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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 4 years

Text

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3 and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist :

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

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Harry hates clubs.

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours.

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit.

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife.

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor?

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter.

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation.

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you.

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now.

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department.

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT.

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame.

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite.

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving.

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize.

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results.

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well.

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it.

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static.

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire.

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does.

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work.

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.”

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.”

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd.

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.”

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.”

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering.

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.”

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.”

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.”

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist.

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.”

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move.

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt.

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam.

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance.

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.”

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground.

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer.

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really.

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized.

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?”

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember.

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more.

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in.

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional.

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since.

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.”

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least.

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.”

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.”

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?”

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.”

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.”

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.”

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.”

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?”

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.”

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident.

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one.

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger.

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges.

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection.

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly.

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together.

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect.

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now.

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.”

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.”

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.”

“You’re going to hell.”

“I’m already there, mate.”

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.”

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night.

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough.

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.”

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.”

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.”

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.”

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!”

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles.

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.”

“You’re older than I am!”

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal.

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?”

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle.

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned.

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?”

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps.

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend.

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device.

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious.

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does.

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.”

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.”

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.”

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.”

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?”

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?”

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?”

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.”

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.”

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face.

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open.

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation.

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.”

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.”

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return.

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.”

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.”

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.”

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.”

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up.

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.”

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake.

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown.

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable.

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him.

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk.

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world.

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs.

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is.

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now.

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.”

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile.

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it.

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie.

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly.

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste.

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke.

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way.

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here.

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight.

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause.

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing.

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him.

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass.

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection.

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface.

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything.

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.”

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for.

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.”

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night.

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him.

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer.

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding.

When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind.

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner.

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault.

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come.

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes.

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...”

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears.

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own.

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested.

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.”

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job.

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known.

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city.

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life.

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit.

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class.

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again.

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move.

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film.

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity.

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions.

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house.

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree.

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria.

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand.

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them.

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.”

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken.

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs.

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger.

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats.

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor.

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.”

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought.

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life.

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail.

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb.

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?”

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.”

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.”

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.”

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.”

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?”

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.”

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human.

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.”

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room.

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly.

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.”

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile.

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.”

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised.

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.”

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.”

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach.

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.”

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give.

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath.

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.”

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.”

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.”

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks.

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs.

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge.

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.”

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?”

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.”

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again.

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke.

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.”

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.”

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning.

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil.

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.”

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name.

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done.

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight.

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.”

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.”

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.”

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night.

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer.

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had.

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.”

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys.

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell.

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them.

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately.

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.”

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loquaciousquark · 4 years

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Talks Machina Highlights - Critical Role C2E91 (Jan. 21, 2020)

Good evening, everyone! Sorry about missing last week; @eponymous-rose was out of town and I had some other commitments. Regardless, here we are! Brian is looking handsome and cold, as are Sam & Travis on the couch. Everyone is wearing coats. Is the heat broken?

That said, tonight’s guests are Travis Willingham & Sam Riegel.

Brian starts us off asking Sam if he’s remaking the Wire in Beverly Hills. Sam basically embodies that hello fellow kids meme tonight in a hand-knitted beanie from his wife, a bomber jacket, a yellow tee, and skinny jeans. They quickly photoshop in smoke trailing out of his mouth. We’re just a few minutes in and this is off the rails already.

Announcements: The next issue (#5) of Vox Machina comics comes out Wednesday, Feb. 19! It’s also available online at Dark Horse Digital and Comixology. And that’s it! Huh.

Episode 91: Stone to Clay

Brian tells us this is the first time ever to have Sam & Travis alone on Talks. I’m stunned and so are they. Sam says, “between me, Brian, Dani, and Travis right now, there’s four tens on this show right now.”

We’re already into questions less than ten minutes into the show. Truly this is a remarkable night.

63 in game days and 21 episodes passed between Caduceus’s first mention of Stone (episode 71) and Fjord connecting the dots. Travis blames the internet connection and his really bad ADHD night, as that was the night he and Laura remoted in from the hotel.

Brian tells us that when Ashley used to skype in, she could only see Matt & couldn’t see or really hear anyone else.

Travis says there was a huge delay for him between mouths moving and the audio coming through, and then that audio was pretty distorted. Laura could handle it okay, but Travis just heard a jumble and couldn’t parse it.

Sam took a CBD bath the other day and found it exactly as relaxing as a normal bath. Sam & Travis commiserate about taking baths only to have their knees pop out of the water. Tall people problems smh

Caleb & Nott completed the spell in less than a week, including dealing with the Angel of Irons & brokering peace treaties. Travis though the laughter was going to be Helas.

Travis says he definitely didn’t hear the name the first time (he remembered dust but not stone from the lava pits). “Look! Yes! No, I was not listening before! Thursday nights are my times to enjoy my friends and food! Marisha is an amazing note-taker; why would I ever take my own? This is how I got through college!”

Sam says he keeps a mission checklist in his head and has for ages. He has a page in his notebook labeled “To Do” that includes things like visiting Kiri or Shakaste, in case they have downtime and need ideas.

Travis asks if he continues writing in his (apparently) very small handwriting, and Sam says he has to leave room for Laura to draw all her dicks. They all marvel that she is actually a very good artist.

Travis honestly still thinks the Stone name is a huge coincidence, especially since Taliesin didn’t have access to Fjord’s last name when he created Caduceus’s last name and backstory. Sam challenges Travis that even if that were true, doesn’t he think Matt will find a way to tie it together?

Travis says Fjord doesn’t want anything to do with the last name and it’s not even his real name. He’s not convinced this isn’t a coincidence.

Travis did a lot of research into orphanage naming conventions when coming up with Stone. He does have a backstory as to how the orphanage manager picked Stone as his name.

Travis thinks Matt would have emphasized the Stone name more sooner if it had been a true connection and not coincidence.

Brian: “He does like to take credit for coincidences, doesn’t he?”

Nott didn’t think there was a catch in the ritual; Sam was more surprised they were allowed to achieve the milestone at all. He was shocked it happened so soon in the story and that the spell is relatively easy to cast.

He didn’t know it would fail, but there was a moment when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go through with it. Travis agrees everyone was shocked when it didn’t work.

Fjord’s current stance on faith and destiny hasn’t changed since the last time he discussed it. Faith is a slow thing for Fjord and he really does think the name is a coincidence.

Sam as a player is excited to see what comes next for Nott; “if she had been transformed into Veth at that moment, I would have been excited to see what comes next. The fact that it’s still Nott makes me excited too. I’m excited to see more of Nott since she’s the best character in the M9.” He also confesses he was a bit relieved, in part because it’s delayed the inevitable. At some point she must decide if she is going to stay or go with the M9.

Cosplay of the Week: @kajicosplays on instagram of a lovely lady Percy. Brian: “Isn’t it fun when Taliesin’s characters live?”

Deep down, Nott knows she will do the transformation at some point, but at that last moment where she had to make a decision she had to check in with herself to make sure she was ready. Sam Riegel as a D&D player also knows that you have to trust your DM and make choices.

Brian misreads the word “ribbing.” Sam teaches Travis what rimming is. We all learn a lot about each other.

Sam thinks Fjord can realize when the time comes to set jokes aside. He thinks Fjord was very respectful. Travis has honestly forgotten that the conversation took place.

Travis has Dani answer from Fjord’s perspective. It’s actually pretty insightful, talking about how Fjord recognized someone hesitant to give up these newfound powers that have become intrinsically tied to self-worth.

Fjord has always been loyal, and Travis sees his protectiveness of the M9 as a logical extension of this.

Right now, he has found some agency & self-direction and is hopeful to share that sense with everyone else (he especially mentions Yasha).

Sam & Travis start quoting from Half-Baked. This is chaos.

Nott does want to stay with the M9, but she also wants to go home for sure, both of those things. The kiss with Caleb wasn’t necessarily a goodbye; it felt like the closing of a chapter. It felt like something to mark the end of the experience.

Now they’re quoting Beverly Hills Cop. Oh, boy.

“You look like you wrote Pitch Perfect.” When did this turn into a roast?

Fjord has no memories earlier than the orphanage (The Driftwood Asylum). There were a couple dozen kids there aside from him; Travis thinks some of them might have been named Stone. It also operated as a small child-labor workshop for carpentry & woodshop stuff. “It was a terrible place all around.” He has no images of parents or being dropped off.

Sam thought the Nott transformation would be more endgame, though he feels it makes sense that it’s not. “While Nott transforming into Veth was my original goal, what’s great about these long games is that your goals can change two or three times before the end. Now I can explore all these other things: does she want to go back and be a housewife? How does she rectify her obligations to her husband and child to the life that she’s made with the M9? It’s so exciting and interesting.”

Brian asks a hypothetical: if she could transform back but lose all Nott’s memories, would she do it? Sam: “Oh, that’s tough. I don’t know.”

Fanart of the Week: a lovely piece by @pen_draws with everyone in the hot tub.

Travis is very trepidatious about returning to the open ocean after rejecting Uk’otoa. He wants to make sure the third temple is sealed. It feels like it would be too easy for someone not to come and try to collect the job he left half-finished. He also wants to go back to Darktow.

Sam doesn’t know if Nott is still in love with Yeza, although she definitely still loves him. He’s playing with the idea of a high school sweetheart being exposed to the world and then going back home. But Yeza’s amazing, a great guy, perfect. “I guess we’ll find out when/if she turns back into Veth.” Sam feels guilty talking about him. “He’s a fictional character and I feel guilty that he might be watching the show.”

Neither Nott nor Fjord trust Essek. Travis: “He just went from being cold and aloof to being really warm. I know there’s been time and he’s lived an isolated life, but...time will show if he’s being genuine. All of our haunches were up. All of us were on level five alert.” He’s being so helpful that Travis doesn’t trust Mercer with him.

Fjord never ever considered becoming a paladin of the Traveler. “No. Fuck no!” The Wildmother reached out and directly intervened to save him. Travis gets super creepy bad vibes from the Traveler’s relationship with Jester (Sam agrees).

Nott feels more pressure when her own problems become the focus. It’s hard for her to open up and talk about her feelings. She’d rather pick up on other people’s problems. Sam also acknowledges it’s more pressure on him (and anyone) as a player when the whole table is looking at you.

And that’s that! Is it Thursday yet?

#critical role #critical role spoilers #talks machina #talks machina spoilers #long post for ts

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raniiaaa · 4 years

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walk me home

A gut feeling. That was what people who trusted themselves called the inner mechanism that helps them decide what’s right. You never had an inner compass telling you what to do. Actually, no, that's inaccurate. You had a compass, but its needle flitted wildly around, drawn to multiple unknown magnetic fields, leaving you to decipher which direction it stayed on for a millisecond longer. Nonetheless, you had this flawed sense of direction, but then he walked through that door for the first time. The effect was instantaneous. He was like neodymium, resolving your case of reversed polarity.

The swanky party had progressed under the light of a surprisingly prominent New York full moon. Tinkling clinks of champagne glasses and gentle chatter played as a secondary soundtrack to a jazz quartet. As caterer staff, you needed to blend in with whatever wall you were positioned at. The table you were unofficially assigned to was taken care of right now, which meant you may be able to sneak out for a minute to just rest. The thought of it made your head loll slightly. This had been a long night and an unusual event. The attendees were the bigwigs of New York, which is saying a lot. There was a pre-event meeting where your boss outlined all the necessary procedures, your rush plan, and the times each of you would be cut. They didn’t need staff sitting around, which meant you could get out of these shoes soon and settle into your couch with some takeout and a movie on. You were just preparing for your last stretch when he arrived.

...

You had been wondering who the empty seat at the table was for, which was now no longer a mystery. His entrance had been through a side entrance, not the elaborate front door like all the other party guests. Everything about how he carried himself led you to believe he was trying to draw the least amount of attention to himself. It wouldn’t be possible though, no one that beautiful could ever hide effectively. The spare glance he gave you when settling down in his chair held you in place, almost like it was his own arms pinning you to the wall you were backed up against. You quickly turned your head to face another direction, heat blooming at the apples of your cheeks. Just an hour and then you’d be gone. With the arrival of this stranger, you weren’t as excited to leave.

...

Though consciously avoiding him for the rest of your time, your attention (and interest) didn’t turn away from him. You knew who he was, how could you not. The solemn eyes were more of a giveaway than the metal arm should have been, but there was so much about James Buchannan Barnes for you to notice. He was quiet, sipping on a glass of water and observing all the others. You had been wrong, this man could hide in a desert.

You remained hyper-aware of him.

It was your job to be attentive, you told yourself, that the business guests bring helps pay your salary. Yet there was no reason for you to observe the subtle way he leaned back in his chair, like putting space between him and others. Or the length of his lush eyelashes, how they frame that icy gaze. Said gaze flitted over you now, as you filled the glasses at his abandoned table. The glass in front of him was next, empty enough to require your attention. “Would you like some water sir?” your tone is cordial and removed, like a digital assistant’s pre recorded dialogue. He shakes his head, swirling the water in his glass carefully. You move to leave, but his voice stops you. “Why did you fill those other glasses?” his tone lacks any animosity, but you feel embarrassed nonetheless. You gape a little, prompting him to look away from the whirlpool in his glass and to you. His direct attention does not help with your answer at all. “It’s policy,” you say, an appeasing smile on your face. You want to tell him that you thought it was stupid too, even talked to your manager about it being a waste. Then one party guest complained about an empty water glass after coming back from the dance floor and you were back to seeing ridiculous amounts of water wasted. You couldn’t say any of this, though. Could you? Maybe, but you wanted this night to be a textbook one. You extracted yourself from the table, but there was a pull to stay. You defied it and left.

...

He was here again, for another soiree with the rich and famous. You couldn’t tamp down the little flutter of excitement in your chest at the sight of him, chastising yourself for it immediately after. Adjusting your uniform ever so slightly, you set off to work another event, trying to ignore how your attention kept drawing itself to the northwest area of the lanai.

...

The glass must have an optical illusion type design to it because there was much more bourbon in it than you thought. Or maybe you felt that way since it was running down your chest at the moment. The drunk party guest was nice at least, offering up an enthusiastic apology, swatting you with a tissue. Trying to extract their fondling hands graciously, you excused yourself and left.

You rush to get a spare shirt from your locker and then go to the staff bathroom. The door was locked. Fuck, you need to get out of this shirt fast. Trying the guest bathrooms, you were actually thankful for the locked doors. Guessing from the noises coming through from the other side, the risqué situation wasn’t one you’d want to interrupt. That left one choice.

...

Your hands fumbled, trying to extract yourself from your sodden prison. Stripping in a dark alleyway wasn’t something you expected to do tonight. Just when the fabric slipped from your shoulders, you heard a cough. Fuck.

You spun around to see.

It was him.

Double fuck.

Your hands went to cover yourself. “I’m sorry.” you both say at the same time. He averts his eyes while you hurriedly pat yourself dry and put your shirt back on. “I wouldn’t have been here if I’d known it was the changing room.” he has a nervous smile on his face. The belated realization that he made a joke jolts you out of your frozen state. You sound a genuine laugh but it comes out strangled. Now it’s your turn to say something and you fall back on your previously assigned social roles. “Why are you back here Sir? We have a smoking room upstairs if you need a space for that,” you said, smoothing out the front of your uniform. Your hands slow as he stays silent, just looking at you. Are you imagining the way his eyes rove over your frame? Surely you must be. He looks up, sees how you’ve stilled and straightens up a bit. Shaking his head a bit, he nervously motions his hands in your general direction. “I’m sorry, it’s just that-” he pauses again, and you watch him with bated breath. “Your uniform isn’t on right.” Oh.

Now you’re looking down at yourself in a frenzy, trying to right whatever mistake you made. He seems to take pity on you after a few minutes of not having located what it is. “I can,” he clears his throat, trying to rid it of the anxious growl it held, “Can I help you?”

Your hands fall to your sides, a brief nod is all you can manage. He steps forward on the balls of his toes, like he anticipates you’ll run. The problem was in your collar, the back folded awkwardly within itself. You try not to think about how close he now is to you, enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. Here you are, observing him again. Except you notice everything you couldn’t see from a distance. There’s a slight stubble across his chin and his eyelashes curl more than you thought.

His nimble fingers fix it quickly, withdrawing from their previous position quickly. This action causes his hands to graze your neck. The sensitive skin there reacts, sending electric shocks all throughout your body and you jolt back. His reaction follows within the next few seconds. Before you can say anything, he’s already disappeared through a back door of some kind, into the sights and sounds of the crowd.

...

You should have known not to carpool with Jack tonight. Unfortunately, he was the only one on the crew tonight who lived in your general vicinity. Also unfortunately, he got a salacious call from his girlfriend. Before you could even comprehend his words, you were dumped on the sidewalk.

The night wasn’t ready to be over, it seemed.

Following the bright blue line of the GPS on your phone, you began the trek to your home. Chilly air bit at your ears and you wished something warmer was between you and the elements. Hugging the thin jacket to yourself, your attention was tunnel visioned to the path directly in front of you. ‘Right, left. right, left’ you repeated, hoping this rhythm would get you through the 45 minute walk that lay ahead of you. Having just acclimated to your situation, something collided with you. Pushed to the ground, your heart didn’t have time to race before you were pulled upright again. The arms steadying you felt … familiar? Lo and behold, James Buchannan Barnes was before you, equally shocked to see your face. “Hello,” you said, rushing to get the words out before you lost the courage. Seeing him in the glitter of high profile parties while you worked was one thing, but running into a person of his stature out in the regular world was another thing. The suit he had been wearing a few hours before was now semi deconstructed. The top two buttons were undone, giving you just a hint of the skin beneath. His tie lay around his neck, the jacket (which you were sure was too expensive to be) slung behind his shoulder, hanging precariously from one finger. You tried not to stare at his forearms, exposed by how he rolled up his sleeves. You just ended up staring at his face then, which really wasn’t a good idea if not getting flustered was your goal. His eyes were now squarely on you, the heat your body was so deprived of earlier now beginning to grow in your chest. “I hadn’t been able to say this earlier, but thank you,” you began, trying to ignore the weight of his gaze. “I would have probably been stuck with my arms over my head trying to get out of that shirt if you hadn’t helped me. If I ever need to change again, I’ll call you.” What the fuck? It’s ok, you can ride it out if you don’t start rambling.

There was silence for a few minutes, so obviously you started to ramble.

“Not that I can’t take my clothes off myself, just that you might be better at it.” Bad. “Not that I want for you to take my clothes off,” that’s a lie, you do, “I mean that it’s definitely not your responsibility, that's what I meant you know. And that definitely doesn’t happen usually, it’s just cause the shirt was wet. But yeah, it’s my responsibility. And I’m sure you have much more important things to do…” Oh god.

“No problem.” he said, his voice just barely at an octave the human ear could comprehend. The previous silence fell back onto you both, your embarrassed gaze affixed on the ground. Decorum be damned, you were just going to turn around and start running away. While contemplating this, you felt something heavy rest itself around your shoulders. Lifting a hand to touch it, you felt silky fabric overlaid by wool. Looking up, you saw how close he was to you now, arms encasing your sides while laying the jacket onto you. After adjusting it to make sure it didn’t slip, he drew his arms back, slipping his hands into his pockets. His scent, which had intoxicated you the entire night, pervaded your senses. By reflex, you snuggled into fabric before realizing how it may look. “You were shivering.” he said.

“I wasn’t planning on walking home tonight, so I didn’t layer up right,” you said after a brief pause. The tilt of his head prompted you to recount your night’s woes. After regaling him, his demeanor shifted. “ If you would allow me,” he said, “I would like to walk you home.”

You tried not to look too shocked. Your night was veering into fiction. Then the truth of your situation hit you. New York at night was not kind to anyone, you had to have some kind of protection. What was better for the job than a fucking Avenger?! The words were caught in your throat for a few seconds, but you eventually managed to speak, “Yes I, uh, thank you. That would be - that would be great.” For the next few seconds, you both just stood. “Oh, right,” you had forgotten he didn’t know what direction to go. Neither did you, really, but google maps said northwards so that’s where you continued to go.

Silence was right there beside you two, in the middle. You didn’t know how to cross that gorge, or if you even should. Then you remembered.

“I tried to change the policy,” you said, before you could stop and consider your words. His steps faltered for only a second till returning to normal. That was too vague a statement, what were you thinking? “The water glasses, I mean.” He now paused for more than a second. “You remembered that?” he sounded puzzled. You couldn’t understand why he thought you wouldn’t. Did he really not know how memorable he was? “Of course, I had a lot more to say that I couldn’t get into.” He gave only a nod and you thought it was the end. “Why?” he said, clearing his throat as if to get the words out. “Why couldn’t you get into it?”

You considered this, but eventually just shrugged. “I guess I’m quiet when working.”

Silence threatened to fall back into place so you asked, “Do you like them? The parties?”

It had always been something you were curious about, seeing as he had never participated in the fanfare and festivities of the numerous parties he attended. Not all of them were galas and fundraisers, some were your regular end of the week party for people rich enough to rent the building regularly. He would drift in with a few people (sometimes the faces you saw on billboards after they saved the city and sometimes others), stay with them for a little before they went to the dancefloor and he stayed at the table. Sometimes, he would get prompted to the dancefloor or into conversation with a beautiful woman. Still, there seemed to be a string drawing and holding him to the table.

He remained quiet for a while, weighing his words like he was trying to find the right number of kilos to match his budget. When he spoke, you were shocked to hear how solemn it sounded

“I’m trying to find someone.” The longing was apparent in his voice. You had the distinct feeling that you were currently privy to something few people had ever even caught a glimpse of. You didn’t say anything, hoping to allow him the space he needed if any other words came out of hiding.

He struggled with the following ones that did, “Before it all happened,” it was obvious what it all was, “I loved parties.” Clearing his throat, he probed further. “Seeing people and being seen, meeting others for the first time despite having been introduced last week, letting a few hours escape from a dull week.” He paused again, clearly struggling. There was something akin to wistfulness in his eyes, made glassy by past memories. “I’m trying to see if I can love them again, I guess.” He sighed and you tried not to pay too much attention to its musical quality, “It doesn’t seem to be coming back.”

“Maybe that’s ok.” You don’t know if that’s the right thing to say. However, the pain he felt was so apparent in his words and you just wanted to alleviate it in any way possible. “Even if you don’t like parties now, are there new things you like?” you said. He paused to consider this. “I guess I read more.” he said with a slight chuckle. You grabbed the chance, “What books have you been reading?”

...

Along the way, your task to cheer him up dissolved and all that was left was a deep desire to get to know him better. You don’t know what prompted you to do it, whether insanity or pure genius, but you asked if he wanted to join your book club.

To your surprise, he asked when the next meeting was.

Your apartment building reared into view as you told him. With a nod, he escorted you to the wire gates leading to the central courtyard. “Oh, here.” you tried to shrug off his jacket, but his hands landed on your shoulders to stop you. “Keep it for now. You can return it during the next book club meeting.” Your shock at his acceptance of your invitation dissipated after seeing the mischievous smile on his face. “You don’t even know where it is.” you said, with mock exasperation. A sly smile lifting the corners of your mouth, you took out the pen from tonight’s shift. “Arm?” You said, motioning the drawing of the pen as you said it. He brought up the right one. The feel of his skin on yours was intoxicating and you tried to ignore the tension hanging in the air as you began to gently write the digits of your phone number. “Text me with this number and I’ll add you to our group chat,”. You both looked at each other, his arm still in your grasp long after you had finished. “I really hope to see you,” you said, before letting his arm drop and going inside.

You, unfortunately, didn’t get to see the shy smile he walked with for the rest of the night.

#bucky fic #bucky barns x y/n #bucky imagine #james buchanan bucky barnes #bucky x reader #reader insert

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surveys-at-your-service · 3 years

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Survey #411

“everybody’s got loaded stories, and i know for a fact everybody sees a bullseye on my back”

Have you ever been to jail? No. Opinion on snow? I absolutely love it! Not big on the slush it leaves behind, though. It gets ugly. What are you best at drawing? Meerkats. Are you scared of going over bridges? Nah. If you had endless energy and stamina, how would you spend your days? Plenty of exercise, lots of exploration with my camera, doing chores much more regularly... stuff like that. What mental or physical space do you go when you want to recharge or relax? I go to my room and watch YouTube. Did you have/use a comfort object as a child (do you continue to have one)? I actually don't remember. Now as an adult, if I go somewhere, my purse is actually like my comfort item in that I like to sit and sort of hug it to feel more secure. When was the last time you said something you regret? What did you say? I'm unsure. What do you tend to get carried away with? New hobbies/interests. It will be like all I care about for a long while, ha ha. Do you believe we have souls; do you believe in a life after death? Yes to both. Do you still talk to the person you last made out with? No. Have you ever seen your best friend cry? Ugh, yes, and it's the absolute worst. What kind of vitamins did you take as a kid? We had those Flintstones ones for a while, but for most of my childhood, we had gummy vitamins. Have you ever gone to court? Well, yes, but not for like your ordinary court hearing. While hospitalized on one occasion, a lawyer visited to speak to the patients informing us that we could argue against our discharge dates if we believed we were going to be committed for too long, which I thought I was, so I signed up to bring my case in front of a judge. So yeah, I've been to court, but not for ordinary reasons. Are you friends with your neighbors? "Friends," no. The people to our left like just moved out, and I don't even know if we've ever been outside at the same time as the family on our right. Favorite color? I like baby pink. How long has it been since you’ve seen The Lion King? I saw the CGI remake when it came out, if that counts? I don't know about the original. When did you last hold hands with someone? Sometime when I was at my sister's house, my niece grabbed my hand to drag me somewhere, ha ha. Have you ever had a crush on your sibling's friend? No. Have you ever gone to a beach? Multiple times. How good is your eyesight? It is very, VERY bad. I need new glasses severely. What’s the best wedding you’ve been to? My former dance teacher's. Have you ever had a negative encounter with the police? What happened? No. What’s your favourite thing to cook/bake? Do you eat it often? I don't do either. How do you flush the toilet in public? I generally use my elbow. I don't like standing on one leg, so I don't really use my foot like I'd prefer. Favorite horror movie? Silent Hill is dearest to me overall just because of what it is, but as a horror film, I think the original Blair Witch Project is best. Do you have your wisdom teeth? X-rays have only ever shown two are present, but I have enough space for those. What would you name your pet snake if you had one? It would depend on their appearance. The snake I have currently is named Venus because her coloration is similar to the planet. Do you like peanuts? Only when covered in chocolate. Where do you typically shop for bras and underwear? Do you tend to keep it simple, or have a variety of different items? Have you ever gotten a professional bra fitting? I don't get new undergarments (or clothes in general) frequently, but historically, my bras are bought online and underwear just from Wal-Mart. I don't really get the second question? I mean I don't have a style when it comes to those types of clothes, if that's what you mean. I've never had an actual bra-fitting, but I absolutely need to but keep putting it off. It seems like NO bra fits me properly all-around, and it's ridiculously annoying. What (if any) types of xrays/scans/other diagnostic tests have you had done? Was anything found? Idk man, a lot. I've had xrays on my wrist (found a fracture), teeth, legs... maybe more? I've also had an ultrasound on my liver for reasons I don't recall. I either had an MRI or CT scan (I can't remember which) when I got a concussion, and uhhhh... I can't think of anything else. Were you breast or bottle fed as a child? If you plan to have children, which do you think you’ll choose? Do you think one is really better than the other? I was nursed, and if I hypothetically had children, I'd definitely try to do the same. It was so incredible to me that I've never forgotten this: when I was at the hospital while my sister had her first baby, there was a chart on the wall of how many more nutrients were in breast milk versus formula milk, and the list was GARGANTUAN. Like, unbelievable. Now, do I think it's BETTER? That's a complicated question for which, in short, my answer is no. More nutritious, well, given what I just said, obviously. But breastfeeding just doesn't work for all mothers for a plethora of reasons, like the time demand, they can be self-conscious, it's painful... and all those things are okay. A mother should do what works best for her. Neither one is "wrong" or makes someone less of a mother because they feed their child less traditionally. Do you find that you have become more selective in terms of friendships as you’ve gotten older? Did the friendships you thought would last over time end up that way? Absolutely. There are just some kinds of people I absolutely do not tolerate anymore. And no, not most. We just drifted apart with time, or given most of my closest friendships are/were online, they just fell off the face of the earth. What are you doing right now? This and re-watching John Wolfe play Bloodborne. Bloodborne is such a comfort series to me... somehow, ha ha. Yet another game I've never played but desperately want to. Where are you? In my bedroom, as always. When you get yelled at, do you yell back or let it go? Depending on who it is, I might yell back, but most likely cry, ha ha. I hate being yelled at, like a lot. Is the person you last texted single? That would be my mom, so yeah. I've hoped she'd find a partner forever... She, probably more than anyone I know, deserves love from the *right* guy. I worry a lot how lonely she may become whenever I move out. Are you easily scared by horror movies? Not at all. Are you friends with any of your ex boyfriend/girlfriends? Girt and Sara, yes. Are you lonely? Be honest. Very. What has made you happy today? It's too early for this. What has made you sad today? Nothing, really. Last thing eaten? I had leftover pancakes from yesterday. Are you wearing anything that’s not yours? No. Do you like to wear makeup? I mean it makes me feel prettier, sure, but the actual time investment doesn't feel worth it for me personally. Especially when you're not even that good with applying it. Have you ever attempted to write a story or novel? Many times when I was younger. Would you rather have perfect hair or perfect skin? Perfect skin. I hate my skin, it has so many blemishes. What’s your middle name? Marie. How big is your bed? Queen. Do you drink? Only a bit for special occasions, really. I'll have a daiquiri on your average day every once and a blue moon. Would you fall apart if that last person you kissed walked out of your life? That's an understatement. Do you prefer pasta, salad, or coleslaw? Pasta. I hate coleslaw. Do you find smoking unattractive? Yes. Where’s the last place you went besides your house? The TMS office. Do you eat breakfast daily? Yes. Who were you with the last time you went to the movie theater? My dad. Do you like your cell phone? No, but it gets the job done. I just wish I had a phone with a good camera. Has anyone ever sang to you? Yes. So, what if you married the last person you kissed? That's the dream, but I acknowledge and accept it just might not work out like that. Do you usually answer your texts? Almost always. Have you ever changed clothes in a vehicle? Yes. Who has seen you cry the most? My mom, for sure. Have you ever just laid down outside and stared at the stars? Yeah, Jason and I did that one night on the trampoline. Have your friends ever randomly stopped by your house? In the past, yes. Think to the last person you kissed; have you ever kissed them on the ground? No. Do you have a condom in your room? No, got no use for one. Do your siblings ever pay for stuff for you? Yes. What brand is your digital camera? Canon. Do you own expensive perfume/cologne? No; I really don't get the point. When was the last time you went tanning? Ew, never. I find NO appeal in just lying in the boiling sun. Do you like the smell of fresh cut grass? No, I hate it. Do you get embarrassed easily? Like you would not fucking believe. It's one of the things I hate most about myself, because I'm embarrassed about everything I like and what makes me me. Has anyone ever thrown you a surprise party? No. Do you always wear your seatbelt? Absolutely. You couldn't pay me not to. Do you sing in the shower? No. Have you ever been called a slut/whore/something along those lines? Only playfully among friends. Have you ever stood up for someone you hardly/didn't even know? Yes. Have you ever fallen in love with a really good friend of yours? Yes. Do you own a blacklight? No. Do you like fruit better than vegetables? Definitely. Have your friends met the last person you kissed? Of my current friends, only Girt has. If you’re straight, have you ever thought about kissing the same sex? If you’re gay, have you ever thought about kissing the opposite sex? I'm bisexual, soooo. What does your laugh sound like? Do you have a loud laugh or a quiet laugh? Bro my laugh is so fucking loud and obnoxious. Is there a reality TV show you would consider taking part in? No.

#survey #surveys #random questions #lyrics: ''paranoiac personality'' by alice cooper

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a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives · 4 years

Text

BATTEN DOWN THE MIZZENMAST WITH BLACK SAILS’ LUKE ARNOLD

Prepare to be boarded… by entertainment! Next week marks the official premiere of Starz’s long-awaited, Michael Bay-produced pirate drama Black Sails, a series packed to the gills with violence, voluptuousness, and villainry of the blackest sort. Starz is making the pilot available early tomorrow via Machinima and a variety of digital platforms, but to help celebrate the unofficial start of our voyage into troubled waters, we caught up with Australian actor Luke Arnold, who plays the infamous John Silver, a conniving, opportunistic buckler of swash and one of the show’s leads. Considering the show has already been renewed for a second season, we figured now would be a great time to catch up with the rising star.

Nerdist: So first and foremost, I’ve seen the first two episodes and I’ve got to say, I’m really digging the series. I’m excited to see where it goes. Your character is very interesting — he’s very opportunistic and I like that.

Luke Arnold: Thanks, yeah. I know, it’s definitely a lot of fun to play.

N: He’s definitely this sort of iconic character. Tell me about how you got involved with the project and what excited you about this role.

LA: Oh, well, it was definitely, for me, when the pirate show comes up, I think every actor around the world hopes you get a chance to go and be a part of it, you know. As an actor, these are the kind of things you want to do, and this is kind of when you’re young, you think this is what being an actor is. But most of the time it’s not — it’s, like, you’re in a cop show, accused of murdering your wife, or doing some little romance or something, and what you really want to do is swing swords and jump off ships and have a lot of fun.

So when this came up, I was obviously pretty keen to get involved. I was actually in the running for another show that the Starz network was doing, which didn’t end up going ahead, but it meant that when this popped up, I was kind of already on their radar, and really just kind of slid right into the couple of auditions. Met Jon Steinberg, the creator, and I was very happy to get the call, saying I was going to be a pirate.

N: Very nice! I can imagine that would be a good call to get.

LA: [laughter] Yeah.

N: So you’re going to be playing Michael Hutchence in an INXS mini-series, you’re playing John Silver in Black Sails. Rock star, pirate–are you worried about being typecast as a good-looking swashbuckler?

LA: [laughter] If that’s the roles I get to play for the rest of my life, I don’t think it’d be too bad.

N: Right?

LA: Um, but it’s actually funny how different they were. I think it’s very easy to put the rock stars and pirates in together, but I think that the nature of the way Black Sails is approached, and kind of how gritty and real and historically accurate it is, I have to say we’ve been going to the gym a lot more, doing a lot more physical work as pirates than I had to do playing a rock star! The gym — obviously, the physical side of Black Sails was really full-on and a real shock to the system when we started. And then it was quite nice to take a few months off and get out of the gym, drink, smoke cigarettes and jump around on stage. [chuckles] So yeah, and then have the shock on the system of going back into the pirate world afterwards.

N: Oh, yeah, that must have been a brutal return to the gym. I’m sure a lot people right now with their New Year’s resolutions can empathize.

LA: Yeah, absolutely! And one other thing, I don’t know if it was a blessing or a curse that it’s not just me telling myself I have to go back in the gym. You get flown back to Cape Town, and a very aggressive trainer down there made sure, you know — really knocked me right out of rock star mode, I think.

N: I understand you came from something of a stage combat and sword fighting background. I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about that, and how that informed your role on Black Sails?

LA: So it was interesting, because my sword fighting training came from being a young actor, just in — I played Romeo on stage, it was one of my first plays, and it was very exciting. I learned sword fighting for that. And then thought I was going to continue my training. I wasn’t ever planning to be a — you know, really get into fight choreography too much. It was just for my skills as an actor. But then when the guy who taught me got a job on the Peter Pan film, a number of years ago, I went in to check out the sets, and by the end of the day, I had a full-time job!

So I stopped going to school, I did all of my final assessments via e-mail, and I just really entered the film industry. That was really fantastic training, because then after that, I went to drama school, but it was great already having that on-set experience, and really understanding the business and the job of being an actor on set.

Then, it’s interesting, because as far as Black Sails goes, I’m playing John Silver — he kind of has no shame. It’s kind of known, if you’re going to go into a sword fight and fight someone to the death, there’s a 50% chance that you’re the guy who’s going to be killed. Whereas if you can talk your way out, or just turn on your heels and run, you’ve got a much better chance of survival. So really, for most of the time on Black Sails, that’s what Silver chooses to do. So as yet, I keep writing to the writers, going, “Is this the episode where Silver can finally pick up a sword and become a bit cooler?” But as yet, his wit is his greatest weapon.

N: Yeah, that definitely comes across in the series. He’s handy with the sword, but he’s much handier when he can use his brain to weasel his way out of situations.

LA: Yeah.

N: So I want to talk a little bit about the tone of the series. Right off the bat, you’re treated to this sort of double-whammy of sex and violence that puts it immediately in company with shows like Spartacus and Game of Thrones. Talk a little bit about the tone of the series. Is this a project you can show your mom?

LA: [chuckles] Oh, definitely! My parents will be keen to see it. Yeah, I think parents will definitely be fine with it. It’s little cousins and things like that that probably will have to hold off a few years before exposing them to the show. And I think, really, especially in the first episode, I think they’ve done a really great job of–you do want to sell both worlds, here. In a way you want to set up the fantasy fulfillment side of being a pirate. That idea that we’d all love to leave the world behind, jump on a ship and find treasure. But then you also, what we’re really doing in this show, is trying to get more into the historical accuracy and the reality of what it must have been like to be one of these guys, and it would have been brutal, and it would have been tough. And so I think the sex and the violence really comes into painting both of those pictures there.

N: So, obviously, when people hear that someone like Michael Bay is attached to something, they expect a lot of explosions. It definitely kicks off that way. But what do you think viewers can expect from Black Sails, taken as a whole?

LA: Really, I’d say more than anything, Black Sails at heart is a character-driven drama. I think they’ve chosen a great cast of actors. I’m not saying that for myself, but for everyone I get to work with — they’re just fantastic. And the writers are really focused on the characters. And that’s what, now that I’ve seen all of the first season, and love it a lot, that’s what keeps drawing you in. It’s great then, around that, we have some of the best special effects ever seen on television; one of the most impressive sets ever made, and all of these elements which make it a lot of fun, and make it visually entertaining. But at its heart, it’s really about the characters, about their interactions, and really about them trying to survive in a very tough world. And I think that’s what’s going to keep Black Sails going amongst all the great visual side of it.

N: I know, as you mentioned, you guys have been filming on location in South Africa. What’s that experience been like? Do you have a favorite memory or moment from the filming process so far?

LA: There have been so many great moments on this. From the bonding experience at the beginning, of all coming together for our pirate boot camp and going through the hellish training and climbing Table Mountain, and all these things that we did at the beginning, to then — I can’t say too much, talking about some of the great stuff we’ve had to do throughout the season. Some of the most fun ever, there’s some big ship battles coming and a bunch of crazy action stuff, which is just really fun for me. There’s a lot of talking in this show, so then it’s really nice when I have a day where I get to shut up and just do a bunch of action! [chuckles]

N: Awesome.

LA: So that’s already been really fun. But I think one of the funnest things about this show is, because the characters are so good, and the actors are so great, and you get these really kind of dialogue-heavy, meaty scenes, it’s fun whenever your character gets to face off with another character for the first time. And that continues to be fun in this show. I know the writers on this show are actually — a lot of them are writing their own fan fiction already, because if the plot doesn’t bring two characters together, everyone is still waiting to see what it will be like. A lot of them are just writing scenes on their own, and I think that’s really fun. I know for me, I can’t — there are certain characters that I can’t wait till John Silver gets to meet them, just to see how they’re going to bounce off each other.

N: That’s great! You guys should film a bunch of those little fan-fiction scenes and psych people out when the DVD comes out.

LA: Yeah, I think that’d be great! I mean, me and my brother, actually, a couple of years ago, we had our own YouTube channel and would do our own videos. So I’m kind of quietly trying the pitch that maybe in the — maybe I can bring him over to Cape Town and on the weekends we can shoot our own little side stories.

N: Awesome, awesome. Well, I will certainly do my part to boost that signal!

LA: That’s great!

N: So you guys have already been renewed for season 2, which is awesome, but I need to know — can we expect you to have either a peg-leg or a chain of reasonably priced fast casual seafood restaurants by the time that season rolls around?

LA: [laughter] Well, look. The peg-leg won’t happen, but at some point, the leg has got to come off. We’ve got to really turn it… this is Long John Silver, the origin story, as far as I’m concerned. So yeah, that’s going to happen at some point. I don’t know how it’s happening yet. I think the writers have an idea, but they’re not letting the cat out of the bag just as yet. And I think as you — I don’t know if you’ve seen the first two episodes — definitely not having a seafood restaurant, and even though we know that John Silver is quite the cook by the time Treasure Island happens, he has a lot to learn before he’s even ready to cook even the most basic dishes!

N: Yeah!

LA: At some point he’s got to get his knife skills up as well.

N: Exactly, exactly. There’s still time. There’s plenty of time. I just have one last question for you, it’s a bit of an oddball, so please bear with me: What would be inside your ideal burrito?

LA: Ooooh. Okay!

N: It’s the question you’ve been waiting for.

LA: What would be inside my ideal burrito? Um… it’s… look, definitely — I’ve got nothing crazy to offer, but a lot of guac. I think the thing is, we’re on the pirate diet at the moment, which means cutting down on carbs, just a lot of meat — yeah, protein and fat, really, so I’d think three different kinds of meat. Let’s go, like, some pork, beef and chicken, guacamole, and then probably, at the moment, I’d get rid of the tortilla and do it, like, wrapped in lettuce. And there we go — that’s the high-protein, pirate workout burrito.

N: That sounds pretty delicious. I think a lot of aspiring pirates would be happy to chomp down on that.

LA: [chuckles] I’m going to have one right now.

N: Yeah, awesome. Well, Luke, thank you so much. It was awesome talking to you, and I can’t wait to see more of the show.

LA: All right, thank you very much. Great chatting with you. Cheers!

#luke arnold #luke spam #interview #black sails #lol at unexpected question #how to describe ideal burrito #but wrapped in lettuce #you goat kidding me

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mysticsparklewings · 4 years

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Daises on Strawberry Hill‪

Well, this looks a bit different from my usual content, doesn't it? Full disclosure that this art was made primarily as art inspired by one of my favorite books of all time (seriously, I have three different editions of this thing)--Looking for Alaska by John Green--as an excuse to talk about the new Hulu series of the same name that's based on the book. Because if you know me at all, you know I am notoriously hard on book-to-screen adaptions, particularly those based on books I love as if they were family members. And originally, this description was going to include a pretty blow-by-blow, lengthy review of my thoughts on the series. However, it's been quite a while since I first started trying to type out said review, and frankly, I've decided instead to, after I talk about the art, to just give some general, spoiler-free thoughts; the most important opinions I have on the series and leave it at that. I am still planning on completing and putting my full-length, in-depth thoughts out, but that'll be at some other time. Perhaps I'll put them in a journal/blog post instead of adding to the description here. Whatever happens, I'll update this description so that those who are interested in my deep-dive can find it when the time comes. That said, let's talk about the artwork now :) LfA isn't a fantasy or sci-fi book, so it doesn't have any cool dramatic scenes or neato devices/objects that have a lot of significance to the plot that would be fun to draw, which is why I never made any fan art or inspired-by-art for it before. But I really wanted an excuse to talk about the series, and so I pondered what symbols or imagery the series might have that I could make into art, even if none of it was terribly relevant to the plot or exciting on its own. This led me to the cheap wine that's mentioned a few times throughout the book: Strawberry Hill. Drawing just a bottle of wine seemed kind of boring and not very specific to the book/series, so I ended up adding in some white daisies since white flowers and daises specifically do have some significance to the plot. (In a way, they're a bit of a crux to it, at least for a key epiphany moment.) Originally, I was going to make this piece traditionally, and I did start with a traditional sketch of the wine bottle and one daisy to use as a template for more to follow. However, I pretty quickly got the idea for doing something more line-art heavy on a black background, as the cover for the book is black and the sort of chalkboard/blacklight look I was picturing in my head seemed fitting for the tone of the story, and despite my best efforts I couldn't think of a way/combination of media to accomplish what I wanted traditionally without also giving myself a major headache and making the project take infinitely longer than I wanted it to. So while I stalled in production, I ended up on my tablet for something else and figure I'd scan in my sketches and maybe make a line art to print off and manipulate into what I wanted traditionally later. But then, just as I started working on that, I figured, "You know what, if I'm going to go through all of the trouble to ink/line this digitally and I wanted it to be more line-focused anyway, I might as well take a crack at just doing the full artwork digitally. I'll get the lines done either way, and if it doesn't work out then at least I can say I tried, I know some of what not to do, and I end up with a digital mock-up for the final version." Fortunately, things ended up working out much better than I expected. I purposefully wasn't too fussy about the lines, partly because I just didn't have the patience at the time to be super precise about it, and also because for this specific project I kind of liked the idea of a more doodle-ish look (even though it's not super doodle-y in the final product). This also made things move a lot faster, which was nice and pretty satisfying. I started with the wine bottle from my sketch, including trying a new liquid drawing technique I half picked up from an art Youtuber I just recently started following that makes drawing liquid in a style similar to this look like a lot of fun. I knew I wanted the bottle to be mostly transparent/just lines, so the goal here was more about getting the wine bottle shape/structure familiar enough than it was about anything else. The label took a bit more though since in my mind, ever since I read the book, I had a pretty specific image of a pinkish bottle with a yellowish liquid and this cream-colored label with dark brown/sepia text, and I had not previously considered the label into that whole primarily line-focused image in my mind. So in the end, I decided the label would be solid so I could get the proper imagery across and the text and stuff could still be seen properly. Additionally, you'll notice I couldn't help myself being a little on-the-nose and sticking a tiny strawberry and mountain/hill on the label for good measure and to fill some space without having to look up wine bottle references just to stare at the labels for a ridiculous amount of time. The daises were also infinitely easier to do digitally since I could just copy, paste, and rotate first the petals to make one flower, and then copy, paste, rotate that one flower a few more times, instead of having to draw individual petals and flowers every time. This also gave me a little more freedom in that I could re-size the flowers pretty easily to make it more visually interesting than just a bunch of flowers that were all the same size. All that ended up being less line-focused than I originally intended, but I acknowledged that happening as I worked, and I'm not upset about the shift in focus. I think what I ended up with still has about the same visual impact I was hoping for, and that's all I really wanted anyway. And as sort of the icing on the cake, I ended up adding in that wisp/smoke trail in the background because of 1. It seemed kind of empty and unfinished with just the flowers and wine bottle and 2. When I tried adding a green vine to fix that issue, it just wasn't working for me. That's when I realized I could have a stronger reference to the book by putting something similar to smoke in the background since the original cover of the book has a smoke plume front-and-center. It took a few tries and some tweaking to get something I was happy with on that front, but I am so glad I stuck with the idea. It just adds something I can't quite place that the piece really needed before. The content is pretty different for me--I don't drink and I don't really endorse the idea--and the style is a little beyond my usual realms, but I do really like how it turned out. I feel like it's done well enough that you can appreciate the symbols and references if you know the book, but it also works as just a kitsch art piece if you're completely unfamiliar with the source material too. I don't think it's super accurate to when a bottle of the stuff shows up in the Hulu series, but it was on screen so briefly and my mind was focusing on other aspects while I was watching, so I didn't get a super good look at it. But I still think it'll suffice well enough despite that. I'm happy with how it turned out, and that's all that really matters, right? Now, then, as for the thoughts I have on the Hulu series that I think need to be shared sooner rather than later. I'll start by going on record to say, as someone that is notoriously hard on book-to-screen adaptions, that I did actually like the LfA series pretty good. I'd say it's about a 7 out of 10, which an exceptionally good score coming from me. It's not my most favorite show of all time, but it's notably better than "just okay," which is historically the highest praise I've ever been able to give a book-to-screen adaption. It had its faults and things I would've done differently if it were up to me, but fortunately, it did an infinitely better job than I was expecting. My main issues, as with all book-to-screen adaptions, come in the form of some of the changes that were made between the book and the screen. Fortunately, this time around the problems I do have are not egregious offenders. Most changes that were made still make sense within the story and while the overall message isn't quite the same as the book, it didn't totally squander what the book was trying to say. All of which are problems that most book-to-screen adaptions suffer from horribly. And while I won't talk too much at length about this (that's for the long-form review later ) I think this has a lot to do with the series being roughly 7-8 hours of content, as opposed to the either extremely rushed 2-hours-or-less a movie would've been, or the more-time-than-we-know-what-to-do-with 13+ hours of...certain book-to-screen adaptions that failed miserably at their job. (*cough* 13 Reasons Why *cough*) As I said, it's not perfect, but I do think as far as allotted time and time-management that they hit something of a sweet spot so that they'd have enough time to give the plot the room it needs to breathe without having so much time that they have to start making stuff up to fill it all. The other thing I'd like to point out is that, honestly, they did what 13 Reasons Why wanted to do way better than that series could ever hope to. They told the story of teenagers experiencing darker themes and elements of life so much more tactfully, and, in my opinion, more realistically. And they didn't wait for a controversy to spike and then do something about it--they didn't bank on the publicity of a controversy. Right from episode one, every episode starts with a warning that this series is meant for an adult audience (because of its themes) and viewer discretion is advised. And at the end of every episode, as the series does featuring smoking and drinking on more than one occasion, they provide resources to visit if you or someone you know has a problem with either of those things. I don't know if the people at Hulu saw what happened to Netflix with 13 RW and learned from their mistakes or if they just knew better, but either way, I'm so glad it was handled so much better, regardless of why or how it happened. As far as recommendations, if you're a John Green and/or Looking for Alaska book fan, I'd say it's definitely worth the watch. For outside viewers...I think you have to really be into the YA drama scene to appreciate it. Just be prepared for some more adult content than you might typically find in a YA movie. It's all done pretty tastefully and the majority isn't there senselessly; most of it serves some kind of purpose to the story, which is why it doesn't bother me (a very prude-ish person) all that much. I think that's everything I feel like needs to be said right now about the series until I can get the long-form review finished. (It's maybe 1/3 of the way done currently...and already getting on the long side ) I have to admit, this does make me more hopeful for the future of book-to-screen adaptions, at least those that end up being handled the way this one was. In fact, I'm actually really hoping that if Turtles All the Way Down, John Green's newest book, ever sees a screen adaption that it's handled in a series form and is done at least as well as LfA was. Time will tell, I suppose. In fact, I believe any day now, Let it Snow, a book that John Green wrote 1/3 of is supposed to have its movie adaption dropped on Netflix. I'm not super confident in Netflix's handling of adaptions for reasons mentioned earlier, but maybe just maybe it'll be okay? ____ Artwork © me, MysticSparkleWings I do not own Looking for Alaska and/or associated content ____ Where to find me & my artwork: My Website | Commission Info + Prices | Ko-Fi | dA Print Shop | RedBubble | Twitter | Tumblr | Instagram

#lookingforalaska #johngreen #hulu #hulu series #lfa #lfa hulu #book #book adaptation #fan art #art #digital art #photoshop #photoshopcc

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volleydorkscentral · 5 years

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ANSWER ALL OF THE QUESTIONS IN THE UNUSUAL ASK GAME, YOU COWARD.

First of all:

Second, questions under the cut:

Spotify, SoundCloud, or Pandora? - Spotify! all the way. i hoarse my bf’s account so he can never listen but i don’t care it’s mine now it’s full of my music and my playlists and whenever i’m listening to it and it suddenly changes cause he tries to use it on his phone I call him, “are you using spotify?” “oh. i mean i can listen to something else?” “cool, thanks!” and i get my music back. :D

is your room messy or clean? - it’s somewhere in between. my actual ROOM (bed room, i assume) is pretty clean, except i never make the bed. but the house is .. a work in progress. it’s not dirty but it’s cluttered so my bf and I are having to work together to clear that and build shelves and stuff for more storage space.

what color are your eyes? - dark brown! (with little green flecks when I cry)

do you like your name? why? - Not really? i don’t hate it. My mom wanted to name me Savannah but they had her sign the certificate while she was still drugged from her c-section so it ended up as Crystal?? Idk. She named her dolls Crystal when she was a kid.

what is your relationship status? - dating for almost six years.

how many times a week do you shower? uhhh idk. I don’t shower every day (unless i get gross). AT LEAST four times… but I don’t wash my hair every time cause that’s bad for my hair. I SHOWER WHEN I AM DIRTY.

favorite tv show? does Haikyuu!! count? that’s probably a given. HM. Well, we don’t have cable so I don’t watch a lot of NEW shows? …. OH. Duh. Fuckin me I’m a dumbass. Bob’s Burgers. I literally have it on ALL THE TIME. I don’t like silence so it’s ALWAYS on in the background if i’m not listening to music. I’ve seen every episode a zillion times. I can usually pinpoint every scene and the major lines/jokes.

shoe size? most brands it’s 5 1/2

how tall are you? SHORTER THAN NISHINOYA BUT TALLER THAN YACHI. I’m like… 5ft-5’1 depending on how much my back hurts. (i used that earlier and someone said it was funny and i’m trash so i’ll repeat it here!)

sandals or sneakers? i wear Bobs LOL. (knock off toms) and i’ve got one pair of sneakers and sometimes I wear my ballet flats around even though my bf says they look dumb fuck u they’re comfy.

do you go to the gym? No. I used to, but where I live now it’d be like a 45 min drive. I don’t really LIKE gyms though? working out is boring to me. No matter how hard I try. I’d love to start dancing again for real.

describe your dream date - April 25th because it’s not too cold and not too hot. Okay but jk that’s a lie where I live it’s balls hot in april. Idk. I’d like to go hiking when it’s not very hot? Take my dog, let her run around. Take a picnic. Sit in a grassy field and talk about dumb shit cause we know each other’s dreams and hopes by now.

how much money do you have in your wallet at the moment? UHM. fuck like…. $27? i know there’s a twenty and a handful of ones. And a handful of change.

what color socks are you wearing? - NONE. MY FEET ARE COLD. FOREVER COLD.

how many pillows do you sleep with? - pft like 6.

do you have a job? what do you do? - No; I quit after being over worked, under appreciated, cheated out of my paychecks a few times, and no job still due to lingering health issues.

how many friends do you have? answered this already!

whats the worst thing you have ever done? - UHM. Idk i haven’t murdered anyone. I don’t like this question cause if i really try to answer it i’ll spiral into a frustrated, furious depression and self-hatred so… NOPE.

whats your favorite candle scent? i’ve got this candle i got from etsy that’s like… Scottish Highlands? It’s grassy and kinda MAGICY.

3 favorite boy names - i don’t really have favorite names?

3 favorite girl names - answered already

favorite actor? god idk. i’m so bad with names and celebrities. uhm. I really like don’t have a favorite. I LIKE a bunch. Benedict Cumberbatch; Freddie Highmore… uhm. uh. Hugh Laurie?

favorite actress? IDK OKAY?? I LIKE a bunch but i don’t favorite?? I really like Gwendoline Christie. Uhm. Anne Hathaway makes me laugh. MAGGIE SMITH. how could i forget!??!

who is your celebrity crush? I LEGIT don’t have one.

favorite movie? CLUE takes the top spot most days.

do you read a lot? whats your favorite book? I used to read a lot more. The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

money or brains? personality, bitch.

do you have a nickname? what is it? not *really* but people online used to call me Chrys. My bf calls me ‘sweetie’ sometimes but he also calls the dog that so… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

how many times have you been to the hospital? - uhm. like the er? Once when I broke my arm. Doc in the box? Not since 2017.

top 10 favorite songs - PFT. Uhm. Jesus just let me die a little. Excluding all Disney; Not in any order:

No One - Biometrix

Danser - Lisandro Cuxi

A Single Moment of Sincerity (E) - Asking Alexandria (the band I was listening to when I designed my rockstar MC that I love so much)

The Annabel Trilogy (a series of 3 albums) - Alesana. Can’t pick a single song because they’re all a part of a huge story. Listen to them.

Chucky vs. The Giant Tortoise - Dance Gavin Dance

Anticoagulant - Sianvar

Ohioisonfire - Of Mice & Men

Coincidance - Handsome Dancer (Watch the Video for the love of god. THANKS ASH FOR THIS GEM)

Devil’s Backbone - The Civil Wars

Still Here - Digital Daggers (i’ve been listening it to a lot for inspiration for a new AU so… yup. That’s gonna be fun and painful)

do you take any medications daily? - yup

what is your skin type? (oily, dry, etc) - i got dry ass skin it sucks

what is your biggest fear? - uhm… physical fear? idk. Heights is a big one that I developed? I used to not care but a while ago I was walking on a bridge and I just… looked over and got FUCKING DIZZZY with nausea and fear that I was gonna fall and almost fainted.

how many kids do you want? - HONESTLY… one or two.

whats your go to hair style? - tried to brush but gave up so just threw it in a claw clip

what type of house do you live in? (big, small, etc) - moderate? one story, four bedrooms. big ass yard though for the dog

who is your role model? - I don’t really have one.

what was the last compliment you received? - answered already

what was the last text you sent? - actual TEXT message? ‘as long as there’s someone with her overnight she’ll be okay during the day cause of the dog door and stuff. just play with her before you go to work and maybe hide some treats around the house for her to hunt for’ - texting my friend that’s gonna house sit while we go on a family vacation soon.

how old were you when you found out santa wasn’t real? - UH idk the age? i know I saw my mom writing scavenger cards though. My fam has never had a lot of money so to make Christmas more interesting my mom/grandparents (we lived with them till I was in 3rd grade) would make these elaborate scavenger hunts for me and my cousins to do to find our presents around the house or out in the barn or, on one memorable occasion, at the bottom of our pool! Good memories.

what is your dream car? - one that RUNS and has badass AC and speakers

opinion on smoking? - hate it. please don’t do it around me. my bf’s family alllllll smoke all the time and i get so sick when i have to go on vacation with them and be around it for a long time.

do you go to college? - i DID. I went to Culinary school and majored in Baking & Pastry

what is your dream job? - Author or Dog Trainer

would you rather live in rural areas or the suburbs? - rural as all hell. give me trees, cows, and horses.

do you take shampoo and conditioner bottles from hotels? Not usually? but usually the people i’m with do.

do you have freckles? Not on my face (except one) but i’ve got more like… on my arms and just randomly all over but i dont think ‘freckles’ would be what anyone thinks of when they think of me

do you smile for pictures? - only if i’m forced to be in them

how many pictures do you have on your phone? - HAHAHAHAHAHA. Well. Before I got my new phone it was over 10k. Now though its only about 2k.

have you ever peed in the woods? - Only when I was camping.

do you still watch cartoons? - ALL THE GODDAMN TIME

do you prefer chicken nuggets from Wendy’s or McDonalds? - neither. but i HATE WENDYS and can tolerate McD’s fries and they’ve got ballin’ sweet tea so I guess McD.

Favorite dipping sauce? this honey dijon creamy thing at my favorite French restaurant but idk what is is.

what do you wear to bed? - t-shirt

have you ever won a spelling bee? - YUP. 2nd grade.

what are your hobbies? - writing, crocheting, photography, reading, uh… i forget what else

can you draw? when i was doing it all the time i did ok? but i’m WAY TOO IMPATIENT now a days to do it.

do you play an instrument? - no but i wish i did :(

what was the last concert you saw? - i’ve never been to a concert. crowds are icky

tea or coffee? - tea!

Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts? - already answered this

do you want to get married? - Yes pls

what is your crush’s first and last initial? - (bf, but I suppose i still have a crush on him? is love considered a crush?) J. Y.

are you going to change your last name when you get married? god yes. my current last name is my shitbag of a sperm doner and i hate it. my mom kept it after they divorced only cause she thought her maiden name would be too hard for me to spell but i would give anything to have that name instead

what color looks best on you? - idk. i prefer black but i’ve been told green and certain shades of pink/yellow.

do you miss anyone right now? - not until i thought about it, thanks

do you sleep with your door open or closed? open so my pupper can go in and out

do you believe in ghosts? not until i’m faced with darkness and creepy things

what is your biggest pet peeve? people chewing their food loud. people not picking up after themselves. people interrupting me (but not in the excited, OMG way. that we can work though) but in the ‘i don’t care what you’re saying i’m going to talk now’ way

last person you called` - my bf to discuss plans for his brother’s bday

favorite ice cream flavor? cookies n’ cream!

regular oreos or golden oreos? DOUBLE STUFF OF EITHER

chocolate or rainbow sprinkles? FUCK SPRINKLES

what shirt are you wearing? a shirt that has my dog’s face on it :D

what is your phone background? - the art that Ash drew of Bokuto from my fic Just a Taste!!

are you outgoing or shy? - i hate talking to strangers but with my friends i’m pretty fucking loud and chatty

do you like it when people play with your hair? only people i know

do you like your neighbors? nope. he’s an asshole who neglected his dog and i wanna skin him alive

do you wash your face? at night? in the morning? i do my best to remember to do it at night but i always do it when i shower

have you ever been high? yup.

have you ever been drunk? yup

last thing you ate? BIRTHDAY CAKE

favorite lyrics right now - idk? i guess the first lyrics that came to mind, even though they’re not my favorite, just ones that i like and were stuck in my head for a while: “All of the handsome fiction / will melt away / and when the flame burns brighter / Evaporate” Evaporate - Dance Gavin Dance

summer or winter? WINTER FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. IT’S SO FUCKING HOT IN SUMMER I DIE EVERY DAY

day or night? both have their merits

dark, milk, or white chocolate? - all chocolate but i prefer white to just EAT.

favorite month? uhm. uhh. November maybe? for NaNoWriMo.

what is your zodiac sign - pftt.. i think i used to be a Gemini? i don’t believe in all that stuff

who was the last person you cried in front of? - ….. my dog? but probably my mom and Grandmother when my GM basically said my bf didn’t love me and was a shit human being and i was a shit granddaughter for loving him. i was both upset and furious and i walked away from them. (my mom called and apologized, but i haven’t spoken to my GM since)

THERE ASH ARE YOU GODDAMN HAPPY. that took so long LOL (I hope the formatting came through I had to redo it on this tumblr page UGH)

#ask game

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keelywolfe · 5 years

Text

Day 11: Wound (12 Days of Papcest)

For the @sfw12-days-of-papcest event!

Summary: Edge enjoys cooking. He doesn't normally do it for an audience, but then, it's not his kitchen.

Notes: I never intended these to be a series, but I keep writing stories where they are dancing around falling in love with each other. I'm fine with this. ^_^

Tags: Established relationship, dancing around the idea of loving each other, boys deserve to be happy!

Read it on AO3

Keep Reading Here!

~~*~~

Many times the Swap brothers had encouraged Edge to simply come in when he traveled to Underswap, but they were fighting a losing battle. Edge would never be comfortable walking in to someone else’s home, whether or not he was invited.

As always, he knocked with a brisk rap of his knuckles, but it was unusual for Stretch to answer the door, rather than Blue’s starry, excited self.

Stretch whistled and gave him an appreciative up and down. Ridiculously, in Edge’s opinion, he was dressed the same as always. “hey, lover, come on in.”

“Must you insist on the ridiculous moniker,” Edge sighed, stepping past him.

“i can give you a new one?” Stretch grinned and closed the door. He ticked off on his fingers. “doll face? shnookums? roy? any of those tickle your funny bone?”

“I stand corrected, carry on as you were. Where is your brother?” They had a long-standing appointment on Wednesday’s for cooking lessons. More often than not Edge would stay for dinner and then the night. Half his time spent in the kitchen with one brother and the second half in the bedroom with the other. It was an agreeable arrangement on all counts.

“eh, blue asked me to tell you that his training with alphys is running over. he said you can start cutting up the veggies if you want.” Stretch gave him a wink. “or i can find something for you to do while we wait.”

“I’ll chop the vegetables,” Edge said dryly. Not that Blue couldn’t guess exactly what Edge got up to with his brother, but neither did Edge want to force him to endure a visual of it.

He hesitated as he walked towards the kitchen, stopping at Stretch’s side. Their relationship didn’t really carry a name or any promises and yet…Stretch was incredibly tempting with that flirtatious smile still lingering, and Edge gave in.

Leaning in to steal a chaste kiss that wouldn’t immediately lead to sex felt awkward, strange, particularly since Stretch went very still against him.

Before he could pull back, perhaps even apologize, Stretch suddenly melted into the careful touch with a sigh, offering back the same gentle touch.

He withdrew with some reluctance before it could deepen, looking up into Stretch’s face. The faint flush of orange at his cheekbones was startlingly satisfying, as was the dazed way he blinked.

“um, okay.” Stretch’s smile shifted to something uncertain. “i hope that was a promise for later.”

“Perhaps,” Edge said dismissively, and went on his way to the kitchen. He didn’t expect Stretch to follow him, cooking was definitely not an interest of his and Edge’s lessons with Blue even more so. He was more than happy to reap the benefits but usually fled the moment the recipes came out.

This time, he sat at the small table, his chin propped on his hand and drumming the fingers of his other hand lightly.

At Edge’s raised brow bone, he only shrugged sheepishly, curling his hand into a loose fist. “sorry. just thought i’d keep you company until blue gets here.”

“So long as it’s company and not a distraction,” Edge said warningly.

Stretch smirked. “i’ll do my best.”

Despite the tease, he made no attempt at flirtation or seduction, only watched as Edge gathered the ingredients they’d need. Fresh vegetables were a luxury in Underfell and he struggled against a helpless spear of unease over using so many in one recipe.

He’d seen the hydroponic garden that the town of Swap-Snowdin had set up, boggling when told it had been Stretch’s concept. It had been with real regret that he’d turned down an offer for a similar setup in Underfell. The electricity simply wasn’t reliable enough and it would be a waste of resources without guarantees.

It was enough to bite back guilt when he took whatever extras the town offered him and his brother. Sharing it with his Snowdin was impossible; all too soon suspicions and greed would demand the citizens find where his largess was coming from and he couldn’t endanger Underswap that way.

It was demoralizing and frustrating in equal measure, but Edge had yet to figure out a solution. In time, he hoped, something would change.

Before his lessons with Blue, Edge had very little experience with cutting vegetables and he was still much slower than his swapped counterpart. But with every lesson he was getting better, and faster, and he made his way through the pile efficiently.

He was nearly done when the knife slipped and nicked the bone of his index finger, deep enough to draw marrow.

“Shit,” Edge grunted, snatching up a towel to press against the wound. He wasn’t worried about the cut, but he didn’t want to waste any of the food by contaminating it.

“careful, edgelord, those things bite.” The chair scraped the floor as Stretch stood and walked over to him.

Automatically, Edge resisted as Stretch tried to look at it and he gave Edge an exasperated look.

“you want me to heal that or are you planning on bleeding all over dinner?” Stretch asked pointedly. “i’m all for a trip to a new flavortown but i’d rather you weren’t on the chopping block. I mean, for everything there is a season-ing and all, i guess. this seems a little extreme.”

Edge sighed irritably and held out his hand. Both Swap brothers were capable healers. It would be foolhardy to turn Stretch away, despite his discomfort at someone else using magic on him. For fuck’s sake, he’d had Stretch’s cock in his mouth, a little healing magic was hardly more intimate.

Except, it was, wasn’t it, the unexpected gentleness as he cradled Edge’s hand in his own. He’d never seen Stretch use any magic besides shortcutting, and the way his left eye light went dark while the right flared green-orange was reminiscent of his own brother. Warmth seeped into the bones of his hand, filling them with soft magic that wasn’t his own. He watched as the cut shrank, then disappeared, the bone left unmarked, with no sign there’d ever been an injury.

Before Edge could pull away, Stretch raised his hand to his mouth and kissed the offending digit. “there. all better.”

Disbelieving, Edge started, “Did you just—“

Stretch scrubbed a sheepish hand over his skull, backing up to his chair and nearly falling into it. “uh, sorry. i always used to do that for blue when he was little.”

Used to…with a jolt, Edge realized he’d never really considered what the Swap brothers’ childhood was like. He’d met them as adults, seen Blue as the competent caretaker of his older brother.

Even when they’d started sharing a bed, he hadn’t questioned that mental assessment. Stretch went to his job and helped out around the house occasionally but there was no question that Blue was the head of the household. Just as Edge was in Underfell.

Why hadn’t it occurred to him that other parts of their lives had surely been mirrored? Stretch was the eldest, which meant at some point he would have been caring for his much younger brother. Like Red had, until Edge had come of age enough to help.

He couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been for a child to take care of another child, even in Underswap

“You’re a good brother,” Edge said abruptly.

Stretch only blinked, fumbling to pull out his lighter and he fidgeted with it, visibly flustered. “um. thanks?”

He didn’t get many compliments, Edge realized, not past Blue’s cheery affection for him…which made no sense.

Then again, He’d walked through Underswap with Stretch, he’d seen the way he was treated; friendly, but with a touch of condescension. After all, he was only Blue’s troublesome brother, who smoked too much, drank at Muffet's too much…and yet he’d created an elaborate indoor garden for them, how could they not see that…?

Well. Likely the same way Edge didn’t see it.

Somehow, that thought hurt worse than any cut finger possibly could.

“Thank you for healing me. You’re very good at it.” Edge told him as he scraped up the cut vegetables into a bowl. That flare of color rose higher in Stretch’s cheekbones.

“nah, blue’s a lot better,” he said dismissively. “i can handle little stuff but he’s the one you want if you’re going to chop anything more than a finger.”

Hm. Proof of his theory. He remembered how Stretch had been shocked at his kiss of greeting at first, the way he’d melted into it after that initial hesitance. As if it had been something he wanted, but didn’t know how to ask for.

“Luckily, I didn’t and your healing did exactly what I needed,” Edge said briskly. “So, thank you.”

“um. you’re welcome?” Stretch said hesitantly. But a little smile curved his mouth and he set his lighter down, propping his chin on both hands to watch Edge work.

So he could accept a compliment, after all. Perhaps he’d be even better at if he grew more accustomed to them.

This would take a careful plan; Stretch was a great deal more clever than most gave him credit for, but Edge believed he was up for the challenge.

If Stretch was making a point of healing his wounds, it would only be fair if Edge did the same.

-finis-

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underswap papyrus #underfell papyrus #12 days of Papcest

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electric-mindfulness-blog · 6 years

Text

Seb and Ed

This is a continuation of a story I found a while ago, it’s a story that really resonated with me, I’ll post the links at the end.

It’s been two years. I hadn’t thought about Ed for all that time until today. A letter arrived in my flat, a week after I moved in, I had just finished uni and had a decent job, and was planning on having a housewarming party. I had been out to collect supplies at around midday, and when I arrived a letter had been posted through, or rather slipped under, my door. It had three words in a familiar, unjoined chicken-scratch style writing.

To Seb.

Then underneath, slightly smaller, as if the writer had been hesitant,

Ed.

It took me several moments to realise I had been standing in the doorway of my flat, staring at the letter for at least a minute; I had dropped my bags, cans, bottles and tubes of snacks and junk food falling across the floor. It was only when the woman from the opposite flat came out and asked me if everything was ok, that I snapped out of my reverie. It hadn’t registered that I had simply dropped two large bags of shopping: she looked distinctly concerned.

“Yeah.. I’m fine, just had a moment” I grinned, unconvincingly, but she seemed placated. She nodded with a frown and retreated back into her flat.

Shoving the letter into my back pocket, I scrabbled across the floor to pick up the detritus that had spilled from my bags, moving unnervingly fast, as if cleaning a crime scene.

Later that day, sat in my room I glared at the letter, unopened, on my windowsill in front of my desk. I willed it to open itself, to save me the task. Needless to say it didn’t. Eventually after trying to distract myself from it for two hours I couldn’t resist it any longer. I ripped it open on one end and tore the letter out, my eyes absorbing every word on the page one letter at a time, savouring the familiar scratchy writing.

Seb,

It’s been a while, I’ve never known what to say to you, and I’ve never been brave enough to call or text. I’m so sorry for how I treated you, I was in a bad place. Luring you into a setup like that was a shitty thing to do, and I really wish I hadn’t done it.

Truth is, things got worse after you left Birmingham. Me and my flatmates fell out, they left and I eventually had to leave as well, I’ve been living with Catherine for a while. Like you said, she is a good friend but.. she isn’t you.

I saw the post you put up about a housewarming party, and I’m sorry to say that I asked one of your friends for your address, I couldn’t help myself. If you want me to come then I will, if not... I understand.

Ed.

I read it and reread it several times. Several thoughts raced through my head, the first of which being how pissed off I was that he had effectively stalked me to get my address, and actually come here, second I was more enraged that I hadn’t been in when he had delivered it. I don’t know what I would’ve done so perhaps it’s best I wasn’t. And finally, a deep pang of guilt in the pit of my stomach for how I had walked out all that time ago, and the empty space in my life that had appeared since I had pushed him away.

He had been my friend since primary school, we had done everything- literally everything- together, we always sat next to eachother on the bus, we would walk to and from school with eachother, we fancied the same people and fought over the same stupid shit, but we were thick as thieves. But what he did had hurt me, not physically, but it hurt me in a dark and unspeakable way, unspeakable because I hadn’t thought about or revisited what happened with him two years previously; I’d also not met with any other men or women since.

The letter had thrown me. Throwing it down on my bed, I picked up my phone, and flicked through my contacts. I thumbed to “E”, and scrolled down until I saw his name. It seemed to stand out like a beacon .

Eddie.

My thumb hovered over his name for a second. Do I call? What would I say after two years of radio silence? “Hi Ed you fucked me over and lured me into a two hour fuck sesh that I thought was a trick to help you break up with your girlfriend”?

No.. I should text. I thought, less awkward that way. I hope. I tapped the little message bubble next to his name, and tapped out a brief message.

Got your letter. Come down a day before the party, 3:30pm Saturday.

Again, my thumb hovered. Before I could second-guess myself, I tapped send. Part of me hoped it would flash and say “message send failure” but no such luck. It sent through instantly, and no less than two seconds flat after it had arrived, the little “sent” became “read”. My breath faltered, it was strange being this close to him but so many miles away at the same time. The thought the we were almost staring at eachother through our words gave me an uneasy shiver.

See you soon.

I clicked my phone off, it’s Wednesday. I thought two days. Shit.

I busied myself by cleaning the flat, moving furniture, rearranging shelves and crockery, anything to distract me from the thoughts whizzing through my head. The following two days passed in a blur.

Saturday morning came, I woke up at 4am, and sat in my bedroom on the bay window, panes wide open, leg dangling out five storeys over the main road. There was no traffic, save for the odd early morning worker, and some cyclists. I picked up a pack of cigarettes: empty. I swore and threw the pack out the window. I slid back inside, throwing on some joggers and a baggy old T-shirt from the bottom of my draw, threw on some trainers and headed down the stairs- the elevator was yet again out of action- and out the door of the flat. I jogged to the local offlicense, and grabbed a six pack of some imported beer, and a few packs of Marlborough superkings. I ambled slowly back home, my head alive with every possible outcome of the day. This could be the total end or the new beginning of us I thought. I sat on the bench outside the flat building for a half hour, listening to the sounds of the early morning, birds, distant car engines, late night party-goers straggling home, laughter and tears. It reminded me of the morning after the night before with Ed. I cursed out loud. Violently, scaring several small animals nearby.

Back inside my flat, still groggy from sleep, I checked the clock, the red digits flashed 4:30am in its repetitive rhythm. How had it only been a half hour? I slipped out of my shoes and joggers, and threw on a long, dark green dressing gown. I wondered into the kitchen, put the beer in the fridge, and opened one of the packs of cigarettes. I sat back on the windowsill and lit it. I hadn’t smoked in a long time, and I savoured the first breath, holding the flame at the end and inhaling deeply. My breathing slowed. How long have I been hyperventilating for? And why?

But I knew why. I was seeing him for the first time in what seemed like forever, though it had only been two years. I had so many questions, so much anger and sadness and feelings that I hadn’t dealt with since I had left. And it scared me. I sat on the windowsill for a long while, reminiscing, and half dozing, all the while chaining the twenty pack, leaving a gap of barely five minutes between the last and next.

It was only when my alarm went off, signalling 6am, that I snapped back into reality, the city was alive now, traffic bustling below me, shops opening, rubbish trucks and postmen. I slipped inside and got changed. I looked into my mirror and froze. The T shirt I had grabbed from the bottom of my draw was his. Ed’s. It was a baggy old concert tee, scribbled on and doctored, ripped and safety-pinned and stitched and patched. Everything about it screamed Ed. I was torn between throwing it out of the window and crying at this point. Instead, I had a roiling wave of rage wash over me, and I slammed my fist into the mirror: I instantly regretted it. The weak frame buckled from the force of impact and my hand went straight through; shards of glass rained down onto the floor, and I gained a Large ugly slash and several stinging cuts across the back of my hand. I yanked off the shirt and wrapped my hand up, heading to the kitchen to clean it up.

After finding a dated first aid kit buried under the sink, I managed to properly bandage my hand and forearm with sturdy, albeit old, medical wraps and adhesive tape. I glanced at the microwave, the shining green numbers emblazoned 7:45, it was still dark outside, the sky was gloomy, as it had been all autumn, making it seem a lot darker than it should have been. I threw the bloodied shirt down on the counter by the sink, I’d come back to that later. I went and lay down on my bed for a while, finishing off the first pack of cigarettes, and rattling off some essays and letters on my laptop. A few hours later, my room stank, even though the window was open, the cigarettes had carved their odour into the walls, and the old porcelain ashtray was full to overflowing with ash and dogends, and there was a strong smell of my own B.O, and of stale tea and incense. It all mingled together to form a not entirely unpleasant but strong smell that strongly resembled the inside of a youth club. Or a brothel.

It was now 1:30 and the sounds of the city had dulled to a hum that I only just registered. I made myself some food, sat down and waited. Having moved all the furniture around, I was sat on a large, blue, five-person sofa in the far corner of the room, the door directly in front of me. My phone buzzed.

On the train now, eta one hour twenty minutes

Nothing I can do now. I stared at the text. It’s really happening I thought. I had secretly been hoping to myself that I would wake up suddenly, but the dull throbbing ache of my pulse across the back of my hand reminded me, all too painfully, that it was happening, however much I wished otherwise. I lit another cigarette, and as I did, I heard a familiar, slightly high pitched voice drift up through the open window, swearing at someone. He’s here. No backing out now. Steeling myself, I went to the door, the phone on the wall rang. I lifted it up, pressed the button marked with an old cinema ticket with “admit one” on its front and put the phone down. I wonder how he got in the other day. Another question to add to the list. I unlocked the front door, and sharpied an arrow on the front. Below I scribbled

This way for the party>>

And I went back inside, leaving the door slightly ajar, to my room, again leaving that door open too. I still had the cigarette in my hand, but it had burnt out. The smell of stale tobacco hit my nostrils and I threw it out the window, taking a fresh one from the pack and lighting it. No sooner than I’d taken the first drag, I heard a voice behind me.

“So you still do lucky lasts then?” He was nervous. His voice was a little pitchy, but it was him. His delicate southwestern accent pulling his A’s out. Laasts.

I inhaled sharply, and turned slowly. He looked.. stunning. He didn’t appear to have aged, his thick black hair was a little longer, and had a deep green streak through it, he was wearing fur lined denim jacket and black jeans, with a red scarf and fingerless gloves to guard against the cold. He seemed skinnier, his eyes were gaunt and his jaw was more prominent than I remembered. But it was ed. I ran forward.

Fin.

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/college/straight-guys-messing-around/ these are the original stories

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odetoo · 6 years

Note

au + 5 hc atla university/professorship au.

Hhhmmm… I hope my interpretation is to your liking. Most of the AUs I’ve talked about and know that are similar to this one are Music Professor AUs which are fun right??? The music professor headcanons are borrowed/inspired by/built off of @firelord-frowny‘s music AUs

1. Zuko is difficult. His father is the head of the music department/director of a prestigious university’s orchestra, and Zuko wants nothing to do with instruments and how to use them… He’s interested in drawing and painting and the visual arts. And Ozai tries his best to put up with that… But as he gets older, Zuko actually becomes pretty good at drawing and Ozai refuses to admit that Zuko is good at that only because he doesn’t see it getting Zuko anywhere in the world.After winning awards in local and school art shows in the last years of high school, Zuko finally convinces his father to let him go to art school, telling him about all the things he could do after he earned a diploma in art. So after telling Zuko to apply for as many scholarships as he could, Ozai decided to pay for Zuko’s tuition at Cal Arts…. However…. Zuko was not fit to be a college student… Didn’t like how the teachers taught their classes, didn’t get enough sleep, or eat enough food, showed up late or he didn’t even show up to classes. So he dropped out after a year and Ozai was pissed. Pissed that he had to spend that money on a school Zuko would drop out of. They have a falling out and Zuko is kicked out.Not having anywhere to go… Iroh offers to take him and Zuko moves to New York with his uncle until he can find a way to make enough to live on his own. He gets a job working as a waiter in a bar next to a tattoo studio. One night after his shift, he passes the owner of the tattoo studio taking a smoke break out back, his arms are all decorated with fancy art and Zuko likes art… So he asks, and they have a long conversation. He finds out the owner is a retired lieutenant from the Navy, and he’s rather grumpy and has no problem speaking his mind. His name is Jee. He also finds out that he’s open to an apprenticeship and the very next day Zuko comes back with a portfolio of his own art and the lieutenant sees potential and accepts to take Zuko as his apprentice, but that doesn’t mean he has to like the kid. Zuko realizes he’s quite happy carving art into people’s skin, and that he didn’t need to earn a piece of paper that said he went to X school of arts to be successful.

2. Azula, quite opposite of Zuko, was always rather gifted. She was playing the violin quite well before she was in her double digits, she was a prodigy. When it came time for college, she of course got a full ride scholarship to the university where her father headed the music department at. Even as a freshman, she’d get first chair and the position of concert master. Anyone who dared to even dream to have her spot would be squashed out by Azula’s sheer determination to be the best, to be perfect… And really everyone thought the reason she was picked for concert master was because she was the director’s daughter, but even if you did take that factor of relation away, she was actually that good to always get first seat when auditions were held. The day she loses her seat to someone else is the day she falls apart, and at home that night, she would confront her father about picking someone else and he would simply reply with ‘Because she performed better than you did.’ She loses her composure for one night and by the next day she’s trying to better her skills to reclaim her seat by the next audition.

3. Aang is aged up a little to be a young professor. He teaches at a liberal arts college and specializes in social studies, more specifically human sexuality and lgbtq studies. He’s the kind of teacher that comes in late to his own class with a bottle of homemade fruit/veggie/herb beverage that everyone wonders about. He’s the kind of professor that hands out cute plushie versions of STI microbes during the STI unit in his human sexuality class. He’s the kind of professor that you can talk to about anything at anytime and he won’t be fazed, he’s a friend. He’s the kind of professor that doesn’t take attendance and has no penalty set for missing classes, because he understands that life happens and college just isn’t for everyone. People who take his class seriously and show up and really care about their education and ask a lot of questions are his favorite kind of students. He doesn’t have exams or quizzes because he doesn’t believe those actually measure a person’s intelligence on a subject. Instead he assigns short essay/journal assignments requiring minimal amount of research on something vaguely relating to the current topic in the class and honestly he just likes reading the students’ thoughts… In fact he encourages creativity so much that he forbids students from writing an essay or research paper for their final projects.

4. Sokka wanted to join the Marine Corps right after he graduated high school. That doesn’t happen because right at the end of junior year, he discovers that he’s been colorblind the entire time… He’s absolutely crushed by this development. Now he has to go to college right away uuUUUgghhh. He goes to a two year school to get his gen eds out of the way and then goes on to a state university and pursues a study in engineering. He’s actually incredibly book smart, and complex math comes easy to him. This college thing isn’t as bad as he thought it would be he thinks. He’s also the kind of student that hosts legendary parties in his apartment, and he spends a lot of his weekends partying, but still manages to do well and get his homework done on time.During one of his parties, he meets somebody(Whoever you want it to be because I honestly don’t know) and he pretty much hits it off quite well with them and before long they’re in a relationship and then living together, and honestly its so bizarre to him how different his life might be if he weren’t colorblind.

5. Katara goes to med school and that’s like… A six year ordeal, and she appears to get through it so gracefully. She does want to be the woman to cure cancer after all, especially since that’s what took her mother away from her :c Though the med school she wants to go to is far away from the rest of her family and they’re really concerned about her especially when she seems so tired when they talk to her and when she doesn’t come home for family events because school work has her weighed down… She really doesn’t get through at as gracefully as her peers see her do, because she ends up really homesick in the end. She goes home, and starts small, working at a clinic close to home and she’s quite humble and happy with that, she just needs a breather.

#avatarsymbolismsblogs #meme #5 headcanons meme #long post #ode writes

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shewhowantsmouseears · 6 years

Text

The Son Of Scheherazade, Chapter 4

Notes: As always, big thanks to my wonderful editors Drucilla and BlueShifted!

The last scene is my favorite one. Had I the power and ability, I'd turn it into a broadway smash. I repeatedly had Millionaire by Cash Cash & Digital Farm Animals ft. Nelly and Lottery by Train on as I wrote it.

Summary: As Mickey falls head over heels for the magician's assistant, he learns that not every romance has the chapters needed for a happily ever after.

Romantic love was an abstract concept to young Prince Mickey. It was the sort of thing that he found difficult to believe existed because he didn't quite understand it. He knew his parents loved each other very much, but he also found love to be so embarrassing he didn't know why anyone would want to indulge it. Why would you want to make those silly kissy faces and call someone ridiculous pet names and devote so much of your time to a complete stranger?

It wasn't until that day that Mickey understood that love wasn't something you really had any say in, because if he had a choice, he would not be intently staring at this beautiful girl in a fake magic show while his parents were probably in danger. A part of him was mentally trying to drag himself away and get back to work, but the rest of him had his feet planted and his eyes wide, not budging an inch. He'd watch her for the rest of his life if he could. It wasn't his fault she was so pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty...

“What wonderful tricks will you perform for us, master?” the girl asked, hands clasped together, smiling sweetly.

“Do the monkey trick again!” one audience member cried out, and another shouted, “The card tricks, show us the card tricks again!”

Mortimer ignored these requests, taking off his coat and turning it inside out to show there were no secret compartments. “It's a little chilly today...I wish my coat was made out of...” Another pause, his tongue flicking back and forth as he tried to think of something. “...red, blue, and...gold poodle fur!” And in a puff of pink smoke, that was exactly what it became, much to the audience's surprise and delight.

“Isn't he great?” A man standing beside the prince and his companions laughed. “This guy's been to ten different cities, but he never does the same trick twice... Or at least never in the same exact way.”

“A-huh,” said Mickey who wasn't paying attention to anything being said.

Horace gave up on trying to drag either of his crewmates away, so he crossed his arms and settled in for the long haul. “I guess originality's a good thing, but that kind of seems like a stretch. Why wouldn't you do the same trick in a different town? It's not like they'd know about it.”

“A-huh,” said Mickey who would have found this interesting if the pretty girl on stage didn't exist... who, it seemed, was getting tired? After that last trick, she put a hand to her chest and her breath appeared to quicken.

“And for my next trick,” Mortimer announced after putting his new coat back on, “I will now...” He took off one of his white gloves, “Pull a water buffalo out of my glove!”

Suddenly the girl seemed to jump, and she quickly ran to Mortimer's side, tugging on his coat. “M-Master, we – you can't do that trick!”

Mortimer stopped in place, and his cheesy expression began to grow cold, glaring down at his assistant, his showman's voice now hissing. “What have I told you about interrupting the gig?”

“But, master...” the girl pleaded, trying to keep on a worried smile. “You already performed that trick in the last town, remember...?”

“So what?” Goofy chirped, bouncing on his heels. “I wanna see it! C'mon, where's the water buffalo?”

Horace looked at his captain. “Do you even know what a water buffalo is?”

“Nope! So it makes me wanna see him pull one out even more!”

Mortimer pulled his hand back as he tried to recall what trick was performed where. “Shhhoooot. Why didn't you tell me before I got on stage!”

The girl stepped back, still smiling but it was clear, at least to Mickey, that it wasn't an honest one. “I tried to, master, but you said you didn't need my help...”

“I don't need your-” But Mortimer cut himself off, realizing that this argument wasn't going to help sales. He cleared his throat and chuckled, turning back into the charming performer. “That is...an audience like this doesn't deserve a water buffalo! They deserve something better! Like... an ice buffalo! A buffalo made completely out of ice!” But when he tried to reach into the glove again, nothing came out. He shot the girl an annoyed look, and in turn she merely raised one eyebrow, and he grumbled, “I wish I could pull a buffalo made out of ice from my glove!” This time he had no problem, pulling out a miniature statue of a buffalo made out of ice. “Ta-da!”

The audience cheered and clapped, save for Horace, who was fairly sure Clarabelle was going to kill them for being late, and for Mickey, who was frowning at the mistreatment his first love – shut up, he told his head, no she isn't – was going through. It was oddly enough the right thing to snap him out of his lovesick stupor – which he wouldn't admit to having because if he turned into his mortifying parents... he would rather jump off a cliff. More importantly, Mortimer the Magnificent had no right to treat anyone that way when they were just trying to help.

Mortimer was relieved that he won the audience back over, but he needed to make-up for all the time lost during that argument, maybe even make them forget it ever happened. “And I wish for a mountain of eastern silk robes to appear!” Which, in another puff of pink smoke, appeared. “And now I wish for the robes to turn into cobwebs!” Which they did. “And now I wish the cobwebs to turn into kitty-cats!” Which they did. “And now I wish the kitty-cats were solid gold carrots!” Which they did, making the audience shout “WOW!” louder and louder with each transformation.

Because Mickey was the only one watching the girl instead of the show, he was the only one to notice how exhausted she was becoming, even though all she was doing was encouraging the audience to applaud. With every new trick, sweat began to roll down her fur, her knees began to buckle, and soon she was so overwhelmed she had to sit on the stage.

Mortimer didn't notice, didn't care, or perhaps had some combination of both. “And for my greatest trick, I wish-”

“Master!” the girl suddenly cried out, her hand to her chest, panting heavily. “I... I think the audience is... so moved by your amazing tricks, they need... a minute to let it all sink in!”

Once again, Mortimer stopped being Magnificent and became maddened, storming over and sticking his index finger in her face. “What did I just say about interrupting the show?! Your only job here is to flash those pretty eyelashes and keep the audience hyped!” The girl flinched, drawing back, but Mortimer wasn't finished with her. “Keep this up, and I swear I'll-”

“YOU LEAVE HER ALONE!”

Now everyone's attention was to the far back of the audience where Mickey stood, his hands balled up into fists. Anger like this was still new to him, so he let it flow through every vein and take over his whole mind. Beauty or not, there was no way he was going to let anyone get assaulted in front of him. He began to walk forward and the audience parted like the Red Sea, suddenly frightened by the fire in his eyes. “You will step away from her... right now.”

Mortimer straightened his back, swallowing hard. “Hey, hey, let's take it easy!” He laughed nervously, fingers pressed together. “You're taking this too seriously! This is all... just... part of the act! Right, babe?” He stared at her intensely, trying not to glare while getting the point across.

The girl bit her lip, and then she looked at Mickey – by gosh those were some deep beautiful blue ocean eyes that NO, FOCUS - and while she had looked out at the audience before, it had been as one collective group, never focusing solely on one person. Now she was actually looking at him, and Mickey could feel his heart skipping a beat. She was still tired, her whole body sagging, but those eyes of hers were still as bright and alive as a new dawn. There was surprise here, naturally, but a sadness that couldn't be put into words. Had it been there all this time since he first saw her? What did she look like when she was genuinely happy?

Mickey offered his hand to her, his voice quiet and gentle. “Are you okay?”

The girl looked down at his hand, and for the briefest of moments she seemed to consider it, lifting her own hand up an inch. Yet within seconds any hope within her died, and her hand curled up – it was then that Mickey saw she was wearing golden cuffs on her wrist. He'd seen something like that back in his home – when newcomers would come to the kingdom, and his parents made it explicitly clear that in their laws, one crime against humanity would never be tolerated there – and his rage was ignited all over again. “Is she your slave?!” His hand shot out, grabbing the girl's wrist and holding it up for all to see. There, on her left wrist, the cuff said “Minnie.”

Collective groups of the crowd gasped, others shocked into silence, and Mortimer flailed his arms wildly. “Nooo no no no no no! It's a fashion statement! Look, I've got them too!” He yanked down on his sleeves, and true to his word he was wearing an identical set of cuffs on his own wrists. Sighs of relief smoothed out the audience, but Mickey wasn't convinced.

“What is she to you?” Mickey let the girl – Minnie? What a nice name, pretty name DANG IT KNOCK IT OFF - go and began to reach for the hilt of his scimitar nestled on his belt. “I'm not going to let you treat her like garbage!”

Mortimer's patience for interruptions was wearing thin. “Look, what does it matter to you? It's all a show! Who do you think you are, anyway?”

Mickey stood tall and proud, a thumb to his chest. “I am Prin-”

“Preeettyyy sure that's enough of you, mister!” Horace and Goofy were suddenly on both of Mickey's sides, clamping their hands over his mouth and dragging him away.

“Real sorry about that!” “His first magic show, he got a little too excitable!”

“Keep up the good work!” “Don't mind us!”

Mickey kicked and yelled, but he couldn't free himself from their grasp until they were in the way back of the crowd, the audience beginning to mesh again. Mortimer cleared his throat, brushing down his long coat. “Maybe it's about time I wrap things up! Two more tricks, and then Mortimer the Magnificent's gotta move on out!”

Meanwhile, Mickey finally wrestled his way out of hands and fingers. “What are you two doing?!”

“Saving your hide, thank you very much,” Horace whispered, trying to encourage Mickey to do the same. “You can't go around telling people you're a P-R-I-N-C-E!”

“And why not?!”

“First off, not everyone is as nice as we are,” Goofy explained, tossing his thumb over his shoulder. “Some folks may look good enough, but the moment money enters their mind, it's like they become a different person. They might think they could hold you for hostage, or try to follow you and steal all you've got!”

“Secondly,” Horace continued, “You've got no authority outside of your kingdom! Even if we run into places that use slavery, you've got no power to stop it! And we can't liberate every single person we find, or those higher-ups will make sure we can never enter their lands again! I know it's rough, but if we're gunna try to find your parents, we gotta play it smart!”

Mortimer scanned the audience to find the richest looking individual, which happened to be a short lady covered head to toe in expensive jewelry. “You there, ma'am! What's the most prized possession you own?”

The woman tapped her chin with her finger. “Why, that would have to be my Ming vase, it's worth millions!”

Mickey knew his friends were making sense, but his heart was still burdened by the ethics and morals he thought applied to the entire world. “But if she's really his slave, we can't just leave her with him! It's not right! You can't expect me to just abandon her!”

Mortimer drew himself up, wiggling his fingers. “I wish this woman's Ming vase would appear in my hands!” A puff of pink smoke, and there it was, with the woman laughing gleefully at what she thought was an amazing fake knock-off and the audience clapping.

“Mickey, you have to think real carefully,” Goofy spoke as kindly as he could, kneeling down to meet Mickey at eye-level. “Right now, it's a choice... that girl, or your parents. You can't save everybody.”

Mortimer eyed the vase, drooling at the sight of something that would make anyone owning it rich for the rest of their lives. “And for my last trick... I wish this woman's Ming vase would reappear where I think it belongs.” He smirked as the vase vanished, and the audience burst into wild cheers for his last trick, though they were begging for more as they threw coins at his feet. Minnie began to pick them up one by one, eyeing the boy in the back.

Mickey shook with anger, and he snatched Clarabelle's list from Goofy's hand. “Maybe you can't, but I won't be that kind of person! I refuse! If you can't save everyone, then maybe I don't want to sail with you!” He then ran off as fast as his feet would take him, blinded by anger, frustration, and the horrible realization that Goofy was possibly right.

Horace was about to go after Mickey, but Goofy placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head silently. Horace slowly nodded in understanding. Mortimer had also noticed the boy taking off, and he was still burned by embarrassment. “And I wish that boy's most prized possession would reappear where I think it belongs,” he growled under his breath, shoving his hands in his pockets as he began to leave the stage.

Minnie heard this, dropping a few coins in shock. “Master!”

“Don't lose a single one,” Mortimer huffed as the crowd began to disperse. “Then get to the shopping and chores. We're out of here tomorrow.”

Goofy tilted his head, watching Mortimer storm off the stage. “I wonder why, with all his magic, he doesn't just poof himself home.”

Horace put a hand to his face, deciding that it was pointless telling Goofy that Mortimer had no magic.

Which, in a sense, was true.

~*~

Mickey ran and ran until his feet were crying out in pain and he was hopelessly lost. Yet as tired as his body was, he was still surging with anger and hopelessness. People were going back and through the marketplace, no one stopping to bless the Son of Scheherazade for years to come. It was just what he needed, since he didn't want anyone to see how close to tears he was. He really couldn't do anything to help that girl? He had to choose between doing the right thing and helping his parents? Could he live doing that every day? Could his parents understand that choice?

He had taken Goofy's list to prove he could get all the supplies he needed all on his own, but he also needed something to vent himself out on. He ripped the list to shreds, and once it was all gone, he slammed his fists into the wall of a bricked up shop, slammed again, slammed it three times before pressing his forehead to the bricks. What had he been expecting? He was still useless. He'd never be able to do anything. He was nothing but the Son of Scheherazade. A stupid, weak, naive little boy that couldn't do anything on his own.

Mickey sniffled, fighting off tears again, and pushed himself off the wall – just in time to bump into someone carrying so many bags and packages that it covered their face and head. Both shouted in surprise, and all the supplies sprawled out onto the ground. “Oh no! I-I'm so sorry!” Mickey apologized, kneeling down and scrambling to try and pick it all back up.

“No, no, it's my fault, I wasn't watching here I was going.”

“I was the one who...” Mickey trailed off, recognizing that familiar voice. He looked over, and there, now kneeling at his side, was Minnie. He made a most undignified “UH!” sound, feeling his tail snap up straight. What were the odds?! His usual depression and self-loathing were set aside because she was now much much MUCH closer to him than before and she even smelled nice wow...

Minnie blinked twice before her own recognition hit. “Oh! You're the boy from the show!”

Well that nice moment ended quickly. “I'm not a boy,” Mickey insisted, despite mentally calling himself that a minute ago, “I'm a man! I'm an official man, I'm eighteen years old.”

“Official man?” Minnie repeated with a hint of amusement, picking up her things. “So there was paperwork and laws involved?”

Mickey got the sense he was being teased. “Of course not. It just... happens, when you turn eighteen.” He was tempted to ask how old she was, but even he knew that was probably dangerous territory when it came to women, especially women you weren't 100% certain about their names. “I mean, I'm pretty sure that's how it goes... is that not what happens in other kingdoms?”

“Lots of lands have lots of different rules about ages.” Minnie shrugged, her arms full again.

“Sounds like you've been to a lot of places.” He was almost jealous.

“I've been here and there.” but Minnie didn't add anything more, as if reluctant to go into details. “...Thank you for helping me. Is that what official men do?” Another hint of a tease.

“I think this is what anyone with common decency does.” Mickey retorted, his arms also full of all kinds of goodies. “This is a lot of stuff for one little lady!”

“It's not for me, it's for my master.”

Once again, the good mood was snuffed out, and Mickey's face went dark. “You still have to call him that even when you're not performing?”

“It is my duty,” Minnie replied with a tired sigh, not wanting to explain this either. She took a step further to try and take her things from Mickey, but he took a step back.

“If Mortimer the Megalomaniac isn't going to help you,” Mickey insisted, “then I will. Just show me the way, and I'll help deliver it!” He finished with a smile, always happy to help.

Yet Minnie was wary, eyeing him up and down suspiciously. “He won't pay you for your trouble.”

“Okay.”

“...And I can't pay you either.”

“Okay.”

Minnie waited, and then pouted. “Well, then what are you expecting to get out of this?”

Mickey looked at her as if she'd just asked why fish in the sea were wet. Wasn't the answer obvious? “I'm not expecting anything, I just wanna help! Besides, if that jerk gave me a single coin, I'd make him eat it.”

Minnie watched him carefully, a puzzle forming in her head until she seemed to solve it with one nod. “Oh, I see... very well, come along.” She began to walk, and Mickey followed, his own questions unanswered. Why did she seem to distrust him even though he had stood up for her? Had Mortimer corrupted her worldview that much? Boy, if there was anyone in the world that deserved a kick to the shin, or somewhere a little more up north...

“My name's Mickey.” he said, trying to steer the conversation towards something more pleasant. “What's yours?”

She hesitated, but it didn't take long for her to relent. “My name is Minnie.” She paused in her walk to let some playing children pass by.

Mickey had been right, her name was Minnie. Minnie, Minnie, he wanted to practice saying it on his tongue but there was no way he could do it in front of her without sounding nuts. “Have you been in this town long, Minnie?” There, he got away with it once, and it felt pleasant. Minnie Minnie Minnie.

“We've only been here for a few days, and we're leaving tomorrow.” One of the children dropped their straw doll, and Minnie tried to return it while juggling her armload of packages. “I think we're headed for Attalaa next, it's very close.”

Mickey pondered if he could get away with putting that location on their map. “I've never been there... guess you could say I've never really been anywhere. I'm a little bit sheltered.” This got a curious and confused look from his companion. “What?”

“Why would you admit that?” Didn't this boy – man, heehee – have any sense of self-preservation? Who stated their faults that easily?

“...Because it's the truth?” Mickey answered with a big shrug. “Maybe I never had too many normal conversations myself. No one really listens to what I have to say... they care more about what I am than who I am.”

Minnie's eyes went down as much she'd allow without tripping over herself. “I know what that's like. After a while, you wonder what's the point of speaking up.”

“Y-Yeah, exactly! Like, why bother learning how to speak at all if no one listens?”

“But if you never said anything, people act like you're the one with the problem.”

“And you don't know what to do, it's like you can't do anything right! You're useless, you feel like... like... like...”

“You shouldn't exist?”

The mice stopped their walking to have their eyes meet. Despite the conversation starting off nicely enough, neither of them had expected to find a similar suffering. They weren't sure what to do with this information, but it wasn't unwelcome. Minnie shifted the packages in her arms a little, eyes shyly looking back and forth between the ground and Mickey's face.

“I didn't think anyone else felt that way,” she murmured after a moment, perhaps lost in a time of ageless memories. “Maybe I thought no one could ever understand... but...” She then shook her head to dismiss herself of the notion. “I shouldn't...”

Mickey leaned in, wondering what the matter was. “Minnie? What is it?” It was if she was almost admitting something but then had punished herself for daring to try.

“It's nothing.”

“If it's important to you, it's not nothing.”

A stretch of silence passed between them, and then Minnie quietly chuckled low in her throat. “It'd be nice if you stayed this way.” Her eyes saw him again. “The way you were at the show... if you're like that everywhere you go, I don't think you're useless at all.” Then she did something so spectacular, so amazing, so heart-stopping wonderful that Mickey could have died happy right then and there.

Minnie smiled. An honest, true, sincere smile that emphasized the pinkness of her cheeks and the beauty of her face, as if it was one she hadn't given to anyone in a long, long time. Nothing in his mother's stories could have ever described what Mickey was seeing. It wasn't just the fact that she was good looking that made it so special – this was a special smile, a rarity, something she didn't get to do too often, a hidden treasure that had been carefully unlocked. This was a smile that only one person could get to see.

Mickey wasn't prepared for it, and it stunned him so deeply that he dropped all the packages in his arms and said, “Wow.”

Minnie jumped. “What are you doing?!”

“Wha-OH! Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Mickey wildly tried to salvage what had now met the ground twice, hoping he hadn't broken anything. “I'm sorry, it was just, you're so pretty-” No!” “I didn't mean that! Not that you're not pretty, of course you are, I-” Nooo! “I'm sorry, I don't know how to talk like a normal person, not that I'm weird or strange or anything you should be afraid of-” STOP TALKING! “I don't know how to talk to pretty girls!”

Mickey continued to decompose verbally in front of Minnie, flailing and hyperventilating while trying to pick up what he'd dropped, yet dropping it all over again as he kept saying more embarrassing things. Why hadn't his parents prepared him how to talk to girls?! … Oh, right, because Mickey would have run out of the room. Minnie just blinked slowly at this odd spectacle, having never seen anything quite like this in all her years. Because this was something she'd rarely seen, it caused a rare reaction.

Minnie's lips twitched, then quivered, and then she burst – she began to giggle loudly, almost losing her own packages. Her body shook and trembled, and she had to take a step back to make sure she didn't collapse from giggling fits. Mickey's face reddened to bright tomato red, but on the plus side, he had made her laugh, which was worth losing whatever dignity he had. He flashed a toothy grin, chuckling quietly. People passing by stifled their own snickers, thinking that a couple of silly kids were having a very unusual first date.

Minnie finally managed to catch her breath, though a few giggles still slid in between her words. “I-I'm sorry, it was wrong to laugh...”

“I think we both needed it.” Mickey did feel more relaxed after it had all passed, since things probably couldn't get much worse from here on. Besides, he got her to smile and laugh, he was feeling very accomplished. “Besides, if Mortimer gets mad his stuff is busted, he should have used his fancy schmancy magic to poof it up himself.”

“He doesn't want to waste the magic on little things.” Minnie waited patiently as Mickey lifted everything back up a second time.

“That so.” Once Mickey was up and at 'em again, they walked. “So answer me this... If he's so magnificent, why put on a show? Why not just poof up some money and enjoy the high life?”

“He craves attention.” Minnie walked with him, a little closer this time. “He wants people praising him all the time. He can't stand not being the center of attention... even if life would be easier otherwise...”

Mickey raised an eyebrow, curious as to how much she'd now allow herself to say. “And I guess he doesn't listen to you when you tell him that.”

Minnie nodded, but her eyes were growing distant, seeing a horizon that Mickey couldn't imagine. “I don't know why I bother. In the end, everyone is the same.”

Mickey furrowed his brows, this once pleasant chat now growing uncomfortable. “What's that supposed to mean?”

She didn't bother to look at him this time. “I'm sure there are lots of good, decent people in the world... but...once someone gets a dose of power...they change. They tell themselves they'll use it to help people, but greed always wins. Deep down, everyone only really cares about themselves, and power brings that out. It's just a matter of time.” It almost sounded like a speech, something she'd said to herself time and time again in an effort to learn.

It also sounded similar to what Goofy had said earlier - Some folks may look good enough, but the moment money enters their mind, it's like they become a different person – and this too didn't sit right with Mickey. No matter how lovely Minnie was or how much he wanted to stay on her good side, this was not something Mickey could let slide. “That's not true.”

Minnie made a tiny scoffing sound. “Is that right?”

“It is right,” Mickey insisted, walking a little faster now. “Not everyone in the world has a greedy person ready and waiting to pop out! There are people who are good all the way through! And you can't let a handful of bad people ruin how the world looks! There are people who will do what's right without rewards or money or power... they'll do it because in their hearts, they know it has to be done!”

Minnie stopped walking, standing in front of a very small clay house that leaned to one side, with all the windows boarded up and big DO NOT ENTER signs plastered all over. “And do you think you're one of those people?”

Mickey almost said “yes” immediately. But would a good person be struggling with the decision between a trapped girl and their own parents? Wouldn't they know the right choice instantly? “...I'm not perfect,” he decided, “And I know sometimes it's just easier to walk away and let things be. But...I am who I am. And I'm not the sort of person who can just ignore someone in trouble, even when there's not much I can do about it. Maybe it makes me good, or dumb, or naive, but there are things about us we can't change. And, honestly, I don't think I want to become that kind of guy who walks away when someone is being threatened. Power wouldn't change that. And I'll tell you that as many times as I need to until we get to Mortimer's place!”

“This is his place.”

“...Oh.” Mickey glanced up. Huh, it sure was a crummy looking house for a magnificent magician. Did he spend all his money on shopping so he didn't have any leftover for a decent place to stay? “...Still meant what I said.” He placed the belongings down beside the front door.

Minnie wasn't entirely touched by his heartfelt words, emptying her own hands beside the house. Mickey glared at the house, clearly wanting to have words with whoever was inside. Minnie stepped to Mickey's side, and her fingers brushed by his arm – he felt a spark fly through his arm and again his anger was put aside to embrace a good old mind malfunction.

“Mickey, whoever you are...” Minnie looked up at him, her fingers now laced together. “I hope that you stay this way forever... and I hope I never see you again.” And Mickey would have probably asked why she said that if she hadn't done what she did next.

She kissed his cheek.

Minnie probably then said something like “goodbye” or “have a nice day” but Mickey didn't hear it, or really pay any attention to her picking up her things and entering the house. He had stopped moving the moment her lips touched his face, and for the next minute he didn't move. He didn't move during minute two either, nor three, nor four.

On minute five, he inhaled. On minute six...

“WHOOO-HOOO!”

This gigantic shout of love-induced euphoria echoed all across the town, which helped José and Panchito locate the mouse, as they had been assigned to find him after something happened on the ship. As they followed the subsequent hooting and hollering, they found Mickey dancing up and down the marketplace, climbing up poles and swinging from curtains, grabbing startled shopkeepers and spinning them in circles. “Aw, he's so happy,” Panchito lamented, “I don't want to tell him the bad news now.”

Mickey turned his head upon hearing that voice, and he sprinted towards the birds, hugging them both. “Guys! GUUUYYS! She kissed me, she kissed me, she kissed me!”

“Huh?” Panchito asked, trying not to drop his guitar.

“Who?” José asked, trying to keep his hat on.

“Minnie, kissed me, on the cheek!” Mickey let them go to break into an impromptu dance routine. “She kissed me, she kissed me, she kissed meee!”

José and Panchito looked at each other, shrugged, and then joined in the dancing and singing, with Panchito strumming the guitar and José miming the action with the umbrella. “She kissed him, she kissed him, she kissed hiiim!”

“She likes me, she likes me, she likes meee!”

“She likes him, she likes him, she likes hiiim!”

“She said she never wanted to see me agaiiin!”

“She said she never wanted to see him agaiiin!” But the birds at least had some common sense, stopping the broadway musical after that lyric. It was José who held up a finger. “Uh, Mickey, mind repeating that?”

Mickey was still making up his own samba, the actual words not hitting him just yet. “She said she never wanted to see me agaiiin-” … Oh, wait, now he heard it. “...She said she never wanted to see me again?” he repeated, frozen in mid-tango, too confused to be heart-broken right away. “Huh? But... she...” Why would she kiss him and then say that? Didn't they connect? Didn't they have a good time? How could things get worse?

“Okay, now we can tell him the bad news!” Panchito pushed his guitar over his back.

“We just got back to the ship...”

“... And Clarabelle told us that Pluto's gone missing!”

#disney #fanfic #the son of scheherazade #mickey mouse #minnie mouse #goofy #horace horsecollar #panchito pistoles #jose carioca

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ohdeargodnotyouagain · 6 years

Text

I’m An Aspiring Writer...

She sat down at her cheap ply board desk for the third time tonight. That was only after doing the dishes, the laundry, all of her closet organization and brushed her teeth twice. Lara Pendleton bit her bottom lip, staring at the blank document on her computer monitor in front of her. Her mouse arrow blinked at her almost hecklingly at the lack of motivation. “Come on, Inspiration. This has never been an issue before. Right when I need you the most?” The monitor’s glow was practically drowned out by the darkness around her. Personally, she had thought that writing in the dark helped her concentration but her need of glasses was making her think otherwise. Turning in her chair she looked at the board beside her. All of her ideas, story snippets, and little pieces of notebook paper with terrible drawings of scenery on them fluttered with the breeze of the ceiling fan. On the bottom row of the board, in strips cut from magazines were potential offers circled in red market. “Any one of these could really get my name out there.” She muttered to herself, then changed her gaze to the ideas she thought about writing about on a similarly clustered board. She sighed tiredly, “Except I have about twelve percent of an ounce of inspiration and I procrastinated way too long.” “I need to free write.” Lara licked her lips for a second, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She clinched her fists and immediately released them, staring down at the keys. “Okay,” The word was through grit teeth, “Let’s think first, and give me something to write about.” Again the chair turned with a little squeak, the chair was older than the desk that wobbled if not half held up by the many bookcases in the room. After a rather disastrous game of darts with the idea sticky notes, she sat down again in her rapidly deteriorating leather chair. The keyboard glowed ominously in the dim. She could hear crickets starting to chirp outside the window beside her with the blinds firmly shut. Her cat was somewhere lounging on a stack of books that had almost given up on being read one day. Lara shifted in her seat, reaching out her hand a bit blindly. Fingers gliding over the pieces that felt almost soft they were so well read over. “I just need a scene, or an idea.” She almost sounded quite sure of herself. “Just grabbing notes and see what fits.”

She picked up the first one she had mixed into order after she pulled them down, not bothering to look while she was doing it. She read it aloud to herself, “An Atlantean-like race, hidden for centuries, finally loses all its knowledge. They have to get it back. Hero is a girl.” She sighed, dropping it in exasperation. “My first idea is fish people. Off to a great start aren’t I, Cobbler?” The cat sneezed as acknowledgement. Pulling herself up to the keyboard she started to free write. Putting it down on paper, digital or not, would help her get into the mindset of a better idea than this one.

The city was growing busier every day. For political reasons, this was a good thing in favor of the Ra’Hel Clan- who had been in power for the last several centuries. But a bad thing, for the crown princess that hadn’t slept the night before. Ceyda, crown princess and this very night was to be sworn in as Queen. She had reached the age that her great ancestor had achieved the thrown, and thus had set the age for all future leaders of their Clan, and if that Clan was in power, their entire kingdom. Ceyda rose slowly from her bed, eyes heavily lidded and hearing the noise of the visitors from all across the sea- the great Pearl of the Ocean and the landwalkers- though they would never see it, Atlantis.

She steeled herself to uncover her view of the city. When the waters were calm and the Earth did not breath fire, the waters were perfectly clear and she could see all the way to great divide’s drop. It was breath taking, but she had to pull herself away. There was much to do for preparing for the coronation. Ceyda had large tails to fill.

She read over it again with a roll of her eyes, then in a mocking tone, “Ceyda had large tails to fill. Why does it have to be about mermaids? It’s overused and I can’t even make them scary mermaids because this is supposed to be family friendly.”

Lara bit her lip, spinning her chair around once. Her fingers flipped through a few books that lay on her desk, then fished through a few stacks of papers until she found her phone. Her lock code being increasingly simpler by the year, she brought up a dial pad. “I need an opinion.”

She hit the number two key on her phone, then the speaker phone button. The brightness contrasted with the monitor light and the room was brightened. The screen was a picture of a young man and her on a hike. Covered from head to toe in dirt and grinning like morons, two dogs sat between them looking as proud as their master’s. Jake was a mountain man who had wondered his way into the city long enough to meet her. They had been best friends since the terrible office job back in her hometown a few years ago. After a few dozen misadventures with him, she had ended up halfway across the world from where she had started from. He was more than likely the only one she trusted for advice among her small group of friends she kept. “Why are you calling me at two in the morning your time?” He answered when she was almost certain it was going to be a voicemail message, but she could tell he was grinning when he spoke.

She winced to herself catching sight of the computer clock, wondering what time it was wherever he was at the moment, “Oh, you know me, burning the two o’clock oil. Expresso is stronger than I remember. I thought I was going to get your voicemail again. Where are you?” His voice crackled with static as he shouted over wind hitting the receiver, “Where do you think? Hiking! What’s going on?” “I’m trying to write something. And I think the beginning is terrible. Atlantean fish folk and a lost treasure basically. What do you recommend? Scrap it?” She shifted the phone now it was between her ear and her shoulder. “No! Never scrap! Keep it and turn it into something else!” He yelled and she turned down the volume. “You’ve probably got a great start. Just keep building on it until you’ve got something. Nothing great comes easy.” Something sounded like it collided with him for a moment and her eyebrows raised at the silence that followed. “Don’t break anything important.” She warned softly, hearing him dust himself off. “I’m fine. Totally fine. Tree got in front of me. You need to see these things yourself! But add mountains. Always add a mountain! And a dog! People love dogs-.”

She laughed, “Alright, I’ll try to add mountains with my fish people… I might come see you… as soon as I finish this story.” He went to say something else but she told him in quick session, “Love you, don’t die, bye.” And ended the call before he could ask when that would be.

Lara sat there for a moment longer, plugging her phone in beside her computer. “Keep going. Add a mountain.” Another few moments later, a new piece of paper was in her hand from where it used to be on the wall, “A spy going down a ski slope is an overused trope.” Lara sat back in her chair, trying to think of how a ski slope was possibly be interesting and what had been in her head when she had wrote that down. Jake would definitely like it though when she sent him a copy. “I could make it funny maybe…” She murmured to herself, trying to put herself in the scene.

The cold would be bitter she’d imagined; but the view would be fantastic. Towering mountains in the distance that were just slightly blurred by sleet- the entire world being a winter wonderland almost. She pictured herself looking down one of those same looming giants, seeing how steep the drop was. “What if someone was chasing me too?” She shivered at the thought and searched around for another note. Something to help her with what might be chasing her? What was chasing her? Who? “A baking group of grandmothers?” She snorted a laugh, grinning at the note. “I’m a spy, sliding down the mountains while people chase me- with guns. And it’s actually grandmothers because I stole…” She waved the paper to herself like a fan, “Their recipes!” Lara slowed down a moment, “That’s going to be really hard to work into the story.” But it gave her inspiration. Moving back up to her desk, she looks at the papers beneath her.

She hadn’t been on legs long enough to know how to run, let alone how to slide down a mountain with them. Ceyda bent down while she sped down the path toward the slopes headed down the mountain, bending low enough to scoop the shield off of one of her enemies. The jump over the edge was terrifying, but forced herself forward while bullets carved their way past her body- barely missing in almost a comical way. The fall was even worse than she imagined- but she put the shield underneath her knees just as she hit the snowy embankment and had the ride of her life. Behind her she could hear yelling and she dared look behind her.

The women from before. When she had first broken into the hide out, against her better judgement but all the information lead here. There were three women, older than god himself discussing their plans for the pearl- the ungodly power they now held between them. It wasn’t a question for her to chase her but she had a small hope they’d think her too insignificant to bother with. Now they were behind her- flying through the air like demons made out of smoke and bone. Their voices cracked and screeching. Her father had been right, their evil was beyond her in every way.

The pearl bounced around in her bag, flinging itself with almost a musical tinking every time she hit a limb or rock. But she had it. She had the pearl- the world would be safe for another few moments. They closed in on her and she swallowed, shutting her eyes and wrapping herself around the pearl as the makeshift slid hit a rock- and sent her soaring. Three pairs of claws reached out and she took a breath. The world would be safe for another moment. Another moment she’d be here in this moment- another moment she could be with Wilo. If her father knew she had been with a deep dweller like him there would be true hell to pay. It was funny- how of all moments her last thought would be about him.

Lara practically grinned at that. She liked dramatic scenes for some reason and if one asked her was probably her most favorite part of writing. There had to be a way to make this blend together. Her cat rubbed against her leg after a pile of books oozed itself onto the floor next to another stack that had met the same fate. Though she would never tell anyone, not Jake and certainly not a future editor if she ever got that far, that she had a romantic side too. She took another note off the wall that fit perfectly with that. “A royal ball, dancing and music. A romantic meeting of leaders.” She put all the notes she had in a row, reading through them one more time. “Now this is going to be interesting.” Lara brushed her hair out of her face, tying it up off her neck and pulled her keyboard closer to her.

Wilo was waiting at the end of a wide double staircase that lead to an lower floor, a room that had been designed for the royals to enter only for tonight. The party was grand and in her opinion, overly lavish for their kind. But now the long tables were cleared and open for their people to arrive. This event was open to everyone and many danced with their children and longtime partners. Wilo stood waiting, hands clasped behind his back tightly. He had been given permission by her father, the first of his kind too to be allowed inside their walls. His breath was calm, but his eyes shut trying to remain that way. Deep dwellers were people of the wilder oceans where they had not claimed for themselves. But her opinion of their worth had changed, as much as everyone’s had when they had been the deciding force in this war being won.

He had been the deciding force in her battle and now he was here. He had a guard with him who nudged him from checking the timepiece he had on him. Wilo grunted at first and then a sharper nudge sent him looking at his man, then in the direction he was looking. The young outlaw prince’s jaw dropped when he saw her- taking each step with enough grace to make him wonder if he was truly awake. Ceyda was already a breathtaking woman in his eyes, but this made him think of her as a queen- his queen. He cleared his throat, “Enjoy the party.”Wilo told the guard next to him, stepping toward the stairs to meet her at the last step. “Good gods, I must say my lady, the Queen will be here in a moment and I don’t think I could part ways with you. She’ll very upset with me.”

Ceyda shook her head, “You came.”

“Why not? I wasn’t uninvited by helping you save the world was I?” Wilo offered his arm to her and she took it as they entered the main door of the ballroom together. It was very Victorian influenced from their brief days above ground.

“No. I don’t think this place would be the same without you.” She looked up at him, “You will stay, won’t you?”

“Oh, good lord.” She sighed, reading it over again. That was a god awful romance scene if she ever read one. But she couldn’t help wonder if it was just the thing something like this needed. It was an adventure story and why shouldn’t the hero get the man in the end?

Those were three big scenes that she could work with. Now all she had to do was fill in the blanks between them to make something fluid. It wasn’t long, but it would do to give her an outline to fit the story to. The plot was quick to jot down after rereading her work. This was almost as good as something she might send out one day as an actual description. It would keep her on point too to have this nearby while writing the entire thing out.

‘An Atlantean race of people, long forgotten by those who walk above the surface of the water, has lost their greatest treasure. All of their technology, knowledge, and culture documented on a sacred pearl by ways surpassing our knowledge is a highly coveted artifact. On the night of the king’s ball, where he was to retire and his daughter to take his place, the pearl is stolen underneath their noses. An ancient order of evil that they had thought died out long ago is now back and ready to take their positions as rightful leaders of the world have left their calling card. The three sisters of power hold the secret to defeating this evil- but no one knows where their loyalties lie. The princess, after her men die from trying to take back the pearl, goes herself- using dark magic to allow herself to walk both on land and sea. She discovers a plot to not only use the sea to not only end her people but all those on land as well. With a few unlikely friends; a scientist from deep inside a research base in the mountains, and a deep ocean dweller (sworn enemies of her shallow water people) named Wilo, she is able to defeat the power of three and the order they control. She returns to her people, now queen. She is saddened though, missing those she had been with on that adventure. The princess is a hero, and as she turns to her deep ocean dweller companion there. They dance together at the ball when it is interrupted by a new threat no one saw coming.’

“I’d read it.” She shrugged, printing it out and sticking it to the side of her monitor as she began to write. Her keystrokes gaining speed as she worked through the story. Sometimes acting out some of the scenes to round out the edges of writing them. It had been hilarious when she had tried to use an arm chair to help her picture skiing away from attacking evil grannies. Cobbler had voiced his concern as she practically yelled with joy when she had found the answer to a difficult kink in the plot of exactly where Wilo was going to wonder across her path. Lara puffed a piece of hair out of her face, reading the last few sentences of her work. Birds had replaced crickets and somewhere between the ball and the grandmother trying to sell the princess’s love interest a poisoned banana- she had gotten a cup of coffee to help her through the last few lines. Sunlight was shining through the blinds, spreading warmth through the room where she turned them open from where she sat. The hanging plant in the corner of the room, almost forgotten, perked up at the new brightness. Lara took a deep breath and read the entire thing to herself, a now completed piece of work. One of the first of its kind for her. She saved it again, probably for the fifth time since she had finished editing. Then backed it up for good measure. A copy went to Jake with a sentence instead of a title. “I’m an aspiring writer, and at least it’s not my other sci-fi book.” She sent it and did a few more small changes before forcing herself to say it was done. She knew it would be another month if she kept up with the tweaking- and she didn’t have that kind of time. Lara read over Jake’s insights that came surprisingly quickly back to her and sent the final copy to the company that had asked for a new fiction pieces from writers like her. She would never get anywhere if she never took the step of actually sending in her work.

Weeks went by and she wondered if it had been worth anything at all as she still kept writing what came to mind. It was a bug to write, something that constantly kept you up and busy. Could she try rewriting this piece again if it wasn’t chosen and try something better? Should she scrap it and try another idea mixed with the myriad of others. Maybe it was even time to clean out the idea board and start over. With a sigh she sat heavily back at her desk in her makeshift office- a long stretch of the day job had made this moment almost like heaven. Cobbler tried to sit on her keyboard before she gently shooed him to a shoebox with his name on it nearby. First e-mails, then another cup of coffee, not espresso, and then on to the next piece. There had to be something she could inspire someone else with- something that someone could feel like they could relate to. Her e-mail page finally opened in front of her, Cobbler settling into the box beside her with a purr. 1 New Message “RE: Congratulations Ms. Lara Pendleton! We have selected your…”

#sabinemorans #my work #copy right #whatever #cassanderswork

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hope-the-myope · 4 years

Text

Helium - Supernova

Part IV of IV of a BTS Fanfiction - February 2018

This is the final part of Helium. I hope you enjoyed it! I had a sequel planned called Neon, which I may post about later if there’s enough interest. If you missed the first parts you can use the following links:

Part I - Fusion

Part II - Deflate

Part III - Decay

Read it on Twitter or Wattpad or down below!

* * * * * * * * *

The last can of soup rattled into the trash can, scraped clean by a hungry Hoseok.

His pantry was empty. His fridge was empty. And in a few hours, his stomach would be empty, too.

Catching up on classes hadn't gone so well. Hoseok tried to attend; it was easier without Yoongi's constant pestering. But he'd missed so much of the semester already. His notes were an unreadable mess of question marks and misspelled theorems, and since he didn't have any luck with that first round of applications, studying was soon replaced with forms and job interviews at odd shops.

All he had left in his account was the money for rent. One more month and he would be out on the street.

And to top it all off, he hadn't heard once from Yoongi since the loan. Even with all the messages Hoseok sent, all the unanswered calls he made, all the concerned voicemails he left, he was left with no response.

At first, Hoseok told himself Yoongi must have been planning the funeral. It didn't seem there could have been anyone more important to Namjoon, since he was all Yoongi ever talked about. But after weeks of quiet, Hoseok couldn't use that excuse any longer.

He couldn't even attribute Yoongi's abscence to mourning. It had been far too long.

Hoseok couldn't help but fume over his own stupidity. He'd let go of a month's rent. A whole month of cash, gone, taken by the exact same kid who shattered Hoseok's only source of income.

But he couldn't blame Yoongi, no. It was Hoseok who stayed awake when he easily could have shut down his cell phone. It was he who let Yoongi in over and over again, who invited him over and berated his guest like an imbecile. And it was he who gave his rent away like some kind of philanthropist with cash to blow.

It was because of himself that he was starving now, living on the scraps left behind in his kitchen.

Hoseok checked his watch. It was past time to leave for class. In fact, with whatever sluggish walking pace he could manage, he was guaranteed to arrive late.

And with that guarantee, Hoseok made a decision. It was another stupid, risky decision, just like all the others he'd made since he met Yoongi.

He slammed his books back on his desk and threw his bag into the kitchen. This would be the first time he'd skip class intentionally.

He was going to see Yoongi.

* * * * * * * * *

The building looked just as ragged and decrepit as always, ivy climbing up every face and slithering around each window pane, all the way to the roof.

Hoseok walked inside, and as usual, the front desk was empty and the stairway was unlocked.

He stomped up the steps, counting the floors as he passed by each sign. Floor seven was where he stopped.

His heart was racing, and whether it was from the stair-climbing or the anticipation was unbeknownst to Hoseok.

"Room 72"

Hoseok knocked. Once, twice, but the door remained shut. From outside, he could smell skunk radiating from the room

"Yoongi?" he called. No answer echoed back.

After a minute of waiting, Hoseok was sure he heard voices coming from inside, so he gripped the doorknob tight and twisted, finding himself launched into a room of smoke.

Only vague shadows were visible at first, then the smoke diluted to reveal the grayed furniture of Yoongi's apartment.

"Hey," a voice giggled from the foggy couch. "It's our gracious donor, huh? Did you invite him to share?"

A blonde head twisted around from the chair with its back turned to Hoseok. Yoongi grinned that famous gummy grin. "Oh yea, that's him," he laughed back at the guest.

"What is this?" Hoseok asked, recoiling from the clouds billowing from Yoongi's mouth and shielding his nose with one hand. He scanned the room for a moment. The windows were sealed, the smoke alarms were unwired and without batteries, and the stranger on the sofa held a strange green flask up to his lips before drawing in a long breath.

"Hotbox," Yoongi groaned. "Didn't want to waste any of the good shit."

"I don't understand."

The other boy piped up, "Well, you paid for it. You should understand better than anybody, right? Don't wanna waste money..."

Then he leaned back into the couch and mumbled something about his stomach.

Hoseok couldn't help but show his disgust. "This is where that money's gone? I gave it to you for rent!"

"Taehyung here got a pocketful of cash for winning something -- a rap battle, I think?" Yoongi draped himself over the arm of the chair and shut his eyes. "If you're upset, just imagine your money went to rent, and Tae's went to the pot, all right?"

"All right?" Hoseok stepped into the room, right above Yoongi's head. "I'm broke. I'm broke, Yoongi. You could have returned my money if you were covered this month."

"It's not a problem right now, Hobi. Just chill out."

"No. No, Yoongi, this isn't my problem anymore. This is your fault." Hoseok crouched down so his face was right in front of Yoongi's. "And I'm done with your bullshit."

"My what--"

Yoongi was cut off by a fist.

Hoseok's cheeks were bright red. He was furious. He was violent. He grabbed Yoongi by the shirt collar and pulled him from the chair, flinging him to the ground.

Hoseok was yelling now, loud enough for the whole building to hear. "My life is ruined!" He threw one of the books from the coffee table. "Who's going to trust someone who can't even live a semester on their own, huh?" Another book landed right next to Yoongi's face. "You talk so smugly about wasting money, but whose money are you really wasting?"

Both of Hoseok's feet landed right next to the last book, right next to Yoongi's head.

"A whole semester of college, Yoongi, down the shitter. And that money wasn't mine. It was my mother's."

He pulled his leg back, and the last coherent words he could get out were, "No one steals from my mother."

And his foot swung into Yoongi's gut.

Hoseok had him pinned down, arms and legs all pressed to the ground as Yoongi, helpless and faded, took punch after punch to the skull.

Sirens squealed in the distance. The blaring passed right by Hoseok's ears, but Taehyung was fumbling toward the fire escape. He hit the table, then the chair, and finally ran head-first into the screen door.

The rusty fire escape creaked and clunked for minutes as he rushed down all seven flights, escaping by just the hairs of his chin.

But Hoseok was still throwing blow after blow at the body below him, who was long unconscious, when the police busted in.

The officers found Hoseok red-knuckled and dizzy. His hits had become mere nudges as the smoke filled his lungs and his veins like molasses. But the blood dripping from Yoongi's cheeks was enough evidence of the terror Hoseok had let loose.

They dragged each boy away like rag dolls, both unconscious long before they entered their respective vehicles, Hoseok in a squad car, Yoongi in an ambulance.

* * * * * * * * *

The officer unlocked the holding cell and led Hoseok by the shoulder toward the offices.

His hands were still red on the back, knuckles scabbed and bloody. But his palm and fingertips had been swiped clean for prints.

With those clean fingertips, he unhooked the phone from its mount on the wall. He spun away from the officer and dialed in the digits he knew by heart.

The line rang only once before a sweet voice on the other end answered, "Hello?"

Hoseok felt hot tears drip down his cheeks.

"Hello, mama."

#writeblr #writing #bts #fanfiction #creative writing #kpop #writers #authors #writer #my writing #my post

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ecotone99 · 5 years

Text

[SF] [HM] Case in Point

**Case in Point was written as a short story, and is also now the prologue for the SF novel I'm writing, of the same name. So feedback very much appreciated, good or bad, to help me shape & develop the novel!**

Frank Kincaid was not a happy man. He wasn’t even Frank Kincaid. At least, not the original.

It started like this: you want something done right, do it yourself. Don’t have the time? Copy yourself into a new body and send them instead. Expensive, certainly, but if the job was important enough, the payoff sufficiently high, you’d be crazy to send some other schlub. But what if the job was unpleasant? What if it was something you didn’t want to do? Well, that was easy too: you adjust the copy, tweak it a little so it won’t mind getting its hands dirty or, if it does, it’ll be stubborn enough to do it anyway. And then, assuming you’re a decent human being, you meet up afterwards, buy yourself a few beers, pat yourself on the back, and reintegrate.

Assuming. Of course, if you’re not a decent human being, then you just take the money and run. Saves having to fill your head with all those unsettling memories. And then your copy would find itself stranded somewhere – say, a sleazy bar in the cheap side of a half-finished habitat dome on Mars – with no money, some newly-acquired enemies, a head full of edited memories and personality algorithms, and one solitary certainty to cling to: that the real Them, whoever They were, whatever Their actual name might be, was an absolute, first-class, no-holds-barred, unrelenting bastard.

As small comforts go, that one was pretty tiny, but Kincaid clung to it with a tenacity that had probably cost his old self a small fortune in psychosurgery bills to acquire.

He glared up at the barman defiantly, and ordered a whisky. The barman glared back and laughed.

“Nice try. Orange juice or lemonade?”

Kincaid sighed, gesturing his meagre bank account into life in the space between them, and proffered a ¥2,000 note. “How about a coffee, and maybe you could Irish it up for me?”

The barman shook his head in disgust but took the bribe anyway. Kincaid snatched up the drink and retreated to a table in the corner where he could brood in peace.

“For the love of God, kid, read the sign. No smoking.”

Kincaid glanced guiltily at the cigar poised halfway to his mouth, and returned it unlit to his top pocket.

That was another thing. Would it have been too much to ask to give himself a fresh set of habits to go with the new body? Say, a keen interest in football, sucking his thumb, and fizzy drinks from around the solar system. As opposed to booze, tobacco, gambling and womanising – the last being particularly problematic. There was an old joke: “I wouldn’t touch any woman who’d be interested in the likes of me.” Ha. Welcome to Self Loathing, Population: 1.

He glowered into his coffee.

“Jen: Any interesting contracts available?”

Genevieve burst into glorious life in the corner of his retinal HUD and pursed ruby lips thoughtfully. “Some old lady’s offering fifty thou’ for the safe return of her missing cat?”

“Hysterical laughter. For the last time, I’m not a PI anymore, I don’t find pets. Next?”

“Halcyon have-”

“Hang on. Fifty grand? For a cat? Mark that one down as a definite maybe.”

“Sure thing. Halcyon Interplanetary Industries have a ¥150,000 bounty on one Tricia Altmann, wanted for embezzlement. Civil case, so bring her in alive. I’m flashing up her corporate ID, address, known contacts and immediate family.”

Kincaid scanned the data sourly. “A hundred and fifty. Well, aren’t they generosity incarnate. What did she do, make off with the petty cash? Don’t you have anything with a little punch? I’m not getting off this rock on cats and suits.”

That earned him a stern look from eyes the colour of molten bronze. “Cats and suits pay the bills, Frank. “Punch” gets you killed.”

“What are you, my Mum? Come on, something in seven figures, at least. Make it worth my while.”

She raised an eyebrow but let it pass. “You know I hate the ‘armed and dangerous’ file.”

“We’re not having this discussion again. I’m going back to Earth. I’m going to find the real me. I’m going to punch him for a while, and then I’m going to bodynap the bugger. Okay, maybe reverse the order on that one and switch bodies first. The important thing is, I’m getting my body back, and my life, and the real me can have this one, see how he likes it. That’s going to take money and plenty of it. And that means spraying bullets – no two ways about it.”

She gave him a Look. “It’s only because I care, Frank.”

“You’re programmed to care, don’t make it sound noble.” He regretted it instantly, but the damage was done. Synthetic hurt feelings washed over technicolour features, sculpted brows drawing together in artificial fury. “Listen, Jen-”

“Fine. You want seven figures? How about eight. The Raminov Brothers, Lev and Vadim, wanted for extortion, armed robbery and five counts of murder. Seven mil’ for Vadim, eleven for Lev, dead or alive. There’s your big score – might even cover the hospital fees. You can catch them now if you hurry, they’re all over the news, shooting up a housing fab three blocks away. Two badges dead at the scene, so – your lucky day – the reward should be going up any time now.”

“I-” The apology got no further than his throat, or its digital equivalent in his private VR, where it twisted into a grunt of annoyance. “Huh. Right then. Was that so hard? Flash me the address and let’s get going.”

She sulked all the way there. Well, he was an arsehole, right? Case in point: young Frank, two years out of New Scotland Yard Crime Academy, working traffic in South London. That’s London, Earth. As in, real air, real whisky, real coffee. There he was, admiring the congestion, when a black roadster came screaming out of a side street hotly pursued by a ’29 Ford Classique. They both swerved to avoid the gridlock, the Classique mistimed it, mounted the curb, and ran over a ten-year-old kid.

Messy. Kincaid still remembered the shock of staring down into the ruined face as he dialled the emergency services, hoping against hope the boy’s parents were among the privileged few who could afford personality backup, because it didn’t take a medical degree to see that nothing was going to be salvaged from what was left of that poor skull. The driver was stood beside Kincaid, sobbing that he was a copper in pursuit of a suspect, that he hadn’t seen the kid, oh Christ, he just came out of nowhere.

No sympathy. The man’s career was over, of course, and he didn’t try to fight it, but the higher-ups wanted to paint it as a freak accident. No Reckless Endangerment, just a blameless copper in the wrong place at the wrong time, resigning out of guilt and nothing more. Kincaid wouldn’t have it. That much speed in a built-up area, someone was going to get killed, and he testified accordingly. Two more ruined lives to add to those of the family – the kid wasn’t backed up, so it was jail for the officer, and Kincaid was drummed out of the force on a trumped-up disciplinary a few months later. Or maybe it wasn’t so trumped up; he’d had a few issues since the accident, hadn’t exactly been cooperative with the mandatory trauma counselling. So some punches were thrown, big deal.

The point was, he’d had it easy, threw it all away on a point of principle. And for what? To hammer another nail into the coffin of a man already riddled with guilt? Arsehole.

He checked the action on his Glock Needlegun, made sure the concealed armslide was unobstructed, and swung himself out of the beat-up VW that currently served his transportation needs. There were a couple of camerabots jockeying for position outside the fab’s characteristically Martian red brick frontage, but no immediate sign of trouble. He pushed past them, drawing angry electronic squawks as their live feeds filled with the back of his head.

A shot rang out from inside the building as he reached the entrance, followed by a burst of automatic fire. He flattened himself against the wall. The distant wailing of sirens gave him about a two minute lead on the police – couldn’t claim a bounty for men who were already dead or in custody. He unclasped his satchel, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The foyer was gloomy and had the look of a rundown hotel, shoddily converted into housing after the colonial bubble burst: grubby carpet that might once have been beige, cracked plaster, and a cheap plastic reception desk made up to look like wood. Kincaid decided against using the lift and was halfway up the first flight of stairs when more automatic fire rang out, answered by a couple of single shots. Sounded like the next floor, somewhere off to the right. The bloody forms of two private police decorated the landing. No pulse.

He pushed through the door to his right and followed the gunfire down a dim corridor. Half the lighting strips were out and one in every two of the doorways had been crudely sealed up as part of the conversion, the brickwork left exposed. No one had even bothered to paint over. He peered around the corner and then ducked back hastily. Two men were taking cover beside a kicked-in door, automatic shotguns in hand, the kind of faces that betrayed a lifetime of violence – broken noses, cauliflower ears, more scar tissue than unmarred flesh. Lev and Vadim, without a doubt. There were bullet holes in the plaster behind them; someone was firing back?

The shotguns sounded out once, twice, three times. Kincaid risked a glance in time to see the pair pile through the doorway, firing as they went. He followed as stealthily as he could, pausing outside to take stock. The Russians were advancing down a short hall, weapons trained on the far door, through the tattered splinters of which could be seen the remains of a hand basin, a cramped bathtub, and fallen across it, bleeding heavily, a middle-aged woman. A handgun slipped from her grasp as Genevieve flashed up a photo ID: Tricia Altmann, formerly of Halcyon Interplanetary Industries.

Kincaid considered the Glock, but the odds of putting both men down cleanly without either twitching off a shot into Altmann’s face weren’t promising. No time to think. Shit.

“Mummy!” He broke cover and ran towards them, satchel bouncing around at his side. “Don’t hurt my mummy!”

The brothers turned in confusion, and one reached out a hand and grabbed him by the front of his school uniform, hauling him into the air. Pitiless eyes stared into his.

“Your mummy’s going to die, son. You can watch if you like.”

Kincaid reached into his top pocket. “Cigar?” he offered civilly, by way of a distraction, as his other hand found what it was looking for in the satchel and brought it out. “I’d run if I were you.”

He brought his little legs up against the Russian’s chest and kicked as the grenade hit the ground, clattering away across the tiles. He landed awkwardly, rolled into the tub next to Altmann, and covered her eyes as the flashbang detonated.

The Glock slid smoothly into his hand and he was firing blindly into the room before the flare died away. Huh. The Raminovs weren’t as stupid as they looked – there was no sign of them, which meant they’d either fled back down the hallway or else ducked into one of the side rooms. His ears were ringing too loudly to be much help on that front, but Genevieve reported the sound of running footsteps in the corridor outside.

“You okay?”

He realised the futility of the question when his own words were drowned out by the ringing, so he settled for checking her over by hand. Her shoulder was a mess and blood was seeping from a wound in her side, but she was strong enough to pull him off when he tried to lift the blouse.

“Listen-” He shook his head, and switched to virtual audio courtesy of Genevieve. “Listen, you need medical attention. Here-” He fumbled in the satchel and brought out a medical kit. He started to pantomime patching her wounds, but it seemed she’d had the same idea about virtual audio.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Kincaid. Hi. How are you? Now help me get that blouse off before you bleed to death.”

It wasn’t pretty. Buckshot might not be the most sophisticated of technologies, but the shotguns were state of the art, military-grade kit. Powerful, lethal, highly illegal, and still relatively safe to use within the confines of a hab dome. Not as safe as his needle rounds, mind, but not everyone could be the upstanding citizen he was.

He tutted and sprayed on idiot mix – a combination antiseptic, anaesthetic and fast-acting clotting agent that was usually enough to get the drunk and accident-prone to hospital before they bled out. The pock-marked flesh scabbed over and he added a layer of synthskin for good measure. It looked a god awful lumpy mess, but then it would all have to be redone when the shot was removed anyway.

She glanced at him questioningly and he shrugged. “You’ll live. Probably. Here-” He offered his hand and half-helped, half-dragged her out of the tub. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s the sound of a dozen pairs of flat feet piling out of a rapid response unit. Fancy sticking around and explaining all this? Didn’t think so. Rear exit?”

She led the way. They came out in the car park, and she unlocked a corporate dronemobile and ushered him in. There’d be some explaining to do when the police traced his VW out front, but he’d have to figure that out later.

“So what’s your story?”

The car glided out of the lot and into the Martian twilight, and Altmann eased the seat back and sprawled. Her hair was more dust than brunette, her face a patchwork of worry lines, pale with shock, but there was enough of a hint that she might be bookishly handsome underneath it all for him to want to like her. She quirked a tired grin at him. “You first, ‘son’.”

He grimaced. “You don’t want to hear all that.”

She laughed, then clutched at her shoulder. “Ow. Sure, no one ever wants to hear that story, I bet.”

“Hardly anyone at all,” he agreed dryly. “Okay, fair enough. My name may or may not be Frank Kincaid, and I’m not me. I’m a copy. If I can trust my own memories, which honestly I don’t, I was created to collect on a particularly difficult bounty here in New Beijing.”

To be fair, she was probably too tired to look especially shocked, but she still took it pretty well. “Bounty hunter, huh? That mean we’re about to take a detour to Halcyon corporate HQ?”

“The thought had crossed my mind. But I’m happy to cruise on auto while we talk things through. I was after the Russians.”

“Isn’t it against some kind of code to take out the competition?”

He snorted. “Those two, bounty hunters? Do me a favour. The pittance on your head wasn’t even enough to get my attention, never mind the Raminov Brothers.”

“Pittance? I’m positively insulted. I thought they’d at least stretch to a trifle. So if they aren’t bounty hunters, who are they?”

“Thugs. Killers. Any idea why they’d want to spray paint your home in buckshot grey?”

“Not if they weren’t after the money. That wasn’t my home, by the way. That was temporary. Trying to lie low...” Her voice tailed off and she looked for a moment like she might be sick, then she drew in a long breath and sighed it out. “So, you were telling me about this person you’re not. If I’ve got this right, you’re some kind of edited copy, sent to kill a big shot here in New Beijing. Anyone I know?”

“Wu Lao Hui.”

He smirked. No hiding her reaction to that little name drop.

“Wait, you-”

“Yep. Wu, AKA Ahmad Ben Shah, AKA The Butcher of Benghazi, AKA Theodore Valentinas. That last name you probably won't have heard before, but it’s the one he was born with. The man swapped identities like you’d swap shoes. Anyway, that was me. Unnamed government operative, my arse.”

She frowned sceptically. “The Libyans couldn’t reach him, and you took him out in that piece of shit body?”

“Appearances can be deceptive. Which was the whole point. Valentinas had a brother, lived with him in the bunker, and the brother had a family. Specifically, a wife, Lara, and their ten-year-old son, Raph. This body was custom ordered by the original me to be a perfect duplicate of Raph. I was created to occupy that body, and psychosurgically altered to suit the needs of the operation. I strolled in past security, shot Valentinas twice in the chest and once in the head, and strolled right back out again.”

She whistled. “So why-”

“-doesn’t anyone know it was me?”

“And why-”

“-am I still here? Because, firstly, killing the head of the most powerful crime family in New Beijing is one thing, living to tell the tale is another (hello, Frank Kincaid, blabbermouth, pleased to meet you), and secondly, I can’t afford transport off this rock. Frank 1.0 welched on the deal. Collected the money and disappeared. That’s assuming, of course, there ever was a version of me working as a bounty hunter on Earth, and I wasn’t cooked up in a lab by Libyan Intelligence to take care of business. Plausible deniability, all that jazz.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of uncertainty to live with, and any way you look at it-”

“-I’m buggered. Yep. Speaking of which, your career prospects aren’t looking too rosy right now either. Care to fill me in? Maybe we can work out why two hired killers with military issue hardware have taken such a dislike to you.”

She took another deep breath. “It doesn’t make any sense. Look, I work in Accounts. The pay stinks, the hours are lousy, and my boss has bad breath and wandering hands. So, I siphoned a little out of the slush fund. A couple of mil’. Just enough to tide me over till I found a new job – I didn’t think they’d even notice.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, several mil’. Nine, actually. Still, petty cash to a hypercorp.” She leaned into him, one hand on his chest, and big brown eyes bore into his. “Please help me, Frank.”

Kincaid sighed and shook his head sadly. “Just when I was starting to like you. You’re a poor helpless pencil pusher who got greedy, and now the big nasty hypercorp is trying to kill you. Good thing there’s a strong, dashing man for you to snuggle up to.” His lip curled in disgust. “You’re not a pervert, Ms Altmann, and neither am I, so drop the act. You wouldn’t be trying to manipulate me this hard unless you knew a lot more than you’re letting on.”

She recoiled as if she’d been struck, and sat watching him for a moment. “Halcyon are trying to kill me, Mr Kincaid.”

“Doesn’t wash. Why set the bounty so low if they give a damn about finding you? Try again.”

“Because licenced bounty hunters won’t kill over simple theft – it’s illegal. And Halcyon don’t want me alive, they want me dead. I took ¥100,000,000, and it’s still not about the money.”

Kincaid whistled softly. “Go on.”

“It’s about our Russian friends, in a way. And corporate espionage, corruption, false accounting, insider trading; all the happy things. A lot of big players went bust when the bubble burst, and Halcyon owns most of them now. There’s reasons for that. Dirty, shameful reasons. The kind of reasons politicians need an incentive to overlook. I was supposed to deposit the money in Governor Chou’s Swiss bank account, like I do every month. I opened one of my own instead.”

The pieces rotated in Kincaid’s mind, and clicked into place. The best way to serve a lie was with a liberal garnishing of the truth. “So they accused you of petty theft to cover up a larger one. Posted a bounty so low they hoped you’d never be found. Sent in a team of their own to make sure.”

“That’s about the size of it. What do you plan on doing, now that you know? I’ll cut you in for half if you take me someplace safe. You could get back to Earth on that kind of money, set yourself up with a whole new life.”

He would’ve taken her offer – of course he would. He didn’t get the chance, because at that moment a black van T-boned the saloon, crumpling the left rear corner like so much tin foil and sending the vehicle spinning into a wall.

It could’ve been worse. If the autodrive hadn’t swerved at the last moment, Altmann would have been crushed to a pulp and Kincaid would have found himself pinned between the van and the wall. As it was, the car’s automatic restraints protected him from the brunt of it, and he was left with a nasty case of whiplash and a stupid look on his face.

After that the shot starting flying. The rear window vanished, along with both rear headrests, followed shortly after by Kincaid’s. Fortunately, he was already huddled in the footwell by that point, nursing his Glock and trying to kick the passenger door open. It wouldn’t budge. What did budge was the window, which exploded outwards, the roof support, which was neatly severed halfway down, and finally the windscreen, which shattered in several places before giving up the ghost entirely. Then the roof fell in.

It’s hard to describe the destructive force of a fully automatic shotgun if you haven’t witnessed one in action, but if you imagine a regular machine gun and scale up appropriately, you’ll get the general idea. Kincaid got the idea and hammered desperately at the door, wishing he had bigger legs. If the top half of the door had still been present, he probably wouldn’t have managed it, but as it was the composite cracked, split in the middle, and gave way. He wriggled out with all the grace of a beached turbot, leaving an ugly wash of red in his wake.

“Kincaid?”

The firing had stopped. He reached into the footwell and fumbled out his satchel.

“You in there, Kincaid?”

He slid out the compact Heckler and Koch he kept for special occasions, extended the shoulder rest, smacked in a clip and thumbed off the safety.

“We know who you are, Mr Kincaid. We know your reputation. We work for powerful people. Wealthy people. We can pay you a great deal of money to walk away now. We can give you a new body. An adult body, Mr Kincaid, custom grown to your specifications. Combat chassis, muscle aug, the works.”

Kincaid flipped open the access port behind the HK’s tactical display and pulled out the fibre optic viewer concealed there. Bellying forward across the debris, barely aware of the agony in his back, he slid the fibre round the corner of the car and monitored the display. There was the black van, doors open, Lev and Vadim sheltering behind them, weapons trained on the car. He synced the display with his retinal HUD and painted his targets. Then he fired twice into the air.

There was a brief flare as the micromissiles took flight, a streak of light across the tactical display, and both Russians dropped, headless, to the ground.

Kincaid laughed grimly and coughed up blood.

“Jen?” Technicolour curves filled his view. “What’s the damage?”

He didn’t really need to ask. Her playful expression was gone, replaced by a mask of concern. “Multiple buckshot wounds to the back. You have liver damage, kidney damage, intestinal perforations, massive internal bleeding. I – I’m sorry, Frank. I’ve already called an ambulance.”

“ETA?”

She shook her head. “Without medical insurance? Too long. Idiot mix isn’t going to cut it this time.”

He craned his neck, tried to move, then gave up and fed the fibre optic up over the remains of the side window and into the car. There was precious little left of the driver’s seat. Some of the frame, some cushioning, fragments of fabric imbedded in Altmann’s corpse.

He sighed. “You know, that wasn’t a bad offer they made.”

“You should’ve bid them up. They probably would’ve thrown in a fancy car and a house in France.”

“When you’re right, you’re right.”

He lay there for a moment, a cosy endorphin glow starting to replace the fiery throbbing in his back. Drowsily, he said, “Would’ve been nice to get back home. Teach that bastard a lesson.”

The mask cracked. Tears welled in amber eyes.

“It’s a lie, Frank. All of it.”

He frowned, half asleep. “Hm?”

“You’re not a copy. You never were. You’re not Kincaid, but you’re not a copy either. Your name is Webber, Frank Webber.”

The officer who ran the boy over, back in London. That made no sense. That’s not how it went.

“The Met wanted to go easy on you, Frank, but you wouldn’t have it. You talked to the press, told the family exactly what happened. Pled guilty to manslaughter. You served three years in hell when you could’ve walked away, but when you got out, it still wasn’t enough. You kept saying the punishment didn’t fit the crime. You hated yourself. So very much.” She wept, electronic tears streaming down flawless cheeks.

“So you decided to run away. From yourself, from what you’d done. That wasn’t easy in the centre of a media frenzy, you were going to need a new body and fake ID, and transport to someplace far away. You already owed a fortune – the kind of fortune it takes for a child-killing copper to survive behind bars. It took you a while, but you were desperate, and you came up with a plan. You went to the Libyans, offered to solve their problem for them. They trained you, carved away those awful memories, built you a new reality. A new Frank, in a new body, living a whole new life. The punishment fit the crime, I guess.”

Thoughts tumbled through his mind. Memories clashing with facts. None of it fitted anything he knew, it made no sense, and every word of it was hideously, unquestionably true.

“Jen?”

“Sh, Frank. Rest until the ambulance gets here. Just rest now.”

“I better bloody be dying, Jen.” He laughed wildly, coughed, red foam flecking his lips. “Otherwise this was one hell of a wasted effort.”

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