor had not wanted to consider why.

Just yesterday, Sera had gone on at some length to Blackwall about being elbow deep in circumstances. And had asked the Inquisitor how her circumstances were. They’d both howled with laughter. The Inquisitor had wanted to die.

Or to stick them with something pointy.

Hanal’ghilan was off harassing someone else, so she was planning. With Cole. Planning with Cole was more like trying to herd cats than halla. He kept wandering off in his mind, and she kept having to refocus him. She understood the drifting; they were in the tavern, and there were lots of thoughts constantly brushing up on him. “We should have gone to one of the empty towers,” she said after two hours of getting nothing done.

“I can lead him away for a while,” Cole said abruptly. “We can make crowns of flowers and give them to you when it’s done.”

Her head hit the table with an audible thunk. “Couldn’t we have come to this conclusion at least an hour and a half ago, Cole?”

“Maybe,” he said. He tilted his head to the side. “But you weren’t ready then. You are now. Don’t worry, Solas burns, too. Heated, hot, heavy hands on his—”

Squeaking, she flailed, shushing him. “That’s private, Cole!”

“But he thinks it so loud.” Cole blinked at her with those huge eyes of his. “So do you. You think about him pushing, pressing, pinning. Holding you down and—”

She sputtered, pressing her face into her hands. “Private,” she groaned. When her face stopped flaming, she lowered her hands. “Let’s do it, then. You lead him away. Do the flower thing. And I…”

“Will have and be had,” Cole supplied.

“Yes, that,” she agreed.

So Cole left, and she watched him go to the stables. She watched him lead Hanal’ghilan to the gates. She watched him lead the unicorn out. And then she ran for Solas.

He was pouring over some book she was sure was very interesting, but it couldn’t be more interesting than him bending her over something and—well. She really didn’t know where to go from there, she’d just heard Dorian talk about being bent over things. Presumably, it worked the same way as everything else, but she just didn’t know.

“Hahren,” she said breathlessly, stumbling to a halt just in front of him.

He looked up at her with interest, but not interest.

“Forgive me, but I—”

“Cole took Hanal’ghilan out of Skyhold,” she said, and there was the interest she was looking for. She held out her hand. “Come with me?”

Creators, it suddenly occurred to her that he might say no. That he might gently rebuff her. He had hinted, on more than one occasion, that she was too young for him, that it was inappropriate for him as her hahren to act on any feelings for her. She would strangle him, she decided, if he told her no.

He shot to his feet, taking her hand. “You deserve better than what is sure to be a quick tumble,” he said as she all but dragged him out of the rotunda and hauled him across the great hall.

Behind them, Varric called out, “Unicorn chastity belt, Inquisitor!”

“I’m going to stick you on a spit and roast you, Varric,” she shouted back just before she pushed open her door.

She and Solas tumbled through the door and scrambled as quickly as possible around the tower to the actual door to her room. Then they were through it, and his hands were in her hair, dragging her mouth to his as he pressed her against the side of the stairwell and kissed her. Creators, it was a kiss. His nails scraped against her scalp as his tongue swept into her mouth. It was real and visceral and it flooded her with heat.

“Bed,” he said against her mouth, and he started to draw away.

“The wall is fine,” she protested, pulling him back.

His teeth found her lip, biting and tugging, and she whimpered softly before pressing another hot kiss to his mouth. “Not for your first time,” he said.

“Solas, you could fuck me in the dirt in the woods, and it would be fine,” she snapped, thrusting her hand into his breeches to find him achingly hard.

He swore, cleverly and creatively in Elvish, as she closed her fist around him and stroked. Creators, he was big. She’d stroked boys in her clan until they spilled in her hand, but they were boys and Solas was a man, and the idea of having this part of him inside of her was turning her brain to goo. Her smalls were a mess. She was a mess.

“Fuck me here, hahren,” she breathed, squeezing his cock. He gasped, his breath fanning across her lips. “Up against the wall, just like this.” She rubbed her thumb over his tip, rolling her hips against his thigh.

“Vhenan,” he said, strangled.

“The more you protest, the more time you waste,” she pointed out, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs.

He hissed, pressing the heel of his palm against her clit, rubbing her through the fabric of her trousers, and her mind went blank. She rocked against him, grinding herself on him in a rhythm that practically had her soaking through the fabric. Words escaped her. All she could do was gasp and moan, mewling for more as she worked herself over his hand, hers still stroking him.

Yanking his hand back, he deftly unlaced her trousers. Pushed them down her hips. They caught on her boots, but that didn’t deter them. He stepped between her legs, and she lifted them, trapped as they were, around his hips. His fingers pressed against her wet cunt, one sliding easily into her, and he groaned. “I should do more for you,” he said.

“Fuck me,” she demanded, sliding the fingers of her free hand behind his head. She urged him closer, feigning a kiss, then went straight for his ear. Her lips closed around the delicately pointed tip and he snapped.

He tore at the laces of his breeches, knocking her hand aside in his efforts to free himself. She kept sucking him, pulling broken groans from him with every drag of her tongue along the shell of his ear. And then his cock was free of his pants, and he was pressing it into her, and she had to release his ear so she could let her head fall back against the stone.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she hissed, clawing at his shoulders as he worked himself inside her.

He murmured something in Elvish she couldn’t understand – he was always doing that, speaking far more of their language than any elvhen had a right to – and then he was all the way inside her. “Vhenan.” He sounded strangled.

She brought his lips to hers. “Doesn’t hurt,” she told him. “Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t,” he ground out, and she ground against him, rocking her hips over his. They both gasped at the same time.

“Lucky me,” she said on a soft exhale. “Now, won’t you shut up and fuck me?”

He did. Creators, he did. He wasn’t tender or gentle. He was demanding, taking what he wanted with brisk thrusts that had her moaning his name every time he pushed into her. One hand curved around her ass to support her, to give her more leverage, while the other worked between their bodies to stroke her clit.

That was a revelation. Having a man inside her as he played with her? She could hardly breathe for how good it felt. Some demented part of her thought it felt so good in part because it was petty revenge on an obnoxious unicorn, too.

Then she was lost to thought, drowning in the feel of him. He made her cry out, made her quiver and shake in his arms, until finally, finally, her body clenched around his cock. It was the strangest, most delightful sensation she’d ever experienced, the orgasm somehow more intense for having him inside her. She swore – something about the Dread Wolf’s balls – and Solas swore – something about Mythal’s tits – and then he was coming, too, with jerky, abbreviated thrusts and a look of ecstasy on his face.

They slumped against each other, gasping.

“Vhenan,” he began, but she cut him off with bright, wicked laughter, peppering his face with kisses.

“Finally,” she crowed, laughing, kissing him, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders and just hugging him. “Finally, finally, finally!” She pulled back, eyes widening with delight. “You know what this means?”

“I’m damned for all eternity for despoiling you?” he asked mildly.

She knew her expression was demented from the way his brows rose slowly. “That Blighted unicorn is going to hate me now!”

An hour or so later, Hanal’ghilan came screaming into the great hall, flowers braided into his mane. He slid to a halt before the Inquisitor’s throne, where she sat idly drinking coffee. He approached slowly, his nostrils flaring, and then recoiled from her. There was, interestingly enough, no condemnation in his eyes. Just quiet acceptance. He trotted away.

“I almost feel bad,” she said, taking a noisy sip of her coffee, as Solas drifted through the great hall toward her, a predatory look in his eyes.

At her side, Varric said, “Do you really?”

“Mmm. A little. A very little.” She sighed happily. “My sex life is still like my coffee, though.”

“Bitter and black?”

She gave him a wicked smile. “Hot and steamy.”

“More than I needed to know, Inquisitor,” he said, and he fled as Solas gained the dais.

“I believe I owe you hours of leisurely lovemaking, vhenan,” he said.

She tossed back the rest of her coffee and set the mug aside. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.” He did. But so did she, and it was wonderful.

#solas #solavellan #dragon age #dragon age: inquisition #fanfic #dai

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x--daughters-of-darkness--x · 3 years

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Spiritbox’s Courtney LaPlante: "Men have been taught by society that they are superior to us"

Named after a paranormal device used to contact ghosts, Canadian post-metalcore trio Spiritbox have been hailed by fans and critics alike as one of the best new bands to watch in 2021. Arriving on the scene back in 2017, Spiritbox found themselves spiralling into greater success following the release of their 2020 single Holy Roller – its Midsommar-style music video has over 2 million views and counting.

Now signed to Rise Records, Spiritbox are in the midst of recording their highly-anticipated debut album, and vocalist Courtney LaPlante has started a brand new podcast Good For A Girl. The podcast is an inside look at the realities and challenges of being a woman in the music industry, with a sharp focus on the male-dominated world that is the metal scene. LaPlante was in metal band Iwrestledabearonce before starting Spiritbox, and on the podcast she speaks to other women who are claiming their space within the business, like musicians, Radio DJs, record executives and more.

In conversation with the Spiritbox leader, we learn about her industry life lessons, her experience with ultra-sexist record labels, and the state of the band's upcoming new record.

When and why did you come up with the idea for the Good For A Girl podcast?

“I came up with it because I was trying to figure out something to offer our patrons on our Patreon page. It’s also an excuse for me to hang out with other women, as I live on an island in Canada so I haven’t really come across many women in the industry, and I haven’t on my travels either. It was a way for me to learn from them and I got such a great reaction from our patrons too. Plus, every musician in the industry during the pandemic has made a podcast. I didn’t even think of doing it as I didn’t wanna clog up the radio waves, but then I thought about it more, and realised that one like this was missing.

“It’s an escapism thing, too. I thought that it would be important for other people, not just women, to listen to us and humanise us. I think people forget that women are 50 percent of the population of the world, so there’s not really an excuse to be so out of touch with us being actual, real, multi-faceted people.”

Is this why Good For A Girl is important to you?

“Yes because that’s all of us. It’s a thing [as women] we all hear. Like, ‘Yeah you’re good...for a girl.’ The only people that we put in a different class are children. Like, ‘He’s a really good guitar player for a 5 year old’.”

Working in the music industry, what would you say has been the most important thing you’ve learnt and what has been the biggest surprise?

“I’ve biggest thing I’ve learnt is to really advocate for yourself and to not be so caught up in being worried about pleasing people. Because honestly when it comes down to it, if it’s not an authentic thing and you’re just trying to make sure everyone’s getting along, it always bites you in the ass in the end. I’d much rather someone think I’m a bitch and not want to work with me, rather than me work with them under a condition that I’m not really doing what I want to do.

“And a big surprise for me has been the amount of amazing women behind the scenes. That there’s all these women working out there that are there for me, that I didn’t even know existed.”

In metal especially, there usually seems to be a community of individuals who tend to react negatively to anything they define as “woke”, like women-led, political, etc. What has been the reaction to the podcast so far, and have you experienced any of this backlash?

“A little bit, but that’s what is so interesting about it. Sometimes you get so worked up about people being negative towards what you’re doing, or being frustrated because they’re clearly not understanding what you’re saying. Then you look at it and it’s the same people that are the loudest, so it’s really not that many people. I’ll go through and think, ‘Look at these mean comments’, and then I’ll be like, wait a second, this the same three guys, commenting the same stuff over and over.

“And then the day before International Women’s Day, I wrote a piece for Kerrang!, and it’s so ironic if you read it, because the article is basically me just explaining some of my negative experiences. The article is not really speaking to men, it's speaking to other women, specifically white women about how we need to actually hold ourselves accountable to have all women to be a part of feminism, and not just post infographics on our Instagram to make us feel woke and superior. We have to actually protect each other and have some intersectionality in our feminism. But the comments are literally just guys saying that I’m making up my experiences. They are there to invalidate my experiences, and it’s so ironic because there are no women in there going, ‘Wait a second, don’t paint all women the same way, we aren’t all a bunch of performative-wokeness ladies!'"

Would you say it's similar to being classed as a “female-fronted” band, as opposed to being known for your genre?

“Yeah, it’s so bizarre. And also, there’s the other side to it, the swing of the pendulum is that guys will think they are complimenting you by saying, ‘I hate all female metal vocalists they are all horrible and they suck, but you’re good. All the other ones are all slutty whores, but I like that you wear a turtleneck.’ I’m literally butt naked in three of our music videos. Just because you chose not to sexualise me in that capacity, doesn’t mean that I’m not a sexual being.

“And it’s so interesting because if I am doing what I want, and maybe another time I dress more revealing because I think that’s fucking awesome, then those people are gonna feel betrayed in some way because through seeing you like a flat one-dimensional being, they think you can’t be both.

“But I think we can all be both professional and sexy. Just like a guy can be very responsible and non-sexual and then when he chooses to be objectified he can take his shirt off and choose whether to be objectified or not, where he feels comfortable.”

What are you aiming to change through your work on your podcast, if anything?

“I want to change the music industry and hold all these people accountable that have been gatekeeping it. Every success that a metal band has helps the rest of us. The women, or those who identify as women, or even non-binary people who are moving forward and succeeding helps all of us because it makes our voice bigger. I just want to keep growing and dominating so I can start to make a change from the inside.

“Like when we were going around to labels, there were so many labels that were so sexist, and they didn't even realise they were being sexist because they don’t understand it. So it feels so great to prove all those record labels wrong, and then actually get to revisit working with them and tell them why I chose not to work with them. Because worse case scenario it’ll make me feel I got to be like ‘fuck you’, and then best case scenario it helps change their behaviour."

What happened at those record labels?

“One time when we were shopping the band around two years ago, this label felt completely comfortable in saying, ‘Oh you know what, this band is cool but we already signed a girl metal band and it didn’t do very well.’ And I was like, ‘You also signed a 100 shitty guy metal bands that didn’t do very well, are you gonna not sign any more bands with men in them?’

“My manager said to me, ‘You know this is great, these people are making themselves loud and clear to us, and we know that we never need to entertain working with them. I’m happy they are being vocally misogynistic and sexist because we don’t have to waste our time.’”

In your first episode of the podcast you said men usually look at women in bands as “gimmicks”. What needs to change to get men to stop viewing women in this way?

“I think one of the things that need to change is that we just need metal to become a more diverse group of listeners. I was watching an old Metallica concert, and I looked out, it was during the Black album phase, and half the crowd was women. And if you look at heavy music, if you look at Black Sabbath or Led Zeppelin, half the crowd is women. And I feel like metal, if I’m just going off my own listenership, the 50 percent has really moved away from women and metal has become a very monolithic group of listeners. It’s straight white men. And there’s nothing wrong with those people listening to it, but I always feel that when a music genre has a very narrow scope of listeners, it usually has lasting problems on the genre for its staying power, because I don’t think you can really succeed in making lasting music if you’re not creating it for all different types of people.

“But I think it’s changing. I think metal is becoming more diverse and therefore the genre itself will become better and stronger, because I think that diversity creates better art. I really truly believe that, so I think that the pendulum is swinging back. Because that was the heyday of metal music; there were more people that listened to it. I feel now it's lost its way sometimes, but I think it's finding it again. I think metal really is becoming more powerful and good.

“That’s a long winded way of explaining why we’re looked at as a gimmick, but basically it’s because there's not a lot of us. And for some reason a lot of people only see the identity first when they see someone who looks different to them.”

You also mention that there’s a pattern of men or “haters” putting women down through belittling them or patronising them, etc. What do you think is the intention behind this?

“I think the reason why they do that is because men have been taught by society that they are superior to us, and they don’t really have a lot of evidence to dispute that because that's what most of us have been brought up thinking. And I think that as a musician, especially as a lead singer, you are like the ringleader, you are the commander in chief of the whole show, and that's generally a masculine trait, at least that’s what we’re taught.

“My experiences are just like everyone’s else's, and when people are like, ‘What's it like? [being a woman]’ and I’m like, ‘I don’t know, it’s the same as your job or any job, there’s a lot of stuff that's annoying and some stuff that's actually physically dangerous, and you’re actually in danger. And it frustrates me so much when people are surprised at that like, ‘Oh really? I didn’t know that you had been assaulted by a guy?’ and I’m like, ‘Have you ever met a human woman? Literally all of us have been.’ The math isn’t added up guys, all of us have had something bad happen to us but somehow none of you have done it.

“If I found that my whole demographic was doing some horrible thing, my first thought would not be, ‘Well, I don’t do it’, I’d be like, ‘Yeah, we gotta figure this shit out.’ I think it’s getting better though, I think not my generation but the next one, Gen Z, they are more humanist, I think they don’t see categories of people as much, they see you as human and then your sub category.”

So what can we expect in your later episodes of the podcast?

“Well in my first couple of episodes I’m talking to people that are more like myself, frontwomen, such as Caity [Babbs from SiriusXM] who is an amazing radio host and like a leader. I talked to Booka [Nile] from Make Them Suffer, who’s very much in front of the scene. And soon I’ll be talking to my friend Chaney [Crabb] from the band Entheos.

“The last couple episodes of what I’ll be putting out from this season will feature the people behind the scenes who are actually running everything. Those are the people that I’m the most fascinated by because it’s not really my experience. I think of them as the faceless puppet masters controlling everything. I’m learning so much from these women who are so badass, they’re like who I want to be someday with the power that they have and the integrity. They trust their intuition so much because that's their job.”

And lastly, can you give any hints on what the new Spiritbox record sounds like, what state it’s in and what people should expect?

“We’ve done our album, we’re done physically tracking it. Now we’re about to get into the monotony of mixing it, but I can’t believe it. This is the first time I’ve said it out loud. I’ve only listened to it fully a couple times as of now, but at least till we have all the track placement, you can expect to get pummelled with full anger and sadness. Like over and over.

“I’ve got to figure out the tracklisting because it's too much, it's too intense, you need breathing room in an album. This is a product of something that we didn’t want to have two years to develop, but we got about a good year almost 2 years, so the songs feel very lived in. They feel very familiar because we’ve been working on them for so long. So Constance and Holy Roller are the two singles that we put out in 2020, which we consider the outliers of the album, and the rest is everything in between that. I told someone else it’ll be like you’re in the mosh pit but crying. Crying in the mosh pit.”

Spiritbox’s debut album is due for release this year via Rise Records. The first three episodes of the Good For A Girl podcast are available now.

#Courtney LaPlante #Spiritbox #2021 interviews

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hollywooduniversityalumnus · 4 years

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2. where are you now when i need you most?

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

Crew members wrapping for the day spilled out of the open-doored set of Love is Everywhere when she arrived. In lieu of the typical mid-morning lecture for Hollywood 101, the professor had arranged for a special off-campus field trip that evening to a studio warehouse for a tour with one of the producers. When he had announced it, Professor Hunt had emphasized the importance of arriving on time with a particularly snide side-eye at her, so to play it safe, she had shown up even earlier than he had asked of the class. Finding the doorway he had specified for them to wait nearby, she leaned against the adjacent wall, glanced at the time on her phone, and let out a heavy sigh.

It had been weeks since the masquerade, and that side-eye had been the only time he had dared to acknowledge her existence. But, to be fair, she hadn’t given him much to work with; her proclivity for exchanging quick-witted barbs and snark with him had all but vanished, something that had all her friends, but especially Addison, worried.

Margot’s phone rang, making her jump, the sudden movement startling one of the people exiting the warehouse with a big roll of fabric in their arms. Mouthing apologies, she rounded the corner and put the phone to her ear.

“Keep your phone on you,” Ethan Blake instructed. She could tell without seeing him that he was in full agent mode – his professional voice was different than his speaking voice – so she bit her tongue from making a sarcastic remark. “This is going to be huge. Huge.”

“What is?” she asked.

Ethan sounded like he was smiling, which made his professional voice sound a little less so. “That tape you sent in a few weeks ago has captured the attentions of a certain rising director and his casting director currently looking to hire for a highly anticipated art house horror film.”

Her heart leapt in her throat. “Ethan.”

“I know. Keep your phone on you,” he said. “Even if you have to wrestle with alligators, even if you have to punch Masika in the face, whatever it takes, just keep that phone on you. This could be It. The golden egg. The golden goose. The-”

“Have you been watching Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory again?”

Her agent’s voice went from professional to sheepish. “Perhaps.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll take no more of your time. Keep that phone on and on you. Call me as soon as you hear anything. And I mean anything.”

Once she hung up, she headed back to the doorway to find a handful of her classmates idling around. Beside the doorway, the professor and a man, presumably the producer giving the tour, stood. The man, upon seeing her, held out a light brown wicker basket.

“No phones allowed on set,” he called out.

Her eyes flickered to Professor Hunt’s, who immediately focused his attention elsewhere.

Subtle.

“Actually, I have a call I’m waiting for,” she said. “It’s really urgent. Would you mind if-”

“No exceptions,” Professor Hunt emphasized. “Phone. Now.”

Margot shook her head. “I may be getting a job offer. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

This piqued the producer’s interest. Lowering the basket to his side, he asked, “May I ask what offer you might be receiving?”

She felt Professor Hunt’s gaze burning a hole in her forehead, but she kept her attention firmly on the producer. She was not unaware that her classmates had begun listening in, apparently eager to see if she would finally stir the pot after weeks of being curiously silent.

“With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not disclose that information just yet. Don’t want to count my chickens before they hatch,” she said.

The producer looked her over for a moment. “Understandable. Just keep your phone on vibrate, and step away from the group if that call comes, okay?”

She nodded.

Turning away, she made a point to immerse herself within the growing crowd of classmates gathered by the door a little way from the two older men. Addison and a few other people whose varying projects she had helped with immediately absorbed her into their conversations.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

At precisely six p.m., the professor stepped before the doorway and clapped his hands once. That was all he had to do to command their attention. All conversations ceased and the class – minus a handful of students who would be dealt with later – focused on their stern professor and his producer friend.

“Listen up, everyone. We’re fortunate the producer, Jaxson Mitchell, is giving us this opportunity. That means you will behave in a way that reflects well on the university, no exceptions.”

Margot felt his gaze burning another hole in her forehead.

The tour began earnestly, with Jaxson taking the class through several of the smaller sets that had been erected in the studio warehouse for use within the next few days. Some of the sets looked like showcase rooms in furniture stores, but with a wall missing for viewing purposes. A few of the sets, like the ornate dining room that was to be used for an important monologue, were completely enclosed for the night, and they were allowed a brief peek into them before moving on.

She was keenly aware of her phone waiting in her pocket, silent and intimidating. Though she was enjoying the tour and the amusing anecdotes that Jaxson shared, she was desperately willing for the phone to ring.

“Here’s part of the ballroom set. We’re still working on it, but as you can see, its marble pillars and glazed tile flooring will help add a sense of extravagance to the climactic scene we’ll be filming in here,” Jaxson explained.

She looked at the ballroom set and felt her stomach twist. It was beautiful, albeit unfurnished and unfinished, and it reminded her far too much of the night she was hoping not to think of.

She didn’t dare glance up to Hunt to see if he was having any similar reaction to the ballroom set. He probably was as unaffected as usual.

At long last, the tour came to a close. As they all gathered by the doorway from which they had entered, Jaxson weaved through the class, handing back the phones. Once reunited, Jenni Whitman gave hers a kiss on the back of her glittery phone case. She chuckled to herself, then felt her whole body freeze up at the feeling of her phone vibrating urgently in her dress pocket.

Oh my God.

Oh my God!

Stepping back into the warehouse, away from the din of chattering classmates, she clapped one hand over her free ear and answered her phone. “Hello?”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

As he ticked off the attendance sheet on the clipboard in his hand, Professor Hunt tutted under his breath at the names of the no-shows who would be getting a very stern warning from him in the near future. Bianca Stone, of course, was one of them, but her father kept so many people in his pocket that any misconduct she did was waved off with little more than a slap on the wrist and, at worse, a ten-page essay that was more of a punishment for him to read and mark than it was for her to write (and he suspected it wasn’t even her writing it).

“What a nice bunch of students you have, Tommy,” Jaxson said, coming to stand beside him. “So polite. I can’t say I approve of how . . . attached some of them are to their devices, but that can’t be helped, eh?”

“Oh, Miss Whitman has a serious problem,” he said, setting the clipboard down. “God forbid she and her purchased social media following be parted for more than an hour.”

Jaxson laughed. “Cold as ever.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s been good seeing you.”

“And you as well. Thank you once again for allowing us onto the set,” Professor Hunt said. “Reminded me of old times.”

Jaxson smirked. “Any chance of there being any ‘new’ times?”

Professor Hunt cocked his head to the side. “I don’t believe so. Too much to critique, so many to teach.”

Jaxson nodded solemnly. Then he lifted his gaze past Hunt and into the warehouse. “Like her, for example.”

Hunt didn’t really need to turn his head to see who Jaxson was talking about, but he did so reflexively.

Miss Schuyler stood further into the hallway separating the sets, her phone clamped to her ear as though it was the only thing providing her life. Her elated expression betrayed her; she was clearly hearing something she liked.

“What’s that smile for?”

Hunt looked at Jaxson. “What?”

“That smile.” Jaxson was genuinely curious. “I’ve not seen a smile on you in ages.”

“You haven’t seen me in ages, either,” Hunt rebutted. “And it wasn’t a smile.”

Jaxson laughed. “It’s okay, Tommy, I get it. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Seeing one of your students spread their wings and fly.” Jaxson nudged him. “C’mon, man, don’t tell me you’re not happy for her. She must’ve gotten that offer.”

“She gets a lot of offers,” Hunt said evenly. He wasn’t wrong; within a month of her attending Hollywood U, she had managed to procure key roles for projects with pop star and wild child Lisa Valentine, action film star Chris Winters, and several other celebrities who had all found her work satisfactory or better.

“All the more reason to celebrate,” Jaxson said. “But look, I’ve just got to pop over to my car real quick with some materials, and then I’ll be back to get the doors locked for the night. Do you mind getting your student? I won’t be long; I’ve still got to stop at the grocery store.”

Hunt nodded.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“Thank you again, Mr. Cattrall. I look forward to working with you. It’s actually somewhat of a career goal for me,” she said. “It’s an honour.”

The velvety voice of the director she would soon be meeting for a table read for his newest film sounded pleased. “Well, then I hope I live up to your expectations.”

Upon hanging up, she felt all feeling returning to her body, beginning from her unwavering, wide smile that was beginning to hurt her cheeks. She felt her heart pounding in her chest, her lungs rapidly filling and emptying, as she looked deep into the warehouse and let out a small burst of laughter at what had just transpired.

She was going to be in a Cattrall. A Cattrall! The Spielberg of art house films, he had burst onto the scene with riveting dramas and unsettling experimental horror films and had already won the Cannes Film Festival’s Grand Prix.

And he wanted her.

Still numb, but fizzing over with excitement, Margot did a little spin and promptly bumped into another body, which knocked her off-kilter.

“Sorry, I-” She looked up to find the man she had temporarily forgotten about.

Well, that was a nice five minutes while it lasted, she thought.

“Miss Schuyler. While I assume congratulations are in order, I believe we’ll have to make them outside,” Hunt said briskly. “This set is officially closed.”

“Right, sorry,” she said. “It’s just – I’m so happy.”

Margot heard herself say it and immediately cringed. It sounded so childish, as if she was amused by everything, like finding a dime on the ground.

“And what exactly has you so happy?” he asked. “A soap opera cameo? Dancer number three in a music video?”

Without thinking, she replied, “I don’t like to reveal all my secrets just yet, professor.”

They both froze in place as the memory washed over them, a crashing wave that knocked them both off kilter.

And then he was dragging her by the elbow to the first open doorway he saw on the set, which was, ironically, the ballroom set that had yet to be finished. Before she could open her mouth, he began speaking harshly in low tones.

“That night didn’t happen, do you understand? I’ve already said everything that needs to be said. Our circumstances haven’t changed. Nothing’s changed. I don’t know what you think is going to happen, but-”

They both froze again upon hearing the loud screech that interrupted his diatribe. Pushing past her, Hunt stepped away just in time to see the giant doors of the warehouse swing shut.

“Hey! Wait! We’re in here!” she cried from behind him.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

All but running to the door, he pulled at the handle desperately, but the cold metal refused to budge.

“Let us out, you idiot!” Hunt yelled.

But it was no use. Jaxson had swiftly locked up and gone, as quick and precise as he was when he used to work for Hunt. Except, clearly, he didn’t bother to check the set one last time to confirm that absolutely no one was present. He would have to talk to him about that later.

And then Hunt sighed.

No, he wouldn’t, because Jaxson had asked him to get his student out of there. Upon seeing the presumably empty set, he had assumed that the director and his student were well on their way. No fault but his own for pulling them away for privacy.

“Oh, great,” he muttered, turning to lean against the door. “Now I’m stuck with you for who knows how long on the set of this idiotic romance film.”

Petulant as always, Miss Schuyler narrowed her eyes. “There are worse ways to spend a night.”

“I assure you, there are not,” he bit back. “Let’s just find a way out as quickly as possible. I don’t want to have to deal with you.”

Logically, the back of the warehouse would have an emergency exit. With that in mind, he began walking, weaving around miscellaneous props and tables to get as much space between her and him as possible.

From behind him, she called out, “No offense taken, in case you were wondering. Assuming you actually have emotions, or a heart at all.”

You would know, wouldn’t you? he thought bitterly.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“Unbelievable. This is clearly a fire code violation. I’ll be drafting a strongly-worded email as soon as we get out of here.”

“If we get out of here.”

“We are not going to die in here. But someone will pay for this.”

The back of the building was glaringly bereft of exits, emergency or otherwise. As soon as Hunt had realized this, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, trying his hardest not to feel panicked at the low percentage of his battery.

Searching through his contacts list, he called Jaxson, but didn’t get an answer. He waited a minute and tried again, but to no avail.

Hm. Would Marianne still be at Faux Pas? he wondered, thinking of his magazine editor friend who was in town overseeing a shoot. This warehouse would be a bit of a detour from her drive home, but she did say she’d do anything for me.

No answer from her, either.

He huffed.

“No luck, huh?”

He turned to find her sitting on a prop chair, watching him with great interest. He rolled his eyes.

“Just look for a way out,” he snapped.

She stood, brushing off the skirt of her dress. “Prof- Hunt. Can we at least talk to each other like regular people instead of constantly being at each other’s throats? That’s going to get old fast if we’re stuck here for the night.”

He ignored that. “Perhaps there’s a side exit I missed.” He sped up his walking and felt dismayed to hear her shoes clicking against the floor as she followed.

“Who could blame a professor and student for talking when they’re accidentally locked on a set together? And we have to talk about . . . that night. Why can’t we?”

“It’s not about blame, it’s just-”

Seeing the handle jutting out from the wall made him feel relieved. But, upon pulling it and having the weak wooden door that had been propped against the wall almost fall on him, he began to lose hope that they weren’t getting out.

“Damn it!” he shouted to the fake door. And then a string of curse words that he usually wouldn’t dare to speak in front of a student, or really outside of his small circle of friends, but he didn’t feel dignified enough to stop himself.

They really were locked in for the night. And of all the rotten luck, it had to be them.

Behind him, she let out a long exhale. Then-

“Are you going to talk to me now?” Miss Schuyler asked.

His jaw clenched. “No. Not about that.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

The lights shut off ten minutes later.

By then, Hunt had firmly seated himself in a chair by the only doorway, rifling through his contacts list for anyone who might be able to help them on short notice. He had managed to find a signal strong enough to send a few emails, one of which was a particularly strongly-worded note about the warehouse’s glaring lack of emergency exits to Jaxson and several of the studio’s warehouse managers, but as it was well past nine o’clock on a Friday, the chances of anyone answering before sunrise were slim.

In the only other chair they could find, the one she had been perched in earlier, Margot sat shivering in the cold air of the warehouse. She had not dressed like someone who had anticipated such a predicament, with no sweater or jacket to be seen. But she had pride, and she didn’t want to ask for his jacket, nor did she believe he would give it to her.

Her phone stayed in her pocket, brightness cranked to its lowest setting and on battery-saving mode. She was sure he was draining his phone battery with all the calls and emails. She didn’t want them entirely without means to contact anyone, and it seemed pointless to try when his attempts were failing. She silently thanked the universe for letting her have what must have been the last good signal to receive her call from Penn Cattrall.

When they were suddenly thrust into darkness, Hunt let out another swear word, one that made her smile despite herself. It was so strange and alien hearing him swear, like hearing Mr. Rogers or a Sesame Street character cuss out a kid or something.

And then he fell silent, and the whole warehouse was silent, and the shivers running up her spine were not just from the cold.

Margot sniffled. “Hunt?”

No reply.

The sound of shuffling, somewhere a little ways away, or perhaps closer. It was hard to tell.

“Can you say something please?” She hugged herself pathetically, feeling tears spring to her eyes as they failed to adjust to their pitch-black surroundings. “This really sucks.”

More shuffling. The sound of impact. Another swear word, murmured so low she wondered if she had heard him think it.

Then nothing.

The silence stretched on, broken only occasionally by the sound of scratching so faint that she wondered if her mind was making it up.

Tears slid down her cheeks. She was a grown-ass woman, but as the darkness swallowed her up, she felt dizzy, weak, like the child she once was, waiting, waiting . . .

Her stomach rumbled, and she instinctively curled up on the chair, knees to her chin.

It’s okay, she told herself. He’s still here. Somebody’s still here.

“Please, Thomas,” Margot whispered.

And then a brilliant spark broke through the darkness, living for one beautiful moment before extinguishing on the concrete.

And then another.

And another.

And then-

“Got it.” Hunt’s voice was a balm to her nerves. “Now, where are those candles I saw?” As he rifled around, bumping into things, she squinted at the little flame on the tip of the match he held, desperate to see anything – an eye, a cheekbone, his chin – to confirm that he was really there, and it wasn’t a hallucination. The flame was too small to make out any of his features, but its existence was enough.

She watched from her chair as he touched the flame to the wicks of several jarred candles he managed to find on a nearby table. As the candles began to melt, strong scents began dispersing into the room, clashing with one another in a way that made her feel dizzy, like after passing around one of Crash’s “Satanic cigarettes” after a night on the town. Cinnamon and spice, something tree-like, pumpkin pie . . .

Her stomach growled, loud enough for him to hear.

“Stay there,” he said, picking up one of the smaller candles. In the dim light she could see the sharp shadow of his jawline. “I’ll see if they left any catering.”

“Okay.” Her voice was hoarse.

He seemed to pause then. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just – let’s hope they have something. I didn’t really eat dinner.” She offered him a smile that was lost to the darkness.

She heard his footsteps recede, and his dim light faded into the darkness. Once she felt she was alone, she rested her chin on her knees again, squeezing her eyes shut as a few more tears pricked at them.

It’s okay. He’s still here. Somebody’s still here.

You’re not alone.

Margot took a deep breath of pine and citrus air and repeated it to herself until she heard his return.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

He had never sworn so much in one night.

As his hip met the jutting corner of a table, Hunt found himself directing his exclamation of pain to the floor. Gasping, he leaned against the table for a moment to breathe and mutter a few more curses before continuing on his venture into the blackness.

All sense of dignity and professionalism had gone once that stupid fake door had almost knocked him down, and once the power went out, he felt his sanity slipping away like granules of sand through a sieve.

That is, until he heard her cry.

How weak Miss Schuyler’s voice had sounded, speaking desperately into the darkness as though he had somehow disappeared into it, leaving her beside herself, cold and scared. He had briefly considered giving her the silent treatment, but upon hearing that, he had shrugged off his jacket and was prepared to make the potentially treacherous journey of heading over to her chair to give it to her when his mind cried out to him, reminding him of the box of matches he’d confiscated from Spencer Yamaguchi a day earlier. What that boy, aptly nicknamed Crash, had planned with those matches, he did not know. But now, as he strained to remember where he had seen those obnoxious scented candles in the warehouse during the tour, he was grateful for the stunt major and his affinity for having campus contraband on hand.

He pulled the matchbox out and began striking the matches. The first few gave him no flame, and he wondered if perhaps he had confiscated a matchbox prop.

But then he heard it.

“Please, Thomas.”

The sniffle that accompanied those words conjured up a painful image that had seared itself into his memory. A woman in a beautiful blue gown standing before him, the glimmering night sky a backdrop to the tears sliding down her face, cowering as he yelled at her for deceiving him, for making him enjoy a night with her, for making him feel.

He didn’t like feeling. Didn’t like when other people made him feel. Only a few had been able to, but he had let them, because he-

Don’t think about that, he reminded himself.

He struck the next match with vigor, and the small flame that burst from it made his heart soar, even as it extinguished itself almost immediately. He let it drop and pulled another out.

Hunt shook his head as his next attempt also puttered out quickly. What kind of weak matches are these?

He worked through a few more matches, lighting them for seconds before they went out, until . . .

“Got it.”

Now he was on another search, this time for a crumb of food to feed the hungry woman he was unexpectedly stuck with for the time being. And, as he bashed his knees and hips against props and furniture that seemed to move directly into his path, he prayed that he would find something that would sustain her for the evening.

The mini fridge he found had a few large glass bottles of . . . something. Assuming they were not alcoholic – though, since this warehouse neglected to have an emergency exit, he couldn’t entirely rule out other blatant violations - he took them out and replaced them with a five-dollar bill from his wallet, hoping that whoever owned those drinks wouldn’t mind.

And then he felt his way around nearby until he nearly upturned a fruit bowl and took the lone banana within it. A paper plate close to the fruit bowl teetered over the edge of the table, but he set down his candle to catch it. Two slightly stale blueberry bagels and a few little packets of room-temperature cream cheese spread. More than he had expected to find.

He took great caution in maneuvering around the furniture he’d knocked into, but he still caught himself a few times on the hip. He had a death grip on the candle, the food plate held close to his chest. He hadn’t found utensils but was more grateful to have found anything at all.

As he neared the light emanating from the candles on the table, he heard her whispering. He didn’t have to strain his ears to hear her.

“He’s still here. Somebody’s still here.”

He set his candle down and she let out a yelp.

Pretending as though he hadn’t heard anything, he laid out the food on the table so she could see it. “I found some bagels and drinks. And a banana.”

Miss Schuyler emerged slowly from the darkness, barely illuminated from the dancing candle flames. Dragging her chair closer to the table, she sat and twisted the cap off one of the bottles. Her eyes met his as she took a long sip. Finally, she set the bottle down.

“Snapple.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Half and half. Half iced tea, half lemonade.”

“Oh.”

She pulled apart one of the bagels and ripped one of the cream cheese packets open before turning back to him.

“Are you coming to eat or what?” she asked.

For a moment, there was silence again, but then the screeching of chair legs against concrete made her wince. And then he was in view, sitting close – but not as close as he had weeks earlier – and unpeeling the banana enough to break it in half and take the top piece.

“The rest is for you,” he said. “I had the foresight to eat dinner.”

“Lucky you,” she drawled.

He sighed.

“Are we going to talk now?” she asked. She sounded defeated, already knowing the answer.

But they were the only ones stuck in that warehouse for the night. Just him and her, and no one would blame them for talking. Just himself, but he knew her well enough that she wouldn’t usually let up so easily. Something was wrong.

“About the masquerade? I suppose we could.” He chose his next words carefully. “As long as we talk about what happened a little while ago. When you were crying.”

“You heard that.”

“There’s not much else to listen to.”

She sighed, swallowing a bite of banana. “I would say ‘don’t feel sorry for me,’ but I already know that’s not going to be a problem.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

She had always been afraid of the dark, but her parents were determined to rid her of that fear. When her Dora the Explorer nightlight broke, her father refused to repair it. Her mother caved and bought her a new one, but only let her plug it in on school nights. For two terrifying nights of the week, she huddled under her covers, armed with her favourite stuffed animals and a flashlight she borrowed from the clutter drawer in the kitchen.

Once, when Margot was really afraid, and the world outside her window was dark and storming, her mother taught her how to pretend she was somewhere else. The sky was falling, but in her head, the sun bore down, warming her skin, the crashing waves of the beach they’d visited the day her father left disguising the thunder that shook the windows.

Later, her mother taught her how to pretend to be someone else, too. They were in a car, and her mother had put an itchy thing on her head made of hair the colour of straw. As she braided the dry strands, she wove a backstory for the new person she would play, a young girl off to see her grandmother for the weekend with her mother, and fed her lines to repeat to the border patrol officer.

“Can you do that for me, sweet pea?”

When the officer asked her questions, she parroted the responses with as much enthusiasm as a tired seven-year-old could muster when she was cranky from being in the car too long. The officer let the car through, and her mother rewarded her with an entire kid’s meal to herself. A few hours later, her mother chucked her free toy out the window for being too noisy.

The little house they moved into was really one room with plastic curtains separating the bathroom from the kitchen and the bedroom. They had to share the bed, but her mother let her keep the nightlight on.

It wasn’t working. Neither did the light switch, which was supposed to tell the eclectrickle creature in the ceiling to brighten up the bare bulb in the ceiling. There was no space for a clutter drawer in their kitchen, so she didn’t know where she would find a flashlight, or if they even had one.

The world outside the window was blotted out by the darkness, and with nothing to break through it, she felt achingly alone. No stuffed animals to snuggle, no covers to protect her from the cold. No mother to run to.

She’ll be back. She promised.

Every time she woke up after slipping into a sleep, she was alone, lying on her side on the barren mattress. No sign of her mother returning yet. She passed the time by counting the popcorn bumps on the ceiling and the ants gathering crumbs from the floor and slipping through the crack on the windowsill. But she didn’t keep count of the days passing. It really felt like one big endless one.

Eventually, a neighbour lady came knocking. She didn’t like that her mother hadn’t come back yet. Other people showed up, men and women with water and fruit and cookies for her. Just like Miss Peaches, they had a weird look on their face when she told them about her mother’s promise.

Miss Peaches gave her a room of her own, a bed piled high with stuffed animals, and all the food she could cram into her mouth. After many attempts at soothing her in the middle of the night, Miss Peaches gifted her a beautiful lamp that emanated a gentle glow. When she curled up in bed, she thought of the beach again, of her mother holding the hand of a girl with straw hair.

Pretending came to her as easily as breathing.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

“What happened to her?”

“My mother? I haven’t seen her since.”

He swore. “What about your neighbour?”

She kept her gaze focused squarely on her knees. “Miss Peaches died a few weeks before I came here.”

It sucked, losing a maternal figure twice. She really had grown to like her, even if the first year was rocky because she was still adamantly waiting. Miss Peaches had been the one to encourage her into acting and had cheered her on for the few roles she had in high school plays. When she got accepted into Hollywood U, she promised to be there for her first ever movie premiere, walking the carpet as her companion.

Another promise broken.

Hunt let out a heavy sigh. “You’ve been through it, huh.”

“And still going through it, clearly.” She chuckled to hide the sniffles. “Not a fan of the dark, obviously.”

“It should be afraid of you,” he murmured.

As weird a statement as that was, she felt the laughter bubbling from her belly. Looking up at him, her face split into a huge smile as she let herself laugh.

“What an idea. The dark being afraid of a person. I’ll have to run that by Cattrall. If anyone could pull it off, it’s him.”

“Penn Cattrall?” Hunt said. “The director?”

She nodded. “The phone call earlier. He wants me to be the lead in his next film.”

“Penn Cattrall?” Hunt repeated.

And just like that, any good mood she had dissipated. “Yes, the Penn Cattrall. Why does that surprise you so much? You’ve been monitoring my progress at Hollywood U, haven’t you? Seen all the projects I’ve contributed to? I’ve earned this and you know it.”

Silence.

Of course.

She turned her attention back to the Snapple. It must be the unsweetened kind, she mused, because the taste was slightly bland and-

“I know you have.”

Slowly, she looked back up. Hunt’s face was hard to read in the darkness, but she assumed he must’ve pulled his mouth into a grimace, like he always did once he said something he thought he shouldn’t have. She strained to see it on him now.

“Since you came to Hollywood University, you have been extraordinarily prolific with your projects. Though, obviously, you had to be in order to stay enrolled after the tiff you had with Miss Stone-”

“Her false accusation, you mean?”

He brushed off her interjection. “-That incident helped accelerate your career in ways that your fellow students only dream of. You’ve amassed an impressive catalogue, and your growth, both professionally and personally, is palpable with every credit.”

Though her cheeks warmed with his unexpected kindness, she sensed a “but” coming up.

“But,” he said, then paused thoughtfully. “You’ve got a long way to go still. A lot more to learn. Things you need to know to make sure your career has longevity and meaning. I have so much more to teach you.”

Her heart twisted.

“My place is behind the lectern, guiding you. Not . . . whatever it is that you think you want from me.”

The second part of his statement should have bothered her more than the first.

“No, it’s not.” She set the glass bottle on the table and straightened in her seat. “Your place is behind the camera. It’s what you were meant to do, it’s your passion!” She squinted at him. “I don’t understand why you retired. You were one of the greats. Are one of the greats, I mean.”

Hunt exhaled, a sound bordering on sadness. “Some things cannot be,” he said cryptically.

And then he stood, picked up his candle, and disappeared again into the labyrinthine set.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

He just knew the heart-shaped bed in the honeymoon suite set was a middle finger from the universe. Gaudy and overloaded with the cliché colour scheme of nauseating reds and pinks, the sheets were slippery silk and the pillows were fluffy from lack of use. He set his candle on the end table and pulled off his suit jacket, before remembering that he had meant to give it to her earlier.

He could practically hear Priya scoffing at him. “You’ve gone soft,” she had accused him, his office suddenly too small to have such clashing egos within it. He had denied it then, but now . . .

“So I tell you about my whole thing with the dark, and you leave me in it again?”

He winced at Margot’s harsh tone. “I was just-”

Standing in the doorway, she set down her own candle and crossed her arms over her stomach.

“And here I thought we were actually getting to know each other. We weren’t done talking. You said we could talk about-”

“We did talk about-”

“No, we didn’t!” She stepped forward, closer. “I know you feel something for me. And before you say anything, remember we’re not in class right now. You don’t have to teach me all the time. Don’t act like it’s your cross to bear.”

He didn’t budge, staring down at her with furrowed brows. “It is my job to always push you, to be firm if it means you reaching your full potential.”

“So you do care about me.”

“As a student. Look, this thing you feel for me, it’s just a crush. It’s fake love, the kind people eat up at the movies.” Gesturing around the room, he scoffed. “Look around this set! None of this is real, yet when this movie comes out, people will swoon for the romance as though real love can be like that. But it’s all fake. Manufactured. Lies.”

He heard her swallow hard. The next words she spoke came out weakly.

“My feelings for you are not fake. What I feel for you is more than just a formulaic Hollywood romance. It’s real. And real feelings are about spending time with someone and enjoying their company, even when you’re just eating stale bagels together. Sharing our vulnerable sides, our deeper thoughts. Trusting one another. Even when the other person is being ridiculously stubborn.”

He turned away from her, ignoring the pang in his chest as he did.

“Thomas.”

“Don’t,” he said, but his voice didn’t come out as stern as he wanted. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. “I just want to rest. It’s clear no one’s coming until morning. Might as well take advantage of this silly set piece. I’m sure there’s another bedroom you can stay in.”

“You-” She picked up a pillow from the bed and screamed into it. “It’s not like I want this. I would love to not have feelings for my surly professor.”

“Great. Then it’s settled.” He primly pulled back the silk sheets and slipped under them, sliding a little too far from the texture. “Good night.”

He closed his eyes and stilled.

And then, once he heard her walk away, he opened them again.

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

She didn’t bother trying to navigate through the warehouse in the dark. Knowing her luck, she would probably trip and break her leg, or bleed out on some fancy imported carpet and get billed for the damages.

And Hunt would scold and scold, because that’s all he does, she thought bitterly.

For a while there, she might have thought they were getting somewhere. She didn’t expect him to do a complete one-eighty and want to dive head-first into a relationship or anything, but she did think that the progress they’d made would’ve lasted.

Two steps forward, five steps back.

Like she had done when she followed him into the garish honeymoon sweet set, she clung to the wall until she caught sight of the other candles still lit up on the table. Instead of sitting on her chair, she opted to slide to the floor, placing her candle beside her.

The warehouse’s temperature had dropped even more. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there was even more of a chill about the air. She hugged herself and tried to keep her mind off the cold. She tried to imagine the beach, then any other memory that included the sun and its blessed warmth.

None of it worked.

After what felt like an eternity of grinding her chattering teeth together, she pulled out her phone and turned on the screen, blinking at the bright light. Just past midnight.

It was going to be a long night.

“Your cell phone has been charged this whole time?”

Hunt stood over her, jacket draped over his shoulder.

She curled her knees up to her chest. “I was just checking the time. Still no signal, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

“Did you think to try to call or text one of your little friends to help us?” he asked. “You could have tried. I did.”

“I was watching you drain your phone battery and thought it might be a good idea to preserve mine.” She rolled her eyes. “Go back to bed, professor.”

She heard him step closer. Then, something draped over her lap, a shock of warmth and textures with an exquisitely quilted inner layer. Instinctively, she snuggled underneath it, but she looked up at him in confusion.

“There are enough pillows to make a barrier,” he said quietly. “That way we won’t touch at all, and we can both get some sleep. Come along.”

“Seriously?” she asked.

He held out a hand, an olive branch. “Seriously.”

🎬🎬🎬🎬🎬

The screech of the warehouse doors opening startled them both from sleep. Jackknifing out of his lying position, he immediately dove for the suit jacket that had fallen to the floor as he slept. She was a little slower to get up but finally stood and dusted herself off.

“Tommy?”

Hunt clenched his jaw. “In here.”

Seconds later, Jaxson warily poked his head through the doorway, apprehensive of the wrath he was sure to receive from his old friend. What he didn’t expect was the presence of the student, groggily rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands at the opposite side of the room. But seeing the disturbed sheets and pillow strewn about the heart-shaped bed and the deliberate space between them now, he couldn’t help but smirk even as Hunt stalked towards him.

“Where do I even begin?” Hunt seethed. “Who was the absolute idiot who approved of this studio warehouse’s design? I need numbers, and I need them now. This is absolutely unacceptable . . .”

As Hunt began his rant, Jaxson watched as the student slipped past them and through the doors, bringing her phone to her ear as she walked.

#thomas hunt #thomas orson hunt #hollywood u #only fools fall for you #fanfiction #please let me know if the clapboard emojis are a stupid way to separate the scenes #i'm trying y'all

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fortheloveoffanfic · 4 years

Text

Lullaby

Keanu Reeves x Reader (A/n- Okay, so after maybe like three months, or more, I can’t remember, this one is coming to a close. There are only three more chapters left.) Chapter Summary- Y/n and Keanu’s relationship is faced with backlash and consequences. Y/n’s parents take action.

Warnings- Angst

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

Chapter 14

"What the hell is this?" Heather produced a magazine from her handbag, tossing it to the counter. Y.n’s mother had stormed into her house late in the afternoon, a few hours after Y/n had returned from a late lunch at the country club with Jillian and Catherine, obviously too enraged for small talk.

Y/n gasped, quickly trying to blink shock out of her eyes. Of course, she had seen a pictures on social media that morning, but she didn't think her parents would find out about it, at least not that quickly, but there they were, with her mother pointing to cheap magazine, the cover boasting an enlarged picture of her and Keanu getting cozy at a corner table, in the small restaurant at the night market, taken just the night before. The headline only served to add insult to injury; written in big bold letters, nearly dominating the entire thing were the words; “Hollywood Mega-Star and Heiress: A Whirlwind Romance for the Ages.” Clearing her throat, Y/n tried to hide her shock with cheeky humor, “I don’t know mom, kind of looks like a magazine.”

“Don’t get funny with me Y/n. You’re lucky you’re father hasn’t seen this yet,” Heather shook her head, brushing loose strands of dyed red hair out of her face with the tips of her French manicure, “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I was grabbing dinner with a friend,” Y/n shrugged, still playing the whole thing off.

Her mother scoffed, rolling her eyes, before laying an accusing finger on the picture, “This is what you do with your friends?” In actuality, the picture suggested that Keanu and Y/n had long past a friendship, which was definitely true. It had captured the moment where she was half on his lap, but between their positioning coupled with the poor lighting made it hard to tell what they were doing, but Y/n recalled the moment easily. It was no doubt taken right before they’d escaped to the bathroom.

“You need to stop seeing him,” Heather finally determined, and by her tone, Y/n could tell that the matter wasn’t up for discussion.

“No,” Y/n determined firmly, desperately trying to control her heavy breathing. She wasn’t ready to back down that easily, all her life she’d done what they wanted, been who they wanted her to be. No one ever asked if she wanted to inherit a company or get set up by her parents, yet Y/n had always gone along with it. But for the first time, she was doing something she wanted, she wanted to be with Keanu, she loved him.

“No?” Her mother mirrored incredulously, folding her arms across her chest, tilting her head, deep, red stained lips set into a hard line after the word. Heather stood, separated from her daughter by a dark veined, marble kitchen island. The toe of her heeled pump tapping the hardwood floor softly, impatience in the motion. She always got her way.

“No.” Y/n finalized, “I’m not going to stop seeing Keanu, although-”

“Although what? You could stop seeing Daniel? Is that what you were going to suggest? Because it’s not an option,” Heather pressed two fingers to her temple, something she did when she was exasperated, and shut her eyes tightly before continuing, that time slower, as if Y/n were a child who couldn’t quite understand what she was being taught, “Daniel comes from a good family, he a good man who’s the right age. Marrying him will be good for us, and for them.”

Y/n exhaled loudly, shaking her head as a dry chuckle escaped her lips, “Us? Them? What about me mom? What about what’s good for me? Do you ever think about that, or has it not occurred to you that I’m capable of wanting something for myself, something that isn’t tied in with your old world, bullshit politics.”

“I suggest you watch your tone with me young lady,” anger flared in her eyes, and Heather looked the same way Y/n did when she was angry, the only difference being the twenty-five years between them showing up as little lines here and there on her face, “How the hell would you know about what's good for you? God,” she sighed loudly, laughing humorlessly, “You’re a child! You think twenty-four means your so grown up, but the truth is you don’t know a damn thing about what you need.”

A wave of heat rose up in Y/n and she was sure that if it were possible, her face would turn hot red with anger. She hated yelling at her mother, so in an effort to not do just that, she spoke through clenched teeth, “And you do? This is the first time that you’ve been since I moved and this is the most personal conversation that we’ve had since I was eighteen,” Y/n scoffed, “We barely spend any time together, unless its at one of those stupid events and even then-”

“So this is my fault now?” As the minutes ticked by, after every word, there seemed to be more and more malice and anger in her mother’s voice.

“I’m not saying that this is your fault,” finally, Y/n’s words took on a new edge, “I’m saying that you don’t know me well enough to make this kind of decision for me. What the hell even happened to ‘you’re an adult, make your own decisions’? Or am I only an adult when it suits your agenda?”

“I am your mother,” Heather pointed in an enraged warning, “And if anyone knows what’s best for you, it’s me.”

Y/n chuckled dryly, “You’re gonna play the mom card? Wow! Newsflash mother, I’m an adult, and I’ll love whoever the hell I want to,” the words just tumbled out of her mouth, even if Y/n wasn't exactly expecting to admit that to her mother.

“Love?” Her mother clapped her hands together, “You think you love him? This is exactly why you have no place making decisions like this,” chuckling quietly, Heather continued, shaking her head, her voice growing softer, “You think he loves you back?” When Y/n got quiet, opting to reel back from fanning the flame, she went on, “Y/n, he’s more than thirty years older than you; he’s having a good time and when he’s finished with you; you’ll wish you had someone more like Daniel.”

She had never been a crier, but in that moment, tears welled up in Y/n’s eyes and she struggled to contain them. “You don’t know him,” Y/n eventually managed, though, her confidence in her relationship with Keanu was quickly wavering. What if her mother was right? What if Keanu’s love for her was frivolous, and after a while, was bound to fade. Y/n knew that it was irrational to doubt him when he’d given her no reason to, but she couldn’t help the nagging voice that said her mother could be right.

“But I know men. And if you don’t believe me, why don’t you give it a read?” Baffled, Y/n watched as her mother hastily shoved the tabloid to her before turning on her heel and stalking down the hall and out of her house

After that, Y/n hadn’t left the kitchen, and instead, she had just shifted to a bar-stool at the counter, quickly flipping through the glossy, high definition pages, stopping when she reached the article on her and Keanu. Worrying on her lip while toying with the flimsy paper at the edges as she read.

At first, most of it appeared to just be inferences from the pictures scattered in between paragraphs of the article; that they were dating, obviously for longer than realized, that Y/n was clearly seeing someone else based on everything else they knew and finally, how out of character it was for Keanu to so readily be seen with a woman romantically. Y/n rolled her eyes at the last bit; a lot of people didn’t know it about him, but she had found that Keanu actually wasn’t opposed to a little PDA now and then, as long as it wasn’t going to get them into too much trouble.

Most of it was fine, and Y/n doubts had even started to melt away, up until they started talking about Keanu’s dating history, pegging her against his former girlfriends and going as far as implying that they weren’t meant to be anything more than a fling; between their age gap and the fact that Keanu never seemed interested in settling down, their relationship clearly wasn’t meant to have a happy ending.

It stung, thinking that she might not mean more to Keanu than a couple months of fun. In a haste, Y/n got up, hurrying to her bedroom to change out of her shorts and tank top into jeans and a simple shirt, throwing on some shoes while she was at it. On her way out, Y/n swiped up the magazine from the counter, stuffing it into her handbag. She had to know, from him, once and for all.

There was merely thirty minutes between Y/n’s and Keanu’s house. When she’d gotten there, it wasn’t long after before she was yanking the crumpled pages out of her bag, shoving them to Keanu’s chest, earning herself a bewildered look and a surprised ‘ompf’. “What is this?”

Keanu eased the thing from her assaulting grip, his words resembling Y/n’s from earlier, “I donno babe, it looks like a magazine.”

Okay, maybe that was annoying. Rolling her eyes, Y/n scoffed, irritated, “No shit genius, look at page 8.”

With her hands on her hips, Y/n studied Keanu’s range of expressions as he read; going from shock, to intrigue to a flat out cringe. After he was finished, Keanu sighed heavily, rolling it up in his hand and absently slapping his palm, “This is….bad?”

“Bad?” Y/n’s chuckle was dry and in no way suggested humor, “Ke, this is terrible. My mom knows about us. And….” She wanted to bring it up, Y/n really didn’t, but she couldn’t. How was she supposed to ask him that anyway? In her hurry to get there, she hadn’t even thought it through and now that the moment had arrived, Y/n wasn’t sure if she could follow through, because the truth was, she didn’t want to know. She didn’t want to think that she could mean less to Keanu than he did to her or that one day he’d just decide that he’d had his fill and move on with his life.

Sighing again, Keanu moistened his lips, tentatively, Keanu tossed the tabloid to the top of the hall chest, pulling Y/n to him, trying to lead her to the living room. After some hesitance, she responded and they slowly made their way, eventually plopping into the grey cushions. Y/n discarded her bag on his coffee table and took a minute to clear her cheeks of escaped tears before taking a deep breath. “Are you sure that your mom knowing is all that’s bothering you?” He finally asked. Keanu had read the same article she had and he knew for certain that the last few lines weren’t ones that anyone would take lightly.

“I….” Y/n’s breath caught, “No,” Y/n shifted to face him, pulling one leg under herself, brushing some hair behind her ear, “I want to know the truth, am I just a fling to you? I mean,” she huffed, sniffling, not wanting her tears to cloud Keanu’s judgement, “Am I gonna end up like them?”

“No, of course not,” Keanu racked his brain for the right thing to say. He knew what it looked like. It looked like he was a womanizer. It looked like he kept women around until he got bored. It looked like he was the kind of person that was going to break her heart, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do. “You know that I would never do that to you.”

“Do I?” Rolling her glassy eyes, Y/n pulled away from him, standing again. Her head felt full and all Y/n wanted to do was go back in time and find a way to uncomplicate things. Fighting more tears, she folded her arms, she loved Keanu, she did, but her life was already a complicated mess, did she really want to add a potential heartbreak into the mix?

For him, maybe.

“You should,” he stood too, scrubbing his palms over the things of his faded, worn jeans, “You know I love you. Y/n,” Keanu reached out as he closed the short space between them, sighing in relief when she let him gently grip her arm, “I’ve never felt this way.”

Mulling on his words, Y/n glanced at his fingers loosely closed in just below her shoulder. When their eyes met, he squeezed affectionately, as if to ask her to believe his words. Y/n wanted to believe him, but with everything she’d read and all that her mom had said, Y/n didn’t know what to think. “Neither have I,” a lone tear trickled down her already stained cheek, “It’s just…...I don’t-”

Y/n’s phone, practically shrieking in her bag cut her off, breaking her thoughts. In a frenzy, she rummaged through its contents, cringing when she finally pulled it out. Her dad, and she was sure he wasn’t calling to congratulate Y/n on her latest media appearance. “Dad?” She swallowed tightly. On his end, he didn’t say much and his tone was abrasive and his words few, all in all, ordering that she return home- and not to her place, to theirs.

As the line disconnected, Y/n shuddered, a foreboding chill running down her spine, everything that she’d wanted to say to Keanu forgotten. “I have to go,” she breathed, shaking her head, not even wanting to imagine what was coming next, “My parents, they um…”

“Yeah,” Keanu nodded stiffly, understanding without her having to say it, “Come on,” he snaked an arm around her waist. He didn’t want Y/n to go, especially when she was that upset, but he’d already gotten her into enough trouble, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

Y/n’s forced smile faltered as she tried to quell her nerves. By the time they reached her car, Keanu was holding the door open for her and letting his hand slip to her hip as he pulled her into a loving kiss, their lips moving together slowly. When they broke, he kept his forehead pressed to his, their lips still almost touching, “Thank you,” she whispered.

“No problem,” Keanu let his thumb slip beneath the curved hem of her white button up, the pad of his finger rubbing circles into her skin, “Just remember what I told you, please? I love you and I mean it.”

“I know,” she nodded against him, dragging her lip through her teeth, “I love you too.”

“We can talk about this later, just call me when you get home.”

“Okay,” Y/n agreed breathily, “I should go now.” Not too long after, Keanu reluctantly let her leave, standing at the curb watching as her car grew smaller with distance.

When Y/n pulled up in the driveway of her childhood home, there were two more cars than she was expecting. On one of them was familiar though; Daniel’s Rolls-Royce, parked just ahead of the cobble stone porch steps. Putting her convertible in park, turning off the ignition and putting up the top, Y/n inhaled deeply before getting out.

The sun had already started to set and on her walk to the grand front door, the glare stung her puffy eyes. As her hand closed in around the knob, dread set in and all Y/n wanted to do was get back in her car and drive home. But alas, that wasn’t on the list of options. She only had one really; go in and see what they wanted.

Finding everyone didn’t take as long as she preferred as they- they being Y/n’s parents, Daniel’s parents and Daniel himself, were all gathered right in the living room. A combination of delicate tea china, a silver platter and a few wine glasses peppered the imported coffee table and quite chatter that dominated the room stopped suddenly upon Y/n’s entrance. Heather sat next to Micheal in the love-seat nearest to the unlit fireplace while Daniel’s parents were perched similarly on another sofa for two not too far off and finally, Daniel himself was the only one seated on the longest sofa. He looked uncomfortable and upon her entrance, he avoided her gaze swallowing tightly.

“You called?” Folding her arms definitely, Y/n didn’t move an inch further into the room, and she wasn’t going to unless someone gave her a reasonable reason to.

“I did,” Micheal nodded, slipping his hands into the pockets of his black slacks as he stood. His head was held high and his expression suggested that her mother had ousted her not too long ago, stern and a little angry, “We need to talk Y/n.”

Quickly, her tongue darted out to wet her lips, “Yeah,” she agreed, cocking her head to the side, “We do.”

Humorlessly, Micheal chuckled, “Let me rephrase, I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen. Now sit,” he gestured to the spot next to Daniel.

“I don’t have to listen to you. I’m-”

“You’re an adult who still uses my money!” It was rare, very, very rare, but when Micheal did raise his voice, it was always enough to shock fear into those around him. Keeping tears at bay, Y/n clenched her jaw. The vein at her father’s forehead bulged as if to prove his anger and she could see his hidden fist was clenched in his pocket. “I am your father. I bought your house, your car, I pay you and as long as I have to do that, you will listen to me. So sit.”

Begrudged and rolling her eyes, like a teenager who had just been scolded for swiping vodka out of the liquor cabinet, Y/n stomped over to the sofa, huffing as the patterned cream cushions embraced her. Still, Daniel refused to look her in the eye, and he even seemed a bit fidgety. They sat with about a foot between them and feeling more awkward than anyone preferred, she shuffled further to the other side, though still keeping away from where Micheal stood.

“Good,” he finally managed, “Now first things first, you owe the Wangs an apology for your recent…..behavior,” the word left his lips with such disgust that it almost made her feel dirty, “Now, Y/n.”

Y/n hated it, every single painstaking second of it. Being humiliated? And made to apologize like a child? Still, there was no use in embarrassing herself even more, “Mrs and Mrs. Wang,” Y/n powered through the stinging in her eyes and the thickness in her throat, “I am so sorry.” They eyed her suspiciously, but eventually nodded stiffly. “And Daniel,” Y/n turned to him, tentatively reaching out, surprised when he didn’t pull his hand way and looked at her directly for the first time, his features etched with the twinge of betrayal, “I can not begin to explain how sorry I am,” not for being with Keanu, but for hurting him, “I never, ever meant to hurt you. And I know that I can’t say anything that will make it up to you, but I hope you can forgive me.”

Daniel’s words were choked when they left his lips, “It’s not your fault,” he reassured, squeezing her hand lightly.

“It is her fault,” Micheal interjected angrily and Y/n could feel his stare burning into her, “She was careless and absolutely selfish,” once again addressing her, Micheal carried on, “This family has given you everything Y/n, and all we ask is that you secure your future.”

How dare he? The will to argue burned like hot coals, but Y/n bit her tongue, knowing full and well that no good would come from it anyway. “I know dad.”

If Micheal heard her, he didn’t seem to care, “But all you still ran after some actor who can’t do a damn thing for you,” he let his words sink in. Y/n desperately wished she could defend Keanu. He wasn’t just ‘some actor’, he was the man she loved, a good, kind man who she didn’t want to see a life without. “But thankfully,” Micheal continued, breaking her thoughts, “Li Jian and Alice have decided to forgive your stupidity and give you a second chance.”

Baffled, Y/n looked to Daniel’s parents, who in turn looked to Daniel. The next five minutes seemed to unfold in slow motion; Daniel gently freeing his hand from her loose grip, pushing himself off the sofa, only to sink down on one knee- right in front of her. As he reached into the inner breast pocket of his beige suit coat, Y/n sucked in a sharp breath and her heart quickened, and not in a good way.

“Y/n,” he began as sweetly as possible, his hands visibly shaking, as he flipped open the velvet ring box, “I know this probably isn’t how you imagined getting engaged- to me or anyone else, but I would be honored to be your husband, if you’d have me of course. Will you marry me?”

They hadn’t even exchanged ‘I love yous’ yet.

Y/n wasn’t even sure that she wanted to. Far less marry him.

But by the looks everyone was giving her, Y/n didn’t think that rejecting Daniel’s proposal was something she was allowed to do. She had to accept, for her family. It was who she was and it was bound to happen one day. The sooner she learned to accept that, the easier her life would be. And, besides, at least Daniel wasn’t a jerk like Jillian's husband.

Forcing a smile, Y/n hoped that Daniel would think her tears were those of happiness, “Yes,” she croaked, morphing into a mere onlooker as Daniel sighed in relief, proceeding to slip an engagement ring onto her finger. It was gorgeous; a large, emerald cut diamond sat in a micropavé setting, the expensive stones glittering in the yellow chandelier light, and Y/n really wished she could enjoy the moment, but between the haste in which it had happened and the triumphant looks of her parents, all it did was make Y/n’s heart sink.

That was not what she was expecting.

*********

Tagging- @harrisongslimited @paanchu786 @a-really-bi-girl @baphometwolf666 @sdaff2 @green-forest-dreams @weird-civilian

#keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #fanfic #john wick #john wick x reader #john wick x you #lullaby #keanu reeves fanfic #fanfiction #john wick fanfic #keanu reeves fanfiction #john wick fanfiction #ff #chapter 14 #angst #fluff

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the-omni-princess · 5 years

Text

Blood Bound [Chapter Five]

Author: @the-omni-princess

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky x Witch!Reader

Summary: Vampires and witches have been known enemies since the dark ages. Backstabbing, secrets, and magic turned supernatural brethren again each other. As a natural-born witch, you grew up on these stories, your own monsters under your bed. What happens when one of those sworn enemies claims that you are his blood mate, the vampire equivalent of a true mate? Will you give in to this man out of time? Or destroy him for the sake of your Coven?

Word Count: 3.3K

Warnings: fluff, angst, swearing, mentions of death, major character death, talks of death, talks of a historical event with a twist

A/N: So, this was supposed to be for Halloween so Happy Halloween! Lol, this series was supposed to be done by Halloween and I think I’m like halfway through. I had two lab reports and a test today and its two am Im ded

Enjoy!!!

[Series Masterlist] [My Masterlist] [Playlist Inspired by the Series]

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Sleep in Bucky’s arms was virtually dreamless, which after the day you had had, was a sweet relief. Once you woke up, you could only remember a fraction of your remaining dream. A peaceful scene, you and Bucky laying in a field of flowers, smiling, talking about nothing in particular. It seemed awfully familiar. Maybe you were really- no. That simply was impossible. There was no way you were reincarnated. But why did everything feel so familiar? Like home?

The sun filtered in through your balcony, the curtains were slightly open. Cool arms were wrapped around you protectively, cool breath fanning against your neck. You bit back a giggle, hearing Bucky snore behind you. His hand shifted slightly lower, resting against your abdomen, sending a wave of flashes before your eyes. Hands. Warm, big, pulling, gentle, soft. Light kisses below your ear. Whispers of love. A murmur of “Sweetling.” Contentment. Sated.

As you gasped softly, the memory fled, slipping through your fingers like sand. Bucky groaned softly behind you, “Are you alright?” Concern laced in his sleep heavy voice.

“It was nothing, I think it was a flash of a memory…” you indulged. Okay, maybe this whole reincarnation theory would explain all of this memory flashes, but it seemed ridiculous. “Guess, for the time being, we both have memory issues,” you teased. Okay so maybe you were using humor as a coping mechanism but finding out you had a vampire soulmate was a little overwhelming.

You could feel him smiling into your neck as he looked at the glow in the dark stars on your ceiling. “So, I gather you like stars?”

Your pulse beat just inches from his fangs, and yet you felt nothing but absolute trust in the one creature you weren’t supposed to trust. It was alarming how you unequivocally trusted this man. “I love them. The stars guide our everyday lives without even realizing it.”

“Spoken like a true witch,” he sighed softly, unable to stop smiling. “Creeks… you also used to like creeks and springs in the woods,” he murmured. “Right before a storm as the skies darken and the lights leave the forest floor.”

“Mountains,” you mumbled absentmindedly. “You liked the snowy mountains because as spring thawed the ice, it brought me more streams.” You let your eyes close, leaning against his touch. It felt gratifying to remember something. Okay, fine. Maybe you really were Theo. But how?

Bucky tensed behind you, interrupting your existential crisis thoughts, soft growling sounding from the back of his throat, sending shivers down your spine. “Someone’s here.” His grip tightened on you, protective.

“Probably the Coven, Bucky it’s okay, as long as Carol isn’t the one to find us like this.” You turned in his arms, a little surprised to see crimson red eyes staring towards your door. You placed your hand on his chest, feeling a small beat below your fingertips. You quickly moved your hand, that must have been your imagination. Vampires didn’t have heartbeats.

He sat up, tensed, hair standing up on the back of his neck. “It’s not your Coven Sisters. I know their scents, this is different. It smells like witch, and wolf.”

Stretching, you stood, “I think I know who it is, calm down,” you sighed softly. “But he can probably smell you, so you need to hide.” You glanced at the sun floating in through your blinds. “Can you stay quiet up here?”

He smirked, which sent your heart for a ride. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” he assured with a smile that promised mischief.

“Cool, because when I get back, you and I are having a serious conversation about this whole memory thing,” you tossed the blanket from last night into your hamper, dirt and dry leaves still sticking to it from your run in the woods. “Maybe you can help me look through the books and find that spell you think you performed on your Theo. Figure out if I’m her, or just remember things she knew.”

“Anything you wish, Sweetling,” you didn’t need to turn around to know he was grinning, joyful at a chance to explore this, so you just rolled your eyes affectionately, pulling on a jacket to hide the fact you were wearing the same exact clothes as last night.

Closing the door behind you, you made your way downstairs. As you walked through the living room, three very recognizable voices made their way to your ears. Two of your three guests were expected from what Bucky told you. One of them made your blood start to boil, anxiety and nerves shooting through you. You took a deep breath before rounding the corner to the kitchen, silently praying that Bucky wouldn’t hear your heart rate spike and come down here.

Pepper spotted you first, already having brewed coffee and smiling at you. “Good morning, y/n.”

Smiling back at her, you took the mug of coffee from her gratefully. “Been a few weeks since you visited, Pep. I was wondering if you forgot about me.” You teased before turning to your other guest. “Keeping her busy, I presume?” You smiled at Tony.

The two must have just come back from their Honeymoon, something you knew Pepper was looking forward to. The Coven wasn’t quite the same without your mother hen witch sister. Older than you, she took over as your mother figure rather quickly after finding you. She was the reason your powers were under control most of the time, having taught you everything she knew.

You then turned to your third visitor, “Council Member Pierce, what brings you to my little nitch of the woods?” You gave a polite smile, noticing Tony’s apologetic smile behind the Council member.

“Simply passing through during our investigation of what happened to the Mountain Coven,” he provided. God, you always hated how calculating he sounded, even with simple sentences. Alexander Pierce, one of your least favorite Council Members and the current Head of the Council, and they all inadvertently hated you.

“We heard what happened and wanted to check in on you when we found Council Member Pierce here already on his way,” Pepper, ever the diplomat, supplied you with the missing gap. He probably forced his way into your home or forced Pepper to open the door knowing him. Manipulative and slimy seemed to be common Council member personality traits.

Rubbing the inside of your wrist, you smiled warmly, plastering the fake grin on your features. “Well make yourself at home before continuing on in your journey.”

“Oh, he was just leaving,” Tony snarled lowly. Pepper placed a hand on his shoulder, and he visibly relaxed, yet you could practically see the fumes coming off of him.

Pierce simply stood, “Keep a tighter leash on your dog Ms. Potts,-“

“Potts-Stark,” Tony snarled, eyes narrowing, Pierce ignored him as he continued.

“I will be seeing more of you during the investigation, don’t disappoint Ms. L/n.”

You gave him a fake smile once more, “Have a great day,” he promptly left, and you shut the door none-to-gently behind him.

Sitting back in the kitchen you took a sip of your coffee, letting the scorching liquid boil your insides. You could feel both Starks’ gaze burning into your head as you sighed. “I know you smelled him the second you walked through the door Tony, and thank you for not tell Pierce. Now, tell me what you’re thinking,” you locked eyes onto the werewolf.

“That you’re insane, or that you’re going to get yourself killed, where should I start?” He deadpanned.

You sighed softly, taking another sip of your coffee. “Bucky, you can come down here,” you called softly, knowing he could hear you from your room.

A small gust of wind notified you of his added presence. He placed a hand on your hip possessively, fangs bared as he growled. “Mutt,” he scowled.

“Leech,” Tony responded in kind, baring his own fangs. Pepper shot you a look, one you shrugged off. Both men were confrontational, but you knew Tony since you were younger, and he wouldn’t just hurt another nocturnal without a reason. And Bucky, despite technically barely knowing him, well, he was just a goofball at heart. And you knew he would trust you.

Placing a hand on his shoulder seemed effective, the growling buzzing off softly. Inky black eyes looking at you for an explanation. “Bucky, this is one of my Coven Sisters, Pepper, and her husband, Tony. You two better play nice,” you threatened giving them both a look.

Tony scowled at you, “You dragged a leech into your home and you want me to play nice?!” he fumed. You knew Tony was just trying to protect you but sometimes he did go a bit overboard.

“Yes, wolfie. I have some explaining-“

“Yeah, no shit!” He cried out.

Sighing softly, you headed out towards the library without another word, all three on your heels. You quickly gathered the books you needed, dropping the new additions besides the books on witch and Soul Bound Lore already sitting on your desk. Bucky took an interest in one, in particular, an old relic Wanda had found for you. He gulped faintly, running his fingers through the yellowed pages before looking up at you. Tony and Pepper watched curiously, both noting how the two nocturnals in front of them seemed to gravitate towards each other like magnets.

Grabbing the book, you most frequented about Soul Bound, you slid it towards the couple, taking a deep breath. “Bucky and I are Soul Bound,” you explained in a meek voice.

Both Starks responded at the same time.

“You’re name’s Bucky?!”

“You’re Soul Bound to a vampire?!”

Taking a chance, you gently intertwined your hand in Bucky’s, who seemed quite shocked you would do that. You were positive that if he could, he would be blushing, staring at your hand. Tightening your grip on him you nodded, “Yeah…”

Tony burst into a fit of giggles, making Pepper roll her eyes. “I’m sorry, what kind of old fashion name from a vampire is Bucky,” he continued to laugh.

“Short for Buchanan. My baby sister, Becca, came up with it,” he babbled, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat.

“What happened to her?” Your mouth moved before your brain told it to shut up and not interrogate the man with the missing memories.

He squinted faintly at your interlocked hands, thinking for a moment before replying, “Died of yellow fever when we were young.”

“Wow, we’ve known him for ten minutes and we’re already learning the tragic backstory. Can you believe that, Pep?” Tony interrupted.

Swallowing back the new wave of memories the words ‘yellow fever’ brought into your head, you opened the book in front of you. “I need your help, Pepper. Is there a way to bring someone back to life? You’re the only witch I know who even read the necromancy chapter in school and took it seriously.”

“I mean probably, in theory, that’s the whole point of necromancy, bringing life to the dead and dying.” She shrugged, turning the book towards her. She browsed a few pages, while you ignored Tony’s looks towards your vampire. Wait. When did he become your vampire? “This might be it,” Pepper mumbled, turning the page towards you. Both you and Bucky started skimming through the words. “There’s a difference between bringing back from the brink of death and actual death, but this is the main difference.”

Bucky squeezed your hand faintly, “I did the spell wrong,” his shoulders were hunched, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. Preoccupied with his reaction, you didn’t notice the rest of your Coven filing through the library doors. They visibly froze at seeing Bucky, Carol’s eyes zeroing in on your intertwined hands.

“Did what spell wrong?” Natasha called, causing you to jump with a small shriek.

“Shit! Nat, don’t scare me like that,” you glared at her. She gave you a self-satisfied smirk in response as you spoke. “Necromancy. Specifically, a spell to bring someone back. Well… we don’t think this is the first life we’ve been tied together.” That was the first time you said it out loud, accepted it. It was terrifying. Liberating.

“First life?” Maria was the one to speak up, sliding into a nearby chair, Sasha happily jumping into her lap. The tabby purred as she rubbed behind her ears as you tried to think about how you could explain this big mess.

Thankfully, Bucky spoke. “I was born in the 1600s, my wife and I moved to a newer colony, and they killed her, Theo, for being a witch. She was my Soul Bound. I… I tried to save her, but I think I used the wrong spell. I think I used a rebirth spell instead of a bringing back from the brink of death spell.”

Carol’s eyes narrowed in on him, “You were a witch too? Convenient if you ask me. Besides, how do we know your ‘Theo’ is y/n?” All the Coven’s (and one amused werewolf’s) eyes were bearing into him.

He held up the hand he was laced into, “This birthmark, Theo had one in the exact spot. Well, her’s was a scar, from when she pricked herself on needles.” He put your hand back down before continuing. “Mint leaves like her, exact same scent,” his vision started to double, and he took a shaky breath, “Same powers, same eyes when she uses said powers, same smile, same kindness towards any creature,” he groaned softly, using his free hand to clutch his temples. “Fuck, not now,” he whimpered.

You helped him take a seat, ignoring your Coven to make sure he was comfortable. “Are you okay? It’s a memory isn’t it?” He nodded weakly, looking up at you, which made you realize your hands had migrated into cupping his cheeks. “I’m right here, Bucky, I’ve got you,” you murmured, moving up to gently rub his temples as he whined. Vulnerable and terrified, soul in your hands, the Coven watched as you guarded over your defenseless vampire.

Laughter like honey. Smiles like sugar. Candied hearts, crystallized tears of joy. His Theo. Always his. He was a liar. She was gone. And it was his fault.

He kept running, too slow for the woman – no, creature – beside him, but he no longer cared. Running for far too long. Kill him. He deserved it. He was a monster. He lied. He broke his promise.

Somewhere along the way, a man started to run with him as well. To blind by his own tragedy, he truly didn’t even notice the two vampire companions having a fling. Peggy. She had dragged him away from her death. Now, Steve, was it?, was to lovesick with the older vampire to notice she was stringing him along. She never did like the loneliness of eternity.

Mud, moss, gross green stuff. Bucky no longer cared. That was until the caught up with him. Finally, finish this. Kneeling in the cold mud, freezing rain biting into his skin. A gun pressed to the back of his head to keep him still, but he didn’t care. He begged for it to finally be over.

It was truly ironic, he though at least, that the very judge that passed the sentence that murdered his love, would put the bullet in his head and kill him. A loud shot, and a consuming, blinding pain encompassing his head and body. He couldn’t cry out as he fell onto the mud. Limp, hoping for his death to be just a little quicker, his murderer turned his body over. Through caked vision, he finally understood why he was always so wary of witches.

Judge Armin Zola stood above him, grinning murderously down at him. “Such a shame, Barnes. We could have been great, but you and your Bound were too powerful to control. Don’t take it too personal, after all, we don’t like any Natural Born, not just you.” Tormented, and alone, on his dying breath, Bucky could only think of how he couldn’t wait to see Theo again. And that’s when the burning pain started to shoot through his veins.

When Bucky came to, his head was resting on her lap. He practically purred, despite it sounding like a whine, as her hands ran through his hair. Home. Safe. His eyes shot open, scanning the room as he realized they weren’t alone.

“Calm down Count Chocula, y/n explained the memory thing while you were out, and her own issues,” Tony sneered, not looking up from the book he was perusing through.

He shook his head, trying to speak but his brain decided to disconnect with his mouth. “Let me help,” Wanda offered, already sitting beside the pair. “I read minds if you would like, save your strength.”

He looked up towards Theo – no, she’s Y/n now – who nodded, still running her hands through his hair. “You can trust her, I trust her with my life.”

That’s all he really needed. Anyone worthy of her affection earned his own a moment later. She’s all he needs to trust in, his new own personal religion. He nodded towards the red witch, who placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt like he was swimming in reds and burgundies. Wanda gasped softly, lifting her hand away quickly as if his touch burned her. “No way,” she muttered, rushing for a book. She hastily opened it, flipping through pages before freezing on a very specific section. “Look familiar?” She turned it for him to see. The crude drawing looked like his Theo, a noose around her neck, the Judge he saw standing beside her.

“That… that looks like me?” You murmured softly, hands stilling in Bucky’s hair.

The man in question sat up, groggy as the memories started to flash through his eyes, the blurry picture slowly coming into focus. He blinked a few times before pointing towards the Judge. “Him. He killed me ten years after killing you.”

Carol looked a bit skeptically towards them, “Yeah but why would some witch kill you two? Got him mad?”

He tilted his head towards the pages, skimming his finger along with the words. “He wasn’t just some witch.” He closed his eyes, straining to hold onto his racing thoughts before his eyes flashed gold then red again. “He was the Head of the Witch Council.” He turned towards a stunned you. “The Council killed us because we were gaining too much power,” he reached forward across the sofa, taking your hands in his.

“Ten years… you said you died in Queen Anne’s War, and I died ten years before that. My dreams, it's chilly, like October.” Your hands were shaking as your thoughts started to pull the information together, but Bucky’s cool and soft hands were acting as an anchor to this moment.

“Eighteen. They hung eighteen girls that October.” He was starting to connect it together as well.

“Holy shit, I died in the Salem Witch Trials,” your voice rang out throughout the room. Bucky squeezed your hands gently, and you let him act as your tether to the mortal whelm. “We were killed by the very Council that had sworn to protect all witches, and you were saved by the vampires we were told by them to fear.”

“Well, this is just getting deeper and deeper. Before you know it, you’ll be telling me the Coven to the North died because they found out the Council has been killing Naturals.” Tony quipped from the side of the room.

The room froze, taking in the statement. “Well, it would explain a lot,” you murmured. “They were getting powerful, and dominant witches who don’t need as much energy to have magic aren’t easy to control.” That was the last connecting dot. The darkness in the distance wasn’t just some mythical monster. It was the very same man that stood in your living room and drank your tea just an hour ago.

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incarnateirony · 4 years

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Hey dude! Do you have any recommendations for LGBTQ+ movies in the romance genre that have like a happy ending. I really don't care how old they are. I'm feeling the Gay™ hence I need the Gay™. You feel me?

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII NONNIE

First sorry for taking so long, not only did I have to timeline this :) but :) my computer :) froze :) after writing like :) 2 pages :) and I had to do it again :)

So anyway let it be said, the LGBT dialogue is one of osmosis and shared growth and awareness. Some of these films will be very poorly dated, but as you (thankfully) mentioned that them being old wasn’t a *problem*, expect a lot of old stuff. Because one of the most important things to have under your belt when talking about the LGBT media representation battle is the actual journey from A to B – be that incrementalization, subtextual inclusion, text-breeching features, outright evocative and groundbreaking films at the time (which is what MOST of this list will be) and an improvement in our dialogue; let us never forget that while tr*nss*xual is considered a slur and transgender is proper, tr*nss*xual was at one point the politically correct way to speak it – things like that breach in our growing understanding of the spectrum of human sexuality.

I *WILL* disclaimer these aren’t all romance, so if you explicitly want romance, google them and take a look if it sounds to appeal, but I’m taking this as a general cinema history plug considering what a confused mess fandom conversation about LGBT history in film or modern text as applicable, accepted or not.

Wonder Bar (1936) (I wouldn’t really call this queer cinema, but if you have the time to watch it too, I think it was the first explicit mention of homosexual engagement even if it was fleetingly brief. You might even call it Last Call style. A blink and you’ll miss it plug that was still decades ahead of its time)

Sylvia Scarlet (1936) (Again, I wouldn’t call this queer cinema, but a lot of the community takes it as the first potential trans representation on TV due to the lead literally swapping gender presentation, even if the presentation is… not what we would modernly call representation IMO)

Un Chant d'Amour (1950) (Worth it for the sheer fact that it pissed off fundies so bad they took it all the way to the US supreme court to get it declared obscene.)

The Children’s Hour (1961) (also known as the 1961 lesson to “don’t be a gossipy, outting bitch”)

Victim (1961) (The first english film to use the word “homosexual” and to focus explicitly on gay sexuality. People might look on it disdainfully from modern lenses, but it really helped progress british understanding of homosexuality)

Scorpio Rising (1964) (Lmao this one deadass got taken to court when it pissed people off and California had to rule that it didn’t count as obscene bc it had social value, worth it for the history if nothing else)

Theorem (1968) (Because who doesn’t wanna watch a 60s flick about a bisexual angel, modern issues and associations be damned)

The Killing of Sister George (1968) (by the makers of What Ever Happened To Baby Jane)

Midnight Cowboy (1969) (…have I had sassy contagonists in RP make a Dean joke off of this more than once, maybe)

Fellini-Satyricon (1969) (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA THIS)

The Boys in the Band (1970) (This… this… this made a lot of fuss. Just remember leather)

Pink Narcissus (1971) (a labor of love shot on someone’s personal camera)

Death in Venice (1971) (This is basically a T&S prequel but whatever, based on a much older book)

Cabaret (1972)

Pink Flamingos (1972) (SHIT’S WILD)

The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972) (The title doesn’t lie, be warned)

The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) [god I hope you’ve at least seen this]

Fox and His Friends (1975) (some really hard lessons that are still viable today, that just because someone acknowledges your sexuality doesn’t mean they give a shit about you as a person, and that some will even abuse the knowledge for gain)

The Terence Davies Trilogy (1983) (REALLY interesting history look it up, it’s sort of one of those “drawn from own experience” story short sets)

The Times of Harvey Milk (1984) (Documentary)

Desert Hearts (1985) (Pretty much the first film to put lesbianism into a good light as a true focus based on a novel from the sixties)

Parting Glances (1986) (the only film its creator got out before his death from the aids epidemic)

Law of Desire (1987) (two men and a trans woman in a love triangle, kinda ahead of its time)

Maurice (1987) (This one’s really interesting, cuz it was based on a book made about 15 years before it, but the book itself had been written half a century earlier and wasn’t published until after the guy died, he just thought it’d never get published Cuz Gay, so basically it’s based on a story written in like, the 20s finally getting screen time. It has a bittersweet but positive-leaning-ish ending without disregarding the cost that can come with it and even addresses class issues at the same time 100% DO RECOMMEND)

Tongues Untied (1989) (a documentary to give voices to LGBT black men)

Longtime Companion (1990) (This one’s title alone is history, based on a NYT phrasing for how they talked about people’s partners dying, eg longtime companion, during the AIDS epidemic)

Paris Is Burning (1990) (Drag culture and related sexual and gender identity exploration as it intersected with class issues and other privileges explored in a documentary)

The Crying Game (1992)( I should correct this that I guess it’s more, 1992 considered, “SURPRISE, DIL HAS A DILL!” – I guess I really didn’t do that summary justice by modern language and dialogue as much as how people in the 90s were talking about that and that’s a my bad. LIKE. SEE, EVEN I CAN FUCK UP MY LANGUAGE I’M SORRY CAN I BLAME THE STRAIGHTS T_T) #90skidproblems – I guess I should call it a trans film. And this alone tells me I should go watch it again to recode it in my brain modernly rather than like circa de la 2000 understanding.

The Bird Cage (1996) (So you mix drag culture, otherwise heterosexually connected lovebirds, and then realize the girl comes from an alt-rightish house and the guy comes from a Two Dads Home and does cabaret, how to deal with the issues OF this conflict when it’s between you and your happiness, even if the fight isn’t even your own as much as it is that of the person you love. The answer is PROBABLY NOT to dress in drag and pretend to be straight, but what are you going to do? – while played for laughs we’d consider modernly crude, the fact that they even dared to approach this narrative was pretty loud)

The Celluloid Closet (1996) (Ever heard of the Vito Russo test for LGBT representation? This is based on a book by Vito Russo.)

Happy Together (1997) (Ain’t this shit an ironic name; a mutual narrative, via chinese flick, of hong kong ceding to china and an irrevocably tangled MLM pairing as a giant mirrored metaphor)

Boys Don’t Cry (1999) (one of the most groundbreaking films about trans identity at the time)

Stranger Inside (2001) (As easy as it is to recoil to the idea of “black gays in jail”, the film makers actually went and consulted prisoners and put a great deal of focus into intersectional african american issues that really weren’t around even in straight films at the time)

Transamerica (2005) (While it made a bit of a fuss for not casting an actual trans actor, it was one of the first times a big budget studio really tried to tackle it which really pushed us forward)

Call Me by Your Name (2017) (since I’ve apparently leaned really heavy old cinema throw in a modern one lmaooooo)

Also honorable The Kids Are All Right (2010) mention for the sake of the fucking title alone.

And to any incarnation of “On the Road” by Kerouac, which

Was originally a book

Released a sanitized de-gayed edition because of the times

Later released the full homo manuscript

had a few film adaptations

Was one of Kripke’s founding inspirations for Supernatural once he left behind “Some reporter guy chases stories” and took the formula of Sal and Dean (and tbh later, Carlo) in a beat generation vibe gone modern as we know it today.

Reading both versions of this can actually help some folks currently understand that when you get confused over some shit (WHY IS CARLO SO UPSET? WHY IS HE ACTING LIKE AN UPSET GIRLFRIEND??? WHY IS HE SO JEALOUS AND SAD WHEN DEAN IS AROUND GIRLS???? WE JUST DONT KNOWWWWWWWWWWWWW) it’s because some big money asshat bleached the content, and sometimes, it takes a while for the full script to come out and again, surprise, it’s been GAY, they just didn’t want to OFFEND anybody. *jazz hands*

Now if you wanna go WAY WAY BACK, during 191X years, a bunch of gender role flicks came out like Charley’s Aunt, Mabel’s Blunder and the Florida Enchantment.

Also where is @thecoffeebrain-blog to yell about the necessity of watching Oz, for the next few hours? But no, seriously, just look into the entire LGBT *HISTORY* of Oz.

Beyond that though I’m gonna stop here cuz hi that’s a lot. I really don’t know how much counts as “happy ending” but if I had to give an LGBT cinema rec list, that’s it as a sum. I don’t really have like, a big portfolio of UWU HAPPY ENDING GAYS because 1. there aren’t a lot of those but 2. to me, it’s not about the ending, it’s about the journey. Be that in flick or through culture and history itself.

If you want more happy ending stuff, you definitely have to look at 2010+, but it’s not like we’re in a rich and fertile landscape yet so honestly just googling that would probably serve you better since I don’t explicitly explore romance genre or happy endings to really have a collection. LGBT life is hard and film often reflects that if we’re making genuine statements about it and really representing it, and we’re just now getting to a point of reliably having the chance at a happy ending. That or maybe someone can add like “Explicit happy endings” lists after this that has more experience in that subgenre.

Also, I can’t emphasize ENOUGH to remember what was progressive then is not what is progressive now, and frankly, what some people think is progressive now they’ll probably look back on what they said and feel really fuckin’ embarrassed. See: “It’s not text because by alt right homophobic dialogue, M/M sex isn’t gay if you do the secret handshake” MGTOW kinda crazy ass dialogue or parallel narratives they inspire that encourage self-closeting and denial based on the pure idea that being gay makes you somehow lesser, so It’s Not That. Like. I am. 99% sure. At least half of the people talking in this fandom. Are going to regret that the internet is forever. And maybe hope hosting servers end in the inevitable nuclear war that will annihilate this planet.

Also, edit: Speaking of mistaken dialogues and words aging poorly, I’d like to apologize from the poor description I rendered “The Crying Game” with, but that really goes to show how deep-seated the issue is we can so casually fuck up identifying a trans narrative as SURPRISE DICK IS GAY when we were all absorbing the content like 20+ years ago and HOW HARD it can be to de-code yourself from that kind of programming because here I am, writing a giant assed rep post and fucking it up because my brain hadn’t soaked that movie since Y2K. Guess what, time for me to go watch the Crying Game again.

#lgbtqia #representation #media #cinema history

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kingofdirtandnothing · 3 years

Text

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day One

The shop smells like old paper, the lingering sort of scent that gets into the bindings and takes hold. It reminds Alice of her time in university, when she could spend hours of her day in the library without being bothered.

Except for when someone wanted to ask if she was lost, and if she was looking for her parents. The joys of getting your PhD at the age of eighteen. Being petite on top of her young age didn’t help either. Unless you counted the undue attentions of slavering professors. But she didn’t.

Alice trails up and the aisles, fingertips tracing over gilded letters stamped into the spines. She likes this place, not only because it’s tucked into the corner of a charming little street but also because the owners weren’t the type to follow you around like a thief.

It helped of course, that all their expensive tomes were on the shelves behind the counter where they had the register. Being polite was all well and good, but you had to protect your investments as well. And there were books on those shelves that had price tags that ran up into the thousands.

She didn’t know what language the two men behind the counter were speaking, but it was very easily not local. If there was a gun to her head, Alice would make a guess for the African continent. But she wouldn’t guess beyond that. Their conversation felt idle to an outsider’s ear, none of the kind of laughter that would make the hair on the back of your neck stand up with that completely irrational feeling that you were being laughed at.

Alice rounds the corner onto the next aisle of shelving, passing from science fiction into science fact. These were still her favorite types of books, even after years in the field. Her love for the vast unknown of space was still as awe struck and full of curiosity as it was when she was a little girl.

But that same girlish curiosity drives her from the science books stacked neatly in rows like little tin soldiers, to a wall nearly hidden in shadow. And on it, a series of snapshots that were framed.

None of them were under any sort of spotlight. The photos themselves weren’t in direct line of sight from the cash register. Curious. Alice steps in close, hands clasped behind her and held at the small of her back to keep her from touching. She was a tactile woman. Sometimes touch felt like her most valued sense. But there was a faint layer of dust on these photos, and touching them would give away the game.

The first photo was grainy with exposure from how late at night it was. It was the two men at the counter, one with his arm thrown over the other. They were grinning ear to ear, a backdrop of flat earth and ramshackle buildings behind them.

The next seemed almost opposite in contrast, the summer sun beating down on dark little heads. There were three rows of boys standing in front of what looked like a single room school building. The boys were all smiling, some of them gap toothed with their young age. They all wore crisp white short sleeved button down shirts and creased black shorts. They even had on little striped navy and gold ties.

“Adorable.” The words are faint whisper, carried out on an exhale of breath. Alice doesn’t even realize she’s said anything at all as she moves on to the next photograph. This one is vastly geographically different. Gone is the flat plains of dry, cracked yellow grass beaten down by a long reigning sun.

In the window in the back of the room in the photograph, there is a riot of lush green leaves blocking out the view of anything else. The room itself was wood paneled, pieces slotting together in a geometric pattern. There were bamboo mats laid out on the floor in neat rows, a hint at a lingering purpose.

Front and center in front of the camera were too men. One was tall and dark, with skin like good chocolate. His hair was cropped short, and Alice could just make out a tattoo on the inside of his left bicep. His hands and feet were taped up with white tape, a dark contrast against his skin. Next to him was a smaller man, European by skin tone and feature set, though his skin seemed warmed by the sun wherever they were. He too was taped up, both of their chests bare and their bottom halfs wrapped in silken red shorts with blue trim and a blue stripe down the side.

“Thailand.” The voice behind her startles Alice out of her thoughts, and she steals a glance over her shoulder. It was one of the men from the first photograph. The taller one, it looked like. Though he didn’t have glasses and a sweater on in the photograph. They made him look deceptively smaller, like he wasn’t built like an oak tree. “That’s where that picture was taken.”

He points to the first picture. “Nigeria.” And then his finger slips over to the second, a fond look sinking in behind the neat curve of his glasses. “Nigeria.” And then his finger drops to his side again.

“Is he one of the other boys in the second photo?” It’s the only thing Alice can think of. Another schoolmate, maybe. Because this wasn’t the quiet one behind the register with the cough. The man in the picture was much more good looking, though Alice was polite enough not to say that out loud.

“He is.” M’Baku nods, smile a little more present, a little less nostalgic. “That’s John. He was quite the rage in the Muay Thai scene for a couple of years. That’s his mate, Justin.” There’s a moment’s pause, and then a soft huff of laughter. “I never did understand how you could keep being friends with someone who kicked you on a regular basis. But those two are thick as thieves, even now.”

Even now. Which meant that lovely man in the photograph, with the sweat cooling on his skin and the knowing tilt of his smirk, wasn’t in Thailand anymore. What were the odds that Alice would be lucky enough to see this specimen in person? “Even now?”

M’Baku gives her a knowing look. Alice doubts she’s the first person to show this kind of interest in his friend. You didn’t look like that without drawing the eye of everyone on your side of the Kinsey scale. “Even now. They opened a gym together when they’d both retired.” He’s stringing her on. Alice can see it. The question was, which one of them would run out of patience first?

The moment hangs in the air, and Alice bites down on the side of her tongue. Of course she wants to know where this gym is. But she doesn’t want to get her hopes up and then look like a fool for asking.

But it’s all for naught, because M’Baku is even more impatient than she is, and after a couple of seconds of awkward silence, he moves to fill in the blanks with a big, booming laugh. “It’s here. I could give you the address, if you want.” He holds up a single finger, wagging it back and forth like a metronome.

“It depends.” Alice loathed favors. And she never responded to them sight unseen. But M’Baku, if he was bothered by her response, he doesn’t show it.

“I have a copy of your book on dark matter theory. I’d be willing to trade an address in exhange for a signature.” It’s Alice’s turn to laugh. This man wasn’t a fan of her work. But he knew her enough to ask. And that was a shrewd businessman at work. He’d fetch a better price for it, with her autograph inside.

“Deal.” Their handshake must look a little ridiculous, what with M’Baku being a full head taller than her, maybe two. But they shake on it firmly and Alice follows him back over to the desk, a polite smile for his exasperated business partner before she takes his blue ink pen and scrawls her name along the first page, opposite the dust cover. No names attached, no kind messages. It would sell easier this way.

And when she looks up from her signature, Alice is rewarded with a piece of paper out of a yellow legal notepad, an address scrawled between the blue lines. “Don’t tell him we sent you.” That gets M’Baku a sputter from his partner, a breath of we?! That Alice hears as she turns away.

“Your secret is safe with me.” She waves the paper overhead as she hip checks the door open and steps out into the warm afternoon sun. It was a beautiful day, the breeze catching between the baked clay exteriors of the building. And just like Alice thought, the address is on the very same street she was on, just down at the far end, closer to the gently downward sloping cobblestone street.

She’d walked right past the place, with its frosted glass windows and its small sign hung over the door. If window shopping hadn’t caught her fancy today, Alice might have very well gone the rest of her life without seeing such a gorgeous specimen.

Well. Fate was on her side today. Alice gave a small push to the door to the gym, pleased to find that it opened easily, even if the jangle of the bell on the other side of it heralding her arrival was a touch annoying.

At the back of the gym, there was generic rock music blaring, the beat something idly palatable. Like if mayonaise was made into music for muscle bound men. There was a ring back there too, red ropes hung around it. Trailing the sides of the building were heavy bags and small ones in various sizes. Some even had men squared up and taking shots at them.

Alice’s eyes scanned over them all. She was used to drawing attention. Being the only woman in this gym right now was no exception. “Can I help you?” The voice that called out to her was very much not local, and not Nigerian. It was very, very British. Northern, if she hadn’t lost her ear for home.

And sure enough, there was the other man from the photograph watching her curiously. He was older, grey at his temples and peppered through his hair, and he was...stauncher as well. Broader across the chest. Age had treated him well. Now just to hope that age treated her curious specimen well, and this wasn’t a botched job from a bored book keep. “I’m looking for John, if you don’t mind.”

The man raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in the office. Down the hall, second door on the right. You can’t miss it, it says ‘office’ right on the glass and everything.”

Alice thanks him, shifting her purse to her other shoulder and starts her march down the hallway, ignoring the bubbles of conversation popping up in her wake like effervesecence. They didn’t matter. She was a woman on a mission.

A woman on a mission who didn’t knock.

She opens the door to the office, and is greeted with the very lovely sight of the man from the photograph. And like his friendly counterpart, he’d aged like a fine wine. A little grey at the scruff on his cheek, and clinging to spots of his hair like the first faint dusting of snow.

Absolutely gorgeous, and absolutely worth whoring out her PhD for an afternoon.

Alice takes just a second to glance at the hands sitting on the desk, fingers curled around an ink pen and a coffee mug, respectively. No ring. Perfect.

“Hello, John. I’m Alice. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

#carlota's christmas drabbles #there's gonna be 25 of these so you guys can blacklist that if you want #this is the only way I made it through nano #via pure self indulgence #ch: alice #polyfacetious | luther #queued

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ithinkthereforiamfandom · 4 years

Text

Extra Quarantine

Here is the first bit of my patreon piece. I’m extending it beyond the original parameters because I’m having fun with it. Whoops, its hella long, im gonna have to try and get a cut in here somewhere.

His head pulsed gently the throbbing timed to his heart beat, lubdub-throbThrob, John grit his teeth carefully and quietly sat up in bed, it had all been worth it.

…

A bored genius is a dangerous thing, a bored genius trapped in a London flat during a viral pandemic was about the worst. Evidence of this fact consisted of; a pattern of bullet holes in the wall, it was unbalanced! No remains in the fridge, all experiments concluded when John froze everything because nothing could be returned timeously, and finally said genius, laying his curly head on the couch. Stifled into stillness by the tragic circumstances afflicting him.

John was still working, but his hours had been drastically cut back so he was home far more frequently than he would have liked. Sherlock was spreading his misery is a quiet but uncontainable kind of way. He carried a blood sample home for the genius, having drawn it himself with a plan to let Sherlock have it and hopefully buy an evening’s peace with his own blood.

The evenings so far had consisted of concerts on the violin and most recently elaborate french dishes. It had surprised John at first but noise and heavy food every evening was beginning to tax him. He didn’t know what to do, so the blood would occupy Sherlock hopefully for a few hours.

…

“Here, take this.” Sherlock raised his head and took the warm vial. Blood John’s blood! His ears warmed in shock, John had refused all previous requests. “What’s this for?” “Experiments Sherlock, you’ve been nagging for ages. Do some experiments and I’ll cook. Let’s just have a quiet evening okay?” A deduction flashed across his mind. John didn’t like the playing, and the fancy dinners. Sherlock had played for John every night so far and cooked at the limits of his skills to reward his doctor for the hard work and risk he was enduring. And John didn’t like it.

…

John watched Sherlock’s face fall and felt like a heel. Sherlock had figured out of course that John was tired of his constant efforts. “Lock, no. I love your playing and your cooking is incredible, I just need some quiet, simplicity, some evenings. Let me cook tonight okay?” A quick hug saw some light back in the pale face and John set off into the kitchen. Toast and eggs was not the most elaborate meal but it was filling and just what the doctor ordered.

…

The next day on his way home John had been thinking about Sherlock’s efforts so far, it really was above and beyond but at the same time a very Sherlock thing to have done. Bombarding John with everything he liked, made John think… what does Sherlock like.

The answer was Embarrassingly simple: John. Sherlock liked having him to himself and John felt his cheeks flush at the realisation. Giving Sherlock all his attention was relatively easy and his upcoming time off would be ideal. John’s hours were now 1 week on and 1 week off. But how did he entertain his madman when there was no crime scene visiting, or morgue visiting, or Anything he could do!

He was deep in thought as he ascended to the flat, the smell of hot oil concerned him until the aromas of paprika and beer confirmed that Sherlock was making fish and chips. The mushy pea recipe that John had used once or twice had been such a hit with Mr I Don’t Eat It Slows Me Down that anything served with the peas was suddenly a very good thing. “John! I’ve made Fish so we need some of your" “Peas, yes Lock. I’ll do peas after I shower.” Sea glass eyes tracked him to the bathroom with a grin and John felt a chuckle bubble out of his throat. That would do.

…

The next Monday he woke beside dark curls, Sherlock didn’t sleep frequently but could burrow in like a badger when the mood took him. He hadn’t told Sherlock he was off all week and quietly got on with his normal morning prep waiting for the inevitable. “Jaaaawn" a baritone whine escaped the cocoon of bedding. “Yes Sherlock?” “I feel very sick, you have to stay home.” John released the fond sigh he would normally suppress.

…

Every few days since the Lock down had started they danced the same dance and Sherlock never won. John would sigh, and pet him, and leave anyway. So when the bed dipped behind him and… Tea, John didn’t smell like tea. He spun around as best he could and there was his doctor, clean shaven, dressed, but no tea. “You’ve not had tea John" “No.” “You always have tea before you go to work.” “Yes.” John’s eyes sparkled at him. “You’re not working.” “No. I have a weekly rota. Wanted to surprise you.”

Sherlock wrapped around John’s smaller frame and hastily recovered him in the duvet lest he escape. It was perfect! A week of John to himself. “I like this surprise John.” Strong arms looped around him and squeezed his ribs, before a sandy grey head settled under his chin. They drifted off back to sleep.

The week had begun with John’s marvellous surprise and it seemed all of London was feeling agreeable. The sun shone warmer when it was seen on John’s skin and the neighbours were less noisy when he could hear John’s voice. A contraption appeared in their lounge one afternoon. “My old printer from Uni, stopped working. I kept meaning to have it fixed but I suppose it’s a museum piece now.” John was giving it to Sherlock to do with as he pleased! A piece of John’s history.

…

John grinned as Sherlock set to delightedly deducing his old printer. His love of taffy was evidenced by a few sweet wrappers that had left traces on… hell’s John had no idea but Sherlock was smiling. He left cups of tea to grow cold next to the man and dropped kisses onto his dark hair as the printer came apart piece by piece, spreading across the floor. Reminding himself not to scold John stepped around the mess.

Hours later a grinning lunatic bopped him on the head with a piece of paper. “It works.” Came a proud announcement. “What?” “Your printer works John, I fixed it.” And true to his word the printer stood on their desk with a small pile of still warm printed pages. “It will be very useful for printing the files Lestrade sends.” John was shocked, quickly returning the kiss Sherlock pressed to his lips. “Necromancy" He stated in awe. “But we can’t print out police files Sherlock. It’s no legal.”

By way of demonstration Sherlock use the page he was holding to light a fire, the evening was turning cool. “I’ve ordered take away Lock, dimsum should be here soon.” A picnic blanket was soon set before the fire, wine was opened to breathe, and John was happy to let Sherlock estimate the ratio of blonde or grey hairs he had. Dinner arrived in good time and the evening went wonderfully, finishing with a very happy Sherlock dragging John down in front of the fire. “Just lie down a bit.” They woke on the floor the next morning.

John was nowhere to be found! Sherlock was to have John to himself for a week but their night on the lounge floor ended with him alone. Scanning the kitchen from his spot before the now cold fire place there was no John making breakfast and the bathroom failed to yield a soapy wet John in one of his customary boiling hot showers. A thunk drew Sherlock upstairs to where John stood, very dusty, cursing quietly at a very old tent.

The fucking thing had tangled itself! It had been packed scrupulously into place and now it was bollocksed! A polite throat clearing told him he was busted. Sherlock had risen early from their cozy nest before the fire and was watching him in that annoyingly studying way. “Stop, “Stop deducing me.” “Of course John.” But the reply was far too knowing. “Go put the kettle on.” “yes John.”

He watched his partner slip like a shadow down the stairs and hefted the whole disaster into his arms to follow a few minutes later. He could fix this after a cup of tea, he knew he could!

…

Sherlock set the camping kettle on the hook and stand he’d had next to the fire in case the power went out. John was staring at the camp set up like it had grown two heads and was speaking to him. “The camping rig has been next to the fire since winter started, you see but you do not observe. You want to camp out in the lounge, that’s what your old tent is for.” “Yes.” Sherlock grinned because he’d been bothering John to go camping for ages! For science, naturally but mostly to have John to himself.

Now they could camp in the lounge and there wouldn’t need to be dreary drives into the country side to shag his partner in a tent… for science.

…

His ribs creaked as Sherlock hugged him. John returned the squeeze with a slight chuckle. “I know you wanna shag in a tent LovelyLove. Now we don’t have to wait.” The kiss he got in response curled his toes! “We have a week Lockie, we’re gonna do everything you like. I’ll make sure of it.”

Sherlock likes coffee for breakfast so John presented him with a brand new bag of dark roast arabica beans. The genius was soon weighing and grinding to his heart’s content sighing in satisfaction as he sipped at his perfectly brewed cup. John had placed a grocery order which arrived a few hours later.

He was planning to cook for Sherlock that afternoon but the MRE package that Murry had stowed in his old gear as a joke was deemed more interesting than actual food. There was no way it was safe to eat but it was gladly handed over for experiment purposes. The cooking itself surprised John as it turned out that his madman actually enjoyed the chemistry and had taken over.

…

Sherlock didn’t trust John’s cooking skills. His gun hand, his sutures, and his heart were infallible but the man was a doctor, not a chef. It’s not that John couldn’t cook it’s just not his forte. The army had taught John to cook for a hundred men, returning had taught John to cook on a shoestring budget and sometimes it could be tasted through an entire dish. Sherlock had eased him away from the dinner prep to finish dressing the tent that had eventually been set up after John had expended a few feet of extra space and most of the swear words in his vocabulary… some of them in languages Sherlock only knew by name. The lasagne came together easily, the long process of making bechamel and tomato sauces, the careful construction, it was all relaxing. Sliding it into the oven passed John’s happily sniffing nose was pure satisfaction.

Tuesday saw the pair in their tent. John’s finishing touches had been lilos, bedding, and a small space heater. Not to be deterred Sherlock’s contribution was revealed as an Actual inflatable mattress, John hadn’t known they possessed such a thing, a very old and clearly sentimental quilt, and every ounce of camping gear London has stocked in the last two years.

Their arm chairs were replaced with camping chairs but this was very quickly changed back when John pointed out that one camping chair won’t support both of their weights. Sherlock chuckled with John’s throaty laugh as they replaced the arm chairs and put one to good use.

…

Strangely pleased to be allowed to make the breakfast porridge John stirred the pot over the fire. “No microscopes on camping trips Sherlock, you know you’d never take one into the bush right? Sherlock?!” The Sherlock in question didn’t look up from his microscope. “Of course I would John, plenty of things to examine in nature.” “My blood sample?” “Your blood sample of course. You may become ill with some unrecognized symptoms. I would need to run tests!”

His blood sample had become a bit of an obsession since it was handed over. It was flattering as hell but also kinda creepy. “At least stop for breakfast Love.” The fire burned almost constantly now. Porridge this morning then it would be set up to slowly cook Cod au Vin. They had received a case of wine from a client and finally had occasion to drink it.

…

Cod au Vin, it was the only dish his father had taught him to cook. Mummy had been vigilant in ensuring both the brothers could cook reasonably well from primary school, when they were both in their early twenties Father had taught him Cod au Vin, it was a Brilliant memory. All three men were huddled in the kitchen for hours. Slicing, browning meat, and drinking almost as much wine as they put in the pot.

Then Mummy had remarked that at least one of them had been conceived because of it and Sherlock had never made it until tonight. John had relinquished his spot by the fire in the early afternoon and admired the view, Sherlock applied the same focus to dicing onion and browning chicken pieces for John that he did examining John’s blood. A beautiful man in every way by firefight he was breath taking.

“So I have this dish to thank for your existence right?” Fire lit contrast made Sherlock’s face dark as he turned to the smirking doctor. “That’s the theory Beloved… and I’ll thank you to not repeat it while I’m seducing you with good food by fire light.” “I consider myself seduced my LovelyLove. Please do continue.” John had a fine view of Sherlock’s butt and the breadth of his shoulders, he was thoroughly seduced! It was fantastic!

Sherlock was delighted, he could feel John’s eyes on his body and felt his face flush over the heat of his gaze. The food would take several hours to cook over a fire and John was being deliciously indulgent. “May I seduce you back?” Sherlock startled having missed John’s approach with his mind in the gutter. “of course"

...

The room was cold as he towed Sherlock through the door and a quiet gasp released condensation into the air. Their camping set up in the lounge was comfortable but a bit austere This, this was luxury heaped upon itself. John smiled as long fingers flexed and caressed the pulse in his wrist. It was a habit that had developed quickly, a violinist's flexibility allowed his LovelyLove to hold his hand and take his pulse at the same time.

He had raided his old army locker for every blanket he possessed, even the old furs from his grandmother’s holiday home. Pillows and blankets piled high and looked marvellously inviting in the cold room. Quickly pulling the heating bags he had snuck in earlier John turned from the bed and undressed the most beautiful man alive. Each inch of exposed skin was met with a smile or a tender kiss and he chuckled to himself as he all but poured Sherlock into the bed. “John, John please.”

…

He needed John Now, the stupid jumper had to go, burrowing under the covers he pulled John with him, the bastard was chuckling having gotten Sherlock so worked up. “I’m coming Lovely, you can have me. Gimme a sec.” There would be so seconds as he pulled and tugged the clothes off his partner. Finally, naked, warm, and wrapped around his Beloved. Sherlock Holmes got Everything he wanted.

…

“Foods going to burn.” An Incredibly smug voice murmured to his shoulder. John always ended up as the big spoon and Sherlock could never figure out how he did it. “No it won’t, there’s too much wine in the pot.” “It is a nice wine though… Showers first Lovely, come on.” Sherlock was strangely okay with getting up. Thoroughly satisfied, and very much cuddled he felt quite ready to start the evening after a nice hot shower.

…

John stood by the fire with a naked chicken bone between his fingers. “It just came out.” “It’s Cod au Vin.” Sherlock smirked like that explained everything. The chicken pieces were permitted to fall apart on their plates as a couscous salad and plenty of the pot's other contents joined it.

John groaned, it was amazing. “I can see how this resulted in kids. It’s fantastic!” Praise always had the same effect on his genius, cheeks flushed and his chin dropped. It was excruciatingly cute. Not wanting to push it, they were neither in their twenties anymore John just smiled and ate.

…

“You know you’re not gonna be able to tell me food just happens anymore. I know you can cook now.” They were back in their camping bed having agreed to leave the luxurious pile in the bedroom intact for later use. It was actually early Thursday morning already by the time they settled down to sleep. “Yes, I can cook Beloved, doesn’t mean I am going to.” An icy cold hand settled on his belly and he shivered. “Sorry Lovely, Doctor and all.” He didn’t sound sorry at all but John’s arm followed his icy hand and a casual strength pulled Sherlock’s back against a warm chest. “Good Night Lovely.” “Good night John.”

_______________________________________

Thursday afternoon, John grinned to himself as he quietly got today’s event set up. Their laptops had initially been banned as not camping appropriate but John was busy getting the files set up on his machine. He has requested, not bullied… John did not bully, he had requested cold case files from Greg and after a few days of requesting the good DI had come through.

The cold cases were not digitised so it took a lot of scanning and sorting to get anything into an email and John knew he was putting a lot on Greg to get it done. Fortunately the lock down had slowed down most crimes and well he owed Greg rounds in the pub until 2022! “What are you up to?” a chocolatey voice asked and John jumped.

“Just sorting some paperwork Lovely. I know -” “You're the one who banned the laptops John” Elegant fingers wrapped around his computer and lifted it swiftly off his lap. “Here’s your bloody files Watson, you’re getting as bad as he is. Just promise me this will keep himself satisfied for a few more weeks.” Sherlock read under his breath as John’s face pinked. “You got me the cold cases, How?”

…

John was blushing, he had got Sherlock the cold cases he had been nagging for since the lock down started and was now flushed at having been discovered. “By pointing out to Greg that it would keep you busy but mostly by persistence. I didn’t lope off to pout after the 4th No, or even the 14th. Now Greg has had to scan and sort and email everything… I wanted to surprise you.”

Sherlock felt his own face heat up. “That’s why you banned the laptops, so I would stop bothering Lestrade and I would not find out what you were up to. John this is amazing! you are fantastic! I can finally fix the stupid mistakes the Yarders have been making!” He pulled John’s laptop into the lounge and settled it on their desk, scrolling with a triumphant laugh through the files that were now his!

He turned his eyes to his brilliant partner, John leaned against the door frame watching him. It was a proprietary posture but he did not mind at all. He did not mind being John’s to watch and smile at. Another email dinged and he opened the pop up. Emelia Riccoletti and half a dozen dead men, Brilliant! But she was dead before they all died.

…

John grinned at the frantic clicking from the lounge, he had watched his partner light up at the news of cases to solve and the chance to prove he was indeed smarter than the professionals. He made pasta on the stove for a change, the novelty of cooking over the fire had dulled quickly.

“She didn’t do it! Not after the first one!” His Sherlock, clearly on a mission, strode into the kitchen still carting his laptop around and nearly destroyed it by putting it down on the stove top. An inarticulate noise of protest redirected the mad man to set it on the counter. “She might have faked her death and killed her husband but the other murders, the other men, they died in their homes or in familiar places. The bride didn’t need to walk through walls if she was already in the house, not the bride but a bride. Any bride could kill now and London has always been full of them.

John set the meal down on the kitchen table, it would be ignored for a few hours and no doubt moved to the fridge to face the exile of all meals when Sherlock had a case. He finished his own food while Sherlock rambled on and on. He took a minute to just take in the sights. Eyes sparkling, cheeks flushed, body in constant motion. Yes, this was a happy man and John felt proud that he was his.

_____________________________________

The mad bastard hadn’t slept for the last two days and this was the last day of John’s leave. They had migrated back to their bedroom and John had almost got Sherlock to sleep but there was no winning when the game was on.

“Come to bed you mad bastard!” John yelled from the blankets but knew the resignation would be clear in his voice. John rolled over to get some rest as Sherlock came in through the door. “John? Why are you sleeping?” “It’s 2am!” Is it?” Yes Lovely, its 2am and I have work tomorrow.” the mattress bounced as Sherlock dove under the covers. “Thank you John, this week has been fantastic.” As he spoke Sherlock’s arms and legs wrapped around the doctor and squeezed. The was an amused huff as John tried to reclaim some lung capacity but there was an octopus in his bed.

…

Sherlock held onto his Beloved. The week was over! He was tempted to not sleep, if he never slept maybe the morning would not come. It was irrational but at 3am with a snoozing John Watson in his arms anything seemed possible. A warmth seemed to be exuding itself from the sleeping doctor and Sherlock felt his eyes slide shut.

The next morning Sherlock burrowed stubbornly into the bedding. John had already left for his shift and there was no reason to get up now at all… Apart from all the cold cases he had to solve, and the fact that he needed a shower, and bacon. He could smell bacon.

…

John grabbed his bag, mask, and mobile. He had left a beautiful man in bed this morning so the day would have to count for something! He grinned all the way to the Tube station, he couldn’t quite stop himself

He got to work and took a few moments to compose himself but then his phone went off. The picture showed a very happy Sherlock Holmes sitting behind a huge stack of the bacon pancakes John had made that morning. John had slipped out of bed early to prepare the pancakes for breakfast and to make sure the leftover risotto was still okay.

He had left everything in a low oven to keep warm and left a few notes for Sherlock to find through the day. Breakfast instructions seemed hardly necessary but the “I Love Yous” and “Drink some Tea Lovelylove” post its would be if he wanted to come home to a content and hydrated partner.

…

Sherlock heard the street door open and tried to stop himself bounding down the stairs like a puppy. Instead he picked up his violin and started a gentle waltz. He didn’t realise what he was playing until steady warmth on his back started to sing in a low tenor. I know you, that gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam. They swayed together for a while as John hummed and Sherlock played on till. I walked with you once upon a dream.

“Disney Lovely?” Sherlock smiled and laughed at quizzical blue eyes. “I play plenty of Disney John. You remember that stint we did at the children’s hospital for the Angel of Mercy killer nurse case… well I go back sometimes while you’re at work.” “You play disney for the kids.” “Little people love Disney” Sherlock chirped and moved smoothly to the kitchen before John could process what he had said.

#patreon #johnlock

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mediaeval-muse · 4 years

Text

Book Review

Paladin’s Grace. By T. Kingfisher. Dallas: Argyll, 2020.

Rating: 2/5 stars

Genre: romantic fantasy

Part of a Series? No

Summary: Stephen's god died on the longest day of the year… Three years later, Stephen is a broken paladin, living only for the chance to be useful before he dies. But all that changes when he encounters a fugitive named Grace in an alley and witnesses an assassination attempt gone wrong. Now the pair must navigate a web of treachery, beset on all sides by spies and poisoners, while a cryptic killer stalks one step behind…

***Full review under the cut.***

Trigger/Content Warnings: sexual content, violence

Overview: I think I came across this book while browsing Smart Bitches, Trashy Books, but I don’t remember for sure. Regardless, I decided to pick it up because the story of a paladin whose god has died intrigued me. I’m a sucker for stories about crises of faith, and I was in the mood for a fun adventure with a little angst thrown in. While the premise was very much my jam, the prose style ultimately prevented me from connecting with this book. In my opinion, it felt like the book was aimed at readers with arrested emotional development: everything felt sanitized for a younger audience (as in, there was a lot of awkward, quirky humor while nothing felt particularly threatening) yet there were also graphic sexual scenes, reminding me of a lot of New Adult stereotypes. It prevented the story from delving deep into things like what a crisis of faith might look like and how someone might navigate it, and undercut the thrill of the political intrigue. As a result, I personally couldn’t give this book a higher rating.

Writing: Kingfisher’s prose is fairly simple - simple sentences, simple images, etc. It’s pretty easy to get through, and readers can skim, if that’s what they’re into. It’s also full of “quirky humor” so that the mood is fairly light throughout. While sometimes the humor would get a chuckle from me, most of the time, it completely destroyed the mood. The best way I can think to describe it is that it resembles a lot of stereotypes I associate with New Adult fantasy books: the book feels like it’s written for younger readers, but the sexual humor/graphic sex scenes prove otherwise. Characters will make childish jokes, despite most of them being in their 30s (for example, “I wonder if you can stab someone with an ice sculpture”), or stumble over their words in what seems like an attempt to make them seem awkward (”I... um...” or “I... er... what?”). Things like “Gnnnrggzzz” and “Ohmyfuckingshitfuckshitgaaaaaaah” are written out, further making me feel like I was reading something meant to make younger readers smile. Characters rarely act their age and situations were rarely treated with the level of seriousness one would expect in reality. I personally wasn’t a fan; it made the book (and characters) feel somewhat juvenile. To be clear, I’m not against a little humor - I think humor could have been used effectively in this book, perhaps to show how Grace is a bright spot in Stephen’s otherwise gloomy life. I’m also not against light, “fluffy” romances, but I do think there’s a difference between fluff and a lack of emotional maturity.

Kingfisher also had a tendency to repeat certain things, which became irritating. Every other page, it seemed like Grace said something about how Stephen smelled like gingerbread, and it got old really fast. I also noticed that constructions like “He’s a paladin, so he...” and the like were used frequently, which did less to show me what Stephen was like and more to tell me what stereotypes are associated with paladins.

Plot: This book mainly follows Stephen and Grace as they become entangled in two main problems: 1. there is a serial killer on the loose, and his modus operandi is leaving behind severed heads, sans bodies; 2. there is a mysterious assassination plot aimed at the Crown Prince of a neighboring kingdom. To be honest, I found the serial killer plot underwhelming. It only seemed to be present to give Stephen an excuse to escort Grace places, and even when we found out who the killer was, I didn’t feel the rush of excitement or a sense of closure. I think perhaps this was because the serial killer plot wasn’t one that readers could try to piece together with the characters - at most, there was a single clue, and then it was solved (but readers can’t even predict the twist, so I didn’t feel any sense of suspense).

As for the assassination plot, I also found it underwhelming. Although it builds better than the serial killer plot, characters started acting in nonsensical - and even idiodic - ways once Grace was personally caught up the drama. I got the sense that characters were acting out of emotion and not reason, which is ok sometimes, but not ALL THE TIME. In general, I didn’t find that this assassination plot was clever, and there wasn’t much that differentiated it from other political intrigues that I’ve read in some YA fantasy.

Characters: Stephen, our hero, is paladin who previously served a warrior god, the Saint of Steel. At the beginning of the book, Stephen’s god dies (we don’t know how), and three years later, he is still struggling to find his purpose. At first, I thought I would like Stephen. He seemed like a gentleman, and he had some non-stereotypical hobbies, like knitting. I also liked that much of his personal turmoil involved some anxiety over how people would perceive him and his Order. The fear that he would succumb to a berserker rage, in particular, was an interesting bit of lore, and I thought this berserker rage could have been used to prompt further exploration of things like violence and hypermasculinity. However, as the book continued, Stephen became more and more bland. For the first half or two-thirds of the book, he resembles a 14 year old’s idea of a safe love interest in that he was perfectly chivalrous and without serious flaws. As time went on and he became more infatuated with Grace, he started getting somewhat possessive. Any man who so much as looked at grace would be subject to murderous fantasies, and while this was probably meant to show that Stephen was jealous and therefore devoted to Grace, I found it ridiculous and childish.

Grace, our heroine, is also rather bland. She’s a perfumer, which itself could have been fun, but her personality is mainly defined by her awkwardness. She also resembles a lot of YA/New Adult heroines in that she insists that she’s not attractive and that no man could be interested in her, despite at least two male characters flirting with her. It was frustrating being in her head, at times, because she would constantly say things like “normal people don’t do this,” making her seem even more awkward and “not like other people.” Her insistence on her mousiness and rather bland characterization made me wonder why anyone was in love with her at all. She moreover didn’t seem to be at qualified to handle the serial killer or assassination mysteries - in fact, I don’t think she ever uses her unique skillset (identifying scents) to help solve either mystery at all.

Marguerite, Grace’s best friend, is a bit more interesting in that she’s a spy with mysterious motivations. Marguerite is better equipped to deal with the assassination plot, as she has various contacts that feed her information and let her into places people wouldn’t normally be able to access. I liked that Marguerite was a good friend to Grace, but she, too, was a bit emotionally stunted.

Other supporting characters were interesting on paper, but because of the writing style, didn’t seem to be as compelling as they could have been. I liked Zale, the gender-neutral (or nonbinary? agender?) lawyer-priest who seemed committed to their calling to defend the helpless in court. Stephen’s fellow paladins also seemed like a supportive group of friends, and the Bishop of the White Rat was an admirable woman of force and personality. I would have liked to see more of them.

Other:

Worldbuilding: This book doesn’t have a lot of heavy worldbuilding, and it honestly didn’t need it. I appreciated the fact that I wasn’t overwhelmed with lore or facts about the kingdom - Kingfisher mostly stuck to what details were important to the plot, and for that, I was grateful.

Romance: Stephen and Grace’s romance was a little lackluster for my tastes. The main barrier to them being together stemmed from Stephen thinking he was too broken and that he might accidentally hurt her by going into a berserker rage (which... how does that still happen if his god is dead?), and Grace thinking that she is so bad at being a lover that it turns men off. Honestly, I don’t find the “I’m so broken and dangerous” angle to be very compelling. I prefer there to be other barriers to characters being together than just emotions - barriers that force some kind of character development and plot progression. In this case, Stephen and Grace don’t seem to grow much. They just get over their reservations, in part because they thought they were going to die at one point.

There were also minor scenes that made me uncomfortable. I love romance stories and don’t mind sex scenes (when they’re warranted, not when they’re gratuitous), but I hate scenes where one person has to avoid detection (by some king of city guard or something), so the other person covers them with their body and they pretend to be a person and prostitute (or something), miming sex to make it seem like they saw nothing. I just find it awkward, not funny or the basis for mutual attraction. The fact that Stephen and Grace meet this way made it all the more awkward for me to read. I guess that was the point, since Grace is a little awkward herself, but I still hate these types of scenes.

I also personally dislike when male characters are described as noticing or thinking about a female character’s bosom. Like, I get it - straight men like breasts. But I don’t want the basis of a relationship to be physical attraction. Do something else. Though I didn’t get the impression that Stephen was a creep, I didn’t like how often the author would mention that Stephen noticed Grace’s body. Grace’s breasts were mentioned a number of times, and it made me uncomfortable every time.

Overall, I felt let down by this book. While I was drawn in by the premise of a crisis of faith and a thrilling web of lies and secrecy, I was met with a formulaic romance that relied on awkwardness to make emotionally arrested characters seem relatable.

#book reviews

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rosiier · 4 years

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“ i wanted to be ruined a little more than I wanted to be loved. “

cis male / he/his. ┊ if you’re looking for EVAN ROSIER, you’ll probably find HIM in the SLYTHERIN dorm with the rest of the SIXTH years. they’re the TWENTY year old PUREBLOOD who looks kind of like LORENZO ZURZOLO. they seem INTUITIVE, ENDURING, & UNDERSTATED to me, but apparently they’re also LISTLESS, REPRESSED, & MALLEABLE. maybe that’s why they remind me of the first bite of frost on un-gloved fingers; handwritten entries in heavy journals burned once the page is full; messy hair, from the rush of wind and bored fingers both; lush-dark forests calling you to their depths; the clenched-fist, broken-glass feeling that this can’t be all there is.

WARNINGS: self harm (wall punching), parental manipulation, parental death, war mention ADDITIONAL MATERIALS: evan’s stats page, pinterest board & playlist

evan was four years old and recently motherless when he decided, for the first time, that he didn’t like rules.

he was raised from a young age to believe in the power of his name, if nothing else. above all else. it was a poor belief system for a child, but he’d say he came out alright. not great; but then he’d long forged a private belief that people weren’t capable of being great, not really. sometimes he wondered if they were even all that capable of being good. the thing was, his father knew what was worth instilling, and some sense of self worth better served rosiers than purely good morality.

but --- names. something small and tangible and stifling. not quite a set of rules, but not quite not. he’d decided at four that he hated rules, but names were just that little bit harder for him to escape.

evan’s father, sebastian, was not an altogether awful man. he was a politician, as rosiers often were. he was as known for his corruption as for his re-elections. his smile was so charming that people forgave the former and gifted him the latter.

people came to sebastian for favors; he’d hear them out, pull a few strings. always at a price. he never asked for more than someone could give --- because he’d learned in his own childhood that there was more to be bargained for than money. trust, faith, loyalty --- those were far more powerful. people were often so grateful not to be asked to give their gold up that they didn’t realize the cost of dealing with sebastian rosier.

and why would they realize anything? more often than not, he saved his harshness for the closed-door happenings at the ministry. cruelty was better suited for passing laws that hurt people, or made it easier to hurt them; in speeches given on marble steps with a smile and fingers crossed behind his back. still. sebastian presented a good, if slightly crooked, face for the rosier name. he tried to make sure his son could do the same.

but evan didn’t like rules. society and politics were nothing but rules and he was still a child but he was certain he could never do well under their thumb. it was fine. evan had always been able to tell that his father wasn’t the type of man cut out to be a father. his harshness seldom bled out onto his son; he thought that family bonds were sacred, even if he didn’t know what to do with them in practice. they never talked enough, never deeply enough, for evan to reveal that he knew he’d never fit into the rosier political legacy.

evan was a solitary kid by circumstance if not choice, raised by a string of tutors and house elves until his dad came home each evenings in time for stilted dinner conversations. it was a fine enough existence for two rosier men missing the dead woman who should’ve sat at the table, too.

they didn’t talk about evan’s mother, but that was fine. the two didn’t talk about a lot of things.

sebastian remarried --- another young, pretty pureblood with a dead spouse. the two of them had kids all their own, and while evan was never his father’s best friend, he never felt like an outsider in their family.

not being beloved didn’t mean much when evan knew that no matter what, he’d always be his father’s pride and joy. he expected evan to be a good man --- by a definition of good that meant being a good rosier. it was a rule, but it’s what passed for love to evan, so he accepted just the one.

it took years for sebastian rosier to note evan’s shortcomings. he loved his son, really. he boasted so often about how great he was that he was blind to the fact that evan was not, in fact, great.

evan didn’t like rules and the prospect of being a good rosier sure felt like it came with a book full of ‘em. but what could he possibly do about that? it was one thing to break free from the order of the day to go running around outside, escape his tutors and steal a broom from where his father kept them hidden. it would be another entirely to buck out from under his father’s wishes; evan wasn’t willful enough for that. he knew he’d never be a politician, but he’d be something else his father approved of. it only made sense.

evan had nothing against his father. nothing tangible.

but he’d always wonder if the things wrong in his wiring were to blame on those years of his life with just his father around. maybe if his father had been the kind of man who could be a father, evan would be capable of being a half decent person. his half siblings and his step-mother all seem better at being people than he is; at the cost of being poorer rosiers, sure.

they do seem happier for it. for the most part, evan would guess he’s fine with the way his life turned out. he lets his hands be bloodied, if they’re not good for much else.

( he thinks they’re good for plenty more, of course, but it’s an unspoken rule of being evan rosier, that he needs to keep thoughts like that to himself; for someone who hated rules, evan set so many for himself. )

his father was a politician, and politicians had rules. they couldn’t appear too hot-headed, too rash or emotional. every move evan’s father made felt calculated. hell, it was calculated. even the automatic love he gave to evan feels like a choice he’d come to one day in the office that evan was barred from entering.

but evan was a young man. young men could do things that seemed cruel and illogical and if they did them with enough charm, the world would forgive them. evan wondered when his father noticed that despite all the things that evan lacked, he had charm in spades. he wondered when his father stopped looking at him like a total failure and started to see his usefulness.

evan had, of course, had no say in when he was born. wit the gift of hindsight, though, even thinks he might not have chosen late august.

there was a scant week between his sixteenth birthday and the start of the new school year; evan hadn’t thought to prepare for any earth-shattering changes to his life, in that time. it had always been the blandest stretch of the summer. nothing ever happened during the week he spent waiting between one thing and another. but a day after his birthday, evan was called in to his father’s study and given a task to do for sebastian. see, he’d said, there’s a favor we need to call in.

there was only a week until school started, but it became a routine after the first time. evan called in two more favors for his father before he boarded the hogwarts express. suddenly evan saw the path his life was winding down; whenever his father had something harsh he needed done, he’d call upon evan to do it. no one would ever really call evan bright, but he knew without needing to ask that those three missions were only the first taste of the rest of his life.

he wondered why his father chose sixteen; if there was a reason he didn’t wait until evan’s seventeenth birthday, when he’d be of age. maybe he just knew evan had no interest in that part of sebastian’s world; maybe he thought he’d given evan a year to give into it all, before he was an adult who could refuse. of course he thought evan would give into it, eventually. wasn’t that why purebloods had sons? so they could fall in line and do the work their fathers wouldn’t anymore?

evan knew his father didn’t think of him as smart. perhaps sebastian thought evan didn’t know the reasoning for all the errands his father sent him on. evan knew a lot of people didn’t think he was smart --- and his farther hardly knew him better than those strangers. it was just that he didn’t care enough about school or order to come across like someone who knew to play the game.

( be any way you want, but seem perfect. )

but evan noticed things, he’d always noticed them. made note of ‘em and did nothing with the knowledge. nothing, except keep it packed up and hidden in the back of his head. he made note when he was sixteen: that very first time his father asked him to visit someone he’d helped along, and inform them it was time to make good on the debt they owed the rosiers.

evan worked off the script his father had given him --- after all, the man didn’t think him capable of much improvisation, and evan didn’t care to challenge that expectation.

he did exactly what his father asked. and then he went home and punched his fist through a wall so hard, had bruises for so long, he didn’t notice when they faded.

a friend asked him, on the train, if he wanted them to heal his hand for him. evan turned down the offer, and every subsequent offer for every subsequent time he needed to let the pain blossom on his knuckles as penance for acting as a trained dog.

it was a routine. his father asked things of evan every time he came home. when he did, he didn’t so much want evan doing them as he wanted the rosier heir to do them. but evan would --- because there were some rules you couldn’t break. this was a new rule of being a rosier. and when he was finished, he’d come home and find something he could break instead of the rule, and that’d be that.

it was easy to live a life by his father’s careful scripts while cheerfully shattering every other script around him. not caring about other people, about classes, about the future he as a rosier would one day be forced into ... it was easy. it was necessary. evan didn’t like rules and life was full of them, unless you knew which ones to follow and which to throw by the wayside. he was four when he decided to hate them and sixteen when he realized that hate could never fully manifest the way he wanted. sixteen, when he realized for all his hate he’d always follow his rules.

he wasn’t a rebel, not really. people looked at him with his tousled hair and devil-may-care grin and thought they knew he wanted to be one. they didn’t know a damn thing.

evan rosier knew rules, but sebastian rosier knew people; he had evan go and talk for him because he knew that deep down none of them would begrudge evan. he was painfully young, with a stubborn set to his mouth and eyes that turned wild on a dime, and, yes, enough charm to shake the clouds off the moon. evan’s natural carelessness, paired with the careful lines his father fed him, made him perfect at getting away with whatever sebastian wanted.

evan made note of that, too. did nothing with the knowledge for now.

if anyone ever decided to ask evan a personal, deeply soppy question, he would say: quidditch was, perhaps, the only thing he loved. there was something about the caress of harsh winds on his cheek and the complete insanity of ground obscured by fog and distance. there were rules in quidditch, yes, but rules evan knew how and when and why to break. that was the only important thing about rules now --- knowing the ways around them. and aside from all that ( the stupid love and stupid freedom ) he was good at it. he made captain and could have crowed with pride.

instead of crowing or whooping or grinning too wide where someone might see, god forbid --- he poured all that brash emotion onto a roll of parchment. and then he burned it; tucked a corner against the merry common room fire and let his excitement burn to ash. then he wrote his father a very measured letter detailing the accomplishment in clean words. he awaited his father’s response, which contained rote congratulations just as scrubbed as evan’s were.

writing the things he knew not to say out loud became a routine, then, as much as noticing things had always been one. hell, he wrote the things he noticed too, onto the pages of a notebook in dizzy, cramped handwriting. evan was under no illusions that he was good at writing; and he’d never let anyone read his words enough to comment on his prose one way or the other. the quality didn’t matter. it was necessary. it was a practice he’d started years ago but he could never keep track of how many journals he’d filled since.

every single journal, once written up to the last inch of paper, was burned. evan hated rules, but he’d made this one for himself, for his own good: leave no trace. and so he followed it to the letter every time.

evan’s father didn’t ask too much of him. mostly evan figured this was because sebastian thought he knew his son’s limits and didn’t want to become disappointed by exceeding them.

this was fine. every few months evan would be called home during holidays or written to with instructions on passages out of the castle, a location printed on the page in his father’s neat hand with directions on what to say and what to get out of the interactions. aside from that, the rosier patriarch did nothing to corral his wild heir, not yet. evan’s wildness still had use.

evan would never call his actions self-destructive, because he too knew his own limitations. of course, evan felt he actually knew them, while his father just assumed shortcomings and planned accordingly. not that evan much cared what sebastian assumed anymore --- his father used him as a tool. it was hard to expect more of the man after that.

but evan knew his actions couldn’t destroy him; they were just outlandish, and reckless, and carried an undercurrent of anger he tried his hardest to only put onto the pitch. he knew nothing could get to him enough to destroy him now, not really. it wasn’t a childish feeling of immortality. things could hurt him, things could kill him, but nothing could break him and he carried himself accordingly.

he didn’t think of himself as charismatic, but he knew he knew how to command a room.

he didn’t think of himself as smart, but he knew he had a gift for puzzling things over until he figured them out.

he didn’t think of himself as a liability, but he knew he was a few bad choices away from his father turning to the children he’d had with his second wife.

that’s what kept him on his father’s leash, at the end of the day. evan liked his step-mother and cared for his half-siblings. he knew, deep down in his cold little heart, that they were all far better people than he was and he didn’t want his father’s machinations to touch them quite like they’d touched evan.

he knew he could handle it. and he knew that they could not. it was a sacrifice that was only too easy for him to make.

he was only a sixth year, but he had letters arriving to him all the time now from professional quidditch teams. evan had a habit of burning up papers that mean anything to him, but he kept these un-scorched, tucked in a safe place in his trunk. it felt like a hard-earned validation, that people were interested in him for something that he actually cared about, and tried for. he tried to imagine telling his father he was going to become a professional quidditch player and almost laughed out loud.

technically, evan has never played by the rules. not all the rules, not once in his life. and somehow living that way has given him the chance to have everything he could have dreamed of when he was four and motherless and decided rules were bullshit.

it doesn’t taste like he might have hoped it would, but evan knows it’s real.

he’s got his father’s conditional approval and a real chance at his dream job, a nice smile people like even when he knows they shouldn’t.

but there’s got to be more, right? there’s a war coming up. evan didn’t think his father would ask him to fight in it ( evan has always been his tool, not some causes’ ) but it was impossible to ignore its presence. and it was even more impossible to ignore the people who were beginning to rise up to counter the war and what it meant.

there’s probably some sort of wartime protocol even evan should abide by, even now, still at hogwarts and pretending war doesn’t mean a thing to him.

but at this point he doesn’t know how. too much is on his mind and it clouds over all the things he should care for. there’s likely rules for winning and rules for losing and evan just cannot, will not, bring himself to care about them. come what may, he is determined that nothing in his life will change unless he wills it to.

#( ⊱ ━━ 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒚 𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖 ┊ intro. )#fallacyintro

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neganandblake · 5 years

Text

I think I liked you better when you didn’t have a knife in your hand, Peaches... Chapter 198 - The New Guy

When Blake finds herself sold out to the Saviours by her abusive fiancé, she realises that she’s certainly not on her own anymore and finds an unlikely friend in Negan. And Negan does NOT like men who beat their girlfriends, one tiny bit….

(Masterlist can be found on my page.)

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Chapter 196- The Weak Link

[As Winter well and truly sets in, how will Negan react when a new guy at the Sanctuary seems to be taking a shine to Blake.]

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The weeks drifted by, with the crisp chill of Fall slowly slipping into the harsh cold of Winter.

Life at the Sanctuary had gone on as normal after Negan's run in with Simon. With the mustachioed man keeping a very low profile for a long while, before sliding back into the pack almost like nothing had happened, paying his dues silently, by going on runs and helping out whenever he could.

Everyone, including Simon, knew that he was far from forgiven for what he had tried to do, but the fact that he hadn't had his head bludgeoned by Lucille could only have been a good thing. And the whispers that Negan was 'going soft', soon dissipated to nothing.

But even so, no one here could deny that Blake's influence on the dark haired leader had not had an impact on the place. For the Sanctuary, despite another hard Winter setting in, seemed to be thriving. With a bounty of fresh food, properly stored and rationed, from the gardens, as well as the usual tributes coming in, the Saviours were better fed than ever before, going to bed with full stomachs and smiles on their faces.

This seemed, these days, far from the regime it may have presented as once upon a time, and far more a community, a family, a support system now.

Feeling happier and more content with Sanctuary life, almost every resident seemed to want to put back in. Whether it was those finding the time to make blankets or clothes, those who cleaned and kept the place tidy, or even those who went out on runs. It was like they all wanted to better the place, to play their part in making it a home for everyone.

And Negan had played his part too.

Not just in being a leader and keeping control, but ever since he and Blake had arrived back with a truckload of needy people looking for a place to live safely, Negan had been far more willing to open the gates again to certain folks in need of a home, found out there on the road.

And the sheer influx of new people had brought happiness in its own right to the Sanctuary. More chatter, more new relationships, halting the boredom of what once was.

Frankie had been seeing a handsome new guy named Sam for a couple of weeks now. And even Layla had been flirting up a storm with a few of the women that Dwight had brought back from a run.

Life at the Sanctuary seemed to be changing, but for the better this time.

To Blake, she and Negan were closer than ever. Both of them able to read each other so well these days.

The sex was good.

Family time spent together with Mia was good.

And both were more in love with the other than ever before, with everything feeling like it was finally falling into place for both of them.

And not having Simon at hand as much, meant that Negan had poured most of his trust into the blonde woman, asking her advice when he needed it, valuing her ideas and guidance that much. Even if he did try and dance around asking her directly on each and every occasion, playing it cool as he always did. But Blake was well aware how many ideas of hers were often implemented only the next day.

...A rota system for the kitchens so that families could get their turn to make their own food together every once in a while...

...Turning the unused garages at the back of the Sanctuary into a winter home for a couple of baby goats they had found several weeks ago with room to expand if any more livestock was found…

They were small things. But to the people of the Sanctuary they had a big impact. And Negan was fully aware of how much the Sanctuary residents loved Blake, speaking to, and about her, with such fondness in their voices, something Negan had never ever had from his people.

He was revered. Yes.

Feared. Yes.

But loved?

Definitely not.

But with Blake, it was obviously how the Saviours felt about her, maybe bar a select few like Simon, but everyone else. Well, they treated her like their queen.

Negan adored her, worshipped her. And of course, often spent his free time stalking her around the Sanctuary, annoying the hell out of her as usual (not that Blake minded all that much, a tell-tale smirk always playing on her lips).

But these days Negan didn't seem like the only one who had his eye on the blonde woman.

One morning two long weeks ago, one of the Saviours' trucks had pulled up at first light with a small group in the back, providing Sanctuary for them after a long time out on the road.

The group consisted of a three women of varying ages, two small children, and two men. One of which, the younger of the two, was named Nick.

Nick was annoyingly handsome, with dark hair, a muscular build, and a charming smile. And as he had a keen interest in helping out in the gardens, having helped run his Dad's farm before all this, he had instantly been steered Blake's way.

And that's when it had started…

"Boss," came the out of breath voice of Dwight standing in the doorway to Negan and Blake's room up on the third floor.

Negan who was sat on his squishy leather couch, a large accounting ledger balanced on one knee, looking up at the disturbance, a deep unimpressed frown gracing his brow.

In that second he knew what Dwight was here for.

"Again?" Negan growled out exasperatedly, as Dwight gave a nod.

"He's been out there for the last twenty minutes apparently," murmured Dwight sheepishly, hands stuffed into his pockets, never quite meeting Negan's eye.

"Son of a bitch," huffed Negan angrily, shutting the ledger with a snap, tossing it aside and getting to his feet.

Snatching up Lucille, Negan made for the door, patting Dwight on the shoulder as he passed him.

"You did good, Dwighty-boy," he said in a low voice, before stalking past him, heading out into the hallway.

This had to have been the third time today Negan had been down there. But ever since that asshole had arrived on the scene, Negan hadn't really had a fucking choice.

The first couple of days he could have forgiven it, brushed it off as a politeness on this guy's fucking part. But over the past week or so, this new guy, this Nick, had been tailing Blake around the place like a damn lovesick puppy.

At first Negan had tried to put a stop to it, so goddamn close to using Lucille on the guy for even thinking about talking to her.

But as soon as Blake had caught on to what his plans were, she had given him hell, told him to stop being so stupid, and stop acting so jealous over nothing.

But the fuck this was nothing, for Negan had seen Nick around her, flirting with her at every damn opportunity he was given.

Now he knew for a fucking fact that Blake would cut Negan's damn balls off if she ever found out he had been sending Dwight and a few of the others to keep an eye on her over the last few days.

But hell, Negan hadn't been able to help himself. Sure he trusted Blake whole-fuckin'-heartedly. But that motherfucker? He didn't doubt for one second that he wouldn't try it on with the blonde first chance he fucking got.

The dark-haired leader sighed heavily as he walked, dragging his gloved hand tiredly down his stubbly face.

Part of him knew that he was probably acting like a goddamn pussy about all this, but shit, Negan knew how he felt about Blake, and after all they had been through together there was no fuckin' way he was gonna lose her to some fucking thirty year old with not a single grey fuckin' hair and knees that didn't give him shit every five minutes.

Negan made it down to the gardens outside in almost record time.

It was freezing out here, and despite it only being mid-afternoon, the sky outside was already growing dark, a chilly wind biting at his face as he stepped out into the lot.

Since the garden wasn't good for much growing at this time of year, Blake and some of the others had taken to giving the space a good tidy, trimming back anything that needed it and helping to shift a lot of the stuff inside the factory, or into the three greenhouses the Sanctuary lots now housed.

But as the weather had gradually gotten colder, volunteers for this type of work had dwindled, leaving just a small handful of Saviours out here helping today.

For this reason Negan spotted them immediately.

Blake standing there like a goddamn goddess, dressed in jeans, a black beanie hat and a black sheepskin jacket, face lit up in a laugh, carrying a large grow-bag full of compost in her arms. While beside her, walked Nick, in his own thick brown coat, carrying two more grow bags of the stuff in his muscular arms, obviously muttering something that was making Blake laugh.

Negan gave a growl under his breath as he watched them turn and head over towards the greenhouse on the far side of the small walled space, eyes narrowed and dark, taking in their every move.

The way Nick leaned in close to Blake as he said something…

...the way she let her head drop in an audible laugh…

Negan felt his blood boiling, as a wave of utter jealousy coursed through him.

Clenching his jaw together hard, Negan let out a huff, his breath circling in the cold air around him, as he hitched Lucille up onto his leather-clad shoulder and began to pace across the lot towards the pair.

The sound of his heavy boots approaching behind them, was enough to cause Blake to look around.

She stopped suddenly, looking a little startled.

"Negan, what're you-" she began, her mouth dropping open and her green eyes narrowing.

Shit, she fucking knew didnt she?

But Negan played it cool, offering her a wide smile, as Nick beside her also came to a halt, turning around to face the dark-haired man.

He nodded almost immediately, lowering his gaze, to the ground. Like Dwight, not quite meeting Negan's eye.

But Negan, irritated with how close this asshole was standing to his girl, took a looming step into Blake, his free hand sliding around her waist possessively.

"You miss me, Peaches?" he growled out in a playful tone, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

But Blake still had her eyes narrowed towards him, her green orbs travelling carefully over his face trying to read him.

"Not since I saw you ninety minutes ago…" she retorted coolly, placing a hand to his chest and giving him a soft shove away, causing his hand to drop from her middle. "What's with you today? You checking up on me or something?"

Well, not checking up on her at least...

Giving a deep sniff, Negan took that as his cue to step back, leaning back against his long legs and giving a wide, forced smile.

"Just checkin' up on my favourite part of the Sanctuary, Darlin'," Negan teased, waving a hand at the ever-darkening lot around them. "That a crime?"

Blake raised both eyebrows, peering at him bemused, while all the while Nick stood there silent.

"Well if you like it so much out here," she uttered in a taunting voice. "Maybe you'd want to give us a hand out here sometime?"

At her words, Negan noticed Nick glance over at Blake and give a knowing smirk.

And fuck. Just that smarmy son-of-a bitch's look alone, was enough to rile Negan up.

And so feeling his hackles raise, Negan dug at the side of his cheek with his tongue, his mood switching suddenly.

"Sweetheart, do I look like the kinda guy that's used to shovelling pig-shit around the place. Hell I'm the goddamn leader of this place." His tone sounding far harsher than he meant it to.

But Negan was feeling petty. And shit, why the fuck shouldn't he?

This guy was moving in on Blake right in front of him and he was supposed to be fucking ok with that shit?

But it was obvious from the way Blake's smile immediately vanished, that his attitude with her was not appreciated.

She stared back at him looking almost hurt now, a small frown appearing between her perfect fucking eyebrows.

"That really what you think?" she asked in a quiet voice, her green eyes searching his, obviously not understanding where this attitude had come from. "That all this is beneath you?"

Negan made to open his mouth to argue, but obviously not in the mood, Blake turned on her heel not giving him the satisfaction of allowing him to respond.

"Come on Nick," she said bitterly. "Let's leave the leader here to get back to whatever far more important things he’s got to be getting on with."

And with one last gulp and a swift sideways glance towards Negan, Nick quickly bowed his head and followed along behind her, hitching the grow bags up a little higher into his arms as he fell into step with the gorgeous blonde as he headed over to the greenhouse...

...leaving Negan alone, staring after the pair and allowing a long puff of frustrated air to leave his lips, where it curled above his head for a second before dissipating into the icy afternoon air.

Shit. What the fuck had he just done?

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#negan #twd #The Walking Dead #Jeffrey Dean Morgan #negan oc #negan fanfiction #twd fanfiction #fanfic #negan otp #negan story #negan series #negan and blake #negan fic #jdm

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