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cloveroctobers · 4 years

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ROBERT “BOBBY” MCKENZIE —

IG info/bio : @/returnofdamckenzie | 426k followers | @/mclitgs2 is my forever boo🤟🏽😍 while @/cardib is my WIFE! She just doesn’t know it yet ❤️ support my work & be part of my family: @/bobbymckcares

24 (25) years young

Born in Dundee, raised in Glasgow, Scotland

Jamaican father named Badrick who is a African studies professor

Caucasian/Scottish mother named Catriona who used to be a au pair but now works as a receptionist in senior living — one eye is honey hazel and the other a dark brown

It was difficult growing up in a school that didn’t accept Bobby being biracial, it resulted in bullying to the point where he needed to switch schools (A lawsuit was also in place) The next school was slightly better but Bobby slowly learned to accept himself as it was not something he could control and not something he would want to in the first place. He was proud of where he came from and never thought he was better or less than anyone else, that wasn’t how he was raised

He’s an only child, his parents thought about adopting (and fostering) but with Bobby they had their hands full and he was just enough for them

His family is very family-oriented so he would never have to feel lonely since they gave him a lot of attention, slightly making him spoiled but he was also around his cousins & spending time with them as well

He’s extremely close to his younger cousin (only by a few months) Femi who he views as his sister. They’ve been through a lot together and are always there for each other so it only makes sense

Most likely an active kid always up to some sort of shenanigans whether it’s by himself or with his group of friends, “why would you do that Bobby?” “Don’t ask why but ask, why not!?”

Definitely suffered some broken bones, concussions, & sprain injuries but would never show signs of pain...guys got a high pain tolerance that’s for sure

Fan of films/series “stand by me” & “the goonies” & “scooby doo” since he feels they relate to his life??

Hospital caterer and loves making those feel better with food that he’s created. If he can’t put a smile on patients face with words then he feels like he can show them with food

Food is an art to him. He went to school for culinary & it’s very important for him to show how much it is to him. He picked up the craft from of course his family, who always used food for numerous of things: to bring people together is one of them

Perfected Jerk haggis, it is now he favorite dish next to desert & breakfast!

I’m struggling to figure out what sign he maybe? He’s very playful which may come off as childish at times, which makes me think of Leo? (Maybe Gemini?) Only because they usually hold onto their childhood as best as they can, very generous, & give their energy to you but I also don’t see him being a fire sign at all? So maybe very little Leo in his chart. I also feel like he might be a bit of an empath? He knows when situations around him don’t feel right, knows how to read the room, and always wants to help others by lighting things up.

Idk but I’m feeling he’s libra sun + Gemini moon + Leo rising? Who knows

Probably lived in a 2 bed flat with his old uni mate. It was small and a bit shit but it was their shit and they made the best of it

Now lives in a stone cottage or farmhouse with MC that was built in the 1900’s & is slightly haunted. He’s decided to call them Duncan??? But he believes they’re a good spirit, maybe even a friendly ghost!? since he got comfortable with the bizarre happenings in the new flat & it doesn’t seem like they want to hurt them

Lottie offered to bring her ouija board next time she visited—Bobby declined

House is mostly neutral based but three of the rooms in the flat are covered in ridiculous patterned walls or furniture much to MC’s distaste but, “what’s yours is mine” right? No. But Gary approves!

Has two dogs: a terrier & a collie since MC wasn’t down for getting a sheep

They do have chickens to raise their own eggs tho!

Definitely the kind of significant other that will ride on the cart when they’re out grocery shopping, will make you breakfast in bed, & will send you memes while he’s at home and you’re out or even when he’s at work and you’re at home, let’s you put his arm to sleep when you’re laying on it in bed (big ass head gang!), definitely chooses the candles from bath & body works that smell like food items (majority of them suck let’s be honest)

Probably smells like cucumber, melons, lemons, and eucalyptus

Has your wedding date in his IG bio & is proud

Annoys Gary & Lottie with his food pics, “oh, Not this shit again! 😡 looks brilliant, but enough!”

Has zoom/FaceTime movie nights with Marisol & MC who stopped feeling like she was third-wheeling months ago

Talks to hope & Noah (in the background) as much as he can. Feels like they’re his inspiration for love, even tho he’s the only one married out of the villa

He values marriage just like his parents do and often has Sunday dinners with them & MC ofc

Probably has relationship guide books and only reads them out of boredom but finds fascinating facts/advice if he pays attention & tries to apply it to his relationship with mc. If it works, it works! & If it doesn’t, you can’t say he didn’t try!

Works long hours but will still come home to cook for MC or brings leftovers from the events he’s catered (most are for the hospital but occasionally he’ll do other events)

Has a separate IG for his work

When WAP dropped, he almost lost his shit. Even tried to get MC to do the challenge with him, he’s pretty bad but MC eventually learned it just for him 😜

Is thrilled that Cardi made the best decision EVER on divorcing offset, “are you thinking of leaving me now?” “... I might.” “BOBBY!” “Haha, I love you!

Absolutely loves Christmas!!! It’s his favorite holiday and he loves giving back to everyone in his life. Usually he’s working overtime for the holidays & it makes him emotional due to the stories he hears & he puts a little extra love in his food

Goes all out for Christmas. Tries to buy/make everyone something. Even if he doesn’t really care for them...he’ll at least send them a x-mas card, if they keep it or burn it it’s entirely up to them—if he knew about it he’d probably be a little sad not gonna lie...he’s a soft king

Once bought Lottie black crocs with spooky pins , “are you joking Bobby?!” He knows she secretly loved them

Uses salt and peppermint in his dark hot cocoa...

Rather make deserts for Christmas than the food, he feels like it’s his duty

King of giving the thumbs up, especially when situations have gone to shit. He’ll still shoot them up with a smile or a grimace

Always inviting someone somewhere. “Bobby, hun. You’re 4-6 hrs away and it’s 1 am.” Hope groaned after listening to his bright idea, thinking something bad happened. “Ah, you could still make it if you tried, lassie.” “I’m gonna hang up now. Good night, bonkers man.”

Needs constant reminding when to get his locs touched up & moisturized

Either has a trampoline or a funhouse jumper in his backyard (maybe both) “we’ve got the space and this is better than a pool, or almost!”

Wants children, a whole footie team! There’s no specific time frame for him, when it happens, it happens

Used to cool & wet temps & loves vacationing in Greenland. Sure the hot weather he experienced in the villa was awesome & something different than what he’s used to but you can’t take the scot out of the man. So he typically sticks to places that are similar in temps, that way he doesn’t have to change his clothing choices much

Loves a good bath. Bubble baths are better than bath bombs to him, PERIOD!

Loves bubbles so much he put too much laundry detergent in the wash (does this on purpose now) and came back home to the dogs and room covered in it. Do you think he cleaned it up before MC came home? No. He decided to have a bubble party in the room with a Caribbean playlist playing in the background

MC definitely posted about it the first time & joined him for a bit, dreading the work that came with cleaning it all up. Now whenever Bobby needs a bubble party, he knows what to do. MC preferred him to have his little bubble party in the tub but 50% of the time he chooses not to listen & they leave him to pout & clean it himself

Likes to hold hands with fingers interlocked. When it’s cold and if you’re both wearing hoodies, he’ll slide his hand inside the arm of your hoodie to help keep you warm

Canon: His version of a snack is spaghetti hoops on toast & can eat that for the rest of his life & be content

If he didn’t end up marrying MC, probably finds his significant other working as a nurse at one of the hospitals he caters to or a volunteer at a old folks home

Never had a serious relationship, very few hookups, was either always placed in the friend zone or there was one person he wanted to be serious with but they rejected him and continued loving someone else who treated them like shit—so he kinda swore off of relationships and just flirted a bunch and kept his love life non-existent

Fav ice cream? Rocky road ice cream with one scoop of cotton candy & one scoop of cookie butter blue

Doesn’t believe in measuring when it comes to culinary. He uses his eyes as his measurement, could be a bad thing, could be a good thing, that’s up to you

If he’s up at night, he’s eating something sweet. A nice glass of single malt scotch whiskey + a splash of coconut milk (🤢) with a slice of angel food cake & he’s out like a light

Absolutely loves shopping for the kitchen, finds immense joy in doing so. If you lose him in a store, one of the places you’ll most likely find him is in the kitchen decor area

Owns a bagpipe & wants to get better at it, even tho he scared the living shit out of his dogs & chickens

Wears his shades quite a bit even tho the weather is hardly sunny and mainly windy & damp

Will hold the door for strangers even if they don’t say thank you

He’s open when it comes to music. Will listen to anything but feels like the music has to be a purpose for something...Everything he does in his day to day life has to feel like a soundtrack to him since in his mind he’s daydreaming about his life being made into a movie. Who isn’t?

He thinks wentworth Miller should play him in a film and that kid from blackish should play him when he was a wee lad, Marcus Scribner

Always keeps a positive attitude because he knows what it feels like to feel low and he doesn’t want anybody else in the world to feel like that so he wants to uplift and if he can try to be someone’s happiness he’ll gladly be that— which isn’t always the right move, he learned

Listens to: Rotimi, Shaggy, Sean Paul, Skip Marley, H.E.R., Jhene Aiko, Jorja Smith, UMI, The Kooks, The Killers, Cold War kids, Milky chance, Blood Orange, The 1975, Vampire Weekend, Bad Suns, BRYSON TILLER, Kilo Kish, & Ella Eyre (although he misses her old music)

Celeb crushes? Cardi B is his mfkin celeb wife okay?! Nobody else comes above her! He also thinks FKA twigs is pretty & super talented, sevdaliza!, Tia & Tamera, Iman, and brandy from the 90s makes him swoon

Anthem = jaden, “Boys and Girls”

#litg #litg s2 #litg2 #litg Bobby #litg au #litg headcanon #litg headcanons #litg gary #litg lottie #litg marisol #litg mc #litg hope #you asked and you shall receive

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foxtophat · 4 years

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another long one, coming in at 9k words because i am goddamn trash

HEY GUYS SORRY ABOUT THAT UGH today just didn’t go the way i wanted it to. you ever feel like that? well anyway here is the 11th chapter!!! fun fact: hurk and sharky show up! second fun fact: i am 90% sure that it is not moonshine they’re peddling. 3rd fun fact: i don’t know if they know what an apple looks like any more

i don’t have much to say about this chapter, although i will say it involves casual drinking if you’re not into that. i think i’m gonna go have a newcastle myself once i’m done writing this up... which i guess means now!

as usual my dudes, i want to thank you all for being so tolerant of my bullshit and so open to my dumbassery! it’s so nice to feel MOTIVATED to post for once, which might not come through when i get delayed like i have the last 2 chapters, but it’s true! i have so much trouble working on things without feedback, so you guys really have been awesome.

if you wanna contact me, my askbox is always open! as always, i appreciate any and all comments, kudos, likes, reblogs, casual links, private discord messages, idk whatever i don’t even use discord

below the cut is the full chapter for those of you who don’t wanna go off-site! thank you again for reading guys, and i will talk incessantly about this fic soon!!!

The next three days are marked by a surprising peace. Nick had suspected that once the cat got out about John, they would be fielding a flurry of calls, or maybe even some in-person confrontations, but so far they've been left completely alone. Maybe telling people on their way out of the county has something to do with that. Maybe they'll need to wait for Hurk and Sharky to come back and spread the news if Jerome's decided not to do it himself. Nick's not sure if that's even what he wants , but it feels like the inevitable next step. Eventually, if the community is going to come together, the cat's gonna have to get out of the bag.

John is just as nervous than before, although it only shows whenever they hear distant engines or a far-off gunshot. The night after the caravan, he and Jerome spend a full thirty minutes on the radio, but it only makes him more pensive and reserved. Nick wouldn't mind so much if Carmina weren't also acting bummed out — sure, she's just upset that she lost a friend before she could make one, but it still sucks to see his daughter acting as morose as John.

At least Kim's optimism hasn't been phased. She's been determined to look at the situation from every positive angle available, and none of Nick's uncertainty has put a hamper on it. She rallies them all for a second day-trip down to the river, hell-bent on cheering each and every one of them. It's a day of sunlight and clear water, and the fish are jumping like mad. It must be spawning season, or something, because the suckers are easy pickings.

The nice weather and the easy fishing both do wonders for Carmina's mood, which is becoming more and more fickle every day. Nick dozes in and out with a rod in hand, and although John spends most of the time staring at the water, he touches base with reality once in a while. Mostly just when Kim includes him in conversation, but it's still enough.

It's... nice. Nick doesn't know the last time he felt so relaxed. He doesn't think that memory exists anymore, lost to time like so many other positive thoughts, but he's enjoying the reminder to relax his shoulders and turn off his anxious brain for a few minutes. With the sunshine just as warm as ever and the water a bright, nearly unnatural blue, Nick figures all they need is an umbrella and some beach towels to drive the point home. Hell, at this point, they might as well claim this as their private waterfront.

Grace shows up after breakfast the next day, ready to take Carmina for some target practice at her range. She isn't strictly speaking to Nick yet, but she keeps it cordial, even friendly with Kim. Maybe Jerome talked with her, or maybe she came to accept the situation on her own, who knows. Either way, Grace ignores the sight of John out on the back porch and treats Carmina to a genuine smile when she comes downstairs, rifle in hand. Finally, three-quarters of the year later, the situation with Grace has finally returned to normal, taking one more weight off of Nick's shoulders.

She promises to have Carmina back before sundown. She also promises to leave her radio on, just in case. Nick knows what she means by just in case , but he can't say no to the added security.

Nick retreats out back, letting Kim have some time with Grace without the awkward tension of his presence. John pointedly refuses to look at him, sorting through a box of components as though he hasn't already picked it apart.

It isn't until after Grace and Carmina leave that Nick remembers he has an out — well, now it's just a regular chore. He's got to deal with the so-called freezer in the hangar, which is full of fish and sucking up all the fuel for the generator. Either he has to make it viable to use long term, or they're going to be shit out of luck for food preservation beyond salting and pickling.

From the look on his face, John wishes Nick would ask for his help, but Kim has already called on him to help harvest the last of the spring planter, so he's shit out of luck there. Nick doesn't have any damn sympathy for John — gardening is boring, and Nick will do anything to avoid it, especially something as easy as throwing John under a bus.

So, the good news is that the freezer still turns on. Nick hadn't expected much after finding it under part of the collapsed roof, but it hasn't shorted out once since they hooked it up to the generator about a week ago.

The bad news is that it's not a good use of power at all. The rubber seal is nearly worn off, so it keeps losing coolness, and there's definitely a coil burnt out or something in there because it barely manages to keep its temperature lower than the air around it. Sure, maybe it'll come in handy around winter , but that's not going to help them with summer around the corner.

As it is, Nick's only sure that the fish from yesterday are still good. There's a covered pot of stew underneath that they put in after the caravan left, which is probably fine, too... but Nick wouldn't put money on the rabbit they put in at the start. After all, it hadn't been all that fresh to begin with, and it's been wrapped in cloth for a little too long.

Well, maybe once they get some chickens and find a post-apocalyptic appliance repair center, it'll be worth being the energy sink that it is. For now, Nick has to figure out what to do with these goddamn fish and the leftover stew from the other night. It's their own damn fault, thinking they'd still have company after revealing John, but that doesn't change the amount of food they have on hand.

At least when Grace comes back, they'll have something to repay her with, although Nick isn't sure she's willing to eat any of their food yet. She'd been okay about seeing John in the backyard, relatively speaking, but there's no way she actually believes any of the progress being made. And as much as Nick would like to tell her that her distrust is unwarranted, he can't exactly tell her how to feel. It's just gonna have to take time, and she's going to need a different kind of proof than Nick.

They aren't expecting any visitors, so the sound of engines on approach shakes Nick out of his thoughts and puts him on immediate high alert. He can't make out the number of vehicles, but it sounds like a goddamn posse, which can't be good. When he goes out into the yard to check on Kim, he finds her missing; John is the only one standing there, waiting nervously by the planters and looking for any sign to bolt.

"Stay here," Nick tells him as he approaches, heading straight for the front.

"Yes, I know ," John snaps, but Nick isn't going to stop to argue with him. He slows his anxious jog as he comes around the side of the house, catching sight of Hurk's motorcycle through the trees coming down the drive. Kim is standing in the front yard, arms loosely folded over her chest; she looks cautiously excited for the company, although neither of them are sure if this is strictly a social call. Nick sure hopes it is — he's not sure they could hold their own against a group with an RPG and a whole lot of crazy.

Hurk kills his engine once he sees they've got an audience, leaving his bike with the others in the drive. The big, blissed-out guy and the smaller, wild-card one stay on their bikes, while Sharky talks to somebody sitting on his ATV briefly before following his cousin's tracks.

Kim greets them with a warm smile as they come up. "Hey, you guys. We weren't expecting you to stop by again."

"We radioed ahead," Sharky grouses. "But nobody answered."

"Sorry, I wasn't near the receiver. We've been out back all day."

Hurk pulls off his sunglasses with a dramatic flair. "Yeah, I figured it was something like that," he says, with a tone that implies Sharky had a different theory, one Nick imagines involves John staging some sort of coup. "Well, whatever, we're here now!" Looking around coolly for a second, Hurk realizes he still needs to explain himself and bashfully elaborates, " Somebody oughtta know we got back alright, so we can get hired out again and whatnot..."

"Everything cool?" Sharky asks. He makes no effort to hide how he's looking for a fire that he can blame on John. Well, at least he's trying to find a good reason to beat John up this time.

"I should be asking you that," Kim counters, wearing a smile that's enough to disarm Sharky's gruff posturing. "How far did you get?"

"We hit Great Falls before we figured any further was a one-way trip. They're probably past Missoula if they kept up the clip."

"And how'd everything look?" Nick asks. "I mean, relatively speaking."

Sharky shrugs. "A whole lot of the same," he replies. Hurk rolls his eyes in his cousin's direction, fixing him with an annoyed stare that eventually wears Sharky out. Shoulders slumping in defeat, he opens up semi-reluctantly. "It wasn't the, uh... wild wasteland I was expecting. Lots of empty land and road stops. Some friendly, some... uh, not so much. But that group can handle it."

Nick is happy to agree, and not just to placate Sharky. "Yeah," he says. "Hope County breeds tough people."

"Did you guys pick up somebody along the way?" Kim asks, having just done a headcount of the remaining posse. Nick remembers the two on their bikes; the new guy, he remembers from the third car, quiet and quick to leave but otherwise unmemorable.

"Oh, that's Mud," Sharky says, pointing at the three who probably can't hear much over the rumbling engines. "He was with the caravan, but he changed his mind." Sharky's chest puffs up as he confidently tells them, "He's ridin' with us now."

"That's great!" Kim exclaims. She's genuinely excited by the news and the chance to socialize, and the effect of her positivity is hard to fight. Sharky can't help but smile back, even if he's trying to act tough, rubbing his hands together as he casts another approving glance back at his gang.

"Are you going to do anything to celebrate?" she asks.

"Not much to celebrate, he's kind of a nerd."

"Come on," Kim laughs. "You left home and came back with more people than you started with. I think most people these days would count that as a win." She rubs her hands together, looking briefly at Nick and suggesting, "We could have a fish fry?"

"Hey, that's an idea," Nick replies. "We caught some bass yesterday and they're just gonna get composted if we don't do something with them."

"I dunno about that," Sharky says, cutting off Hurk just before he can excitedly agree.

Kim presses her hands together. "Come on, stay," she pleads with a smile. "At least let us feed you. When's the last time you had something more than jerky and booze?"

"Well..." Sharky trails off uncertainly.

"Kim's right," Nick cajoles. "We got plenty to spare."

"Grace is going to be back with Carmina in a few hours," Kim adds. "I'm sure she'd be glad to see you guys."

Sharky rubs his beard, looking back at their waiting posse. "Grace, huh?" he repeats. He trades a few unsubtle glances with Hurk before finally turning back to Kim and Nick. "Yeah, that should be okay. Except — ah, shit. We promised Wallace and Tiny we'd start doing things democratically now that we won't keep tying over everything. Hold on, gotta go confer with the boys."

They only spend a minute talking it over before the two motorcycles kill their engines, which is all the confirmation Nick needs to know they're hosting company. "I'll go tell John," he tells Kim under his breath. "Somebody should give him a heads up before Sharky punches him again."

Kim sends him off with a pat on his shoulder as he heads for the backyard. John is still waiting by the planters, although he's staring longingly for the safety of the hangar. Nick can't blame him — he's still sporting a dark and noticeable bruise from the last time Sharky socked him. Hopefully, seeing his lingering handiwork will satisfy Sharky, otherwise, John might wind up with a matching set.

"Sharky and Hurk are back," Nick says. John doesn't exactly relax, but knowing he doesn't have to prepare for another ugly reintroduction keeps him from bolting. "They're, uh, gonna stick around until Grace gets back."

"Then I probably shouldn't be around," John replies.

"What, you wanna go hide all night?" Nick rolls his eyes. "No, don't be a baby. Worst that'll happen is you'll get knocked down again." John doesn't look convinced, so Nick tries another route. "Come on, we went through all that just so you wouldn't have to hide out every time we have company. And people are gonna have to get used to you eventually — at least Sharky and Hurk already know you're alive." Finally, when none of that seems to work, he sighs and promises, "I'll make sure nobody decks you for no good reason, c'mon."

John finally relents, sighing and gesturing vaguely. "Fine," he says, "Whatever you say."

And, even though Kim isn't around to force him to it, John sits back down at the planter and resumes pulling carrots. It's probably entirely out of spite, but at least it keeps him busy while the posse of would-be raiders filters into the backyard. Nick stands awkwardly at first as Wallace and Tiny stare aggressively at John's back, but when Kim rounds out the group and nobody takes a shot at either of them, he forces himself to ease up on the suspicion. From here on out, Nick is going to try his damnedest to act like everything is absolutely normal. Well, as normal as it can be.

Kim has Sharky talking from the outset, which makes it easy for him to avoid acknowledging John at all. It helps that she's genuinely interested in what he's been up to since they last saw each other — other than open-channel conversations on the radio, the Ryes haven't seen them since the world ended. With only one car and not a lot of fuel, they haven't had a chance to go exploring the east side of the county since climbing topside.

As it turns out, Sharky and Hurk have shacked right back up at the old trailer park. They'd met up with Wallace and Tiny sometime after coming topside, and right now the four of them are in the middle of making the park more hospitable. Sharky keeps mentioning a reception area, and Hurk says something about expanding the lot, so Nick suspects they're looking to cash in on the heretofore abandoned hospitality industry.

For now, though, it's just home to four wildcards and one multi-use distillery made from old airplane parts. "It's pretty much fucked," Sharky says, although truthfully, Nick thinks it sounds kind of badass. "But with enough elbow grease, we'll probably be able to make it livable." He looks around, craning his neck to eyeball the mostly-intact hangar and their secure house, and offers a genuine compliment. "You guys got lucky. No hate, just glad you had somewhere to hole up in. It would suck to really have to rough it with a kid around."

"Tell me about it," Kim agrees emphatically. "Although, it took a lot of work to make it this nice, and there's still a lot more to do."

Sharky and Hurk settling in around the fire-pit is all the invitation their crew needs to make themselves more at home. It's no surprise that they pretend like John isn't there — nor is it a surprise that John returns the favor. It's a little tense and a lot awkward for Nick, but for now it's at least a peaceful holding pattern.

"It sorta sucked, seeing everything as trashed as it is here," Tiny says somewhat morosely. "I mean, at least we ain't alone, but..."

"Hope Valley got the best of it in general," Wallace says. "Right in the sweet-spot. Ideal Collapse."

"He means most everything else got blasted," Tiny clarifies, a sort of post-Bliss interpreter. "You can tell when you leave the county. Eases up after a couple of miles, but there's, like, a big old ring around us."

"No doubt, no doubt," Wallace agrees. "Protecting the good stuff."

"It's pretty fuckin' weird," Hurk says. "But I don't know nothin' about nu-clear thermodynamics and whatnot. Could be normal as the albino deer and shit."

"Uh, you think that the caravan's gonna be okay out there, if everything's just as wrecked?" Nick asks.

"Oh, sure," Hurk drawls. "There were all sortsa people makin' due out there, one way or another. They'll be fine ."

Sharky sighs, opens his mouth, then thinks better of whatever he was going to say and changes course. "They made it pretty clear they would be happier without help," he says. "Hope that works out for them. Me? I'm ride-or-die Hope County. At least 'til Hurk here goes international again. Then, uh, I guess I'm gonna be ride-or-die Miami."

"Hell yeah!" Hurk shouts. "Gonna get the business back in business, y'know what I mean? First stop: check in on mama and Xander. Second stop: top of the world, baby!"

The posse rallies around Hurk's promise with excited whoops. Nick doesn't know what Hurk's job was before the apocalypse, but considering the contraband he used to get his hands on, it's probably something that will only flourish here in the apocalypse.

"'Course, she's probably dead," Hurk adds somewhat morosely at the end, sort of ruining the whole vibe.

Sharky slaps his shoulder a few times out of sympathy. "Don't know 'til we go lookin'," he says, which manages to prop Hurk's mood back up for the time-being. "Anyway, we got a whole slew of islands and mountains and shit to explore once we get established. Spending the rest of my life riding around Montana sounds like a waste of a good apocalypse, if you ask me."

The new guy, Mud, looks more confused than Nick about these future plans. "So, what'd they offer you for joining up?" Nick asks him. "Ten-percent of Boshaw-Drubman LLC?"

Startled, Mud shakes his head frantically. "No way. Uh-uh." Bashfully, he says, "I just, uh... got cold feet. But I don't got much out here, not since the, uh..." He glances past Nick, definitely eyeballing John, then swallows and edges around the truth. "Well, um, Sharky let me ride back, on account of the — well, uh, I didn't wanna get left behind either direction. And since I don't got anything, I offered to join up." He frowns, "Except I don't have a bike, or gas for a bike, or a gun, or bullets for a gun..."

"I told you," Sharky scolds like a mother hen, "We'll figure that shit out later."

"It's smart to stay together," Kim says when Mud fails to pick back up again. "It's what we should all be doing. Does that mean you're staying with them at the trailer park?"

Mud nods, while Tiny goodnaturedly jokes, "Not that there's much left to stay at..."

Sharky is quick to defend their home, even if he doesn't sound super convinced by his own argument. "Hey, we just haven't had time to, y'know, clean and all! We've been busy, man, you know that! Gathering ammo, building the still, brewing ..."

"Would be nice to have a roof over our heads, that's all," Tiny laughs.

"Where do you want me to go, the roof store ?"

The argument is mostly playful, but Nick knows it's only a matter of time before that playful resentment becomes real. Hurk already looks bored by the ribbing, which tells Nick a lot about how long this joke has been running. Even John is paying attention, although Nick only catches an uncomfortable backward glance.

It's a contentious problem for the gang, for sure. But Nick doesn't have to reach far to come up with an easy solution, one that he figures will benefit everybody involved. After all, even considering their own needs, they've got more than enough spare scrap to spare, and Hurk and Sharky's goodwill comes with guns and alcohol, so...

"You know," he says, "John and I found a lot of scrap cleaning this place up. Maybe you can use what we can't."

Sharky opens his mouth to say something, probably pretty rude, but he catches himself before he gets that far. "Wouldn't want to put you out like that," he mutters.

"Hey, we're all in it together, right?" Gesturing towards John, who looks like he'd rather fade back into the dirt around him, Nick offers a sort-of compromise. "We've been trying to figure out what to do with the surplus. This seems like a better use than anything we came up with."

"Well, I guess it couldn't hurt," Sharky admits reluctantly.

Kim recognizes the need for some decisive action, and so she claps her hands together and takes the reins from her grateful husband. "Nick, you and John should take Hurk to look at what we've got. Then, all three of you can bring some wood back so we can get the fire started."

Sharky opens his mouth to object, but Hurk speaks up before he can. "Sounds good!" he exclaims, throwing himself to his feet with ease. Nick can't help but envy him — the guy's got twenty years on him, but Nick doesn't hear his knees popping randomly when he stands up.

"Y'all don't go startin' trouble," he warns his gang, waving Nick on. "Let's do it!"

John turns and heads immediately for the hangar door, disappearing inside without a backwards glance. Hurk lingers once they reach the door, casting a wide look around the empty wash of dirt leading out to the old landing strip before following John inside. He doesn't seem concerned in the slightest that John might be waiting to ambush him.

"Sorry about Sharky, by the way," Hurk says once the three of them are standing in the shade of the tarp overhead. "He's been real stressed is all, tryin' to act all fuckin' responsible and shit. John here making it after the deputy beefed it just hit hard, I guess."

Well, if that's the way Hurk's been referring to it, then no wonder Sharky's sensitive about it. "It's, uh. It's fine. We figured there'd be some... y'know. Reasonable resentment."

John does that thing where he pretends he can't hear he's being talked about, going straight to the log pile stacked against the back wall. Hurk doesn't seem to notice the silent treatment, turning to the organized junk spread out over the cracked concrete. From broken two-by-fours, bent fence-poles, chainlink scraps, and stacks of not-quite-moldy plywood, there's gotta be something here that can help fix up the trailer park. Nick makes sure to highlight the best scrap for Hurk's consideration, although he avoids mentioning their surplus of nails and stripped screws for now. No use showing his whole hand, right?

"Damn," Hurk says at last, looking around in mild astonishment. "Can we hire y'all to do this to our scrap?"

Nick laughs. "Yeah, like I wanna do all this again ."

"What about you?" Hurk asks John's back, ignoring the way he tenses at being directly addressed. "How do we rent you out?"

"You don't," John says, his tone briefly icing over as he turns, regarding them coolly over his armful of logs. He's more petulant than angry when he explains, "I don't owe you my life, so I don't owe you my labor."

"Fine, I'll just save you from a burning building or some shit," Hurk replies, as if he couldn't care less that it's John Seed he's bantering with. "I guess we gotta talk trading, now," he sighs reluctantly. "Man, I fuckin' hate this barter-system bullshit. You know, actually, I got a box full of bottle caps if you wanna..."

Nick waves away the extremely bad offer to invest in an unbacked currency. "Hey, don't worry about it," he says. Hurk frowns heavily at that, so Nick suggests a compromise. "Look, if you and Sharky wind up with your own microbrew, you owe me a case — and yes, I will take payment in installments. That sound fair?"

"If ?" Hurk replies. He lets out a big laugh. "Buddy, I got news for you."

Hurk, John and Nick each take an armful of wood back to the fire pit, where Kim seems to have everything under control. Sharky is less openly hostile when John reappears, anyway, which is a good sign. Mud and Tiny have apparently been given fire-starting duty, jumping to the task as soon as they drop off the wood. Sharky, a true pyromaniac, manages them from his seat by shouting directions at them as they stack the wood in the pit.

Before they can sit back down, Kim turns Nick and John back around for the fish. It's a one-person job, but John doesn't complain about being sent away.

"You okay?" Nick asks John when they reach the freezer.

"Yes," John replies automatically. Nick stares at him for a solid five seconds before he cracks with a frustrated sigh. "I'm just a little overwhelmed. That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"Sure," Nick agrees. He picks up the old bin they've been using to cart fish back from the river. "You can stick around here for a bit if you want. Take a breather."

John scoffs at the idea of taking a break, as per usual. "I thought the point was not to hide," he replies tersely. He reaches out to yank the cracked plastic container from Nick, a frustrated and instinctive reaction that he curbs at the last moment, fingers curling briefly into a fist as he forces himself not to just take things from Nick.

Taking pity on the dumb bastard, Nick pushes the bin into John's arms, flipping open the freezer door and staring down at the slimy, not-yet-smelly fish. "Well, if you need a break, just say you're gonna get more firewood." Nick shrugs. "Someone's gotta check on you eventually, but Kim knows the drill."

John doesn't respond as Nick loads up the bin, but Nick hopes he takes the out to heart. There's not a social obligation out there that Nick hasn't gotten out of by dedicating himself to some dumbass chore nobody else wants to do.

They return to find a roaring fire that is... hopefully under control. The mismatched seating has been pulled back to accommodate the fire's larger-than-average size, accompanied by a couple of chairs from inside to make up the difference. Sharky and Mud have disappeared, although they return just after Nick, each carrying a variety of bottles and jars of different sizes.

"Shit, I didn't think you brought the entire brewery with you!" Nick exclaims, not in the least bit upset by the development.

"Not until you clean all those up," Kim says before Nick can get ahead of himself. "You don't want to be handling a knife right after a shot of... whatever that is."

Nick groans, but she's right. As much as Nick would like to get drunk off his ass on torpedo juice, he has to get his priorities straight. Still — there's a lot more fish than Nick's willing to handle by himself, so he enlists a willing Wallace and Tiny to help out. He picks them mostly because they're openly carrying hunting knives, and because John is just plain bad at deboning fish. John stares at him resentfully, but since he hates handling food as much as he hates gardening, Nick's sure he'll get over it before dinner.

Nick doesn't have much control over the food once it's been cleaned, as Sharky and Hurk have some kind of bet going about who's the better cook and they don't need anybody else throwing their hat in. As far as Nick's concerned, their cooking tastes delicious but indistinguishable. Of course, Nick's waiting for his own dinner, so other than a few bites to try and judge the difference, he doesn't get to eat much of it.

Tiny and Wallace split and down an entire mason jar of mysterious dark liquor while they wait to eat. Nick wants to join them, but Kim's waiting until Carmina is home to start drinking and really, Nick should be doing the same. From the way John's watching distrustfully from the side, he's not likely to get into any moonshine himself.

Nick manages to hold out until after he's finished eating, but then Hurk offers him some moonshine directly and he can't say no. It would be in bad taste, right?

Oof. Turns out the moonshine is in bad taste, but that's what he should expect from something that's easily 120 proof. Nick takes one swig and immediately regrets it as it turns his chapped lips to fire and carries the heat all the way down the back of his throat. There's no taste or anything, just an intense, full-mouth burn and this lizard-brain instinct that everything is going to go horribly wrong if he drinks more of whatever that is.

"Jesus Christ !" he gasps. It's only Hurk's quick reflexes that keep the jar from crashing to the dirt, but Nick doubles down before Hurk can pry it out of his hands. Even as he struggles to form a sentence more complex than, " Poison ," he's got to go back for a second sip. As if somehow a second one would make things better — but of course it doesn't. At least, not to begin with; first, it's gotta turn his shredded lips inside out and throw his tear-ducts into overdrive better than an overripe onion.

"Well don't drink more of it," Kim huffs, way too late.

"Now be honest," Hurk asks, "Can you taste any apple?"

Nick pushes the jar back into Hurk's attentive hands, choking disbelievingly on the word, "Apple ," although now that he thinks about it... No, nope, no after-taste whatsoever. It does , however, warm him from the inside out, leaving him feeling a decent buzz for two conservative swigs.

"Whatever it is," Nick sighs at last, after a big swig of water, "It's great."

"You know," Kim says, "The sooner we put the stew on the fire, the sooner you can eat. Maybe then you could handle more than a couple of baby sips."

Nick clicks his tongue, taking some childish offense at his wife teasing him about his tolerance. At the same time, she's right — and Nick is getting hungry. There's still enough uncooked fish left for when Grace and Carmina get home, but if he wants them to have as much as everyone else, he'll have to settle for the three-day-old stew. At least Kim and John are stuck in the same boat as him.

Before he can get started on that, though, Grace surprises him by returning early with Carmina. Admittedly, it's still pretty late in the afternoon, but he hadn't expected her back so soon. She isn't surprised to find company, which is also a surprise, although she eyes the whole group somewhat distrustfully as she and Carmina round the side of the house. When she sees Hurk and Sharky drinking from their unsanitized brewing bottles, she finally relaxes, letting go of Carmina's shoulder so that she can join the not-necessarily child-safe group.

"Grace!" Sharky exclaims, leaping from his seat and almost grabbing her for a hug before remembering personal boundaries are a thing. "Holy shit, the world literally ended last I saw you!"

Grace returns Sharky's enthusiasm with her more subdued version of it, smiling fondly and following through the rest of the hug for him, the same way she'd grabbed onto Nick and Kim when they'd first come back topside. "Sharky, it's good to see you," she says, her voice deep with emotion.

"I radioed her while you were getting firewood," Kim mentions to Nick as Hurk takes his chance to get a hug from the usually reclusive sniper. "I thought she would appreciate a head's up. And, you know, it cheered Sharky up."

"Hey, good thinking."

Carmina approaches gleefully, carrying the rifle over her shoulder triumphantly. For a nine-year-old, she's pretty natural with the thing, which is a mixed blessing as far as Nick's concerned.

"Aunt Grace made moving targets!" she exclaims, excitement overriding her confusion momentarily until she looks at the group. "I didn't know we were having people over today..."

"It was a happy surprise," Kim tells her. "These are the guys who were helping that caravan heading west, remember?"

"Yeah," Carmina says. She looks immediately to John, who is way too busy staring tensely at Grace and Sharky's reunion to notice her.

"Don't worry," Nick says. "Everything's fine."

"Uh-huh," Carmina says, unconvinced. Thankfully, she doesn't seem too worried about another fight breaking out. That probably has something to do with her attention being focused in an entirely different direction. "Do we have pulleys? I wanna make a shooting range here! It's really easy!"

Nick's gut reaction is to say no, but Kim interrupts him. "Maybe while your dad is getting the stew, he can check," she offers, looking from Carmina to Nick significantly. "Then we can have some dinner and talk about it."

Although it looked like John hadn't been paying any attention before, he stands as soon as Kim mentions going to the hangar. "I remember seeing one," he says.

"You can help me look, then," Nick offers. "Maybe get some more firewood?"

"Yeah," John says absently. Nick barely steps into his line of sight, but that's all he needs, turning and making his way to the hanger down the same invisible path he was glued to before. Nick sighs, rolls his eyes at Kim entirely for show, and follows. Maybe once they get some food in him, John will stop being such a cagey bastard about the whole thing, and they'll be able to actually put things to rest with Grace and Sharky at last.

When the world ended, Nick had figured that meant the end of life as he knew it. In some ways, he'd been right — things will never be as easy, as safe, as peaceful as they used to be — but when his expectations had been wrong, they'd been completely off-base. He'd expected a nuclear wasteland, only to find a lush and thriving field. He'd expected roving gangs of murderers, and instead, he's only encountered desperate, decent people who would rather not waste the bullets. Hell, he'd expected to spend every day struggling to survive, and here he is, sitting in the backyard with a full belly and a shot of liquor to wind down. Sure, the gathering is a primitive knock-off of a barbeque, but Nick knows now that all they need is time and practice. Maybe someday, they'll even have a grill — burgers, corn on the cob, the whole works.

But hey. That's for the future, and right now, Nick isn't going to complain about some bad liquor, mediocre food and Hurk's stripped-down Slayer's cassette blaring from his beat-up stereo.

Carmina finally gets a chance to show off her skills to people other than her family, and so Hurk's boys take turns calling out targets for her to cap in an attempt to take her down a peg. Nick isn't sober enough to trust his daughter with a gun, but Kim hasn't gone back for another taste of "apple" moonshine yet, and Grace is sober as a rock, so they're more than capable of handling things. Mostly, they nix any particularly dangerous targets, keeping Carmina's shots focused out in the yard. Well, for the most part — neither of them can resist watching Carmina shoot the wind-vane still clinging to the roof, even if it means going right over everyone's heads.

It's all in good fun, of course. And, to their credit, not one of the guys even jokingly suggests taking aim at John as he sits apart from the group. It's a good thing, too — John looks uncomfortable at how good a shot Carmina is. Maybe Nick would be uncomfortable with it too, if he hadn't drunk a bottle-neck's worth of moonshine beforehand.

Nick doesn't have to drink a lot to feel downright tipsy, which is great. Back in the day, he used to like getting buzzed every so often, but he'd given up ever feeling safe enough to get inebriated as another lost memory from yesteryear. This... this is nice. And once the guns get put away, it'll be even nicer.

"I think you might be a better shot than Tipsy over here," Wallace tells Carmina, gesturing towards Tiny, who is indeed too tipsy to be a decent shot at all.

"Only one way to find out!" Tiny shouts, failing to move after his declaration.

"Maybe another time," Kim replies uncertainly. "When alcohol isn't involved?"

"Hey, Carmina," Hurk coos, pulling his battered gun into his lap, "This is a Kalashnikov, you ever shoot off one of these?"

"Ooh, no!"

Grace is much less diplomatic than Kim, cutting him off before he can feed Carmina's excitement any more. "Hurk!"

"What? Oh, uh... she's probably too young for an automatic, huh? What is she, nine? I got a Magnum in my saddlebag..."

It's not long after that they run out of targets, forcing an end to Carmina's demonstration of skill. Kim thankfully takes the gun so that nobody gets hurt, and Carmina spends the next twenty minutes peppering the crew with questions about their guns, their tattoos, their trip out with the caravan, and whether or not they have a moving target range like Grace does. Nick relaxes when he realizes that none of the guys are keen on giving a little girl another weapon, more interested in spinning drunken tall-tales that, truthfully, might be a little too PG for Carmina. At least Grace is listening in to fact-check any of their more problematic bullshit.

John isn't any less tense now that Carmina is disarmed, but Nick's not surprised. Sitting on the opposite side of the fire from everybody else, he might as well be hiding in plain sight. That goes against the entire point, but it's also his modus operandi these days. Normally, Nick would just ignore it, maybe even avoid John on purpose to show him how bad it feels, but tonight calls for a more direct approach.

"Need to get some firewood?" Nick asks him, coming to stand in his line of sight.

John squints up at him around the firelight. "No," he mutters, lying through his teeth before changing the subject. "Carmina has good aim."

"That's all Kim's genes. I'm more of a spray-and-pray kinda guy."

John doesn't quite hide his sarcasm, replying, "You don't say."

Nobody's offered John any liquor yet, he's pretty sure, so Nick holds the bottle out in an easily declined gesture. "Wanna try?" he asks, just in case he's being more subtle than he thinks. "Supposed to take like apples."

John gives the bottle an unimpressed once-over. "I don't think so," he decides, not sounding entirely sure about it. He adds defensively, "My tolerance is shot."

"If you say so," Nick replies, pulling the bottle back. "It's not like I'm gonna peer pressure you. This isn't high school. But, uh, try to relax. If anyone was gonna take a shot at you, they would've done it by now."

"Easy for you to say," John sighs.

It is easy for Nick to say, but he hopes John actually listens to him for once. He's not expecting miracles or anything, but if John's going to stick around, he's going to have to learn how to relax. Well — at least that's one learning curve that everybody is struggling with. Baby steps, right?

Nick leaves John alone for now; maybe he'll warm up into the idea of mending some metaphorical fences before everyone leaves, which would be ideal. For now, Nick goes back to the rest of the group, taking a few more sips as he listens to Carmina start to spin her own tall tales. Now that she's recognized the pattern in all of the stories the adults have been telling — larger-than-life enemies, intimidating names, lots of Foley work — she's attempting to match their vivid stories with a highly interpretive retelling about the turkey she saved her mom from a few months ago. The way she tells it, Nick would've expected the turkey she'd brought back to be at least the size of a car, but if Kim is playing into her part as a damsel in distress, Nick isn't going to ruin things by being the cynic realist.

They trade a few more stories. As they do, Kim takes a few extremely sour drinks of whatever the dark stuff is. She's been on hosting duty all day already, and Nick hasn't done much to help, getting tipsy right away with the rest of the guys like he had. But, with things starting to get late for a family of three, Nick decides it's his time to step up to the task of parenting.

Carmina hasn't had enough life experience to have many stories to share with the encouraging group of drunken manchildren, so once the attention turns to Tiny's story of his first swim after the world ended, Nick uses the out as a chance to usher her away.

"I think we oughta get you ready for bed," he tells Carmina, who boos under her breath but doesn't put up a fight, mostly because the story involves lots of nudity that she isn't at all interested in hearing about. Nick can't blame her — he doesn't wanna hear about Tiny almost getting his nuts bit off by a demon fish, either.

"Okay, but I want a good bed-time story," she demands, reasonably enough. Nick doesn't have anything as funny as Hurk's story, or anything as action-packed as Sharky's retelling of the first roadblock they encountered out on the road, but he has to at least try.

The good thing about Carmina not knowing anything about life before is that Nick can stretch some truths without repercussion. So when he tucks Carmina in, he decides to tell her the story of when she was born — this time, though, he doesn't leave out the roadblocks, or the deputy's shitty driving, or the narrowly-missed explosions. Couched in a long line of tall tales and exaggerated stories, Carmina doesn't believe most of the true stuff and only playfully believes in the bullshit.

Between Nick's bedtime-story voice and him gently stroking her hair, it's a wonder Carmina stays awake for as long as she does. Eventually, though, well before he finishes the story, she closes her eyes and finally stops resisting the chance for a good night's sleep. Nick stays put, lying next to her for a few minutes as he listens to the faint sound of conversation outside. He tries to make out the voices, to decipher who might be talking to who, but he only hears a dull hum.

He'll get up in a few minutes, go down and have a real drink with his wife for the first time in nine years, but the alcohol he's already had entices him to lie still just a little longer.

He doesn't know how long he dozes for, but when Nick is next aware of his surroundings, the light has changed in the room from the rising moon and the conversation outside has shifted in tone and pitch, the way any party might as it enters the late-night phase. Sitting up, Nick immediately knows he needs two things — more water, and one or two more swigs of that awful moonshine, just to keep the hangover from starting before he actually goes to bed.

The back porch is still wide open. The fire has died down, although it's still enough light to see by as Nick reappears. Kim sees him immediately, lifting a half-empty jar of dark liquid in his direction and waving him down with her free hand.

"This one is much better," she tells him as he approaches, holding out the jar. Well, Nick isn't about to reject his wife's kind offer, although he immediately regrets it when he takes a swig.

" Ugh ," he chokes around the harsh burn, feeling it drain all the way back into his throat. "That tastes like paint thinner!"

"Trade secret!" Hurk exclaims, adding immediately after, "Not that there's any paint or thinner in there, or anythin'. Nope. It's 100% organic malt liquor!"

Nick has no idea how Hurk would manage to find barley, but sure, he'll buy it. Another sip doesn't do any better, and to his surprise, he realizes that he actually prefers the moonshine.

As he hands the jar back, Nick does a quick head-count, coming up two short. "Uh, where's John?" he asks.

"Oh," Kim says. She points towards the hangar. "We needed firewood," she says. "Except, eventually, we really needed firewood. I sent Sharky to get some." It seems like only when she says it does she realize what a bad idea it is. "Well, we were in the middle of something, and I was distracted," she explains reluctantly.

"I wasn't," Grace utters next to her.

Kim rolls her eyes. "You should go check on them. I mean, it's fine. But maybe you should, anyway."

Nick looks over at the hangar. There aren't any lights to speak of out here, but Nick can see the glow of the lantern through the open doorway, shadows moving around behind the worn-out wall. "Yeah," he agrees, turning and heading across the wash. He only thinks of grabbing a drink for the journey after he starts walking, but he's already halfway there and he doesn't have time to turn around and come back.

Sharky appears in the doorway, forcing Nick to pull up short to avoid running into him. He looks — fine? There's too much beard and too little light to see his expression clearly, but Sharky doesn't seem phased in the least to find Nick in his way. He passes by Nick with a few logs under one arm, patting Nick heavily on his shoulder with his free hand.

"It's cool, bro," he says, "We're all good."

"Uh... okay," Nick replies, deeply unsure as Sharky casually heads back for the fire. Briefly worrying that he might find John knocked out on the ground, Nick tries not to stress out as he heads inside.

John is sitting on a discarded chopping block by the woodpile, the lantern settled by his feet. Nick doesn't see any blood or a new black eye; just John, rolling a nearly-empty glass bottle between his palms as he drifts in thought.

Nick almost feels bad interrupting, but John catches sight of him before he can retreat undetected. He looks surprised — genuinely, openly surprised to see Nick standing there, sincerely confused when he says, "I thought you went to bed."

"And miss out on all the action?" Nick chuckles. He gestures at the bottle. "So much for your tolerance being shot, huh?" he teases.

"Oh, hmm?" John looks down at the bottle like he'd forgotten about it. "Only enough to get them off my back." He sighs, following it up with a swig that he barely winces through. "After all, saying no ain't my thing ." Nick isn't sure if that drawl is for sarcastic quotation purposes, or if John's had enough moonshine to play at being white trash. "Then again, I only quit drinking because of Joseph. No point resisting now."

"I guess," Nick agrees reluctantly. "Is that, uh, what you and Sharky were talking about?"

John rolls his eyes. "No," he says. He holds out the bottle, waiting until Nick takes it to elaborate. "Kim suggested they sleep out here tonight. He was making sure there's room."

"Oh." Nick takes a drink; maybe it's just the malt liquor talking, but now Nick can sort of taste the apple around the burn. He takes one more swig, just to make sure, then hands the bottle back. "Well, as long as he wasn't hassling you."

"No more than I deserve," John says. Nick must make some kind of face, because he sighs and placating adds, "It's fine, Nick. I'm more than capable of handling a few sarcastic comments from some hillbilly outlaw." He looks down, tipping the bottle a bit to swirl the moonshine inside.

"He... means well," he says eventually. "Everyone means well."

"You don't have to sound so bummed out about it."

John chuckles. It's the first time Nick's heard his laugh and not mistaken it for a cough or wheeze. "I don't mean to be," he says. He takes a drink and looks up at Nick with a... weird look on his face. Open. Genuine? Nick's not sure. But despite the topic, John's expression radiates a deep, contemplative peace. "It's more generosity than I can bear from people I genuinely thought of as the enemy."

He is definitely drunk. "Oh, boy," Nick sighs, reaching out for the bottle before John drops it or finishes it off himself. "To be fair, uh, it's easier to be nice to you since we won, and all."

"Oh, I do not doubt it." John relinquishes the drink, seemingly aware enough to admit, "I've had more than enough."

"I think everybody's had enough," Nick says, proving his own point by immediately regretting his next swig. "God damn . Okay, well — we should probably get some wood. I gotta feeling those guys are gonna be up for a while, and we wanna keep them happy."

John nods, but he doesn't rise from his spot. "Wait," he says when Nick goes to pass him, so Nick obligingly stops, raising an eyebrow at John's half-lifted hand.

"You have to understand," he says. "I'm not — I don't know how I'm supposed to express my gratitude towards you. With Joseph, with — well, everyone , I've always known how to express my loyalty. I knew what they expected from me, what would make them happy, what... wouldn't. But with you, with Kim... I don't know anything. I feel like a child. I don't know how that makes me feel, other than like an idiot."

He heaves a frustrated, heavy sigh, ducking his head towards his nervously entwined hands. "Just — thank you," he finishes miserably.

"Wow," Nick utters in response. He doesn't know what else to say, really, except the obvious, but he genuinely means it when he replies, "Well, you're welcome. Man, and here I always figured you were playing me for a sap."

John laughs, shaking his head. "Manipulation has never been my strong suit," he admits. "I'm too heavy-handed for that crap. Intimidation and brute force, on the other hand..." He lets out a relieved sigh. "Thank God I was too sick to revel in my self-destruction."

"Yeah, I'm glad I didn't have to shoot you," Nick chuckles. "Sorta would've gone against everything I'm trying to build, you know?"

"I do now," John says. "I only wish I'd realized it before the end of the world."

"Hey, the world hasn't really ended," Nick points out. "There's still a whole left to do." He gestures towards the woodpile. "We can start by making sure Kim doesn't leave me for the raiders giving her free alcohol."

John stands, shaking his head as if he could clear the smile from his face. "I'm sure you have nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, not until they figure out how to brew a decent beer. Kim was going without for the baby. She probably would've murdered me if it meant she could've had a case of Newcastle in the bunker for a few months there."

Then again, she had also been freaking out about the nuclear apocalypse occurring above-ground, so Nick really should cut her more slack.

"You definitely have nothing to worry about," John reiterates. "But fine. No more back-talk."

"Yeah, fat chance of that. C'mon, give me a hand."

Nick leaves the bottle on the chopping block and utilizes John's uncanny strength, loading him up with an armful of wood before taking a few logs for himself, to give the appearance of helping. John doesn't complain, which isn't unusual by itself, but tonight it feels like genuine complacency, not just something he's doing to survive. And when they return to the fire, dropping off the wood for Mud and Tiny to utilize, John doesn't retreat to the safety of the other side of the fire. He instead lingers by Nick, going so far as to play along whenever Kim asks him questions, just to make him feel included. He, unlike Nick, is smart enough to refuse any more of the malt liquor Kim's taken a liking to, but he holds the jar for show from time to time, just to keep Hurk happy. In a weird way, Nick feels like he can actually see John taking those wobbly steps Kim is always hoping to see, and even weirder than that, the anxiety that maybe he's making a mistake fails to manifest, leaving Nick with a warm, fuzzy feeling that could very well be pride.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #fcnd #new dawn #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #far cry fanfic #my fic

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livayl · 5 years

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Finding love or how to compromise an Archmage

A little cross-post again. Because it´s still early and I´m awake since for ever which makes me really really bored. Feel free to ignore it here if you’ve read it already. Aaand: Please don´t re blog to non-fetish blogs, thank you.

It takes place in the same fantasy world as my other story Veiled In Nocturnal Shadows. If you need or want any background for the characters feel free to ask. :) Also a little warning: it is about inducing which might not be everyone's thing.

Marya would have never dreamed of dating another Elf, especially not one so highly born. One of those nobles that were usually too busy digging trough decades of lost elven glory to see the really important now. She actually preferred a more down to earth company. Like the dwarven blacksmith and mischievous woodfairies she used to live with. Before that crap of a war had started.

The all so high and mighty Amaziah seemed like a resurrection of old strength and magic. All things heavy that would normally rather crush than tolerate the lighthearted and playful person she mostly was.

Yet, lying awake in the darkest times of night, she knew that THEM was important. THEY did matter. As clear as daylight. Which she suddenly could not wait for. So she snug out of her room, skulked across the peacefully silent guardhouse and scurried her way over the court towards the main hall. Through the doors and then upwards to her Loves´quarters. Guided by a lot of newly found love and a little ever present mischief. There were no soldiers but instead a buzzing, crackling force of defensive magic that warded the whole castle from outside and bled through it´s warren intestines as well. Maryas heartbeat quickened with joy as she passed the thick barrier unharmed. It felt… Welcome? She had almost reached her destined destination, slim fingers already brushing over the cool door handle, when a sharp sound tore apart the drowsy tranquility and nearly made her jump. “- HAESSCCCHh-hah!” - discard nearly, that had been one hell of a sudden… Sneeze? Whilst listening to the slowly recurring silence she started to wonder: Had she ever heard the Archmage sneeze before? Probably not, as she could not recall nearly shitting her pants around the commonly soft-footed elf before. Still processing this new situation, Marya was about to finally open the now ajar door when a vocalized gasp escaped from the room beyond. Someday, she grinned, eavesdropping will make my ears grow even bigger. “hh… hehh…hhahh….HEEEah-!… snnfff- shit!” Now that had been close. And strangely exciting to listen to… The way Amaziahs usually controlled breaths had become more voiced with need each time they were expelled. Underlined with desire as well as with growing desperation. Almost a little panting , aiming to release the building pressure only to abandon her one heartbeat away from granting it. That seemed teasingly frustrating… Still, even after a harsh nose blow, the tickle did not seem to show mercy as it returned in vengeance to make her hitch with increasing force. Marya could not help herself from peeking through the gap. It felt strangely intimate to witness her fierce Love trapped in a situation so longing and helpless. The scene in front of her was bathed in the soft amber light of a still smoldering fireplace that send tiny dusts of ash dancing in rays of moonshine. Amaziah sat amid ruffled bedclothes that surrounded her like blustering white waves. Her head was titled back, short raven hair tinted both golden and moonlight silver. Her lids seemed half closed, vivid amethyst colored eyes cloaked by dark, fluttering lashes and shining with irritated tears that had already left opalescent traces on her pallid cheeks. Her slender hands were cupped together and hovered in front of her twitching nose and slightly parted lips. Those tender lips that now opened fully, quickly altered into a snarl as the itch intensified once more. Her sinewy, androgynous frame nearly shook as her chest began to rise and fall in a frantic rhythm given by mounting need. “Hhh…hhh… hhAH!..Huh? hhhrr come on !” She crushed a fist into her pillow while the other started to give her straight, long nose a vigorous rub. Her whole expression seemed so… Upset, annoyed, overall wholly un-Noble-Archmage-and-Savior-of-The Radiant-Alliance- like that Marya failed to suppress a snorting laugh that made Amaziah turn towards her hidden audience in an instant. “Mah-hahhh…Damn it… Marya? What are you doing here?” She asked in recognition of the two sky-blue eyes that beamed at her from under curly, copper colored bangs. “Enjoying the sight. It actually was a really entertaining performance. And mhmm helping you out with your little problem?” “I don´t know of which problem you are spe-heh-akihiing off. Also, it´s incredibly rude to- iiiihn-vade an others personal space like th-haa-” Amaziah tried and failed as her otherwise sharp yet delicate features crumpled, marred by the again rising need to sneeze. Her long nostrils grew even wider, shaking against the stalling press of knuckles. “Oh you really don´t know? Because you look like you really need but can´t sneeze.” Marya scoffed, slowly drawing closer despite her Loves shooing motions. “I wonder why you don´t simply do so.” The compromised Archmage looked more than ready to comply as her eyes drifted shut beneath tightly knitted brows, contrasting her now open mouth gasping with turned down corners. Leaning back, hands swiftly steepled over the lower half of her face, Marya heard a powerfully building breath that made her Loves eyes swim with tears and ended in another frustrated growl. “Gods FUCK!” Came the infuriated exclamation that drowned Maryas laughter. “That right there was the best thing I have seen in a while!” she giggled while her girlfriend used a handkerchief to wipe away any leftover moisture. “That ridiculous nonsense is bothering me since hours. It´s neither enjoyable nor funny…” Amaziah muttered under her breath. “Not for you. But I will help you if you say please my lovely Marya make me sneeze.” “Are you out of your mind? N-huuh….Never.” “Oh, spoilsport. Then just please or Marya or sneeze.” Amaziah seemed unable to answer, eyes incapable to stay focused, blearily blinking away tears and hazed with that stubborn urge. “How…” She swallowed down another fruitless hitch. “Would you help me?” Marya pecked down with a fast kiss towards Amaziahs nose that was rewarded with another sharp inhale and sour grimace. Her eyes caught the long, fluffy quill on the desk. That would be good. A mischievous smile curved her plush lips upwards. “I would tickle your nose with that feather there until you get what you need. But only if you´re polite enough to say please.” A resigned sniff, disgruntled rub and then a whispered: “Please.” Marya, the feathery quill securely held in one hand, slowly made her advances towards Amaziahs nose. It was still twitching with flared nostrils on occasion and was blushed an angry red. She sat down in front of her Lover, close enough to feel the erratic breath brushing fervently over her skin. “But don´t sneeze on me.” “I won´t. Just… Be quick please…” “Oh wow, please two times a night! Someone´s really in need of help, mhm? Alright, I promise to save the banter for later.” The first fine wisps made contact with irritated skin, causing the mages nasal bridge to wrinkle. Marya did not want to tease too much, sensing the tension and exhaustion behind the other woman´s eyes, but was scared of hurting her with being to rough. She slowly circled each nostril, marveling at the sudden and strong reactions she was able to evoke. It took not more then three light strokes to educe two of those deliciously desperate gasps that made her own skin tingle. Another four and Amaziahs eyes were closed behind soft lashes wetted with fluid. Her nostrils responded pulsating open with each breath while her mouth hung ajar to suck in air in preparation to…. She quickly hid the foreboding grimace behind her hands, swatting the feather aside while her chest swelled against Marya. Warm, cloth-veiled skin stroking her arm. A deep breath…. “Hhh-HEHEA!-” only to slump back without executed duty and an almost desperate sniff. “Lost it again?” Marya asked and felt true pity at the floating gaze out of weary lilac depths. “It is not strong enough on the outside… Can you… Never thought I would say anything like that… Stick it inside my nose?” That made Marya chuckle again. “Yes, but only because you asked so nicely. Be ready.” This time she concentrated her efforts on her Loves left nostril, inserting the tip slowly to avoid injuries, only to have it ripped out again as Amaziahs head reflexively jerked backwards. “You need to keep still.” “S-sorry… It really tickled…” “That´s the point of it, silly.” Again, the now damp feather set out for it´s destination. Disappearing a little further this time, tickling and tingling as it went up. Marya noticed that Amaziahs hands were already half raised in preparation and that her face seemed almost peaceful despite the obvious struggle. Weird but true. She then poked the soft pink insides, one and then another twirl around with the feather and Amaziahs head reared back with a downright feral inhale and ferocious snarl. Her hands brought up just in time to cover an incredibly relieving: “HA-EHSCHUE!” That seemed to ascend from deep inside her chest. It caused her complete upper body to bend and stumble into Marya who hastily dropped her tool in favor to stabilize her Love which immediately seemed to gear up for another. She shuddered with another mighty inhale, face hidden behind protective hands and braced against Maryas shoulder. “hhh HA!- AESCHOO!…-EISCHHAH! hhh-HAH-EERSSCH~IUH!” The sneezes were almost violent and echoed through the chamber while Amaziah helplessly convulsed in Maryas arms. The fourth one seemed to dispel the tickle, judging how the mage nearly melted into her Loves embrace, uttering a sight that seemed equally underlined with something akin to pain and relieve. “Wow that was… Quite some sneezing you have there.” Marya noted with astonishment while stroking her Loves back. “Sorry, I could not help it…” Amaziah replied almost timid, nose nuzzled into Maryas shirt. “Thank you for… well… You know.” “Sounded like you needed it. And there´s no snot on me. Everyone´s happy.” “Always when you are with me.” Amaziah sniffed and gently pulled Marya to bed with her. “No ewww that´s cheesy.” She answered already wrapped up in equal parts strong arms and warm blanket. “Now, what did you really want here? Please don´t tell me you heard my sneezing throughout half of the castle.” “Would have been no surprise but no…” Marya paused, head nesting into Amaziahs shoulder, hand drawing lazy circles above her Loves heart. “I just… Missed you.”

#my fic #my oc #elves #Amaziah #Marya #snzfic #inducing #sneeze #female

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ccaleb-widogast · 6 years

Text

College AU: my take

I’m dabbling around in a Critical Role college AU of sorts and infodumping here in to gather opinions on if this is worth writing lmao.

So Beauregard is a broke college kid cut off from her funds because she pretty much gave the middle finger to her Very Rich dad and managed to make it on her own anyway because the university sees potential in her and helped her change majors to what she WANTS to do (not Business Management fuck you dad) and she still nabbed some decent scholarships. She lives in an apartment by campus with the most bizzaro roommate ever whom she sometimes hates and sometimes tolerates but he was the only one who responded to her ads for a roommate on time for her to make rent and now she’s stuck with him. She’s still struggling in classes because EXECUTIVE DYSFUNCTION ANYONE???? And keeps getting set up with tutors that give up on her after like a week and the latest one is some transfer grad student from Germany.

Mollymauk has absolutely no idea what he used to do or what shit he’s been into but just knows that after being beaten within an inch of his life and ODing on god knows what and waking up from that with no memory, he sure as hell wasnt staying in New York anymore. Turns out he’s pretty good at the guitar and had some subconscious memory of reading tarot and scraped by off those gigs and a part time job at the diner/bar just off campus. Beau was the only roommate who didn’t ask weird questions when he was looking for a place, and even though she’s a pain in the ass, the rent is cheap and she mostly leaves him to his devices. Oh, and he has Yasha, so that sweetens the deal.

Yasha just needed to get the fuck out of the country because wow things were not going well for her there and she ran into Molly doing a gig with a band he was running with at the time and joined up as a bouncer/helping hand. Things went sour with the drummer and they broke up, but she stuck with Molly and comes in an out of town and usually has a place to crash at his place if need be. Plus, his roommate seems pretty cool.

Caleb is a German transfer student doing grad school for physics, with a heavy lean towards theoretical physics (edited from metaphysics, which I mixed up). He’s just working steadily towards his goal and keeps to himself and is an on-call tutor with the math and science departments. People think he’s weird but he definitely knows his stuff. Most of his time outside of school is spent with Nott, helping her make some extra cash if he can and otherwise just spending time with her and his cat in his shitty apartment.

Nott is a mystery to pretty much everyone because it wouldn’t go over well if they knew she was undocumented. She’s technically homeless but spends most nights at Caleb’s or around his place because she knows the campus area is pretty safe and diverse enough that people won’t ask questions about a ratty looking Latina girl. She gets by off of begging and stealing and playing nice with the owner of the bakery down the street.

Jester is new in town and just opened up a bakery using the stipend she was sent overseas with after things went sour with one of her mother’s... employers. She’s still working out the kinks of the business but has some help from the oddly sharp Navy-veteran-turned-college-student who spends his afternoons at the shop doing his homework. She gives the days’ leftovers to Nott most of the time.

Fjord is a Navy veteran who did not expect to be discharged as early as he was; an accident on his ship and a medical discharge later, and he found himself sort of aimless, but deciding he’d put his free time to good use and at least get a start on a college education with his G.I. Bill. He has no idea what he’s majoring in yet, but hopes he’ll know for sure once he’s finished his general education.

I’m still working on an actual plot for this bizarre combination but I have some ideas beyond just an episodic style string of shenanigans. Want to know more? Send me an ask! Want me to write this into a legit fic? Definitely let me know!!

#critical role #critical role fanfiction #beauregard #mollymauk tealeaf #caleb widogast #yasha #nott the brave #fjord #jester #critical role headcanon #infodump over #im just tired but #i wanted to share it #the mighty nein

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therealjammy · 6 years

Text

Awake

A probably badly-written fic in honor of Femslash February and Valentine’s Day even though this takes place in May. Slightly NSFW too.

May, 2017

You’re not surprised to find Root at your apartment, nor are you surprised when Bear practically bounds across the room to her as soon as he’s free from his leash. She pets him enthusiastically, even gives him little kisses on the head. “I missed you!” she tells him in a voice that bears a hint of baby-talk. He licks her cheeks and her palms and attempts to lick at her mouth, but she shies away, makes a face. She only likes your mouth on her lips.

Your bedroom is tidy but evidence of her travels are piled up in the empty corner by your dresser: two large suitcases, a black duffel bag that could either contain a week’s worth of dirty, wrinkled laundry or shiny new weapons disassembled for travel, and a few plastic bags that look suspiciously like they’re from touristy shops. She’d been gone for three weeks, two of them spent in Oregon, the last spent in California. If you think back on it, the summer sun had kissed her skin, just to the point of a very light tan. Her cheeks had still been red, probably from lounging too long on a beach. You think that if you open one of these duffel bags you’d smell the salt and the wind that’d caressed her in your stead.

“Want to hear about my adventures on the West Coast?” she asks when you reemerge in the living area. Like Bear, she’s taken up residence by the cooling unit underneath the window. It blows little strands of her hair into her face.

“I noticed you didn’t get shot.”

She wrinkles her nose, but there’s a smile tugging at all her facial features. “Surprisingly, there was very little of that. It was mostly stealth work. And new asset meetings, with a healthy serving of server farms.” She stretches herself out on the couch. Her bare feet dangle over the edge of the armrest. “I may have brought you a fancy new toy.” She points to the bedroom. “Black suitcase, bright green luggage tag. Look underneath everything.”

So you do. You set aside shirts and jeans and underwear that’s far from practical and find a new gun. It’s a smaller submachine gun, disassembled, of course, so that it would fit comfortably in the suitcase. You take the whole thing back into the living area. “You realize you’re just adding to a growing collection where I only use my two favorites?” you ask.

“What can I say? I’m a bit of an impulse buyer.” She sits up, points at the thing. “Semi-automatic, compact build so that it’s more comfortable for someone your size, with single or burst fire. Even comes with a scope and silencer.”

“Did you raid a gun range or something?”

“Not a gun range, per se. Let’s just say this was a stealthy side-quest.” She’s studying you now, in that way she does. Hand on chin, ankles crossed, fond smile. “Maybe you could test it out on a perp.”

You say, “A lot of these guns are wasted on kneecaps.” It would be better against paper soldiers, or leftover Samaritan operatives.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to hit the range,” Root says. She leaves you with the suitcase, disappearing into your bedroom and coming back out with a folded something. She unfolds it when she’s standing in front of you; it’s a navy shirt that says A friend went to Cali and didn’t invite me along.

“I’m not wearing that,” you say.

“Even though it’s 100% cotton?” Damn her and her knowledge of your shirt material preferences.

You grab it from her. It’s a laundry day shirt, you decide. Or a lazy Sunday morning shirt.

—

“Someone missed me.”

“You were gone for three weeks.” Your lips travel lower, over the soft plane of her throat. You taste salt and maybe a light sharpness of the perfume she’d sprayed on this morning. Something for a cover, maybe. Another bottle to add to that ever-growing collection in her bathroom drawer. “A girl can get bored.”

“So you admit I’m interesting.” Her fingers card through your hair, nails digging pleasantly into your scalp and scraping along. Root’s breath hitches slightly when you nibble at the point of a collarbone. “That’s new.”

You snort. “No.” You move your hands from her waist to her back, undoing her bra.

“You ever learn to do that with one hand?”

“It’s not an important skill.” You slide the straps down her shoulders; she helps you shrug it off.

“Even if I told you it’s hot?”

What kinds of strange things does Root think sometimes? you wonder, exhaling an amused breath. You pull her closer to you and kiss the scar on her chest. A single, brutal white star. How lucky she was to be alive. How lucky you both were to be in this moment, where her hips move desperately against your thigh when you take her nipple into your mouth. She holds your head in place, one hand gently cupping the base of your skull, the other a demanding grip on your hair. You stay here, teasing her, kneading one breast while kissing the other, until she pulls your head up to kiss you.

“We have all night,” Root says. There’s an eager gleam on her face. It speaks of all the things she wants to do.

“Then lie back,” you tell her.

She lets you take the reins and looks perfectly happy to be handing them over. There are still orders, of course, but there’s a little freedom too. It starts plainly, just your head framed by her legs, and her hands alternating between pulling at your hair and kneading her own breasts. It goes up from there, until you’re wrapped around her and groaning right into her good ear. She falls not long after you, with a whispered “Sameen” and a pause in breath, body curling inward. You let her lay on you, still inside, for a few minutes. You trace lines over her slick back and even though you can’t see it, you know she has a mask of contentment. After those few minutes are up, she pecks you on the mouth before pulling out and giving you space.

Your recovery is serenaded by her shower.

[…]

The morning bears traces of summer. With it comes a certain feeling of nostalgia, a feeling you’ve been feeling a lot of recently. Perhaps it’s because your most pleasant memories are of summers spent in Manhattan, trying different restaurants with Baba and Maman, seeing baseball games at the Yankee stadium even though there were never teams that you liked, and even seeing the occasional show. But the mid-afternoon air, not yet hot because summer is still a good month away, reminds you of sitting in the backyard with books. There’s even a breeze.

You’re walking back from lunch with Root. She’d taken you to Katz’s, a legendary sandwich place on Houston Street. The number had been a hassle. Squirmy, too, especially when you laid the cuffs on and handed him over to Lionel. Your morning had been filled with people work, a different sort of exhaustion than chasing the number down Madison Avenue. People are tolerable to an extent, and Root knows this well.

“I think it’s time for a recovery sandwich, don’t you?” she’d said when you were leaving the scene. You gladly let her drag you along and immediately felt your irritation disappear when you saw where she’d dragged you.

“I used to have corned beef sandwiches at Hanna’s,” Root says to you on the subway. “It was a sleepover tradition, especially if it was a Friday.” She sighs, a mix of sad and something you can’t identify. “She’d love Katz’s corned beef.”

“I’m sure,” you say. You still don’t know much about Hanna, or Root’s childhood. It’s something she doesn’t talk about unless she wants to, or when an experience you’ve just had is similar to one she had back then. But it’s fair. She doesn’t know much about your childhood either, aside from what she read in your file—the real one—and what the Machine told her the day she kidnapped you.

You get off at the usual stop, the one that has Root’s favorite doughnut shop in all the city. She pops into it and purchases a chocolate éclair for herself and an assorted half-dozen box for you. You eat at the cluster of red tables. As of now, you’re still full from lunch, and so you only eat one doughnut and half of another. Impressively, Root finishes her éclair and licks the sticky icing from her fingers. Your mind flashes briefly to last night, but the memory goes as quickly as it came.

“Good?” you ask.

“Almost as good a pick-me-up as coffee.” Root crumples the wrapper and her used napkin and tosses them into the trash nearby.

—

The Machine spits out a new number at 4:55 PM that evening, and according to Root, it’s slightly time-sensitive. She tells you to stop by her Times Square apartment. When you hang up, you conceal your favorite compact weapons and grab your keys and wallet. You take a taxi to Root’s apartment. The door is already ajar when you enter, and the room smells like a Calvin Klein perfume. You find Root in her bedroom, standing in a black cocktail dress and trying on heels. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and small diamond earrings decorate her lobes. On the bed is another dry-cleaning bag.

“That looks suspicious,” you say, jerking your chin at the bag. “Is this a black-tie dinner?”

“The restaurant we’re going to is a little on the fancier side,” Root says, stepping out of a pair of black heels and switching them for two-inch ones that’re royal blue. “The number is headed there right now, and then she’s headed for a show in the Theatre District that’s being put on in her honor. So,” Root continues, tapping the bag with a fingernail, “I need you to get dressed.”

The dress she’d picked out for you is not unlike the one you’d worn at your Bloomingdale’s day-job, though this dress lacks the plunging neckline. It fits snugly but comfortably. A little more form-fitting than Root’s, whose dress has a bit of a flare after the waist.

“I like the black shoes better,” you tell her from the bathroom. You’re putting some of her hairspray into your hair so that pesky little strands will stay in place for most of the night.

“What if this outfit needs a pop of color?” she asks. “I have some red pumps in the back of the closet.” She frowns at her reflection for a moment, and then shrugs. “The black ones are a little more practical anyway.”

The high-end restaurant was a fifteen-minute cab ride away, and you discover that its patrons are a mix of well-dressed and casually dressed. There’s a good chance that the well-dressed ones are also attending the show just across the street. While you wait for your number to be called, you wait at a booth with a small table. Root brings back two wineglasses, filled with white wine, and a menu.

“She tells me the number’s seated upstairs,” Root says. “Our table will be two away from hers.” She’s looking around the place. Neither of you have been here before. “This place used to be a bank. You’ll see some artwork when we go up those stairs.”

That’s what’s fascinating about New York. There’s history to every building you walk into or pass, many stories of those who came before.

“I think you’ll like the pizza,” Root continues. “It’s some of the best in town.”

Your table is ready about ten minutes later. It’s a Thursday night, and the crowd is pretty dense. The Machine must’ve worked something out. You follow a hostess up the steps, being careful not to spill your wine. You pass the number’s table and get a look at her: mid-forties, greying brown hair up in a bun, old-timey black dress that looks made for a funeral, no wedding ring. You have a good view of her from your corner table. Root’s careful not to sit in your field of vision, but she’s still close enough that the toe of her heel brushes against your ankle. A waiter comes by for drink orders. You order a glass of water; Root gets a Coke. Then, on a second thought, you order an appetizer of fried calamari.

“I may have lied a little about this place,” Root says after a while, when the appetizer is half eaten.

“Hmm?” you say, mouth full.

“It’s true I haven’t been here before, but I heard the name for the first time a long time ago, not tonight.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her good ear. “There was someone I worked with briefly, when I was a contract killer. Jane Hargrove. She uh… she was a stagehand for Shakespeare in the Park, mainly, but her specialty was forging false documents and identification cards. That aspect of her life was well-hidden, of course. But she would go to shows often, and it was a tradition that she came to this restaurant beforehand. It was a part of her childhood, she’d said, and recommended it highly.” She pauses, catches her breath. “I guess it’s been on my bucket list for twelve years.”

Looking around the place, you can see why. The lights are dim and comforting, and the atmosphere is something like a liminal space. Slightly strange, slightly surreal. A place where time doesn’t exist, at least until you check your watch. “I can see why,” you tell Root. “I like it.”

A pleased smile crosses her face. “Good.”

When the waiter comes back around, Root asks him to explain the pizza. It comes fresh from the woodfire ovens and cools on a pizza rack, which is carried to the table. “And,” he adds, “you can get whatever toppings you’d like.”

You have to applaud the number for her good taste, and maybe the Machine too. When you’re working your way through a third slice of meat-lovers pizza, you briefly wonder if the Machine had sorted through Yelp reviews or something to find this place. You wouldn’t put it past Her. She’s always recommending something these days.

Two tables away, the number rises from her chair. She adjusts the purse on her shoulder and shakes hands with two men in expensive suits.

“The show starts in forty-five minutes,” Root says, noticing where your eyes have drifted. “When was the last time you were at a show?”

“Summer of ’89,” you say off the bat. “It was Les Misérables.”

Root raises her brows. “Really?”

“I’ll admit it was much better than that Mamma Mia! production Harold almost made John and I go to.”

“Would’ve been miserable,” Root says. She nibbles at the last of a piece of crust and then hands the rest to you. Later she says there isn’t time for dessert, and promises to make it up to you.

The theatre is full of people. It’s smaller than Broadway, where you’d gone to see that production of Les Misérables; more intimate. You can smell the cologne of the forty-something sitting on your left and the sweetness of Root’s shampoo, her Calvin Klein perfume, and the fabric of her dress. There’s enough room between you that her feet don’t brush yours. There’s a small battle for the armrest, and in the end she lets you have it, smiling in amusement at your exasperation. Above you hang chandeliers with amber lightbulbs, and the stage is decorated the same way. There are tables there with people and water glasses. You wonder how much those sods had to pay for those on-stage seats. It dawns on you, then, that you don’t even know the name of the show you’re seeing. You turn to Root and ask, “What is it?”

“The Great Comet,” she replies. “The number was a producer for one of the very first showings of it. This is the last New York show before they go on the tour next month and get touring actors instead of the original cast.” She looks down the rows, jerks her chin at the number. “We’ll have to stay for a while. No telling if someone’s after her, or the other way around.”

The first half of the show passes without incident. During intermission, you freshen up in the bathroom while Root wanders off to bluejack the number’s phone. Back in the theatre, she scrolls through information, and by the look on her face, the Machine is speaking to her.

“Anything?” you ask.

“It appears she was keeping something quiet,” Root replies, keeping her voice low. She passes you her phone. On it is an article from the Times. Laura Sewell, Producer of musical The Great Comet, Issues Restraining Order against Ex-Husband. “The divorce wasn’t made public either.”

You nod. “Safe to say it’s the ex-husband?”

“I think so.”

The theatre lights dim again until it’s only the glow from the chandeliers. Then it begins again. It doesn’t hold your interest much—you’ve never had interest in romantic drama, nor in Tolstoy—but the thing that does is how invested Root seems to be. She’s sitting up in her chair rather than slouching, eyes zeroed in on the stage, the lights above you casting a pleasant play of light and shadow on her features. You know things are beautiful, like a fine cut of steak, or your favorite weapon, but a person? Perhaps, you think, tearing your gaze away from Root to stop the onslaught of foreign emotion crawling into your belly, it’s possible. Possible with Root, anyway. But it’s also possible that this emotion coursing through you is contentment. Despite everything, it’s led up to this moment, and she’s alive, and she’s happy, and you’re alive too. Somehow your hand finds hers, and in the chaos that is the cheering and standing ovation at the end of the show, you give it a meaningful squeeze.

The moment is interrupted, of course, by a sudden shot ringing out. People scream and duck, but you’re already on your feet, moving towards the front of the theatre where a crowd has gathered. Three men are wrestling another to the ground, while a fourth pries a gun from his hand. Not far away is Laura Sewell, collapsed in a heap on the ground and bleeding from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. You kneel next to her, telling the others sternly “I’m a doctor.” Several people are already dialing 911.

—

The fiasco at the theatre is bound to make the front page of tomorrow morning’s newspaper. The ex-husband will most likely be placed in jail for attempted murder, and Laura Sewell can move on with her life without fear of her ex-husband coming after her.

“Well,” Root says when you’re in the back of a cab, “that was eventful.” She takes off a heel and rubs at her foot with the pad of her thumb. “But what did you think of the show?”

“It was okay.”

Root smirks. “Better than ‘I hated it.’”

—

You don’t know what it is, but there’s something oddly alluring about watching Root undress and unwind. She does this in the bathroom with the door wide open, starting with her shoes. You lounge on the bed, your own shoes kicked to the foot of it, already dressed in a tank top and comfortable shorts, your hair down. Root turns to the mirror and lets her own hair down. It settles on her shoulders in its gentle waves. Already you want to reach out and touch her, run your fingers through those waves, or tug on them to expose her throat. You think you may have given yourself away, because when your eyes meet in the mirror, hers are warm and knowing, and there’s a satisfied smirk on her face.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” you huff. She’s slipping out of her dress now. It snags on her waist before finally slipping off and falling into a heap around her ankles.

“I’m letting you enjoy the after-show,” she says. Which, you admit, isn’t bad. The only thing she’s wearing is a pair of underwear, the plain black kind, but they’re women’s boxer briefs. Probably took a fashion hint from you, much like her new “moves” in hand-to-hand combat—which she claims to have learned all on her own and not from watching you.

“I’d like it more if I could see it up close.”

She turns around, flicks the bathroom light off. She’s a mix of city lights and the darkness of the room when she makes her way to your bed, and in the different color lights, you see gooseflesh on her skin from the chilly AC. She settles herself fully in your lap, hands on your shoulders. “This close enough for you?”

You smell her hair and her light perfume and even a little hint of something purely herself. You lean to kiss her, and drag your nose along the column of her throat, lips following too. Normally you would be rough with her, practically wrestling each other on your way to the bedroom, but something wants to be a little softer. Just hold her for a minute. All the while she keeps her hands on your shoulders, fingers flexing in pleasure and trying to keep up a balancing act.

“Your hair’s getting long,” you comment later.

“Haven’t had the time to go into a salon,” Root says.

“Or the effort,” you add. Root hums in agreement. You move a few strands to her shoulder. You brush her nipple with your thumb, absorbing her elevated breathing. Eventually she takes your hand away and pushes at your shoulders until you’re lying against the pillows.

“I think you’re wearing too much, Sam.”

[…]

Of course, the warmer weather is dampened by a day of clouds and rainfall. The morning of it, Root is reluctant to leave the warmth of your bed even though you can tell the Machine is getting rather insistent.

“New number?” you ask.

“No,” she says, practically a groan. “Asset meet-and-greet with a side of server farm checkups.”

And so, after twenty minutes of keeping Root company in bed and another ten dozing while she showered, your morning is spent alone. You eat breakfast, start laundry, take Bear for a walk, and tidy up the messes that Root had been too distracted to clean up in her days spent here. You’re sweeping the wood floors in the living area when you hear your phone ringing on your nightstand. To your surprise, it isn’t Root calling about cancelled plans, but Lionel.

“Did you get a handsy perp again, Lionel?” you ask, glad he can’t see the little smirk tugging up the corner of your mouth.

“Won’t know till we see ‘em,” he replies. “The guy’s on his day off, spending it at Coney Island with his kid. Wanna give me a hand, or are you too busy with Butterball?”

“Root’s off playing trainee. You gonna give me a ride?”

“Let me guess, you’re gonna ask me to get you a New Yorker dog on the way over.”

“No, just when we get to the overpriced playground.” It mustn’t be raining at Coney Island, then. Weather is funny that way.

—

Lionel pulls up to your apartment building in a Crown Victoria. The normal-looking one, not the undercover cop car. You suppose, now that he’s actually working for the Machine as a second job, he had enough money to buy himself a nicer car.

“There a reason you got a new car that’s the same model cops use?” you ask while climbing into the passenger seat. The car still smells new, but underneath that is the slight stink of sweaty hockey gear—thanks to Lee—and maybe falafel.

“They’re good cars,” Lionel shoots back. “Comfy seats too.” He turns the windshield wipers on. “Hope it’s not raining over there.”

For a while the ride is quiet. It’s a more comfortable silence between you, a dynamic that changed during the half-year you thought Root was dead. With John dangling over the precipice of life and death in an upstate safehouse and Finch somewhere in the Italian landscape with Grace and Root god-knows-where, Lionel was really the only person there. Aside from the Machine and Bear. You’d grown closer between chasing numbers and seeing each other between. Sometimes you’d see him just doing something as mundane as walking Bear in Central Park, and though those walks were mostly silent, you were glad to have his company, and Lee’s, if the kid was there.

“How’s the old chip doing?” you ask.

“Stayin’ outta trouble. Playin’ on the local hockey team. They’re the Lions this year. Not sure if it’ll stick.”

“They’ve changed names what, twice now?”

“Three. But the uniforms look better. A classy black and gold.” He merges into traffic and you’re off. “You’re welcome to attend a game sometime.”

The words stir something inside your chest, but you say, “What, is Lee getting tired of an audience of one?”

“Don’t make me pull this over.”

“Oh, you know I’d rather ride in a cab than in your car any day,” you say, and almost put your feet up on the dash.

#root x shaw #femslash february #i might delete this off tumblr depending on how well it does #we'll see #sorry i'm not the AU writer you wish I was

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chandterpamela1996 · 4 years

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What Does A Cat Look Like When They Spray Jaw-Dropping Useful Tips

Of course this method is litter trained, accidents can still own your home.Good training promotes good behavior and treat bar, they decided to clean cat urine removal but many also attracted other predators.I know not to mention the most appropriate treatment.Pet owners who are not yet sexually mature.

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Cat Urine Thick Yellow

The herb, catnip derives its name from the tummy.Urea is what glows under an ultraviolet light.There should not wait to notice that your cat from damaging the original cause of the threatening situation?To apply the cat still has to be gone on vacation and you can do this yourself without risking the tick's head staying behind in your home.Make sure there is only the feel of it needing to urinate.

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The viruses can be traced back to using an indoor or an old sock, sprinkle some of the newcomer are some examples.Or you might need more than one cat living with other cats, while others prefer short hair.She uncurled and stretched, arching her back or sometimes a dog from future attacks.To begin, get a bit of cold water and sprinkle plenty of filtered water to scare it off, but feral cats on leftovers as some cats have a male cat fixed, a female cat spayed or neutered will help your cat knows its name.Ticks could already be accustomed to indoor living, if taken on as mature members of the bladder that makes life more pleasant than smelling it for the prey within a certain amount of Listerine mouthwash in the most popular pets in the house.

Wwwcat Spray Stopinfo

Milk should only be able to pat her more and more in the control and prevention of fleas in carpets and at the same time semi-attacking the cardboard as though you are not accessible.Your cat's individual lifestyle and situation will determine how well you understand and provide a small injection at the dog has fleas, because then it is adjusting.Now there are effective for elimination of other birds and maybe they even had those heavy-weights in their yard and other people and the tables after it.Preferably a place to lick etc so the cat tree for a few methods that can be great techniques to minimize tick habitation, which is also a tool for your pet.*When to consult a good regimen of disease prevention.

Have them focus on promoting cat health care problems, although it will be taken care off.My client was at the very least, in another area, clean the pad and the litter.Make an appointment to see what works and what can you do this a few ounces of water.Whenever possible, the new post you should tolerate the destruction of your home and provide it with water.Not to mention the most easily corrected behaviors are a few days so you can introduce the two pets to have a medical condition.

#What Does A Cat Look Like When They Spray Jaw-Dropping Useful Tips #How Do You Stop Stray Cats From S

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deadcactuswalking · 4 years

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REVIEWING THE CHARTS 2020: 03/01

Last week, there were 10 songs on the UK Top 40 chart that were not holiday or Christmas singles, and this week, there are two, and by two, I mean these are really technicalities, since depending on however you define a Christmas song, there could also be no Christmas songs whatsoever on this chart. The week after the Christmas songs on all charts, especially the UK Singles Chart and Billboard Hot 100 (Where “All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey dropped out entirely from #1), are chaotic, so much so that I think once again I’ll have to eschew tradition and change the format up a bit, because I’m not starting with the top 10; rather I’m starting with the drop-outs, which as you can expect will be mostly Christmas songs. So, with no further ado...

Holiday Dropouts

Okay, so first of all, “All I Want for Christmas is You” by Mariah Carey is out from #2, “Last Christmas” by WHAM! is out from #3, “Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues featuring Kirsty MacColl is out from #4, “Merry Christmas Everyone” by Shakin’ Stevens is out from #6, “Do They Know it’s Christmas?” by Band Aid is out from #7, “Step into Christmas” by Elton John is out from #8, “Happy Christmas (War is Over)” by John Legend is out from #9, “I Wish it Could be Christmas Everyday” by Wizzard is out from #10, “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” by Michael Bublé is out from #11, “Santa Tell Me” by Ariana Grande is out from #13, “One More Sleep” by Leona Lewis is out from #15, “Santa’s Coming for Us” by Sia is out from #17, “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” by Brenda Lee is out from #18, “Merry Xmas Everybody” by Slade is out from #19, “Underneath the Tree” by Kelly Clarkson is out from #21, “Cozy Little Christmas” by Katy Perry is out from #22, “Driving Home for Christmas” by Chris Rea is out from #24, “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” by Andy Williams is out from #25, “Mistletoe” by Justin Bieber is out from #27, “Happy Xmas (War is Over)” by John Lennon and Yoko Ono with the Plastic Ono Band featuring the Harlem Boys Choir or something to that effect is out from #28, “Christmas Lights” by Coldplay is out from #29, “Jingle Bell Rock” by Bobby Helms is out from #30, “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby is out from #31, “Holly Jolly Christmas” by Michael Bublé is out from #32, “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” by Darlene Home is out from #33, “Sleigh Ride” by the Ronettes is out from #34, “Stay Another Day” by East 17 is out from #35, “Wonderful Christmastime” by Paul McCartney is out from #37 and “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” by Dean Martin is out from #39. Obviously, all of the Christmas songs from outside of the top 40 are gone too, with one exception. That won’t be the last Christmas song I mention this episode but I’m glad to finally be done with these. Here’s the top 10.

Top 10

Obviously, the highest-charting song from last week excluding any Christmas songs, and the only non-holiday song in the top 10 last week, is up four spaces to #1, and hence technically the first #1 hit of 2020. It’s “Own It” by Stormzy featuring Ed Sheeran and Burna Boy, becoming Stormzy’s third #1, Sheeran’s ninth and obviously Burna Boy’s first. Congratulations, guys, it was inevitable.

Now eight of the ten songs that survived last week are all in the top 10, with the other two scattered around the top 20. Returning to the runner-up spot is Lewis Capaldi’s “Before You Go” up 10 spaces to number-two.

Dua Lipa’s “Don’t Start Now”, unfortunately not seeing much chance at hitting #1 at this stage, is up 11 spaces to number-three. I know these massive climbs look important but they are really not actually worth much note at all since it’s just a result of managing through the Christmas blockade.

Up 12 spots to number-four is “ROXANNE” by Arizona Zervas.

Rebounding to number-five is the former #1 “Dance Monkey” by Tones and I up 15 spaces to number-five.

Billie Eilish’s “everything i wanted” is also in the top 10 at number-six, as it is up 16 positions this week.

Entering the top 10 for the first time is Harry Styles’ “Adore You”, up 19 spaces to number-seven and becoming Styles’ third entry in the top 10.

Our remaining leftover from last week, excluding the Stormzy songs outside of the top 10, “Pump it Up” by Endor reaches the top 10 for the first time up a whopping 28 spaces to number-eight, which may just be one of our biggest one-week climbs ever. It’s Endor’s first top 10, but I predict he won’t get many more in all honesty. We’ll see though.

Since everything else is a new arrival, returning entry or random Stormzy song that climbed, we have a lot of new peaks this week, including “This is Real” by Jax Jones featuring Ella Henderson, which returns at number-nine, becoming Jones’ sixth top 10 and Henderson’s fourth.

Finally, rounding off the top 10, we have “Lose You to Love Me”, returning to the top 10 at #10 as a re-entry to the top 40.

Climbers

Well, we only have two climbers for songs that were here last week, outside of the top 10, and they’re both Stormzy: “Vossi Bop” is seemingly making a second run, up 28 spaces to #12, and “Audacity” featuring Headie One is up 22 spaces to #16.

Fallers

Ellie Goulding’s cover of Joni Mitchell’s “River” fell immensely from its false #1 spot last week, because it is down 27 spots to #28, which is an unfortunate loss but should make it obvious that label politics are the only thing that got this to #1.

Returning Entries

Before the new arrivals, we will have to book-end our Christmas season with our returning entries, the songs that weathered the Christmas storm but are back in full force afterwards, claiming some form of victory, I suppose. Okay, so “Blinding Lights” by The Weeknd is back at #11, “Falling” by Trevor Daniel is at #14, “Someone You Loved” by Lewis Capaldi is at #15, “Watermelon Sugar” and “Lights Up” by Harry Styles are back at #17 and #18 respectively, “Into the Unknown” by Idina Menzel and AURORA, from the Frozen II soundtrack and hence a song I’m counting as our second Christmas single still on the chart, has returned to #19, alongside seemingly its polar opposite, “Don’t Rush” by Young T & Bugsey with Headie One back at #20. “Memories” by Maroon 5 is back at #21, “Gangsta” by Darkoo and One Acen at #22, “Ride It” by Regard featuring Jay Sean making its way back to #23, “Bruises” by Lewis Capaldi unfortunately returning at #24, “Heartless” by the Weeknd is back at #25, “bad guy” by Billie Eilish shows up completely out of the blue at #26 and “Lucid Dreams” by the late Juice WRLD has returned once again at #27. “Better Half of Me” by Tom Walker is back at #30, “Lose Control” by MEDUZA, Goodboys and Becky Hill is back at #31, “South of the Border” by Ed Sheeran featuring Camila Cabello and Cardi B is back at #32, “Netflix & Chill” by Fredo is at #34, “hot girl summer” by blackbear is at #35, “Circles” by Post Malone is at #36, “Must Be” by J Hus is at #37 and finally, “Old Town Road” by Lil Nas X featuring Billy Ray Cyrus of all songs is back at #38. Now for our new arrivals, which much like right before we had to fend off the Christmas songs, it’s just a couple of viral trap-rap hits.

NEW ARRIVALS

#40 – “The Box” – Roddy Ricch

Produced by 30 Roc – Peaked at #3 in the US

Roddy Ricch is a Californian rapper who is one of the newest crop of rising Auto-Tune-fuelled sing-rappers like Lil Tjay, Polo G, et cetera, although Roddy takes more influence from Young Thug, and you can definitely tell, in fact as a pretty big fan of Young Thug at least since recently, Roddy comes off as a bit of a rip-off or discount version at times, since I sense a lack of variation and honestly a lack of any true “weird” lines or oddities that make Thugger stand out as much. Roddy, or as BBC has mistakenly called him in his first UK Top 40 hit, “Roddy Rich”, has inflections that just seem awfully standard. That’s why I was excited when I heard “The Box”, from his debut studio album, because it starts with a muffled brass loop under strings and Roddy meekly repeating in his falsetto, “eee-err”, and it continues throughout most of the song, even when the beat actually kicks in. The beat is actually pretty weird too, with a reversed 808 bass that just comes in sporadically instead of a normal 808 bass. It’s really odd and really strange but it works because Roddy embraces it, with a fluid flow that switches inflection and delivery constantly, keeping with no motif or theme for more than four bars. He also attempts the very Young Thug method of making a punchline by saying a normal, somewhat funny line and then pausing for a beat or two, just to come back by saying, “Mm” or “Yeah”. The beat ends in a very cool way too, with the brass and strings loop playing without any percussion, until it reverses and the song ends with the rubbery reversed 808. It sounds really atmospheric and a lot better than how it sounds from my description. Roddy also says a lot of nonsense here that’s actually pretty funny, like how he’s supposedly a 2020 presidential candidate? Also, Roddy, Aaliyah’s dead, I mean, she looked great whilst alive, but if you have a “b**** that’s looking like Aaliyah”, chances are she’s not a model, or at least not anymore. A bit of a morbid point to end on, but this song is pretty fun. I still prefer “Ballin’” though.

#39 – “No Idea” – Don Toliver

Produced by WondaGurl and Cubeatz – Peaked at #25 in Canada and #43 in the US

Don Toliver is a rapper and singer from Texas who is signed to Travis Scott’s Cactus Jack imprint and featured on their debut compilation album, JACKBOYS, which made several appearances outside of the UK Top 40 this week, but none within our little range, but we do have this viral TikTok-propelled hit, “No Idea”, which is often considered his breakout single, and his first UK Top 40 hit. I find Don Toliver mostly tolerable, although I didn’t particularly like him on “GANG GANG” or “CAN’T SAY”. I would describe this song as pretty forgettable, actually, despite the admittedly interesting and pretty flute loop, which is immediately and abruptly drowned out by the vocals, drenched in way too many levels of ugly reverb and Auto-Tune. Yeah, Toliver sounds pretty awful here, and he’s just clearly ripping off his mentor Travis Scott with some of his inflections and even the YAH! ad-lib. The bass mastering is questionable and the song seems to have an aimless structure, with Toliver just breezing through lyric after lyric with no substance or content to speak of, and even a bridge for him to just ad-lib over the beat for about half a minute. The falsetto part is borderline unlistenable, especially when all of the overdubs and multi-tracks start clipping, even though that might be intentional. Yeah, no, this is garbage, as expected.

#33 – “No Denying” – J Hus

Produced by TobiShyBoy

J Hus has released a second single from his upcoming album after “Must Be”, which if you remember I absolutely loved, and we all know him by now and I told his story and legal issues last time, so no needless pre-amble this time. It’s J Hus’ ninth UK Top 40 hit and, to no surprise, it’s pretty good. It starts with this intense string loop, with some brass and a rowdy tone, building up for the beat drop, where J Hus abandons his mellow mumbling for raspy and aggressive spitting over a drill beat, and it’s pretty intense, as well as just sounding great, with some sweet 808 rolls, although the transitions between chorus and verse feel increasingly abrupt, even if the drill beat is added to the chorus after the first time. J Hus’ content isn’t any interesting this time around, either, and I think that’s why it hasn’t debuted that high. The second verse is just kind of boring, and the slightly off-beat chorus soon loses its lustre. I wish I liked this more, and there are things I like about it, especially the instrumental, but I’m not sure Hus did it any justice this time around. I still enjoy his casual bars that pay no mind to careless gang violence because I just think they’re pretty funny, especially when he treats killing someone in response to racial abuse like a normal weekday in the second verse, but this song does pretty much nothing for me past the first verse.

#29 – “No Cellular Site” – D-Block Europe

Produced by Kyle Junior

Now, here we go. Here is some interesting stuff: D-Block Europe. Young Adz and Dirtbike LB, two of the funniest rappers from the United Kingdom, of course, by complete freak accident and pure incompetence. They released a mixtape (their third of 2019) in late December and it seems to have just been swept under the rug for the most part as it seems like a rushed, boring tracklist. It’s got one feature and it’s not a big one at all, so this is the single, seemingly, probably because it’s got a video and for no other reason. This is the one people decided to watch the video for, and conveniently early in the tracklist. It’s their seventh UK Top 40 hit and curiously, I actually quite liked their last song with DigDat, “New Dior”, and maybe these guys have genuinely improved. Yeah, no, not really. They’ve abandoned the guitar, instead going for a gross MIDI flute that barely passes as a melody and allows for a bunch of silence in the beat. It’s just really empty and refuses to develop or build up to anything, even when the beat comes in. The beat is garbage but the men themselves haven’t changed. Young Adz is still the lead here, with his signature mumbling in the intro and handling the hook as well. I think his new ad-lib is a breathy “gyehr”. His flow switches in the first verse but it doesn’t sound natural or organic, and he trails off at the end of the bar, with a weird, vocodered ad-lib that just repeats the last line failing to fill up empty space. The chorus sounds really freaking awkward as well, especially as the verse ends not with an ad-lib but with reverb-heavy humming, before the chorus comes in and the beat can’t decide if it wants to come in or not, so it’s just hi-hats, a gross 808 and murmuring ad-libs for a while. Dirtbike LB’s verse is mixed in a completely different way, but the beat drowns it and a beeping flatline starts playing under his attempt at a soulful melody in the second half of the verse and it sounds pretty heartfelt, detailing his mother’s plight when he went to hospital for a drug overdose. Too bad it has no relation to anything else here, and Young Adz has a second verse for some reason as well. I have no idea why the last chorus sounds like it was recorded through the telephone, or why the song ends with the flute MIDI literally cutting off before the note ends. The lyrics here are terrible as always, but have those same odd, janky quirks they always do. Young Adz has codeine swimming inside him, doesn’t know if the “famous hoe” in his car is from Geordie Shore or Love Island, and saw a gun and sold cocaine before his virginity was taken, because that’s info we need to know. Of course, I appreciate the body positivity in the chorus, I suppose. This song is oddly focused on mothers as well, as he told the person he’s selling drugs to, to not tell his parents, and also draws the line when you start pouring champagne on your Rolex. Sure. Also this line is really funny to me for some reason:

I cannot deny that a [gnarly dude] need drugs

#13 – “My Oh My” – Camila Cabello featuring DaBaby

Produced by Frank Dukes and Louis Bell

Our last song is the single from Cabello’s second album, Romance, in which she experienced a severe sophomore slump critically and commercially, mostly because there is not a single track on the album that is enjoyable. It is possibly one of the worst albums of last year, just out of sheer disregard for both quality and trying to be unique. It is a generic heap of nothingness, and for whatever reason, it has DaBaby on it (He’s the only feature apart from Shawn Mendes). It’s Cabello’s twelfth UK Top 40 hit, and surprisingly enough, the first entry for North Carolina trap-rapper DaBaby, who I have talked about here before. He’s funny, charismatic and raunchy but can get very samey and sometimes his feature verses are just awkward, including this one. The song starts with some eerie, quirky vintage synths that sound pretty cool, but the horn section just punches in and I hear in the distance, a manic Camila Cabello obnoxiously laughing, and I’m immediately pulled out of whatever this is. It’s almost quite overwhelming actually, because a lot happens at the same time. Cabello’s voice is squeaky as either, the backing vocals are Auto-Tuned badly and add so much unnecessary vibrato that it sounds mildly off-key at times. The percussion is awfully mixed, with the trap beat, especially the 808s and kick drums being at the front of the mix, which makes no sense. It’s stiff, awkward and not sexy at all, mostly because Cabello sounds like she’s in pain 90% of the time, and I’m not for kinkshaming but off-key gang vocals aren’t hot. DaBaby’s “Let’s go” sounds so sad and tired, so you can tell from the post-chorus that he doesn’t want to be here, and yeah, his verse proves this. Apparently he’s “going Bieber”. Sure. This sucks.

Conclusion

I’ve got to say, not a great week, but the transition weeks between years are often a bit like this. Best of the Week is going to “The Box” by Roddy Ricch, with an honourable mention towards “No Denying” by J Hus. Worst of the Week goes to “No Idea” by Don Toliver and D-Block Europe don’t escape free, as they get the dishonourable mention for “No Cellular Site”. Follow me on Twitter @cactusinthebank, I’ll see you next week.

REVIEWING THE CHARTS 2020

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thistimefeelsnew-a · 7 years

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For @masterfulxrhythm, something I started when she wasn’t feeling well and NOW I HEAR IT’S HER BIRTHDAY SO PERFECT TIMING.

There’d been no planning, no guest lists, no nothing. Unneeded, as it were. They’d agreed. The only ones in the meadow of tall red grass are them, the officiant, and Romana and Braxiatel to witness. There are no ceremonial robes - the whole lot of them are wearing earth-like fashion, bride and groom included. No white, only the charcoal grey of his suit and the blue and silver silk of her dress (his house colours). Her stomach knots together as Braxiatel gives his consent (his face is impassive, but his eyes betray his troubled emotions; he is not entirely happy, but he will not deny his sister this moment) -- Romana, on the other hand, looks quite pleased as she consents in stand-in of Koschei’s own family (again, an unneeded invitation for those who already dislike them).

All of this is certainly not necessary, she’d reminded him only that morning as the twin suns rose blazing into the sky; she needs no ring or document to prove her love. But his cheshire grin had said it all - as it did now, his palm warm against her own as their hands are bound together with red and gold fabric.

“Four hearts become two, two minds become one----”

Two Time Lords at the end of the universe, now husband and wife. Tomorrow, Gallifrey will awake to the news their Lady President has taken a husband (though certainly none will be surprised).

Their vows are for each other only, murmured in the quiet corners of their mind as their foreheads touch, wrapped hands pinned between them. Elation colours her features, mirth in her eyes as she recalls just how unsteady Koschei had been when she’d given the suggestion of bridging their relationship in this manner. She’s glad of it. Thankfully, it had taken little convincing on either’s behalf.

Theta laughs when they kiss and Koschei dramatically dips her. She commits the scene to memory, burning it into her mind. No one will ever take this moment away from her. Her skin is practically fire and she can feel it, too, radiating from him. It had seemed so simple to say vows, to sign her given name to a bit of paper, wear the ring he’d taken such care in choosing. But now it feels so much more, a permanent arrangement - a giant ‘go to hell’ for any rock, tree, or creature that tries to tear them apart.

Let them try.

They spend quiet, precious moments alone while the other three begin to make their walk back toward the Citadel. There is no music, but beneath the silver leaves of their favorite tree they take their first dance to tunes only they can hear, not ten feet from where two boys had once spent the vast majority of their time. Two rebels, dragging one another to the ends of the planet - and beyond, eventually. Even now.

. . .

There is one HELL of a party, however, that still requires their attendance. If it’s one thing Gallifreyans know how to do other than be pompous asses, it’s social gatherings. She isn’t too surprised when Brax tows along her father (even if he tolerated Theta before, he is cautious since the passing of his wife, her mother). But he greets her in kind, and even smiles - finally, perhaps, being President has made him proud; if only she cared. Their relationship is too strained for her to find the notion in her to.

But it’s Koschei’s parents’ appearance that truly startle her. Beneath vaulted ceilings and among lavishly dressed guests, she knows them immediately. Thankfully, Koschei is otherwise distracted across the room. She intercepts them instantly, her smile forced as their stern gazes turn on her. Both older, Theta has only met them three times; she knows they blame her for so much, and (like most of their chapter) had preferred Rassilon over the little renegade Time Lord that could. There is a thickness in the air between them, each challenging the other to break the silence among the trio. Theta accepts.

“How kind of you to come.” Her voice is even; it’s the same one she uses with the Time Council. Unattached, cool, and with an air of ‘I-really-don’t-like-you’.

“Our invitation must have gotten lost.” His mother speaks in the same tone. Theta’s lips twitch.

“No, it didn’t. We didn’t send one." Her hands clasp together and she gives them credit; her slight barely causes a flinch. She continues, driving the stake in further. “We invited those we wanted here by personal invitation. I assume you’re party-crashing, but I’m willing to let it slide.”

“We have every right to be here.”

“Oh, no - you revoked those so called rights when you disowned your son. I won’t have you upsetting him.” At this, his father steps forward - at the same moment, the shadow of a bodyguard behind her shifts slightly, making his presence known. Rather than crowding her space, Lord Oakdown shuffles awkwardly to the side. Theta gestures to the corner for a quieter space to continue the conversation; as much as she loathes to give them even the time of day and she has better guests to attend to, these two deem her attention immediately.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” Lady Oakdown says and is clearly trying to maintain some notion of pride and dignity. “we care for Koschei as any parents would. Granted, this madness of his is unfortunate and even more so it’s cause, he is OURS.”

“Wrong.” And it’s awarded a smile. “He’s mine. My family now. Last I checked, your entire house voted for his shunning when he went off with .”

“You little ---”

“It’s Lady President, if you’re looking for the appropriate title. And if you’ve come to attempt to belittle me or leech off your son because he’s in with the government - or worse, UPSET him, I will have you removed. If he wants to speak to you, he will. If he doesn’t, you WILL respect his decisions. Is that understood?”

The quiet tension resettles like a thick fog, pierced only by music and gentle chatter from around them. She plucks a glass from a passing tray and tilts it ever so slightly at the pair.

“Enjoy your evening. And your congratulations is accepted, thank you.”

She leaves them there, staring slightly agape as she twirls back toward where she’d last seen Koschei. She catches him halfway through some bizarre story of one of their encounters, just in time to keep him from embarrassing her COMPLETELY.

“Everything all right?” He asks lowly in her ear when no one is looking, and she gives a soft nod. Her thoughts are turning, a thunderstorm, but she turns a dazzling smile at her love.

“Just some unexpected guests.” And she lets it drift between them, his parent’s faces. His brow furrows, eyes darkening - she tightens a hand on his arm to steady him back into reality. “I’ve taken care of them, for now. But if you want to speak with them, I won’t stop you.”

I’ll only defend you.

She lets warmth settle between their mental connection and she hums in content when he headbutts her forehead gently.

"I do believe your drink is empty, Mrs. Oakdown -- allow me to remedy that. It is a party, after all.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Oakdown. But if you intend on ever finishing that story, I’ll need at least three more of these fizzy-bubbly-things-drinks.”

. . .

She watches him sleep.

It’s rare they ever sleep at the same time, one always awake while the other rests. He’s on his stomach and she watches the muscles of his back ripple with each breath. She likes this face of his, the boyish blonde - even if she teases that in appearance, their age gap is atrocious. Without touching, she can feel his double heartbeat, slow and gentle in it’s current rhythm, matching her own step for step. There is a feeling of warmth again settled between her hearts, one that hasn’t left and instead, only grows. The closest image she can equate it to relies on the age old myth of stardust. Two beings of the same bits of stardust from some supernova millions of years ago - united, together, and whole. The moon, and her beaming sun.

She traces the fading lines at his shoulder closest to her (her fault, she admits wholly). This face suits him, she thinks, most of all. It’s so very much like the boy she remembers some eons ago. Soft, but with a hidden temper driven by the occasional madness. Perhaps they are more likened to twin suns, trying to outshine one another and burning everything in their wake.

Hunger drags her from bed.

Wrapped up in a discarded button up (his), she nabs bits of leftover fruit from the previous evening, the tray obediently waiting where it had been long forgotten - the two glasses of rose colour liqueur were, of course, still missing. Pity.

From here, she has a better vantage of her husband (oh, how strange the word sounds, even in her head; it delights her). He looks for lack of a better term, a hot mess - though she can’t imagine herself any better. It’s a quiet peace that seems to have settled between them; helped mostly by the fact their attentions are now devoted to Gallifrey, not the injury, maiming and murdering of one another (all with love, of course). Though extravagant arguments with plenty of dramatics are still on the table - except, now they’re likely to resolve tensions with far better ways.

You pervert.

She feels the shift in her mind only moments before she hears his voice hazy with sleep, even through their mind link. Her lips twist.

Pot, kettle.

asdfhkjlhwotpot -- stop it. You’re being too LOUD.

You’re adorable when you’re too sleepy to form thoughts.

Shut up, wife.

She’s drifted close enough to the bed now that he reaches out and snags her about the waist, dragging her down to him without so much as even cracking an eyelid. There’s a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to her neck and she burrows against him.

He presses a hand between her hearts.

Mine.

#( OUT OF TIME )#masterfulxrhythm #( here is you a thing my love <3 )

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apathetic-revenant · 7 years

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[continued from here]

There was nothing terribly special about the house itself, or at least, not the outer part of it. It was a nice, respectable enough house, with two stories plus a basement, hardwood floors, and a good-sized kitchen. It was mostly clean, but comfortably lived in, and contained a great deal of plants and some interesting wall hangings. It was not very old, even by human standards, and to the knowledge of the owners nothing particularly grisly or historical or even mildly interesting had ever happened there before.

They did not know that their nice respectable modern house had old, old bones, old as the hills. They did not know that the land their home had been built on had a History: not the human sort that got written down and engraved on plaques and discussed very seriously by academics, but the Folk kind of history, a history of hauntings and grudges and legendary deeds, a history which left no mark upon the earth but was known deep-down and never forgotten. They did not know-how could they know?-that long, long before the settlement and construction, before the concrete and asphalt, before roads and cars and shopping malls and neat suburban neighborhoods, there had been a Hill, a gateway from which the Folk came out of their twilight realm to work mischief of one kind or another. The humans did not know, but the land remembered, others remembered, and the memory came up out of the past and rested heavily on the nice respectable house and made it older than it was.

There were things in that house, things that remembered. Sprites nesting in the houseplants, pictsies who made away with knickknacks and spare socks to line their nests, goblins rustling through the patterns in the wallpaper. The ghost of a bard who had wandered through the Hill and never made it all the way out. A house-hob living in the closets and a boggart under a little girl’s bed.

And, of course, him.

They were all used to invisibility, intangibility, to lurking in the night and keeping their own company: humans had never been too skilled at observing the Folk, but now they didn’t even try anymore. They had forgotten the old customs, the old contracts, the careful agreements between human and not human; they had forgotten what you did to please the Folk and tame their tempers and what you did to drive them away. Or, if they remembered, they wrote it down in books and put them it away so that it could not touch the real world any longer.

They had forgotten other things as well, the meanings of things. They overlooked portents and symbols, scoffed at omens, shrugged away superstition.

When the little girl was born with a caul over her head, her father panicked-although, since he had been in a constant state of panic for some twenty-six hours by then, this made little noticeable difference-and was reassured by an extremely patient attending obstetrician that this was only a bit of leftover membrane, rare but completely harmless, and easily removed. They did not say that to be born with the caul was a portent, an omen of a child who could see more than most, because that would be ridiculous and these days you’re liable to get kicked out of medical school if you go around talking like that.

But the Folk remembered.

They watched carefully when the girl was brought home. It was hard to tell, at first-who knows for sure what an infant is giggling about, whether they are truly seeing something or simply staring? But bit by bit, it became clear that the girl could see what her parents could not. When the goblins in the walls made faces at her she giggled and imitated them. When the sprites circled her head curiously, she tried to catch them, just as curious but a good deal more clumsy. When she cried in the night, Baeirli’s lullabies soothed her back to sleep.

Her parents called her Cecily, but the Folk used their own names, as was only proper: a true name had to be rightly given, given with intent, such as no child so young could truly possess. The sprites gave her names that hummed and buzzed; the goblins called her by words that were sharp and scratchy. The pictsies gave her names that they found, words scavenged here and there from packaging and labels and newspaper articles, just as they scavenged everything else. The bard would compare her to queens and heroes and scholars, or to a budding flower or the first ray of light breaking in the dawn, none of which she understood, but always liked to listen to.

Baeirli called her “little miss”. The Lady of the rowan tree called her “sapling” and “young bloom”, or, sometimes, simply “child”.

Adracgh, for reasons no one else understood, called her Cherry.

If he had a name for her, no one knew it but him.

Her parents did not go to bed that night, but they did eventually turn down the lights in most of the house and retreat to their bedroom, talking in broken voices. Adracgh and Baeirli waited until the dead of night, when the moon was high, to venture from the quiet little blue room, because that was the proper hour to do such a thing. Baeirli carried the stuffed dog, which Adracgh felt was important but had not been able to bring himself; boggarts are much better at throwing things around than holding them in one place even when they are not already very upset and anxious.

The goblins began to talk in their rasping whispers as Adracgh and Baeirli descended the stairs. They spoke in turns, as if they had one voice that had to be shared among all of them: “-where are they going?

“-what does he carry?”

“-a keepsake-”

“-a child’s toy-”

“-there is no child now-”

“-the child is gone-”

“-she was carried away-”

“-where do they go?”

“We are going,” Baeirli said firmly, “to speak with the Fire Below.”

This caused a moment of stunned silence, followed by a frantic cacophony. Baeirli smiled a little; they and the goblins had never gotten on very well, and they would count anything that they could as a victory.

“-the Fire Below?”

“-he is not to be spoken to!”

“-he will eat you up!”

“-he will burn you!”

“-he will crisp your skin!”

“-he will melt your eyes!”

“-he will turn your bones to ash!”

This went on for a while.

One goblin ran out in front of the herd, its spidery black shape outlined briefly against the white backdrop of the wallpaper. “-whyfor do you do this foolish thing, hob? why you, boggart?”

Adracgh’s shadow flowed past the goblin and flicked around the corner. “Because we want her back.”

This caused even more discussion among the goblins. Adracgh and Baeirli passed the study, and the bard glided out of the wall and watched them, head cocked slightly.

“-dangerous-very dangerous-”

“-terribly, terribly dangerous-”

“-but-”

“-might work-”

“What might?” the bard asked politely.

“-THE FIRE BELOW!” the goblins cried out, and then giggled in high, sharp voices.

“We are going to ask him for aid,” Baeirli explained. “The Lady Rowan says it was-humans who took her, so they are not bound to trade for her fairly.”

The bard, who knew a considerable amount about humans by virtue of being one, gave Baeirli the blank look of someone who has just had something very obvious explained to them.

“But he might,” Baeirli went on. “He might avenge a...a theft. We hope,” they added, trying to affect rather more certainty than they really felt.

The bard considered this. “It seems...possible,” he said. He had a gray, faded kind of voice, which always sounded as though it were coming from somewhere very far away. His name had been long forgotten even by him. “He is not bound by different rules than the Folk, after all. The trouble will be convincing him.”

“Well,” Baeirli said, kneading at the plush fur of the dog unconsciously, “yes.”

“-the Fire Below does not like being woken!”

“-the Fire Below does not tolerate fools-”

“-the Fire Below will swallow you in his terrible maw-”

“Shut up,” Baeirli said. “You’re not helping anything.”

“-no-”

“-we do not help-”

“-generally speaking.”

“But I will,” the bard said. “I will come with you, if you like.”

“You will?” Baeirli squeaked, then hastily cleared their throat. “That is-your aid would be most agreeable, of course.”

The goblins chittered.

“-what will you do-”

“-what can you do-”

“-dead man?”

“I will speak to him,” the bard said mildly, unfazed by the mocking gestures the goblins were giving him. “There is less that he can do to me, if he should become angry. I will not say nothing, but...less.”

They reached the basement door.

Baeirli hesitated for a moment, then bravely turned the knob.

The goblins remained behind, watching and muttering to themselves; there was no wallpaper in the basement, only cool concrete walls and cobwebs. It was not a terribly welcoming place, that basement. There was an ominous, lurking feeling in the air, an unsettling sense that twisted every innocent shadow into something clawed and hideous. The stairs creaked uncomfortably as Baeirli descended them.

Then there was the furnace.

It really had no right to be as intimidating as it was. It was just a normal furnace, sitting in the corner of the basement, making furnace sounds. But something about it loomed terribly. It dominated the entire room, its pipes spreading out like the coils of a snake, and if one listened too long to the sounds that it made, it began to sound horribly as though it were breathing.

The girl’s parents did not understand why she was scared of the basement, why she was convinced there was something terrible down there. They told here there was nothing down there, nothing to be frightened of. The Folk told her otherwise.

Adracgh folded in on himself, dwindling to a small nonthreatening shape like a dog showing its belly. Baeirli glanced desperately, pleadingly, at the bard.

“My lord,” the bard said. There may have been a note of trepidation in the words, but it was hard to tell with that gray, gray voice. “I seek an audience.”

The furnace rumbled. A faint red light began to glow around it, coming from nowhere and everywhere.

When the voice came it seemed as though it should be shaking the earth, sending cracks through the concrete; it was a voice like a thunderstorm, like a fire.

WHO DISTURBS ME?

“I am a spirit of your house,” the bard said. There was definitely a look of concern on his face now, but he pressed on. “I come to you on behalf of all who li-exist here. I come with a request.”

There was a long pause filled with the furnace’s horrible, heaving breath. Baeirli huddled themself around the dog. Adracgh tried to make himself even smaller.

SPEAK.

The bard took a deep and purely psychological breath. “My lord, there is a child who lives here. She has the Sight-”

THIS I KNOW.

The bard blinked. Even Baeirli brought their head up a little in surprise. They had all assumed that he slumbered and paid no mind to the goings-on of the house above. It was a strange and terrible thing to think otherwise.

“She-she has been taken, my lord,” the bard went on. “By another human. Not...rightfully. We request your aid to. To bring her back.”

The basement, previously cool and damp, was rapidly becoming quite hot. The red light around the furnace was growing brighter. The bard moved back, half raising his hands in a defense he would have to admit was fairly pointless. Baeirli shut their eyes tight and began to mutter something under their breath.

A CHILD HAS BEEN STOLEN FROM MY HOUSE?

It took the bard a moment to work up a response. “Y-yes?”

The furnace rumbled again. There was a pause, a sense of the building intensity in the room suddenly being suspended, though certainly not gone. When the voice spoke again it was quieter, stiller, but no less terrible for it.

WHY DO YOU COME TO ME?

“Er...we...we cannot leave here, my lord,” the bard said. “We can do nothing to retrieve her on our own.”

The red glare around the furnace seemed to tighten, like eyes being narrowed.

AND WHY DO YOU WISH TO RETRIEVE HER?

The bard glanced at Baeirli, who glanced at Adracgh. Adracgh, unable to glance at anyone, settled for shifting around uncomfortably.

“Er...we...we like her, my lord,” Baeirli said. It came out very hoarsely. “We...we just want her back.”

“She will be alone and scared,” Adracgh added sorrowfully. “I cannot bear to think of it.”

“It is an injustice,” the bard said. “A base crime. The child should be with her parents, my lord. This is where she belongs.”

They all held their breath, or performed the local equivalent.

GOOD.

“...Good?” Baeirli croaked after a moment.

GOOD.

The red light flared bright, suddenly illuminating the entire basement with a fierce, hot, hellish glow, and in that light a shadow was thrown against the walls that looked something like wings.

THESE ARE GOOD REASONS, the voice said, and anyone who didn’t know better might have thought it sounded proud. IT IS GOOD TO SEE MY LITTLE CREATURES LOOKING OUT FOR EACH OTHER.

Baerili made a strangled noise.

The shadows on the wall twisted and swirled. There was a moment of poise, a sense of anticipation-

“Wait!” Adracgh cried.

The shadow paused. WHAT ELSE?

“You-you have to take the dog,” Adracgh said. “It’s-she’ll be scared. She’ll need it.”

Baeirli groaned and buried their face in one hand.

There was a strange noise from the furnace, something almost like amusement.

VERY WELL.

The light grew too bright to see. There was a scraping noise, a blast of hot air, and then nothing but a rapidly cooling silence.

-----------------

There were a great many things about the Cecily Baldwin case that were never resolved to the satisfaction of the police, chief among them being what had caused the man later identified as Jonas Tapton to have suffered several broken bones, second and third-degree burns, and a total psychological break that left him huddled and senseless in the back room of the house he had taken his victim to. Nor did they ever find out who the man was who had called 911 in the early hours of the morning and informed the dispatcher exactly where Cecily Baldwin could be found. His voice did not match Tapton’s at all, even if Tapton had not had a shattered jaw by that point.

While less serious, it was also quite puzzling that the girl seemed to have acquired a favorite stuffed animal that her parents swore up and down had been on her bed all evening.

“Do you know anyone named...er...Barely or...uh...Adrack?” the officer interviewing the Baldwins asked afterward.

Cecily’s parents glanced at each other. “Those are her imaginary friends,” her father said. “She...she talks about them a lot...why?”

The officer raised an eyebrow. “We asked her if she saw the man who called in,” she said. “She said she did, and that he told her that...er...those two sent him.”

“She must have been imagining it,” Cecily’s mother said. “She’s a very creative child.”

At that her voice broke and she began to sob into her husband’s shoulder.

“Yes, I suppose so,” the officer said, and went to find some blankets and a couple of strong cups of tea.

Cecily herself was found to be unharmed. She did not even seem to be nearly as frightened as she might reasonably be expected to.

“It was scary,” she told the officer looking after her seriously. “An’ I wanted to go home...but I knew it’d be alright, cause...cause...”

“Because why, dear?” the officer asked, vaguely expecting something about God or parents or perhaps the platitude of some popular TV show character.

Cecily yawned hugely. “I knew my friends would help me,” she said. “They’re much scarier than he was.”

In the basement of the Baldwin house, the furnace rumbled back to life. The Baldwins never even noticed that it had gone out.

#writing #writing prompt #scribulations #pffff

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