I cannot overstate the net positive impact these two have had on my emotional and mental health.

Love-Performing Night: Part II

Summary: The Reader, an actress at Covent Garden Theatre and neighbor to a certain eccentric detective, is equal parts flustered and delighted when he arrives at the stage door after a performance.

Content: 18+ for suggestive language, specifically references to oral sex (male receiving) and mild discipline kink; and smut, specifically, enthusiastically consensual foreplay in anticipation of sex, which shall follow in a third chapter!

Notes: I prefer giving a name to the Reader rather than using Y/N, but I hope you will make the appropriate substitutes in your imagination! Also, I’m so, so nervous about posting this because I’ve never in my life written anything remotely sexy, so hopefully this is suitable! I’d adore any feedback offered, and give thanks especially to everyone who liked and reblogged the first chapter, and especially @foxyjwls007, @donutloverxo​, and @kebabgirl67​ who encouraged a sequel!

Previous Chapter: Part I

The way home to Baker Street is thirty minutes’ walk and fifteen minutes’ ride. Never had a mere quarter of an hour seemed so completely critical…could so many months of such tremendous longing be answered so swiftly, if your wild, impassioned inkling were true?

After helping you into the carriage, a courtesy you did not require but found yourself relishing…the heat and strength of his large hands, one spread against small of your back, the other squeezing your fingers lightly…he settles himself across from you. The light breeze that stirs the air as he raps on the window with his cane and the carriage pulls away into the throng of the streets does little to cool the heat rising in your cheeks, nor does your newfound privacy, the driver outside on his perch notwithstanding.

“Your Juliet is most singular,” Mr. Holmes compliments, leaning comfortably back in his seat with a casual air, as if he hadn’t touched you more in the last half hour than he had in the entirety of your acquaintance, nor blatantly insinuated that had he entered your private room, some scandalous urge might have overtaken him. “I think I have dismissed this play as a warning against frivolity, told most frivolously…but here you are, to prove at every turn that I must apply to softer subjects the same thoroughness and attention I give to any more scientific subjects.”

“The meter is mathematics, Mr. Holmes,” you aver. “With an infinite number of factors in the formula…something you could come to learn, I hope, if you are truly made a convert!”

“Yes, ‘dear saint’,” he quotes with a smile. “You have won my soul for Shakespeare.”

“Then I am all the more glad you came tonight,” you reply, your heart pounding as you watch him strip his gloves from his hands and tuck them away. Something so simple and daily has never seemed more stirring, and though your mind rebels insistently with how those hands would feel on your bare skin, you manage to preserver, inquiring of him, “May I ask what inspired your ‘impulse of the moment’? For you are not given to entertain any such whims, let alone act upon them.”

“Ah, yes. This afternoon, my sister did me the courtesy of pointing out to me that I am in love with you.”

His voice is still maddeningly modulated in conversational nonchalance; he might have been commenting on the weather even as his eyes gleam with that thrilling fire that has haunted you since the moment he stepped backstage. But you cannot mistake his words nor their meaning, and though a million poetic professions race through your mind, all you can manage is a breathless: “Sherlock!”

Your employment of his given name finally breaks his resolve and stirs him to action, and in an instant, he is at your side, his long limbs and broad chest pressed up beside you on the narrow carriage bench. The heady scent of tobacco envelops you, mingled beautifully with the fragrance of the roses in your lap, and he, too, is breathing you in, his crystalline eyes seeming to study every detail of your astonished, joyful expression.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you, light but lingering. His touch is pure reverence, with an undercurrent of desire that sets you ablaze, body and soul alike, and when he finally withdraws, he seems equally moved, reluctant even to break apart for a breath.

“Now,” he continues, still caressing your face with deft, appreciative fingertips. “I told Enola she was completely mistaken not to mention too presumptuous by half, and then immediately perjured myself by storming out into the street and walking directly to your place of employment to stare at your portrait on the broadside like a madman. I would insist it were mere coincidence that my tantrum brought me there…but—and if you ever repeat this to anyone, I’ll deny it and chastise you most rigorously—“

What on earth could he mean by that, and why did the notion of his chastisement make you…?

“You are blushing again, Miss Cane; it is most becoming.”

He kisses you again, and this time you are bolder, clutching him closer by his lapels and spreading your fingers out on his chest. Beneath sinewy, solid muscle, you can feel his heart pounding in a matched rhythm to yours, and you are gratified by the low sound of pleasure he makes as you obligingly part your lips for him, allowing his shameless tongue to delve into your mouth.

“And most distracting,” he chides, after a few ardent minutes spent entwined, and your fantasy of running your fingers through his curls most exceptionally fulfilled. “To be brief—for we are minutes from home, I think—after seeing you tonight, so perfectly vibrant and courageous and clever…I can only deduce that it was my heart which lead me to your side, and that Enola is correct. And so I made a fool of myself racing from the stalls to buy your flowers at the interval as if I were some besotted schoolboy, and now I can do nothing but throw myself upon your mercy and ask you if I have any hope that you may return my love.”

“You do! Of course you do…I love you, with all my heart! I have since the moment I met you, and more every day the more I come to know you. But I never dreamed you could…you who are so brilliant and so handsome and…” The words pour forth from you like music, every sentiment you have held back, every word of praise and devotion finally free. “You have far more than hope—how may I make you certain?”

The question may have been innocent, but his answer is anything but:

“Oh, darling girl, I will have certainty of you tonight, again and again…”

Further declarations are lost in further kisses, and by the time the carriage halts before your home, you are flushed and gasping from his attentions, from his hands lightly teasing your breasts through your gown, from the heat and hardness you feel pressed against you. He practically carries you to the door, tossing an ungodly sum to the driver, who calls thanks after.

Just inside the door, you are met with yet one more obstacle: your dear, bespectacled landlady, dressed for bed in nightcap and robe with her teacup in hand.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes—oh, and here is Miss Cane! What a gentleman, to escort our little celebrity home, safe and sound,” she beams.

Your so-called gentleman has carefully concealed his arousal by positioning himself behind you, subtly but firmly pressing against your back, lest you forget his designs upon the evening. 

“Why, what lovely roses, Miss Cane!” Mrs. Hudson continues, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Does my young lady have a suitor?”

“Yes…I rather think I may,” you manage, and she laughs delightedly and ambles away, leaving Sherlock free to pull you into his parlor, through the chaotic labyrinth of books and scientific instruments, and into his bedroom. No sooner is the door to closed but you are pressed up against it, swept up in a bruising kiss.

“It is principally out of care for Mrs. Hudson’s sense of propriety,” Sherlock informs you in a gruff whisper, gently tugging on your hair to expose the line of your throat to his lips. “That you have remained so maddeningly pure and untouched—it may have taken me these many months to know I loved you, but one glance was all I needed to know you would be mine. How many hundred times have I been at your door in the dark of night, scarce able to stop myself? Thank me for my restraint, Clara,” he instructs.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” you reply at once, and then you raise a startled hand to your lips, surprised at your immediate obedience to his commanding tone. Both your answer and your shock seem to please him greatly, and his gaze softens for a moment.

“You will, I hope, forgive a man his particular vice, darling girl. Know that I would never require such subservience of you in any other way. You need not submit to me, or even humor me, simply because I am a man or, soon enough, your husband…unless it is for our mutual pleasure, you understand?”

“I begin to,” you answer. “But you must instruct me further how I might please you.”

Your assent confirmed, he lets the devil step forward again, raising his hands to the fastenings of your gown.

“I will take the greatest satisfaction in your education. Permit me?”

“Please!”

He is methodical in undressing you, seeming to savor every button or lace that comes undone, until every inch of your revealed skin burns for him, and you return his ardor with curious excitement, fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings of a man’s garments to reveal his almost superhuman frame. Seated on the edge of his bed in nothing but your chemise, you tremble under his gaze, both appraising and worshipful.

“I am making up my mind as to what I might do with you first. Shall I show you your place at once, and take your sweet mouth?” He takes your chin in his hand and runs his thumb across your lips, appraising your reaction with the composed delight of a successful scientist overseeing his favorite experiment. “The lips they say spin Shakespeare into gold, wrapped obediently around my cock…what would your adoring public say, hmm? London’s immaculate ingénue on her knees, the most brilliant woman in the world completely surrendered to desire…”

You can do nothing but choke out a desperate sound of acquiescence as he gently, but unyieldingly, presses his thumb into your mouth.

“Good girl!” he praises you, raising his other hand to tenderly stroke your hair, and you respond on instinct, taking him deeper and relishing the way his eyes close in satisfaction. He allows you only a moment to dutifully suckle, before gently pulling away and leaning down to kiss your lips.

“How I will enjoy turning my innocent angel into a perfect wanton. But tonight must be all for you.”

He kneels before you, and runs his hand up your leg, stroking the soft flesh of your thighs through the fabric with evident approval.

“Now, my darling girl,” he says, adopting the tone of a lecturer upon his favorite subject. “There is a sweet, tender bud between your legs, just here.” His fingers brush gently over the silk that yet conceals your most intimate place from him, and you shudder, which brings an adoring and triumphant smile to his face. “When touched, it will bring you pleasure. Give me your hand.”

He takes your hand and brings it to rest atop your mound, and holds his fingers over yours, pressing lightly. Even the tiniest bit of friction against the little bud of flesh sets off sparks throughout your whole body, and you blush at the wetness that has pooled between your soft petals. Sherlock is entirely delighted, the pressure of your connected hands making the fabric translucent with your essence. 

“All this from a few kisses and the sound of my voice? Tell me, Clara, have you been walking around so wet and ripe for me this whole time? Poor girl, to ache like this for months and not know how to ask for relief…” he murmurs, almost to himself, continuing to rub tiny circles across the sensitive spot, using your hand as his instrument. You are at once very gratified that he was such a gentleman, in spite of his own evident need, and completely desperate to have his hand alone touch you, without any intermediary. When he pauses his ministrations to kiss you, you tug his hands to the neckline of the chemise and with a fluid grace, he gladly pulls the chemise over your arms and head and tosses it carelessly aside, then sits back to admire you unabashedly, equal parts tenderness and ferocity in his gaze.

“You are so beautiful. The face of an angel with a form that incites one to sacrilege. My god, every inch of you was designed perfectly to my taste.”

Sherlock traces his hand from the swell of your cheek, down your neck, stopping to palm your breast and feel your heart race beneath his fingertips, and before finally coming to rest a breath away from that singular spot where all the tension in your body has settled itself, and an desire you can only begin to understand—not only physical, but of the heart and mind, too—has taken root.

“Please…please, Sherlock, don’t stop…”

“My angel begs beautifully. I will deny you nothing.”

He is a picture of devotion as he sets about bringing you off, whispering fervent praise and a steady string of romantic nonsense as he coaxes sighs of joy from you. At last, after lavishing attention on your swollen bud for what seems like an endless, glorious eternity, his long, lissome fingers slip past your petals and begin to thrust within you, first slow and gentle, then with an increasing, relentless pace. 

“Come for me, Clara…come for me, my love…”

A slight curl of his fingers touches a particularly sensitive spot, and you come undone completely, crying out his name and melting into his arms… 

 Here is Part III…thank you for reading! <3

The Cycle of Abuse in BSD

A more character-analysis post tonight, though I should be working on that Akutagawa fighting style analysis. 

BSD has tons of well-written themes, such as the meaning of life in relation to death, what it means to be a good person, and things to live by. But I especially appreciate how the show portrays abuse, and how it’s a cycle--just as well, I’d argue, as the She-Ra reboot. There was a vid done on the She-Ra reboot that I will find and link that inspired this post somewhat. 

There are some pretty obvious parallels drawn between Mori and Fukuzawa, Chuuya and Dazai, then Akutagawa and Atsushi. There is a chain of mentorship and partnership that is passed down through the generations, but there’s also a chain of abuse--from Mori, to Dazai, to Aku, and finally to Kyouka. The most obvious abusive relationship would be the one between Dazai and Aku. 

Physical abuse notwithstanding, there was the extreme emotional conditioning that Dazai put Aku through. We see in flashbacks that Dazai belittled Akutagawa at every opportunity, telling him to be faster, better, and stronger because he was not good enough as he was. He destroyed the self esteem of a child who was already traumatized from a terrible childhood until said child was dependent on him for approval.

Aku is desperate for Dazai to give him praise, considering many of his lines are about how much he wants Dazai to acknowledge him. You’d think, once Dazai left the mafia and tried to be a better person, the abuse would stop. But it doesn’t.

During the Guild arc, there was that scene where Atsushi needed to get past Aku. Dazai tells him how, and he follows orders. He says to Aku, “Dazai wants to talk to you”, then chucks the phone out into the chasm. Akutagawa goes batshit, abandoning his self-imposed mission to dive after the phone. When he finally grabs it, Atsushi is long gone and Dazai has hung up. 

This happens again during the Rats arc, when Atsushi and Aku team up to fight Fyodor’s creepy earthbender. Dazai says to Aku, “It’s been four years since you’ve been under my command. I hope you’ve gotten more capable.”

Akutagawa’s only response is “Yes, sir.” His single-minded focus on succeeding on this mission is played for laughs when Atsushi tries to snap him out of it, but it’s actually quite chilling. Dazai, who is ostensibly his abuser, is still manipulating him in order to make sure his goals are met.

Is it for the greater good? Arguably, yes. But abuse is abuse, and within the greater context of Aku’s character arc, Dazai’s reestablished presence in his life is concerning. Because he still wants Dazai’s approval. I’m pretty sure he states that it’s one of the things he lives for. 

And if you look closely, he does what he’s been taught to Kyouka. You don’t belong with the ADA, he tells her, echoing Kouyou’s “flower of darkness” rhetoric. You can’t be a good person. The difference between Aku and her is that she escapes, to become a happier person away from the Port Mafia and away from Aku. This makes the scene where she confronts him in the cannibalism arc so powerful, because Aku is happy for her. 

Mori and Dazai are a little harder to parse, mostly due to a lack of information and the subtle hints that Dazai isn’t actually like the other characters in BSD. He lacks something--be it a will to live, the capacity for empathy, or the ability to care about other people’s suffering, there’s something missing. It’s evident especially in that scene in Fifteen, when Dazai shoots the corpse of the GSS soldier several times before Chuuya forces him to stop. There is something wrong with Dazai that isn’t based in trauma or abuse. 

The problem, then, is that Mori encourages this. He cultivate’s Dazai’s ruthlessness and manipulates him first with the promise of an easy suicide (at the beginning of Fifteen) and then with the promise of something to live for. Dazai is turned into a living weapon and he knows this, he’s fine with this. That doesn’t make it any less right, and makes what he does to Aku just as unforgivable. Akutagawa is molded into a rabid dog whose leash is supposedly held by the Port Mafia--but really, it’s held by Dazai. 

What I love about BSD is how it explores these themes with care and without romanticizing them. There is nothing cute about Dazai shooting a corpse multiple times. There’s nothing sexy about the way Akutagawa tells Kyouka numerous times that she will never be a good person. There is nothing hot about a confirmed pedophile promising a fifteen-year-old kid an easy way to kill himself. 

I mean, maybe this is just a response to all the Dazai thirst I keep seeing popping up on my Insta feed. I think he’s amazingly well-written and a good protagonist, and his character arc is glorious in its subtlety. I also see why someone could find him attractive--he is, after all, the pinnacle of bishounen. It’s just not for me, ya know?

But the complexity of all the characters in Bungou is why I love this show so much. Dazai has numerous sides to him the way Aku, Mori, and Kyouka do, and they combine to make a person who is neither entirely good nor entirely bad. There’s just something about morally ambiguous characters that’s very compelling.

That said, I don’t hate Dazai. Please don’t burn me at the stake.

Kings & Queens - Sansberyn

for vampireacademy96 2,158 words Rated T Kings & Queens - Ava Max

~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa was over it. She was supposed to be meeting her betrothed tonight, and she already wished she’d found a way to sneak off. There wasn’t a way to do so now, however. She was going to have to meet Oberyn Martell whether she wanted to or not.

Well, of course she wanted to meet him. She’d always sort of wanted to meet him, ever since she was an adolescent and Oberyn Martell was the tabloid-coined “Bad Boy of the Royals”. He’d garnered quite a reputation. Even earned himself a nickname. The Red Viper.

Even though she wasn’t entirely sure what it was for.

She twirled her hair around her finger. That was what made this all the more ridiculous. He was at least fifteen years her senior and never married. Under what sun was this man going to be interested in her?

Besides, having a crush on someone and being nudged into an arranged marriage with them were two entirely different things.

The royal marriage law was antiquated anyway, even if Sansa thought her mother was secretly happy it still existed. Sansa was liable not to get married at all if she wasn’t required to by law, so it was the queen’s only hope at marrying off her oldest daughter. Arya wasn’t looking to get married either, but at least she was so far down the line of succession it didn’t matter.

Robb was the first in line. He’d gotten married and was expecting his first child, so why was she required to do this, anyway? With the way Marg and Robb looked at each other, they’d probably have like a billion kids and Sansa would never have to worry about marrying well to produce an heir.

But Mum was definitely worried about it so here she was, arranging a meeting between Prince Oberyn Martell and her daughter. He was a Prince of Dorne, no less. He’d no sooner be interested in her than she’d be interested in the animals her brother hunted. Not that she was an animal, but it was a metaphor, obviously.

If her mother and father could have scoured the world for someone with less in common than Sansa Stark than a Dornish prince, Sansa wasn’t sure she wanted to meet that person.

As it stood, the prince had travelled from a long way to meet her. And likely wasn’t any more inclined to the match than she was. So they could meet, see there were no sparks, and move on.

It was one night. One dinner.

She could do this.

Inhaling deeply, she rose from her chair in front of her vanity. She’d dressed for dinner, seeing as Mum and Dad had called for a full-service feast just to introduce her to this man. Well, her mother had. Dad had warned that it made them look desperate when they weren’t even announcing an engagement, but Mum had replied, “We are desperate, dear.” And Sansa had rolled her eyes.

She was wearing a gown with silver and grey stitched into a brocade. The brocade pattern featured a pack of direwolves running through the forest. She actually really liked this dress, so she supposed she could look at this as an occasion to wear it. The dress did deserve a banquet in its honour, so it was easier to look at it that way.

Margaery met her at her door so they could enter the dining room together. Robb wasn’t here tonight, he was out on a hunt and likely wouldn’t be back until early morning, so Margaery and Sansa had agreed to walk to dinner together. Even though they wouldn’t be seated together or enter together, seeing as it was a formal banquet.

“That gown,” Margaery said softly, reaching out to brush her fingers over the brocade pattern on the skirt.

“I know,” Sansa said with a grin.

“I am going to have so many dresses made once I have this child,” Margaery said, laughing as she ran her hand over her swelling abdomen. “So. Oberyn Martell...” Sansa laughed as her sister-in-law switched gears suddenly. “Did you google him at all?”

“I didn’t have to. I already know everything there is to know about him. He’s quite fond of the nightlife, and he’s not entirely difficult to look at.”

She was playing down her early-adolescent crush on the man. That wasn’t knowledge she wanted to get out.

“Not entirely---“ Margaery dropped off at the end. “Sansa. He’s a gorgeous man.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Aren’t they all?”

“No, I mean it. You have seen him, right?”

“Yes, I’ve seen him. He’s handsome,” Sansa replied. “I’m just absolutely certain we won’t have anything in common.”

“Oh, and Robb and I do?” her sister-in-law scoffed.

“Well... you two are the exception to the arranged marriage horror,” Sansa replied. “You two clicked immediately and you love each other now.”

“Now, yes. And let me tell you, the fact that your brother is easy on the eyes helped things sway in his favour considerably.”

Sansa laughed as they reached the hallway outside of the dining room.

Margaery had to enter before her, given that her title was higher than Sansa’s, but Sansa liked that she got some time to collect herself.

“I’m only saying. Give him another look. And another chance,” Marg’s parting wisdom, was as ever, apropos.

Her unspoken, immature crush on the Dornish Prince notwithstanding, it was such a surprise that her mother even considered him as a possible suitor. He seemed the type she’d scorn with a wrinkle of her nose before moving on to more worthy suitors for her oldest daughter. But perhaps Margaery was right. All that was years ago, and he was older. Perhaps he’d matured.

Sansa was a grown woman now as well. Halfway through her twenties and with six years of university under her belt. She wasn’t a blushing princess any longer.

Well, she was still a princess, but blushing, she was not.

Until she walked into the dining room and laid eyes on him.

Oh, the years had been very kind to Oberyn Martell. Or perhaps, he’d always looked like this and the most she’d ever seen of him was from the Paparazzi photographs that emblazoned the covers of the trashy tabloids she had brought to her each week.

He hadn’t graced the covers recently either.

At any rate, Marg was astute in her statement that he was a gorgeous man.

Gods, he was so gorgeous.

And Sansa could scarcely find her voice when it was finally her turn to meet him. “Your Royal Highness,” she said, with a nod. She didn’t have to curtsey to him, their titles were technically the same.

He smirked and mirrored her. “Your Royal Highness.”

They were seated together, of course. But they were also seated near her mother and father, and the former monopolized the conversation to try and push them into some sort of repartee, and the whole thing fell flat.

Sansa, annoyed with her mother’s constant machinations, rose to take a stroll on the balcony between the dinner dishes being cleared and dessert being served. Oberyn stood as well, and while she assumed it to be merely decorum, he asked permission to join her on her walk.

Catelyn nearly fell out of her chair with the force of her self-induced launch towards the pair to follow them onto the balcony, and subsequent return at the behest of Ned. “Do stay and speak with me, darling. I need your guidance on a matter of utmost importance.”

He winked discreetly at Sansa, who turned back to Oberyn to accept his invitation for company.

As they walked along the stone balcony, the light from the adjacent rooms flooded the stone in arches when they passed the windows.

“So, you said before that you finished your degree?” Oberyn asked, in relation to the last thing they’d attempted to discuss in the dining room, only to be interrupted by Cat, who wanted to divert attention away from Sansa’s degrees as much as possible.

“I did,” Sansa replied. “I’ve a master’s now in Art History.”

“Truly?” Oberyn mused. “Never had the patience for university myself. That’s quite an achievement.”

Sansa smiled. “At first glance. You still haven’t asked what my emphasis was in.”

“Art?” he guessed, laughing.

She laughed too.

“Or history?” he ventured again, clearly joking and giving her the opening to supply the correct answer.

“Textiles,” she replied with a laugh. “I study old cloth. And notably, fashion from hundreds of years ago.”

“Now, why wouldn’t you lead with that? It’s much more interesting than merely holding a degree in Art History.”

“My mother was solidly against my choice of emphasis. She wanted me to become more well-rounded by university, not sharpened to a point. Not ‘obsessed’ with old dresses, as she so eloquently phrases it. What about you? I know you said you didn’t go to university, but you must have done something these past few years.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked. “Because I wasn’t in the papers so much?” His voice belied his curiosity.

“I never said that,” Sansa replied.

“Didn’t have to...” he stopped walking and her heart sank.

She’d offended him. She had to fix it.

“I don’t judge you for anything you did or didn’t do,” she said quickly. “If I’d been half as bold, I’d have done the same.”

“I never implied that I thought you were passing judgement, but that is indeed good to know,” he mused, walking once more.

She fell into step beside him. “Your Highness, I simply wished to---“

“I like you. A lot. Despite how my brother talked you up and forced me to come on this trip... As much as I don’t want to bend to his wishes, I like you, Sansa.”

“I like you as well.”

“Good. Because I have a proposition for you.”

“You do?”

“Indeed. I think it would be mutually beneficial for both of us.”

“What is that?”

“We bend to their wishes. And then, to each other.”

“What, I...”

“Have you taken lovers before?” he asked, his eyes fiery and dark.

“Yes,” she replied. “As have you.”

He smiled. “As have I. I propose... we should get married. Keep the lot of them off our backs, and you will be able to continue sharpening your points, so long as you don’t object to sharpening them while travelling with me.”

“I...”

She liked the idea. If anyone had asked her before now, honestly, she wouldn’t have. But the thought of travelling the world with Oberyn Martell was one she’d like to explore. She had but one reservation.

“You’re suggesting a loveless marriage?”

“I’m suggesting a loveless wedding,” he countered. “Love doesn’t come until the fires of passion have smouldered. And considering we have yet to even light a match, how could we possibly marry for love?”

“It’s awfully pragmatic of you. What if we never fall in love?”

“Then, we separate. Go our own way, take our own lovers, but under the umbrella of safety that a royal marriage provides. We’ll never be bothered again by our families.”

“I think you underestimate the meddling powers of my mother.”

“Oh, I’ll be whisking my bride away to Dorne immediately following our ridiculously long honeymoon.”

Sansa had to admit, she liked the sound of that.  Dorne was warm and sunny where the North was cold and dark. She’d be able to sunbathe. To watch her children grow and play in the sunlight.

“Children?” she asked.

“As many as you want.”

“If I didn’t want any?”

“Then none.”

“If I wanted eighteen?”

“Then we’d better get started.” He smiled, reaching for her hand, but stopping shy of touching it.

She closed the distance and laced their fingers. As they began to walk once more, she asked. “When should we tell them?”

“Why not tonight?”

She laughed. “We can’t tonight.”

“We can’t?”

“We don’t know enough about each other. Why, we’ve never even kissed.”

She wasn’t asking to be kissed, but she wouldn’t complain at all that she subsequently was kissed.

Oberyn tugged her close with the hand that was clasped in his, tucking his other hand around her lower back and lowering his lips to hers. It was sudden and slow at the same time.

She brought her hand to his jaw, cupping it and rubbing her thumb over his facial hair.

When he ended the kiss, she staggered slightly, but he just tightened his hold on her and grinned. “How’s that?”

“Right, let’s go tell them now,” she said, turning and tugging him along with her.

He laughed and pulled her back once more. “In a minute...”

She smiled and wrapped both arms around his neck. “I suppose we can wait for a minute...”

“Or five...”

“Or twenty,” she breathed.

“Kiss me,” he murmured.

It was actually more like thirty-five, and they almost missed dessert.

She was so glad she hadn’t found a reason to sneak off.

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Two

Ao3,   MasterPost,   C.1

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality, platonic logicality (and mentioned platonic relationships)

Warnings: swearing, mild body horror, negative self-thoughts/mental state, guilt. 

Word Count: 2,822

Patton woke up the next morning to find not a single disgusting token hiding away in his room, and that was after half an hour of semi-paranoid investigation. While he did find a patch or two of what looked like shedded dog’s hair and a snapped nail, they were scattered on the carpet as though left by accident. He already knew that Remus’ body was naturally more of a debris-machine than that of a scrappy pet, occasionally shedding off parts of his body like a constantly regenerating zombie. He decided then that Remus hadn’t been secretly trying to prank him, after all.

Now, being the embodiment of emotions, Patton was almost always spot-on identifying which emotions were which. That was why he could say, with perfect certainty, he had never quite had this mix of emotions before. And if he was honest, he didn’t really want to think about it enough to learn; he didn’t want to think about the night before at all.

Pushing the events out of his mind (not repression! He argued to himself, just thinking about something else for a while!), Patton carried on with his morning routine. That always took exceeding amounts of time, anyway, thanks to the numerous distracting things littering his room. What could have taken fifteen minutes was usually closer to an hour or so, but that was why Patton got up early! 

Well, that, and the fact that he usually didn’t sleep very well, but he preferred to not focus on that. 

That day, Patton decided, was not to be one for focusing on anything bad. He’d had a rough night, oh sure, but he’d woken up more refreshed than expected and was still riding the high of physical affection (despite its questionable source). He could feel that good, excited mood he had on occasion lifting him, and such an energy was just what he needed to go downstairs, start his day, and try to convince Logan into finally letting him help cook. 

Logan never agreed, of course, because he was the only side that had any skill in preparing food. But Patton never stopped trying, his fiery history with the kitchen notwithstanding!

Patton rose up in the living room, instinctively at his usual place. He took a second to appreciate the trinkets, odds and ends, and personal effects littered around the room. That kind of personality-infused mess always made him feel strangely fond. Reflective, even, upon how and why each item had come to lay where it was just then.

The smell of fresh food and the crackling of a skillet got him quickly back on track, though. Grinning, Patton made for the kitchen. 

“Morning, Logan!” He greeted him in cheer.

Logan startled, spinning on his heel a bit too fast. He didn’t share Patton’s positivity, no, he looked worried. 

“Patton! How are you ‘holding up’, as they say, this morning?” He said softly, like if he thought a loud voice could break something now. Patton cringed.

“Oh, I’m doing fine!” Memories of the night before pushed against his skull, and it was everything he could do to beat them back. But he was good at that sort of thing. “How are you?”

It was an obvious redirection. Logan pressed further:

“You sank out so abruptly last night. The others were- we were all concerned for your wellbeing,” he glanced away, chewing the inside of his lip. “That, and… Virgil informed me that, before he went to bed, he saw Remus leaving your room,” Logan’s voice dropped, “He didn’t upset you in any way, I hope?”

“No!” The exclamation burst forth from Patton with a ferocity he didn’t know he had. It was defensive even to his own ears, and he flushed in embarrassment. “I mean, no, he didn’t upset me! We were just-” cuddling? “-talking.”

Logan tipped his head sideways, disbelief obvious on him.

“...Talking?” 

“Yup, talking!” 

“You were talking to Remus?”

Patton pouted performatively, setting a hand on his hip as he doubled down.

“Of course I was, Logan! He’s an interesting fella, you know.”

“I know that,” Logan rolled his eyes, “I didn’t know you got along with him at all, however.” 

Patton- to both his own and Logan’s surprise- didn’t say anything at all to that. He barely nodded before he left the kitchen, calling out an excuse that he forgot as soon as it was out anyway. It was almost rude, and he knew he’d be dreadfully ashamed of it later. What was another little regret on the pile after all?

Logan had things to attend to, and Patton didn’t want to hang around and distract anyhow. At least, that was a good enough excuse for him to use as he sped out of the kitchen to find his next distraction. 

 Patton put the talk with Logan out of his mind without any trouble. His plans for a good day would not be so easily foiled by one concerned friend- who really had no reason to be concerned in the first place, in Patton’s humble opinion. Besides, breakfast with everyone was still nice! He’d gotten roped into a very enthusiastic conversation with Roman- one that got as increasingly loud, as was usual for the two- and when Remus joined in, it wasn’t too terribly awkward anymore. 

The rest of the morning was inoffensive, if a bit slow-going as Patton got all his work done. The afternoon was much the same, but he did get to spend a while with Virgil! (Who must’ve heard from Logan not to ask about the night before, mercifully). 

Evening rolled around, though, and with it Patton found that he’d made short work of his jobs. With the deficit of busy-work, it really couldn’t be helped if his mind started to wander- and what a dangerous thing that could be.

It was hard not to think of Remus. To not recall the… the softness with which he had treated Patton, something that the intrusive side hadn’t even seemed capable of before that. He’d been downright empathetic, and Patton still didn’t know how to take that. He’d done nothing to earn that kindness, not really, and certainly not from Remus of all people. He wasn’t sweet, or considerate, and calling him sentimental sounded like a joke more than anything.

‘Sounded like’, there was the key word, Patton mused. However long he spent thinking it over, it became more and more clear that this was yet another thing he’d misunderstood. 

Months ago only, he’d honestly believed that none of Remus’ suggestions could be genuine attempts to contribute, and now he helped them balance almost all their creative works as part of the team. He’d proven at every turn that he was honest, yes, but he was not shallow, and Patton knew he’d only just scratched the surface of Creativity. 

But that was besides the point. It was besides the point and Patton didn’t want to think about how little he knew. 

The point was, he wanted to learn. He had to. Even if it proved him wrong about everything- especially then!

So there Patton stood, shifting from foot to foot, Remus’ door staring him in the face. He was stalling, he knew, but his fraught thoughts also knew his intentions were not for self-improvement alone. He wanted to repay Remus, repay him for the strange and gentle and impossibly amazing comfort he’d given to him. He’d given him what he’d been missing- affection, willing affection- but what did Patton have to offer in return?

That was the scary part. Thinking of what he’d be asked to do.

But he still had to reach out and risk it. He had to know. 

Patton raised his hand, shaking, tilted back to knock. And there the hand hovered, untouching the splintering and algae-covered wood. It was almost like the underside of a boardwalk, stinking like ocean and stained green from years of salt water exposure. Would it hurt to touch, Patton wondered? Would the wood break off into his hand, or would it come away slick, slimy?

He ducked his head with a huff; that kind of disgust was completely unfair to the creature he was trying to reach out to, and he knew it. He didn’t have the energy for this; Patton wrapped against the door thrice in quick succession despite the nagging of his instincts (it was slimy, and rough as well. His head ticked to the side at the disturbing texture). The knocks rang out, and then there was an abrupt stillness in the whole of the hallway, like all life had stopped at once. This was true for Patton, at least; he held his breath, balled his fists, and it seemed he was standing stiller than he ever had before. 

From the other side of the door, there was muttering. It was frantic, but not upset, and one voice alone. A lot of things happened very quickly after that:

First, the door slammed inwards, no one on the other side of it. Naturally Patton leaned to look inside, and as well as he had- ragged claws sank into his shoulders, a shrill noise rang in his ear, and he was spun around. Screaming, Patton toppled backwards and landed flat in the threshold to Remus’ room.

Speaking of Remus, the creature himself was looming over Patton, his skin rippling with bumps and ridges and colors like a continual shapeshift. He had his arms raised, his mouth opened hugely; it looked like a soundless laugh. 

But he glanced down at Patton, then- trembling, whimpering Patton- and his eyes widened in recognition. At once his skin smoothed over and returned to its usual color, his jaw snapping back into place. 

“Oh!” Remus reached down and hauled Patton back to his feet with a strained huff. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Logan’s the only one who seriously knocks for me, cuz he’s all polite and shit.”

Patton righted himself, trying very hard to stop shaking. After a deep breath, he said:

“Oh, haah, it’s okay!” He pulled his sleeves taut, with a smile to match. “I just wouldn’t want to interrupt you, if you were busy.”

Remus shrugged, cocking his hip. 

“Oh, I bet you wouldn’t,” a smirk then split his face, and he winked. “But you should know I don’t mind anybody walking in on me, Daddy.”

Patton nodded quick, having no idea what (if anything) he was agreeing to, when in reality he was Very Uncomfortable with All of those words. He tried for a laugh, but at the same moment a deeply horrifying growl decided to erupt from behind him. He realized that he did not want to have his back to Remus’ room for even another second. 

“Uh- could we-?” 

Remus caught his meaning, stepping deftly around Patton and into his doorway. It was almost a twirl when he switched their positions, aided by the fact that he always moved like water.

“Right!” He clapped his hands together, “What was it you wanted, Pops?”

Oh, yes. That. 

Patton didn’t meet the Duke’s eyes at all, the words lumped together on the tip of his tongue. Why did this feel so embarrassing?

“I was wondering if we could spend some time together?” 

Remus’ eyebrows went way up on his forehead, and his face split in a downright sultry grin that had Patton red-faced and abashed.

“Not like- I’m not- I meant, like, an activity-” Remus’ smile widened, “-No, um, something fun! Not that that wouldn’t- well, I just don’t like-” 

Remus erupted in laughter, throwing his head back not unlike a shrill bird.

“Oh, I’m just fucking with you. No, really, what’s up?” 

Patton frowned.

“I wanted to know if we could hang out. That’s what I was trying to say?”

Remus gave a derisive little sound, and his nose scrunched.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he propped his arm against the doorframe, his gaze boring into Patton. “You were being serious? I figured you needed me to help with, like, chores or something!” 

Before Patton could even respond, Remus snapped the door shut behind himself and dipped into the hallway. 

“So, what? You wanna bake cookies or some shit? That could be fun, but there will be fire and broken glass if I’m involved. Or- you like those zen coloring books, right? Although, the adult coloring books I use are much more emphasized on the adult, you know, and vulgar-”

Patton shook his head sharply, and- gathering some courage- placed his hand on Remus’ arm to halt him. 

“Um,” he said, “I was thinking that we could do something you like to do, actually.” 

Remus stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he’d been touched, looking at Patton like he’d sprouted another head. He tried out several different expressions, like he was trying to see what reaction they’d garner- first amusement, then happiness, then offense- but he finally settled on plain confusion. It looked the most genuine.

“Are you joking?” He asked, the question laced with a striking sincerity. Patton wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was dread or guilt, but either way he let go of the Duke’s wrist. 

“Of course I am!” He enthused- tried to enthuse. 

There was a beat. 

Remus, for once, looked uncomfortable; fidgeting his hands, arms, tapping his foot.

“Really?” 

“Really really!” And Patton really really hoped that this exchange could be over, so that he could get on with this- he meant!! Um! So that he could have a nice time with someone who had been nice to him. (Oh, what was wrong with him?)

Remus tipped his head to the side. He hummed.

“This is because of yesterday?” That hit the nail right on its head, yup. Patton winced. “I told you not to worry about all that. You don’t really want to do this, you know, and that’s obvious to both of us. My idea of fun isn’t nearly as conservative as yours, Pops.”

Patton felt a stab of offense at ‘conservative’. He dropped his smile.

“I- look, Remus,” a sigh, “You didn’t have to help me yesterday, but you did, and… I still don’t know why. And I don’t really know why I’m here right now, either, or what I’m doing with you. I barely know anything about you!” Patton shook his head, but an indignant conviction was filling up his chest. He met Remus’ eyes, steady. “But I do know that we never let you pick what to watch on movie night. I know we don’t always listen to what you suggest on really important projects, even though that’s your job. I know we- that I try so hard not to make things about you, even nowadays. That’s gotta get, um, disheartening, right?” Remus tilted his head, but Patton didn’t wait for an answer. “And that’s why I’m here. So whatever you like doing, you don’t have to do it alone- like how you didn’t leave me alone. And…” He knotted his hands together in front of him, shoulders low. “I can figure out the rest later.” 

He meant it. He was surprised by how much he meant it, having no idea where it had all come from. It didn’t erase his nerves, his discomfort, even his disgust, but he stood there and he honestly hoped that soon he wouldn’t have a reason to feel any of those things with the darker side of Creativity. He wanted to understand, if only he could know how. And maybe, that creature before him, smarter than he probably seemed, would show him how. 

Remus was silent for a long, long while. His face was blank, expressionless. He wasn’t grinning, and there was nothing glinting mischievously behind his eyes; his nose wasn’t bunched in a snarl, there was no show of huge and horrible fangs, and he wasn’t moving.

It was the most intimidating he’d ever been.

“You don’t have to do that,” and Remus’ voice was soft. It was almost unreal to hear it that way, his accent not fit for that kind of volume.

But Patton was emotions, and emotions knew at a glance what awe sounded like- what hope sounded like. It was shocking to hear them from Remus, but Patton knew the shock was good. He’d been right- right about initially being wrong, right that Remus had more to him than his outside. He was right, and now he needed to know more of him. 

 Patton smiled, sincerely, and for once he knew exactly what to say. 

“I know I don’t have to,” he admitted, “But I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Remus tilted his head one way, then the other, and back again. Slowly, he returned the smile, and it grew to look much more like his usual beam. He darted past Patton, swung his door open, and strode inside. 

“Watch your step,” he warned, “The floor isn’t entirely dead yet!”

Patton, amazing himself, hardly hesitated to follow.

Chapter Three

Taglist:  @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Bucky is closing up his sister’s art studio, Becca having rushed home to a sick child. Bucky is washing some brushes, so he doesn’t hear the door open. 

“Hello?” The man’s voice is oddly familiar. 

“Hey!” he calls back. He turns off the spigot, shakes out the brushes, setting them next to the sink. He looks around for a cloth to dry his hands, but comes up empty. He shakes his hands at the floor, and wipes them on his jeans. When he turns to see who has entered the studio, he’s immediately dumbstruck, but before he can say anything else, the man just barrels right on through. 

“Oh, good,” he says. “I’d like to get my portrait done.”

“Okay, just let me get your contact info and -”

“I’d like to get it done now.” 

“Well, unfortunately -”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, but -”

“Then you know I don’t like to wait for anything.”

“I get that, but my sister -”

The man waltzes into the studio space, checking it out. “Nonsense. You’ve got time, yes?”

“I don’t think you want -”

“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars.” 

“What?”

“Two thousand dollars.” 

“It’s not the money -”

“Fine. Five thousand, but that’s my final offer.” 

“Okay.” Who is Bucky to turn down five grand for a portrait? The fact that he’s not an artist, notwithstanding, he’ll give it a whirl. “You want to have a seat and I’ll get set up?”

The man looks around the room. Apparently, nothing there is right for him. “Have you got some space in the back?” he asks. 

“I mean, there’s a sofa back there -”

“Perfect,” he says heading towards the back room. He begins to undo his tie. “If I’m gonna be naked - sorry, nude - I don’t want people staring at me as they pass by that window.” He gestures to the large picture window at the front of the store. 

Bucky can’t believe what he just heard. “I’m sorry. Did you say nude?”

“Of course!” The man’s smile is blinding. He tosses his tie on a chair and unbuttons his shirt. “If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right.” His dress shirt quickly follows the tie. 

“And nude is the right thing?” 

“Sure is!” The man’s pants drop to the floor and toes off his shoes as he steps out of them. He’s wearing a ridiculous pair of American flag boxers. Bucky supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, all things considered. Bucky knows the man’s birthday is the Fourth of July. 

Bucky sighs, resigned to his fate. “Let me get a canvas and some supplies.”

“Perfect!” The man drops his boxers and lounges on the sofa like Rose in Titanic, arm over his head, stretched out luxuriously, unconcerned about his nudity. 

Bucky takes a sideways glance at his cock, trying not to stare too much. As if Bucky didn’t already harbor a crush on him, now he’s got spank bank material. Score!

Once everything is set up, Bucky asks, “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” the man says, not a care in the world. 

And so Bucky starts by sketching a vague outline of the man in front of him. He thinks that’s what artists do. It’s probably fifteen minutes before he really has to tell this guy that he’s not an artist. Bucky looks at his artwork and grimaces. 

“It can’t be that bad,” the man says. He stands and saunters over to the easel. “I take that back. It can be that bad,” he says looking at the stick figure Bucky has drawn. 

“I tried to tell you,” Bucky pleads. “But you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise!”

The man nods. “No, that’s fair. That’s one of those things my therapist tells me I need to work on.” 

“This is my sister’s studio. I was just closing up for her. If you really want a portrait done, she’s the one you need to talk to.” 

“Fair enough. I’ll just….I’ll put my pants back on now,” he says sheepishly. Bucky watches his ass as he crosses back to the sofa. It’s a thing of beauty. 

“And don’t worry, Mr. Rogers. Your secret is safe with me.” Bucky mimes locking his lips and throwing away the key. 

“What do you mean?” He asks, pausing as he tugs his pants on. 

“At the office.” It’s obvious Mr. Rogers has no idea who Bucky is. “I, um….I work for your firm. I’m in marketing. You wouldn’t have any reason to know who I am, though.” 

“Oh, my god. Well, hell. You might as well call me Steve, seeing as you’ve seen my junk and all.” 

Bucky laughs nervously. “Yeah. That was a little awkward.” 

Steve buttons up his shirt. “Shit. I don’t even know your name.”

“Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

Steve holds out his hand to shake in greeting. “Nice to meet you, Bucky. Steve Rogers.”

“We established that.” 

“I guess we did.” He drapes the tie around his neck. “Tell you what. If you’re free, why don’t we go get something to eat and we can laugh about this whole misunderstanding.”

“I’d like that.” 

Steve leans into Bucky’s personal space and says, “And if you play your cards right, I’ll let you see my junk again.”

“I’d like that, too.”

The Artist above and the Revolutionnary below - Part 4

Fandom : les Misérables

Modern!AU, Enjolras x Grantaire, 3473 words

Last part of the fic for the Same Prompt Challenge ! Finally, it’s done ! 

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Also on AO3 !

- 

Step one : wash self. It would do no good to present himself to Enjolras looking like some kind of cave troll. So Grantaire took a shower, taking great care to wash his hair and untangle the curls. Once mostly dry and dressed in clean clothes, he aimed for the kitchen. Not for the coffee, even if he started by making himself a nice cup, but for something far more ambitious : he was going to cook.

Four hours later, his kitchen was a mess, every horizontal surface was covered in flour and there was even some sticking to some vertical parts, the sink contained more dishes that he believed he owned, and he was in dire need of another shower. But there was a whole plate of cookies in the oven, and it smelled quite good. Not that Grantaire wanted to brag, of course. He didn't have any time for it, anyway, he was way too busy watching the biscuits by the small window. He didn't want...he couldn't mess them up. He didn't have the courage nor the ingredients to start again.

But luckily for him, the cookies got out deliciously golden, and absolutely perfect. He transferred them into a metal box, resisting the urge to eat one himself. After a second shower that got rid of most of the flour, he went to sit at his easel. Now came the third, and most important part. Cookies were a nice touch, but he wouldn't be forgiven just with this, Bahorel's super secret recipe notwithstanding. No, he needed to find the perfect present that would melt Enjolras' anger like a cube of ice during summer. And nothing could be more of a perfect present than something handmade, or in his case, hand-drawn.

The white page was almost intimidating, at first, more than during one of his assignments, even. Assignments, he could bullshit his way through them if inspiration didn't strike. But this.... this was way more important. Okay, no, maybe not. He couldn't claim a cute boy was more important than his studies. It was important in a different way, but he couldn't just pretend he knew what he was doing. He needed to know. He needed to make it perfect.

The first strokes were hesitant, almost shy, barely scratching the surface. But as he went, the picture in his mind grew clearer, his gestures became more assured, and he started working faster.

When he finally moved, the sun had set, his neck was sending jolts of pain up his skull, his fingers hurt, and his hoodie had lost all pretention to be an actual color. He stretched, sending his arms above his head, only realizing now that his stomach was growling. Probably loud enough to wake his neighbors up. But he didn't care. He felt well. The painting on his easel was probably one of his finest works since... oh, several years. Enjolras stood in the middle of it ; Grantaire had painted him dressed in a XIXe century style, with a red jacket with a cockade pinned on the lapel, a black cravat resting undone on a white shirt under a black waistcoat. There was a smudge of blood on the cheek, but he was brandishing a red flag above his head. The whole sky behind him was a brilliant whirlwind of pink, orange and yellow, and a timid sun was stroking Enjolras' face with gold rays. Any critic would have dismissed the piece as "overly pompous" and "pretentious", but Grantaire felt a mix of pride and anxiety watching it. It certainly was fine, but didn't he exaggerate, making Enjolras' face softer than it was ? Maybe his eyes weren't fierce enough, not full of fire enough ? And what if Enjolras didn't enjoy a portrait of himself ? Oh well, too late now, it was done. Tomorrow, he would make his move. But for now, he wanted nothing more than sleep. He made his way to his room, abandoning his clothes on the way, and dropped on the bed. The remnants of Bahorel's impromptu breakfast were still on the nightstand, and he devoured the rest of the croissants. Once sated, he wrapped himself in the blankets and just laid there, content and sated, for the first time in days. Maybe things were looking up, after all.

~*~

Next morning saw Grantaire up earlier than he'd been in months. He'd woken up almost with the sun, and had been since tossing and turning under the blankets, trying to keep himself busy until it was a decent time to put his plan in motion. He didn't know about Enjolras' sleeping habits, and didn't want to wake him up. That wouldn't put him in good dispositions. So he browsed the internet, trying to distract himself until it was time to move.

At around 10 AM, he decided to act. He rolled out of bed and got ready, going through the motions with application, concentrating on each gesture to ignore the way his heart seemed to try to get free from his chest. He took the box of cookies, the painting, and snuck out into the hallway. It was dark and deserted. Perfect. He went down the stairs, his socked feet silent on the tiles. Still no one. He managed to reach door 32 without a hitch, without any nosy neighbor opening their door to see who was playing spies in the hallway. He carefully put the painting down, put the box beside it, with a small message he'd spent at least fifteen minutes writing. Nothing fancy, just a heartfelt "I'm sorry I've been an ass". No need to start babbling on writing. Good.

He rang the bell... and ran away, up the stairs, almost falling down and hitting the ramp in his hast. He had barely reached his story, when he heard a door open. There was  a moment of silence. And a thought hit him right between the eyes : what if Enjolras decided to climb here to see who put the presents on his doorstep ? He'd see him crouching behind the railing like an idiot. He dashed inside his apartment, closed the door, then opened it a tiny sliver. No Enjolras materialized on the landing, but there was a rustling. Like things being picked up and carried inside. So he had found the presents. Very good.

Grantaire retreated inside, pondering on the next move for a second. He could start working on his assignments again, clean a bit of his flat, maybe scrub his bathroom. Things would go back to how they were before all these guitar shenanigans. But that wasn't what he wanted, right ? So he needed to follow the plan.

He needed to rummage a little (a lot) through the mess accumulated under his bed and in his cupboard, but he finally unearthed an old, battered case. The guitar inside had lost a bit of its shine, but the intricate patterns on it, flowers and clouds, were still as vivid as always. He took it back to his window and sat as comfortably as possible. It was out of tune, of course, after so much time in storage, but the gestures came back to him easily, and soon, it was fit to play. He stroked the strings, just enjoying the sound for a few seconds, then started to warm up. The notes flew by the window, carried by the wind, soft and round at each vibration of the strings, climbing the scales up and down. His fingers were dancing, almost on their own, modulating the melody almost perfectly.

Under him, a window opened. He didn't hear footsteps, but he imagined them all the same. Time to go to step five. Or six, he didn't remember. He abandoned the scales for real melody. Still no noise coming from under him. Oh well, he could still play for himself, couldn't he ? After all, he did like this song. And so, he started singing softly, almost under his breath.

Lay down in the stars, my bonny lass Lay down in my arms, we'll make it last The senses aspire to this far greater time As the rivers flow your heart will be mine

He played the song from start to finish, enjoying how easily it was all coming back to him, the lyrics and the melody, how delightful it was to play again. The last notes fled outside, fading slowly as the strings stopped singing. Grantaire leaned on the guitar, feeling the vibrations stop under his fingers. The silence after a song always had a special quality, soft and serene, like it was another part, something that completed the song.

- Are you there ?

Enjolras' voice cut the silence, made him jump so hard that he almost dropped the guitar. He did call for him. Enjolras wanted to talk to him ! Do not ruin this, play it cool. He walked to the window and leaned out. Enjolras was peering up at him, and Grantaire's heart gave a little tug at the beautiful eyes fixed on him, so large and so blue that they seemed to hold the whole sky. He also noticed that he didn't look as angry as yesterday. Or perhaps he was very good at hiding his feelings. Grantaire composed himself a friendly smile, and answered :

- I am, yes. Hello, Enjolras.

- Hello. I heard you playing, so I wondered....

- If it was me, or the ghost of Christmas past ?

Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire remembered that he was supposed to be nice and friendly, not rile him up again by making fun of him.

- Sorry, he added. What can I do for you ?

- Someone put a box of cookies and a very nice painting on my doorstep, and I was wondering if you knew something about it.

The urge to roll his eyes was stronger than ever, but he refrained heroically.

- Why yes. Do you enjoy cookies, at least ? Because I didn't really ask...

- Oh, so it was you ?

- Yes ? I mean, I signed the note, so....

Enjolras frowned again, more perplexed that angry this time.

- Yes, but.... you.... didn't really introduce yourself. Your friend called you "R" that time, but I didn't know that it stood for "Grantaire", so...

This time, Grantaire facepalmed. Count on him to be so stupid he forgot to officially introduced himself.

- Sorry. I'm Grantaire. Pleased to meet you.

- Pleased to meet you too.

Grantaire tried not to smile too wildly.

- So, what do I owe the pleasure ?

- I heard the guitar. Were you playing ?

- Ah yes, I felt like getting it out of storage and tickling the strings a little.

- That was really great ! I didn't know you were such a good player !

He really needed to stop complimenting him, because Grantaire wasn't sure he was going to maintain his composure for long.

- It's been a while since I've played, but....

- Do you think you could... come down, and we'll play ?

What ? Did he hear right ? Was he....? This was a dream. This could only be a dream. Did Enjolras really ask him to come back ? But he was watching him with his beautiful eyes, and still looking expectantly up at him, and pinching himself didn't suddenly wake him up. That was reality.

When the information reached his brain, Grantaire grabbed his guitar and, once again, ran all the way to Enjolras' door. As he knocked, he suddenly realized that he had bypassed shoes entirely. Too bad, Enjolras was already opening the door, his cat in his arms. Grantaire scratched the little head between the hair, refrained from doing the same to Enjolras.

- So, he said instead, I heard you wanted to play ?

Enjolras lead him to the balcony again, where two cups of coffee were waiting, smoking quietly. Grantaire was both oddly touched by the welcoming gesture, and impressed at how Enjolras seemed to be sure that he would come done. But then again, maybe Bahorel was right and his crush *was* visible from space.

- Anything you want to play ? Grantaire asked once he’d sat down on the rickety chair.

- Can you play Wonderwall ?

- Of course, I taught you. Together ?

Enjolras picked up his own instrument. He carefully placed his hands as Grantaire had shown him, tuned it a little, then turned to face him. Grantaire counted the rhythm as he had taught it, careful of not going too fast.

It was weird, playing together like this. Enjolras did lack a bit in rhythm, forcing Grantaire to adjust, but nothing he couldn't deal with. He didn't dare sing at first, rather enjoying Enjolras' voice, but after the first verse, he just let himself get carried away. It was great, moving like this, in unison, almost like they were two halves of the same thing. Grantaire didn't want to read too much into the situation, but it was... exhilarating. It felt like flying. Like being, for a few seconds, at the top of the world, with him.

It ended, because of course, it had to end, leaving Grantaire disoriented, and a little breathless. Probably the singing, of course. But Enjolras looked as affected as him, so maybe he hadn't imagined the connexion they shared for a minute or two. He tried to play it cool, picking at the keys to retune the strings. Enjolras watched him do with interest.

- Can you play something else ? he asked suddenly.

- Of course. What do you like ?

- Anything you want.

Anything ? Grantaire didn't have to pick his brain to find a song. Of course, that would be a very daring move, but Fortune favored the bold and all that. What did he risk, except a slap and being thrown over the balcony rail ? (probably not). He started playing the chords, softly at first, then seeing that Enjolras didn't run away, launched into the song.

Wise men say only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you...

It was a good thing he knew the words by heart, because Enjolras was so close their knees were brushing, and Grantaire had great trouble stopping himself from jumping each time he touched him. His heart was beating fast, so fast, and he was sure he could hear Enjolras', beating in tune. Or that may just be wishful thinking.

He didn't know how he got to the end of the song without running away or bungling anything. He was ready to jump out of his skin at each light touch. And as he lifted his head, it was to discover the beautiful blue eyes set on him, pinning him in place. He  couldn't turn his head, he couldn't say anything, he could just look at him, and hope his eyes would do the talking.

Suddenly, Jude jumped on his master's lap, almost knocking the guitar over, breaking the spell. Enjolras patted him as he kneading his pants, and asked :

- This song...

- Yes.... Did you like it ?

- A lot... It's very pretty.

- Very, yes.

Perfect. When did they land in a potboiler and get turned into shy teenagers ? Grantaire would have slapped himself if he didn't fear looking like an idiot. He'd always hated that genre, so to suddenly find himself like this, babbling and muttering, incapable of speaking his mind... They'd never get there, not like that. Someone needed to take the reins of the conversation for something to happen, anything. He opened his mouth, but Enjolras beat him to it.

- Did you choose it for a reason ?

Ah, short and to the point. Enjolras certainly didn't embarrass himself with subtleties. But now, he was expecting an answer. And this meant Grantaire needed to think very hard about the answer he was going to give, and quick. And Enjolras was still looking at him, so he needed to focus extra hard to not say anything stupid or incriminating. And he needed to think, and to think quickly, instead of being sidetracked like this.

- I....

Great start, Grantaire. Now say something, or he's going to lose his patience, and maybe his temper. But what could he say ? That he really, really wanted to kiss him ? Hold his hand and the rest too ? Set his life at his feet ? Well, yes, this was what he wanted. But he couldn't say it, or Enjolras would run away. But he needed to say something now. Anything.

- I like it.

Oh great. This time, he hit his head against the guitar, lightly, of course.

- Is that the only reason ?

Grantaire took a deep breath, lifted his head. There they were. No going back now.

- I....

It didn't want to come. He was ready to say it, that was the best moment, the only moment, it was perfect, the atmosphere, the guitar, everything, and he couldn't say it. Count on him to be so stupid he couldn't confess his feelings.

A hand closed on his and squeezed gently. He looked down at their fingers, then back at Enjolras' face, who kept his eyes down.

- I don't want your whole life, he said, but I could... take your hand, if you want.

Grantaire was a bit tempted to laugh, but he refrained.

- Would you, really ? He asked, very low.

- I want to try, at least. If you want to.

He was looking at him, now, with such an open expression that Grantaire almost wanted to scream and tackle him. But no. Act like a normal person. He lifted the hand Enjolras wasn't holding, stroked his cheek, very slowly. His movements were measured, to give him all the time he needed to move back. But Enjolras didn't move back. Not when Grantaire bent down, very, very slowly to kiss him. It was soft, almost too much. Clumsy, too, like Enjolras wasn't used to being kissed. They just kept like this for a moment, barely moving. Not enough for Grantaire, he wanted more, way more, he wanted to ravish him, to leave him red, breathless, to hold him tight and never let go. But it was perfect none-the-less.

They parted for breath, and because Grantaire's neck was starting to hurt. Enjolras was looking at him, his cheeks a little red, his smile a little shy. Positively adorable. Without letting go of Grantaire's hand, he moved his chair a little closer, until he could lean against his shoulder. It was not the most comfortable way to sit, but Grantaire wouldn't have let go for anything in the world. Still, he felt compelled to ask :

- Are you sure you want this ? I mean....

Enjolras moved a little, and he wanted to hold him back, but he didn't step aside, not even a little.

- What do you mean ?

- Well... I'm me, and....

This time, Enjolras shifted to be able to look at him without leaving his shoulder.

- Yes, I know.

- Are you sure this is what I want ? Because....

- I am sure, yes. I know what I'm getting, and what I don't know, I will discover. And I'm sure I will like it.

A very large emotion got stuck in Grantaire's throat, effectively cutting all the words he could have used. So he just held Enjolras' hand tighter, and twisted a little to be able to lay a kiss on his forehead.

They sat like this for a moment in silence, watching the sparrows fly by. Grantaire's thumb was stroking the soft skin on Enjolras' hand, very gently. Suddenly, Enjolras asked :

- It wasn't... too awkward, was it ? When I said... (He gestured vaguely with his free hand.) About your life, and....

- It was, Grantaire chuckled, but that was adorable. It's very... you.

Enjolras laughed a little.

- You better get used to it, it seems that I'm very clumsy at speaking my feelings.

- Don't worry, I like it a lot.

- Good. Now would you maybe play that song for me again ?

Grantaire let go of Enjolras' hand with a hint of regret, and took his guitar back. Immediately, Enjolras settled back against his shoulder. Grantaire didn't know if he could play with someone against him like that, but he certainly wasn't going to ask him to move. Certainly not. He stroked the strings again, and started the song a second time. Enjolras was warm and heavy against him, and it was perfect. The notes started to fly above the roof, to tell everyone listening that they had finally found each other.

-

Songs are True Life Song by Jon Anderson, and Can’t help falling in love with you by Elvis Presley

rank all the songs on the trolls soundtracks!

Alrighty! Since there's 33 total, I'm going to start at #33 and go up to #1, aka the best song in both Trolls combined soundtracks! Please note that I'm not up to debating any of these placements and if you try, I'll scream -- I'm not an expert on much, but I am on the world of Trolls and that's absolutely final. Also worth noting is that even #33 is a masterpiece; this list really isn't from bad to good, it's more from 'pretty good' to 'absolutely rocked my world and changed it forever more!'.

33. The last place spot goes to "Rainbows, Unicorns, Everything Nice" from Trolls: World Tour! It’s a fun little bop and it got a small chuckle out of me but in the end, it’s super short and a little too obvious.

32. “The Other Side” by SZA and JT has to score low. I know it was used to bookend Trolls: World Tour or at least the instrumentals were, but it’s one of the more boring songs on the soundtrack which is the closest to a criticism of one of these songs I’ll have.

31. “Just Sing”, the non-film version, goes here. I know this seems low and it kind of is, but that’s because outside of the context of the movie, the song doesn’t have the same punch! The movie version will be higher on the list!

30. Next goes to "What U Workin' With?" by Gwen Stefani and Justin Timberlake from Trolls! It wasn’t super utilized in the movie so it’s just kind of a spare song on the soundtracks, even if it is a fun bop! I still dance along when it comes on my playlists but the other songs are more integral to the plot.

29. The next spot goes to "Don't Slack" by Anderson Paak and Justin Timberlake, aka the voices of Prince D and Branch! It’s used in the credits of Trolls: World Tour and they’re cute little credits and a cute little song but because it wasn’t used in a more relevant way, it has to rank lower than the others.

28. "I Fall to Pieces" by Sam Rockell, aka the voice of Hickory from Trolls: World Tour comes next! It’s a short but totally funny country tune that’s used well in the plot and made me smile. It is very short though and more of a joke than anything else, but the music isn’t bad so here we go!

27. "Rock N Roll Rules" by HAIM comes next and it’s a really REALLY good song, don’t get me wrong! I love the instrumentals and how they’re used in Trolls: World Tour and I still wish they’d gotten the lead singer of HAIM to voice Queen Barb instead of Rachel Bloom, but ultimately it just reminds me we didn’t get a great rock vocalist for the most important character in the sequel.

26. "It's All Love" by Andersen Paak has to come next! I love this song actually but there’s two versions on the soundtrack and this is the non-film version so it’s got to score lower than songs actually used in the movies, but holy heck, it’s a really good song, I’d highly recommend it.

25. Another song that’s just used as a joke is "The Sound of Silence" by Anna Kendrick, aka Poppy in Trolls and this ranks higher than the others because it was the first real joke song and it made me laugh so hard I cried!

24. "Barracuda” is the worst of Rachel Bloom’s vocal performances in Trolls: World Tour and I hate to say it, I really do, but at times on this one, you can definitely hear that she isn’t a rock singer. It scores higher than the others so far because it was used in a super plot relevant moment and super effectively! AND the most offensive part of the song to my ears, when she says the titular word horribly, was cut out of the film, so it gets 26th instead of last place for being a song that’s hard for me, the King of Suspension of Disbelief, to take seriously.

23. “They Don’t Know” by Ariana Grande comes next. It’s a fun bubbly song that fits Gristle and Bridget’s first date in Trolls perfectly and it made me really really want a roller-skating date at some point in my life. It gets points off for not being able to understand the words and also because none of the characters actually sang it. Songs in the backgrounds of musicals score lower with me.

22. I have to put “Can’t Stop the Feeling” by Justin Timberlake here. It’s one of my favorite songs ever but the film version is even better! It gets higher than other non-film versions because of how much it was used for advertising, it basically became synonymous with the Trolls franchise and that sparks joy.

21. And on that note, I have to put “True Colors” the non-film version, before we get to our top twenty. It’s such an amazing song but in the scope of the Troll world... well, the film version is going to score way higher, you’ll see.

20. "Trolls 2 Many Hits Mashup" in Trolls: World Tour has to come next. It’s the last joke song, and the highest scorer because at least they committed to the joke of pop music being way too much! The scene in its entirety is hilarious and all the voice actors really did their best! 

19. "Leaving Lonesome Flats" from Trolls: World Tour comes next! It loses some major points for not being sung by a character in the movie but it’s basically sung by the location that is Lonesome Flats and I love that! It’s a fun little country dirge that really makes us feel transported and it also slaps.

18. "Crazy Train" is maybe the average of Rachel Bloom’s performance as Barb in Trolls: World Tour. It’s over the top and not necessarily in a good way but it’s inoffensive to the ears and a good song notwithstanding whether it’s a cover. 

17. "Trolls Wanna Have Good Times" has to come next which isn’t fair, really; the only reason it’s not higher is because it’s clearly trying to do as well at an opening medley as its predecessor Trolls did with their opening medley. As it often is with sequels, the opening number really didn’t measure up. It was made up of some really fun parts and it gets points for having personalized lyrics (’lived underground away from the world till I had my life changed by a beautiful girl. Just need the guts to tell her that she’s the one’? Amazing!)

16. "Hair Up" from the opening of Trolls comes next! It’s purely sentimental that its this high but every time I hear this beat, it’s like I’m about to start watching Trolls and my whole mind and body get happy so it had to be top twenty, although not fifteen because it’s not the best of the best.

15. "Born to Die" by Kelly Clarkson, aka Delta Dawn, from Trolls: World Tour comes next. My favorite songs from the sequels were the introduction songs for the most part, and this song did a great job of summing up the differences between country trolls and pop trolls. It was great for plot, character, and conflict! It’s just not the kind of music I bop to - ironically, it’s lower than the other introduction songs for me because it’s not fun, which I know is their whole thing, but my whole thing is having fun!

14. "Atomic Dog World Tour Remix" is the funk trolls introduction song in Trolls: World Tour and it’s funky and fun and fresh and I love it! There’s not that much to say about this one, it’s used pretty quickly but very effectively from a storytelling standpoint! It quickly puts us into the world of the funk trolls.

13. "One More Time" is a very nearly perfect introduction song for the techno trolls in Trolls: World Tour! I love how the emphasis of this song is the instrumentals and the dancing more than the actual words -- the techno trolls are big on synchronicity and beats and it’s something that differentiates them from the other kinds of trolls and also makes them a devastating first colony to attack in the movie. They’re all about unity and togetherness and something about attacking and tearing apart the group that’s all about syncing up is so tragic.

12.  “Rock You Like a Hurricane” is the best Bloom sounds in the movie as Barb, and it’s also her introduction song, not surprisingly. The instrumentals are amazing both as a display of talent and power and her voice lends itself well to the moment; it’s a great opener for the rock trolls and it made me so excited to see more from them!

11. “Perfect for Me” is Trolls: World Tour’s answer to the excellence that was the True Colors duet and it was really cute! It wasn’t quite as perfect for the moment as True Colors was, which is funny because this one was written for the movie but I don’t know, since it was written for the movie, I’d have hoped it’d be better? More fitting? It’s a fine enough song that sometimes I listen to sadly while lying down in my bed but in the Trollverse, it’s not top ten material.

10. “September” comes next! It’s the song that the Trolls start singing as soon as they escape the Bergins and it’s their celebration song and I love it for that! It’s also used in the credits of the first movie which makes me love it more; I don’t know, it’s performed and sung really well and makes me really happy. The top ten all spark MASSING amounts of joy.

9. “It’s All Love (History of Funk)” is one of the best songs in the sequel! I love the way the funk trolls go through the history of funk and music, and the beats are amazing and the lyrics are so good and the movie’s scene is SO GOOD. I can’t articulate how much I love that the funk trolls show their history through album covers instead of scrapbooks like the pop trolls. All the vocalists are crazy talented and something about the beat just...yes. It’s just a yes.

8. “Yodel Beat”! It scores surprisingly high if you haven’t seen Trolls: World Tour but if you HAVE seen it, you’ll understand why! It’s one of the best songs for musically punctuating a moment that the entire franchise has and I still get goosebumps thinking about how that scene was executed and how this song played such a massive role in it. Big fan, big fan!

7. "I'm Coming Out" / "Mo' Money Mo' Problems" is just hilarious! I love this scene in Trolls, as it’s the first example we have that Trolls and Bergins can work together, as well as the fact that Bergins can be happy without eating trolls, since Bridget is so confident and awesome! I also give lots of points to mashups and medleys and this was an unexpected one that just worked!

6. "Just Sing (Trolls World Tour)" is the best song in the sequel, hands down! When all the leaders of the different troll counties sing together? It’s amazing, every single time! It’s so meaningful, the fact that music is the most important thing in all of their lives and how it’s what ultimately unites them. I shed a tear every time, honestly. I’m tearing up thinking about it right now.

5. "Hello"  in Trolls is performed EXPERTLY by Zooey Deschanel. Did anyone know she was that funny? Because holy carp! She’s hilarious! I love this song and scene, it was one of the first scenes in Trolls that made me realize this movie was on a whole other level! It had to be top five!

4. "Get Back Up Again" by Anna Kendrick aka Poppy has to be a high scorer! It’s an original for the movie and it’s so damn good! It’s optimistic and encouraging and I love it for the movie and the character but I also love to listen to it when I need some help getting up or feeling like it’s going to be a good day. I will get back up again! It’s a great philosophy and a fantastic reminder that life can knock you down but that you’ll be good!

3. Top three times! The best medley in the movie has to be here, and that’s "Move Your Feet" / "D.A.N.C.E." / "It's a Sunshine Day"! It’s our introduction to the Pop trolls in the first movie and it’s crafted so good! I love it! No matter how many times I listen to it, it makes me so so happy the way the songs flow together. Any world where these songs exist and fit together as well as they do is a world I want to be sucked into for at least the next two hours of my life.

2. THE FILM VERSION OF “TRUE COLORS”! Is my number two pick! It has to be! It’s so impactful and emotional and romantic and if I ever get somebody to want to marry me, an instrumental cover of this has to be our first dance song, I’m sorry. It’s so beautiful! And the film version somehow makes an amazing song even better! WHEN THE TROLLS HUG TIME WATCHES CHIME OFF IN THE TUNE OF THE SONG?! AS THEY FACE THEIR IMPENDING DOOM?! IT’S AMAZING, SHOWSTOPPING, LEGENDARY, ICONIC. I’m getting sweaty just thinking about it!

1. If you know me, you knew “Can’t Stop the Feeling”, the film version, was gonna be number one! The buildup to that moment in the movie is cinematic perfection, the performance is dazzling, and the feeling it leaves in you is unforgettable. It’s the song that’s played when the trolls teach the Bergins that you don’t need to eat other sentient species to be happy, you just need to find the magic and music inside of you, and it’s a lesson I learned while watching -- this movie and this song unlocked a power inside of me to smile and be happy with just myself and it’s absolutely... it’s just everything. It’s everything and I love it and I love you, whoever you are, who sent me this ask, because getting to think about and go through all the songs in Trolls that I love, it was awesome.

honesty hour!

Neutral Zone ~ Biker!Bucky x Reader Oneshot

A/N: I literally have no idea. This was intended to be something really different and I don’t know. I hope you enjoy. 

Summary: You need to remind your patrons of the rules 

Rating: T 

Warnings: Language, Brock is a predatory asshole and harasses people,

Word Count: 1014

The night was winding down. The regular club members were posted up around the bar. Final call was just fifteen minutes away and although it would take another hour to clear them out, you were starting to hope that you might make it through without any real confrontations- your sniping with Bucky notwithstanding.

That was until you heard a loud smash and saw poor Mandy soaked in beer and Brock Rumlow towering over her. From your spot behind the bar you could see her mumble something you assumed was an apology with her eyes fixed on the floor as she bent to clean up the broken glass.

You immediately started digging for the broom so she wouldn’t hurt herself.

“You know it’s too bad that your uniform isn’t a white t-shirt. It would look so much better wet,” Brock guffawed loudly.

To her credit, Mandy ignored him. Though you could see the deep red on her cheeks.

“You know you look good on your knees,” he slurred.

“Oh that is it,” you hissed under your breath, stalking out from behind the bar with the broom in hand.

You weren’t sure if you were going to sweep up the glass or beat Brock over the head with it.

Maybe both.

But before you could decide Bucky got in his face, putting himself between you and Brock.

“Time to go, Brock,” he warned in a low voice.

“I’m just paying her a compliment, Winter Soldier,” he sneered the title. “Stay out of it. This isn’t your bar.”

“But it is my territory. Get out.”

“Fuck off, Barnes. This is a neutral zone and you know it.”  

“Get out,” you snarled as you put yourself between him and Mandy.

“Look, princess,” he smirked in a patronizing tone.  

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you snarled.

“I know you think you run things around here.”

“I do run things around here. You know the rules. You harass my staff you’re banned. So get out. And don’t come back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You suddenly wished you’d grabbed the shotgun instead of the broom. Brock crowded you, getting in your face but you stood your ground. When Brock swung at you, you ducked and came back swinging, catching him hard on the jaw with a right hook.

Brock saw red and took a swing, but Bucky stepped in and took the hit. He then yanked his arm behind his back and marched him out the door. Two other Howlies, Sam and Pietro, followed him out while a younger boy, a new recruit you guessed, made his way over to help clean up.

“Here, let me help,” he offered crouching next to her.  

“It’s okay, Peter,” Mandy sniffed, clearly trying not to cry.

“Why don’t you go dry off,” you suggested. “I’ve got this. I don’t want anyone to get cut.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Go ahead, hon. Peter, is it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Go bring her a bottle of water, and a fresh t-shirt from the stack under the bar.”

He nodded and eagerly followed your instructions.  

You quickly cleaned up the glass and spill and checked on Mandy. She was in a dry shirt and was actually smiling as Peter showed her pictures of his dog.

“You okay, Mandy?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you head out for the night?”

“No, no. I’m fine.”

“Mandy. Go home. Phil and I can take care of closing up.”

“I can give you a ride if you want,” Peter offered.

“I’d like that. I’d really like that.”

“I’ll grab my jacket and keys.”

“I’ll meet you out front.”

You smirked at the puppy love blooming in front of you. Once he had left, you turned to the younger girl.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Brock is banned now. And I’m going to make sure everyone remembers the rules.”

“Thanks, boss.”

You gave her a tight hug, smoothing down her hair.

“Have a good night.”

Once the door closed behind them you walked to the center of the bar, noting that Bucky and the others had returned.

“Listen up,” you snapped. “It seems like you all need a reminder of what the rules are in this bar. So here it. This is a neutral zone. Whoever’s territory lies beyond the threshold of my bar doesn’t matter to me,” you locked you gaze on Barnes, who smirked but didn’t comment. “You harass my staff, you’re banned. You start a fight, you’re banned. You drive drunk, you’re banned. They’re easy rules. Follow ‘em. Or I’ll open this bar up to the public. Got it?”

There were grumbled agreements.  

“Now everybody settle up. Barnes,” you barked. “My office, now.”

You didn’t wait for a response, stalking into your office. You knew he would follow, so you left the door open as you retrieved the first aid kit from your desk.

“You gonna play nurse for me, doll face?”

“Close the door and sit your ass down.”

“Have I mentioned that I kinda like it when you boss me around?” he smirked, following your instructions anyway.

“You know that this bar is neutral. This isn’t your territory. I don’t care if you run the block.”

“He was being a predatory shit and you know it. What did you want me to do? Let him hit you?”

He hissed when you cleaned the cut on his cheek and grabbed onto your hips reflexively.

“Not so tough are you?” you smirked, sealing the cut with a butterfly stitch. “Look, I can take care of myself. It’s my bar. I will take care of dumb assholes.”

He hung his head, leaning it on your stomach.

“I’m sorry, doll. I just hate seeing you in that position. I want to protect you.”

“I know,” you sighed, running a hand through his messy hair, gently tugging his head back so he was looking at you. “But you know the rules. No fights. I really don’t want to have to throw my husband out of my bar.”

He grinned and pulled you down into his lap.

“Whatever you say, Mrs. Barnes. Whatever, you say.”

 A/N: Yeah, I was gonna do jerky biker Bucky who ended up with the girl but then I don’t know, I quite paying attention and then they were married. lol. I hope you enjoyed. thanks for reading 

xoxo 

naynay

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Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde rewritten - Ch. 48

48. Slow recovery

“Good morning, gentlemen! Oh, so gay today?”, Lady Summers observed, when Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde and Mr. Utterson came to her room, grinning at her and her doctor like no tomorrow.

“Indeed”, Dr. Jekyll responded. “But so are you two. If you pardon my indecency, Milady, but I know my friend – you finally talked about you-know-what, didn't you?”

Lady Summers and Lanyon exchanged a glance. Then they realised, that they were still holding hands and chuckled.

“Yes, Doctor”, she finally answered and settled back into the pillows.

Then she let her eyes wander over the trio and frowned. “But as I see, Mr. Hyde didn't listen to my instruction to stay in his room?”

He looked away sheepishly.

“No”, Mr. Utterson confirmed with a hint of frustration, “He crawled into ours and woke us up at three in the morning.”

Dr. Jekyll nodded.

Mr. Hyde threw his arms up. “Oh come on! I didn't want to fuck or anything!”

“Really?”, Jekyll interrupted sourly, “Then how come you couldn't keep your hands off me, when Gabriel and I were trying to sleep?!”

“Oh shut up, you miserable hypocrite! You couldn't keep your hands off me either!”

Lady Summers sighed and pinched her nose. “This kind of nonsense is why I didn't want you two to share a room. Mr. Hyde, just a friendly reminder, this is my house. And I'd rather not have to deal with the noise you two make, when you do … well, that. I would never be able to get them – or the images – out of my head, which I'd rather avoid, thank you very much.”

Mr. Utterson blinked. “What do you mean?”

Her dear doctor answered no-nonsensically: “These hypersexual bitches are loud.”

The looks on Dr. Jekyll's and Mr. Hyde's faces were so priceless that Lady Summers doubled over with laughter.

Poor Mr. Utterson almost fell from his chair, but somehow that made her laugh even harder.

As a result she spat blood, but that was worth it!

Oh, hanging out with these men was better than any burlesque!

“So you two are officially together now?”, Utterson asked, as soon as everyone had calmed down.

The Lady chuckled. “Well, only officially to you, but yes.”

“That's wonderful!”, he cried, “I'm so happy for you!”

“Thank you, Gabriel”, Lanyon replied warmly.

But Jekyll was feeling a light sting in his chest.

He was happy for them, he really, genuinely was.

But it was bittersweet.

Lanyon was happier with her than he'd ever been with him. And he deserved it, God knew he did! But it had taken so long for him to find that happiness, because he had wasted fifteen years of his life on him. Jekyll would probably never fully comprehend, how Lanyon had been able to put up with him for this long in the first place.

Lady Summers' voice brought him back to the moment. “Now, now, Dr. Jekyll. Let's not look back on our past relationships.”

“On one thing we have to look back, though”, Utterson spoke up. “What those people did to you is unforgivable.”

She nodded grimly. “I know it's unforgivable. And I certainly haven't forgiven them a single thing. And to think that it first happened in 1845, where people died from surgeries more often than they recovered-”

“That's only one thing”, Jekyll spoke up. “Notwithstanding your miraculous survival, only to be robbed of your dreams and crippled for the rest of your life – pardon my language, Milady.”

“Don't worry, no offence is taken”, she assured him. “I am technically a cripple, after all. Since-”

Another fit of blood spitting only served to confirm that statement.

“Since I suffer from this, because of all the things they did to me.”

“I have a question, though”, Hyde spoke up. Then he corrected himself. “Wait, no. It's two.”

She answered them, before they were even spoken: “I managed to fight you off that one night, because of my rigorous training. After our match I was indisposed for a week, but my condition would be a lot worse without the training. Learning to control my belly muscles was quite helpful, actually. If it wasn't for that I'd likely be quite dead by now.”

“Speaking of your condition”, Mr. Utterson spoke up. “We need to talk about pressing charges against your attacker.”

She raised a brow. “Baron Cleranescu? I don't think that will be necessary, considering he made a fool of himself and will never be able to show his face on British soil again. This is the worst thing you can do to someone belonging to the upper class.”

“He must face justice!”, Utterson insisted angrily, “You said yesterday night, that it's worse than usual and I will not accept the prospect of him hiding away and moping in some old castle in Rumania, while you're suffering from internal injuries! Not on my watch! I bet he wouldn't have dared to do this, if you were Lord and not Lady Summers!”

Oh right. Jekyll always forgot how adamant his love was about women's rights.

Lady Summers gaped at him.

Then she chuckled. “No, he definitely wouldn't have. He's as misogynistic as most men are, if not more.”

“That much was clear”, Hyde threw in, “I was there, I heard it all. She handed his arse to him with each sentence she spoke! Then he talked shit about Lanyon and his own wife, the Lady informed him that she's cheating on him with the king of Rumania and he lost it.”

Jekyll's jaw dropped. That bastard had kicked her in the abdomen – right where her weakest spot was – just because she had told him that his wife favoured another man?!

“I have an idea”, Hyde continued, “How about instead of suing him, we sic Alma onto him? She would love to-”

“Did somebody say my name?”, the very person asked, as she walked into the room to the Lady's bedside and took her hand.

“How are you feeling, Luise?”, she asked worriedly.

The Prussian chuckled. “Well, I'm spitting blood and my abdomen hurts, but apart from that, I'm fine.”

“It's that bastard's fault”, Miss Donovan snarled, “I'll cut his junk off and shove it into his mouth, before setting him on fire!”

“Sounds good, I'll help you”, Hyde agreed nonchalantly.

“No!”, Lady Summers spoke firmly. “You will do nothing of that sort. You will not get violent on me. Be the better person-”

“To hell with being the better person!”, Miss Donovan snapped, “I don't give a damn! That bastard hurt you and your health is already fragile! He must suffer! At least let me castrate him!”

Lady Summers frowned. “Give it one month and see what will happen.”

The red-haired girl huffed, but nodded.

Still before the evening all of London knew of the incident at the gala.

A foreigner had attacked and gravely injured one of the most high-ranking aristocrats of England, who was now bed-bound.

The Prince and Princess of Wales had requested that he be stripped of his rank and diplomatic immunity and the ambassador of Rumania had already complied.

The baron had already fled London.

Lanyon wasn't satisfied with that. He wanted the bastard to suffer for hurting his Lady. He wanted him to writhe in agony and beg for mercy.

“Now, now”, Lady Summers spoke up, when she saw him frown at the punchline on the newspaper. “Things need their time. Now that he no longer has his diplomatic immunity, he can be charged for his crimes. And if it doesn't happen in England, it'll be in Rumania.”

Lanyon hoped that she was right, he really did.

Lady Summers was unable to leave her bed for two weeks.

So when Lanyon allowed her to get up briefly and move around in a wheelchair, she was ecstatic.

It was a wonderful day, so she used the opportunity to get some fresh air.

“I really would love to go outside again”, she said. “And I hope that I won't be assaulted by a bunch of news reporters, who want an interview. Jesus Christ, I never asked for all this hustle!”

Mr. Utterson opened the window and looked outside. “I don't see any out there”, he told her.

She nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Perhaps I will enjoy just a few moments in the park, between all the people who recognise me and ask what happened.”

Dr. Jekyll lifted an eyebrow. “Considering how prominent you are? I doubt that.”

The Prussian huffed: “Crush my hopes, why don't you!”

Unfortunately, it turned out that Dr. Jekyll was right.

The group needed ages to get to the park; Lanyon had to stop the Lady's wheelchair every thirty feet, because someone recognised her and inquired after her wellbeing.

But finally they made it there and by the time it was forenoon, when most people were at home or at work.

“Perhaps it was good that it took us so long to get here”, Lady Summers remarked, “I love when the park is so empty.”

“I reckon you do”, her dear doctor remarked.

“And I can't sense anyone stalking us”, she continued cheerfully, “I think this will truly be a good day!”

Mr. Hyde cleared his throat, making her turn her head. “About that … I was wondering …”

“Yes?”

“Should Jekyll and I be worried too? That …”

“Absolutely.”

Maybe not the most reassuring answer, but they all knew that it was true.

The organisation was hunting for test subjects and if they found out the truth about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde …

The two needed to watch their backs in the near future.

“I have a question too”, Dr. Jekyll spoke up. “Those strange friends you mentioned … do they really live here in London?”

Lady Summers nodded. “Oh yes! They live in Soho, actually. Not that far away from Mr. Hyde's flat. I'm sure he passed by their house several times, without knowing.”

She chuckled fondly and shook her head. “You would like them, Dr. Jekyll. They're a lot like you.”

The blond doctor chuckled as well. “You attract people like me, don't you?”

“Somehow I do”, she replied nonchalantly and shrugged. “But you know what? I think I should introduce you four to them. I have told them a lot about you and am sure that they would love to meet you as well.”

Dr. Jekyll beamed at her. “I would love to meet them!”

“Same here”, Mr. Hyde agreed, “I'd be delighted to learn whose house I passed by without knowing.”

The other two men nodded as well.

Lady Summers was quite pleased at that. “Perfect. I will send them a note and inquire, if they receive.”

Thoughts on Twists

Every story ever told can be broken down into three parts. The beginning. The middle. And the twist!

—Goosebumps (2015)

Jordan Peele’s Us and M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village Spoilers ahead, so read with caution!

There's something about a good plot twist: the shock, the awe, the feeling of having your world turned upside down. A good twist might make you see a character in a new light, or rethink everything you thought you knew about the setting. A bad twist, on the other hand, can ruin an otherwise decent story. Bad twists feel cheap and stupid, and make what might have been good, even great stories into muddled and unbelievable messes. So what makes a twist good or bad?

First, some preliminaries: what is a twist? Although we all use the phrase "twists and turns", I submit that a plot twist is a little different than a plot turn. A turn might be defined as the plot taking a completely unexpected direction, like "Wow! Who would have thought that guy would end up becoming the villain!". On the other hand, a twist is when we learn an unexpected fact about the world or a character that had been there, secretly, all along: "Wow! Who would have thought that guy was the villain the whole time!".

Since we're on the subject, it should be noted that twist villains are not the only type of twist there is. Nor are twist endings, the quote from Goosebumps notwithstanding. Though twists tend to occur towards the latter part of narratives, they can be sprinkled throughout. I would love to give some examples of this, but one of the problems with talking about good twists is that you don't want to give them away, and talking about them almost invariably does just that.

Obviously, a twist ought to be unpredictable, but a predictable twist does not make a bad story. Erased, which is one of four perfect stories in existence, has a twist you can see coming from a mile away, and yet it remains perfect. Why? First, because the story doesn't hinge on the twist, for one thing; it's cat and mouse, so it's okay if we know who the cat is. Second, a twist that is predictable isn't really a twist. I mean, it is but it isn't; it's one of those weird gray areas of trying to be the thing, but failing. But that's okay. A failed attempt at being a twist is, in my mind, not the same thing as a properly executed but just plain bad twist. But maybe we're getting into the weeds a bit.

I would say that a bad twist is any twist that is not a good twist, and a good twist follows certain rules: it must be believable; it must make sense in retrospect; and, for double twists, the second one must make the story better as a whole. Basically, good twists are satisfying, and bad twists aren't, usually because they break one of the three rules.

Rule 1: A twist must be believable!

By this, I mean believable in whatever world the writer has set up. If supernatural elements are established, or at least hinted at, a supernatural twist is fine. If, however, there is not one hint or peep of the supernatural throughout the story, but it turns out that the killer is a wizard, or an alien, or a ghost, it's awful. Sure, it's unexpected, but in the dumbest way possible. Good twists should be like slight-of-hand; the audience should delight at being fooled. Unbelievable twists feel more like being lied to by someone who's really bad at lying. They feel like an insult.

And don't think that introducing random supernatural elements into a story is the only way to be unbelievable. Sometimes, making a "real world" twist can feel just as unrealistic. I'll say as little as I can, because it's still less than a year old, but I think that Jordan Peele's Us pulls this. I was really excited for that movie when I saw the trailers, and then I read the synopsis and got even more excited, because I hoped that he would try a certain twist. And he did, and I think it's brilliant! But he went for another twist as well (the one that occurs first in the film, actually), which kind of ruins the whole movie. Why? Because that first twist is logistically, financially, geographically, and hereditarily unbelievable (in particular, (SPOILER, obviously): it's idiotic that the child doppelgängers are the offspring of the cloned parents, and not clones of the normal kids. Even if the clone parents had sex at the exact same time as the normal parents, the sperm and egg that happen to unite would be totally random, even accepting the ridiculous idea that the mother clone would ovulate at the same time as the normal mother. Never mind the rest of the absurdity of a vast government(?) clone experiment that just leaves an unlocked exit in a beachside funhouse). It took what could have been a great movie and made it seem fake and silly. I know I wrote a whole post about not being harsh on the plot holes in horror movies, but this particular twist is based on real things in the real world, not monsters or spirits or what have you (and seriously, a mysterious, ever-changing-yet-always-present carnival funhouse that inexplicable spits out doppelgängers from time to time is way scarier than a poorly run scientific experiment). It strains the suspension of disbelief. It's too much to take. Quite simply, I don't buy it. And a good twist should never make the audience say "I don't buy it."

Rule 2: A twist must make sense in retrospect!

The best twists are those that are staring you in the face the whole time. Once you finally learn the truth, you should be able to look back and say, "I can't believe I didn't see that coming!". As an example of such a twist is M. Night Shyamalan's The Visit. Every time I watch that movie with someone who hasn't seen it, it strikes me just how obvious the twist is, and yet no one ever guesses it.

Bad twists tend to come out of left field, or else don’t mesh with what came before. They feel like the writers are cheating by not giving you anything to go off of, but still want you to cheer for them anyway. Hans being the villain in Frozen is one such twist. His early actions in the film don’t jive with his take-the-throne scheme, specifically in that he stops Weselton’s men from killing Elsa in her palace. Why does he do this? The only reason I can think of, given that he was just going to have her executed later anyway, is so the audience wouldn’t know he’s a villain. It’s not in character and doesn't make sense when you learn what he was eventually planning.

Part of making sense in retrospect is having clues to the twist throughout the rest of the story. These might be seemingly unimportant, mundane details that the audience passes over, or they might be red herrings that seem to indicate one thing but actually mean something quite different. Either way, once the twist is revealed, those clues should become obvious. The Ace Attorney games excel at this. There was a case I was playing, and, after finally eliminating one of the two main suspects, I was stumped. If it wasn’t one of those two, who was it? I pulled up the cast list and went one by one, slowly eliminating the impossible until I was left with one improbable suspect. “No,” I thought, “it can’t be them. But, it can’t be anyone else, so…Wait!” Like puzzle pieces falling into place, everything suddenly fit. That person not only had to be the killer because no one else could, it made sense for them to be the killer given all of their past actions.

A twist that I’m not a fan of is the one in And Then There Were None, by Agatha Christie. Before you grab your pitchforks and torches, let me explain for those people who have never read the book: ten strangers meet on an island and are killed, one-by-one, for their past misdeeds. While the book is entertaining and is the granddaddy of all such whittling-down-the-cast who-dun-its, the twist itself is kind of… meh. Yes, the killer’s motive makes sense, but there weren’t any clues or details one could look back on and say, “Ah! Of course! I was blind not to see it!” The little twist as to how they accomplished some of the killings was clever, but as for their identity, well… I feel like Christie could have chosen any of the ten and done the same thing with them. Nothing pointed to that one person in particular being the killer, and it made the whole twist a lot less satisfying.

Rule 3: Double twists must make the story better as a whole!

Double twists are those where one twist comes after another. The second twist can either build on the first one, or subvert it. As an author, I can tell you that double twists are a nice way of covering your bases, because even if someone sees the first twist coming, they usually won’t see the second one. As a reader, I’m crazy about double twists. And yet, people either misuse them by having them make the story worse or don’t use them to make the story better. Basically, a bad double twist is one of those that breaks rule 1 or 2. Sometimes, though, a really good double twist can salvage a single twist that breaks either of these rules, assuming that the story isn't too far gone at that point (Jordan Peele, I'm looking at you).

Let’s take at movie with a double twist, and see if it works or not: M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village. Shyamalan is quite...something, in that he soars to heights and sink to depths in terms of quality. On a scale of The Happening to The Visit (I don’t acknowledge the existence of The Last Airbender or After Earth; they're not Shyamalanian enough), I would say that The Village is just above Lady in the Water but below Glass. Don’t get me wrong, there are parts of The Village that were quite scary and interesting, but its twists? They're just not doing it for me.

SPOILERS, I guess, but this movie's been out for fifteen years, and the twists are nothing great, so, here we go: it turns out the monsters in the woods are actually villagers in suits who deter people from leaving the community, and—double twist—the movie takes place in the modern day, but the village’s inhabitants experienced loss and crime in regular society and formed their weird community in the woods in order to raise their children peacefully. This second twist was neither believable nor hinted at. For example, why do all the adults—all of whom presumably grew up in normal society—use a stilted, old-timey speech (other than to fool the audience on time period)? Also, though we know the elders have secrets they keep in black boxes, we’re never shown even a hint that these might be things from the modern era until the ending. Why not have a full color photo, or an anachronistic piece of technology? The audience would think these were goofs or sloppy filmmaking, until the reveal that it was all part of a carefully set-up twist.

I’m not a fan of the fake-monster twist either, because I’m always in favor of supernatural elements, but it’s not bad in and of itself. If it were the only twist in the film, it would be an okay movie. But that second one, well…It doesn’t make the film better—I think most people would agree it makes it worse—so it’s not a good double twist. How would I fix it? Add one more twist. The blind girl goes into the woods to get medicine, and is attacked by the murderer in a monster suit, just like in the original movie. Only this time, rather than luring him into a hole, she is saved by another creature. “Who’s that?” the audience wonders, until it rips the murderer apart with its claws and then gallops away on all fours or climbs up a tree or something, because—plot twist—there really are monsters out there in the woods! Like I said, I’m always in favor of the supernatural (Besides, the elders do say that they based the creatures off local legends). At this point, you can keep the modern-day twist or not (if you do, I would move the monster fight to after she’s coming home with the medicine). This new twist wouldn’t make it the best movie ever or anything, but it would make it a little better, a little scarier, a bit more unsettling. If the modern setting stays, this twists hits home the already-present-but-somewhat-undercut message that you can try to make a perfect, planned life, but there are still things out there you can't control. I think it would make for a more satisfying story over all.

And that, right there, is what should be at the heart of any twist (or, dare I say it, any story element): satisfying the audience. No one goes into a book or a movie or a game wanting to be lied to or cheated. We want to be dazzled, amazed, maybe even fooled but in a way that we can appreciate. We want a twist that will knock our socks off and change everything we thought we knew, while being right in front of us the whole time. But, honestly, we'll settle for a not-so-mind-blowing twist that at least satisfies our need for a good story. Heck, we'll even take a predictable twist, as long as the story itself is good. Why? Because surprising your audience is a bonus, but satisfying them is a necessity. And that is what a good twist does.

Hi!! I really like your opinions and explanations about Poldark!! It's been a huge help amoung all these years. So I wanted to ask you about the scene in the last episode when Demelza is packing to leave Ross and she said something that i didn't understand very well which was 'and become the man you once were' and he responded ' that man no longer exist' what did thay mean? Did They mean how things were betwen them when he was unfaithul with elizabeth? Thank you for you're dedication and love!

Bear in mind that Ross’s infidelity with Elizabeth happened in 1793, and 5.08 takes place in 1802. That’s nine years apart. So...no, I don’t think that conversation has anything to do with the way things were between them during 1792-3 (ie, after Francis’s death). 

When Demelza asks Ross to become again the man he once was, and he says that man no longer exists, my reading of it is that she’s referring to the man he was before Ned’s death.

What we’ve seen between them in series five, for the nearly two years since Elizabeth’s death, is a couple who both love each other deeply and who are very much in love. They are committed to each other. They talk to each other about problems, they share banter, they kiss each other often, they are one hundred per cent in synch and on the same page.

What 5.08 set up, five months after Ned’s death and after Merceron tried to have Ross killed, is a couple who have grown apart because one of them - Ross - has stopped communicating. He’s stopped talking about problems, he brushes off her concerns, he’s brusque with family members, and he tells Demelza outright not to ask questions to which she doesn’t want to know the answer. When she discovers his affair with Tess, this is the final straw that tells her he is no longer the man she married, nor the man she has lived with these past two years (and even beyond, 4.07 notwithstanding) - a caring, considerate man who values her advice and listens to her counsel. A man who is devoted to her and who would not betray her idly.

When she asks him to be the man he once was, she’s talking about the man he was six months before. Yes, they’ve had problems before, but this new Ross is a wholesale change from the man she’s been married to for fifteen years. She wants him back, for better or worse. And Ross says no. He says that man doesn’t exist any longer.

I think he, too, is referring to Ned’s death as a catalyst for this change in him. Throughout s5, other characters have been at pains to stress Ross’s likeness to Ned. ‘Rash, impulsive’ Dwight says. ‘Egging each other on’, Kitty fears. Ned himself tells Ross that the man he’d described in court, the brave, loyal and honourable man - that was Ross, not Ned himself. Ross has lived up to the ideal, while Ned has fallen short, and Ned is proud of him for that. Even Demelza, at the end of 5.06: ‘You should weep for him. For the better part of him. It is the better part of you.’

It’s clear that Ned was set up as a father figure for Ross. A figure of adoration - blind adoration, even - who laid out an example for the impressionable young soldier, back in the American war. And, although it’s rarely mentioned in the show, we know that Ross is quite unlike his actual father. Joshua Poldark was a womaniser, a rake and a gambler who did a lot of free trading and was completely wild before his marriage and after Grace Poldark’s death. This is not who Ross is or has been. Rash and impulsive, yes. Reckless, yet. But not in that way. So in comes Ned, and it makes sense that Ross has in some way modelled himself on his hero.

We can’t know how Ross would have reacted to Ned’s death, had he not chanced upon the French and thus begun acting as a double agent. We know he was desperately grieved and full of anger at the corruption of government that had led to the hanging. But his first action, on returning to Cornwall, was to seek Demelza out and to cling to her. She’s the brightest star in his sky: it is she to whom she turns for comfort. I doubt he would have started acting the way he does, without that impetus of the French.

But it makes a decent excuse, and Ross clearly uses it. So my reading of that conversation - his statement that he can’t be that man any longer, because that man no longer exists - is that he’s saying he can’t go back to being the man he was before Ned died. The man Demelza is asking him to be. A man who doesn’t keep secrets from her, doesn’t go philandering with other women, doesn’t spout treason in public. He’s pretending he can’t go back, and she’s clear that she can’t go on with this new man he’s become.

Perfect Distractions

A/N: Sorry this is late! Just got home from a dinner >.< 

Dougal makes an entrance, Jamie makes an exit, and as always, all the facts of this fanfic are contrived specifically to make fluffy university/modern-day au scenarios. Please let me know what you think!

Part One: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] | Part Two: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Three: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Four: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Five: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Six: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Seven: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eight: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Nine: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Ten: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eleven: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Twelve: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [ Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Thirteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] | Part Fourteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5] Part Fifteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Sixteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Seventeen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Eighteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] | Part Nineteen: [Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

Part Nineteen: Relativity | Chapter 3

It felt, to Jamie, like more than a few celestial forces were actively conspiring against him, targeting this one specific day with sniper-like precision.

It was one thing to have to bring Fergus along to what still ended up being a pleasant enough date, later events notwithstanding. But to come home and deal with not just the regular Mackenzie crowd, but his wild card of an uncle was another thing entirely.

He sighed, leaning against the brick of the house as he surveyed the courtyard, filled with Fraser and Mackenzie alike. His uncle was concerningly nowhere to be seen, and Claire was on the opposite end of the yard with wee Jamie and Fergus.

He couldn’t stop his smile from breaking through no less than he could tear his eyes from her. Was it because he’d dreamed so often of being with her in Lallybroch that she seemed to fit in so perfectly? Aside from the early eggshell walking of her initial visit, she’d settled snugly into his world without any resistance.

Perhaps it was because she’d never had that feeling, that knowing of and belonging to a singular place that sat so deeply within him. In the fuzzy space of his dreams, he sometimes saw her as a bird, combing the skies for a perch, and he a tree, growing contentedly all these years with no sense of greater purpose until the day she found him.

He saw a brief flash of his mother’s sharp eyes from the portrait and shivered, not in fright, but in the almost tangible feeling of her hand on his shoulder.

Was it the same, mam? When ye met da? Was life with the Mackenzie so structured and planned that she had no earthly idea one poor and earnest farmer was combing the highlands in search of her?

The love between his parents had been – still was – so clear to him, it boggled the mind to think her family couldn’t see it. And yet, while most were courteous enough to keep their opinions to themselves, his – still currently absent – uncle was resolute in his judgement and happy to let whomever know.

Across the yard, Claire finally took notice of his intense stare, raising an eyebrow at him in amused question and he chuckled, feeling a flush run up into his cheeks like he so often did when the light caught her whisky eyes at just the right angle.

Claire laughed, a light and thoroughly joyous sound, and somewhere nearby, he knew Jenny was rolling her eyes at them.

Christ, and if his mother and father’s love was as obvious to him as his and Claire’s was to everyone else, the Mackenzie were undoubtedly as blind as they were stubborn.

Suddenly feeling the acute need to be near her, as natural as breathing, he began to make his way over when something at the front gate caught her attention.

He followed her gaze, watching in slow motion as Dougal stalked into the yard, shoving past Murtagh and Rupert as the two tried to usher him in.

His uncle staggered to the table, swatting away Angus as the smaller man tried to help. The swing knocked Dougal’s balance off and he landed shoulder-first onto the ground.

Scottish gatherings being what they are, very few of the guests paid any kind of attention, and a few even raised their mugs at the spectacle with a laugh. But Jamie didn’t care about them.

No, the only person he did care about—

He saw her rush to Dougal’s side immediately, because of course she would. This was Claire in full form: driven and singularly-minded, focused on helping to the point of distraction.

And that’s what he was worried about.

With some help from Angus – who was particularly (and hilariously) scandalized at her barking orders at him – eased Dougal’s head into her lap as she checked his pulse and assessed his head for any sign of injury.

Jamie felt a tension run through his body, staring at Dougal’s large frame astride Claire’s and silently daring his uncle to try.

And try he did.

It was no more than a shocked yelp from Claire, but Jamie had already crossed, knelt, and grabbed the man by his shirt collar within seconds of her smacking Dougal’s hand away.

“Just what in the hell do ye think ye’re doing, ye fuckin’ bastard?”

Dougal rose to his feet, shaking off Jamie’s hands and meeting him almost nose-to-nose.

“Oh, that’s a fine look, lad,” Dougal said with a deep, if slightly slurred, chuckle. “Ye’re father gave me quite a few of those glares in his day.”

“Ye’ll apologize to Claire this instant.”

“Och aye, or what? Ye’ll crack me across the jaw?” He turned his head to one side, offering it to him. “Go on, wean, do what yer old man couldnae do.”

Jamie seethed, the will to fight bubbling up unbridled within him but his fists wouldn’t move.

“No, I see it in ye, nephew, ye’re just like that bastard father of yers.” He laughed in a barking, hacking, manner. “Where’d ye steal this lass from, then? A Sassenach, no less. Ye fuckin’ Frasers love to take what’s nae yours, do ye no’?”

Jamie’s fists balled at his sides, practically shaking with fury as Dougal egged him on.

“Do it, lad, I dare ye. Prove me wrong. I—"

CRACK.

It wasn’t Jamie’s hand but Claire’s coming open and clean across Dougal’s face, leaving a momentary white imprint against his drunken flush.

“Kindly go fuck yourself, you narcissistic bastard,” she said, as cold and precise as her slap had been.

Jamie’s legs felt like jelly and, before he could register, he was shoving past Dougal, past Rupert and Murtagh, and out of the front gates into the fields.

Heedless to the shouts and calls after him.

Read Chapter 4

Flustered - Uta

You walk into the lecture hall at exactly seven for class, quite deprived of sleep, as per usual. So, naturally, you don’t notice the impossibly beautiful man that stands beside your professor until he begins stripping. For the briefest moment, your under-oxygenated brain wonders why the hell was there a stripper in the fucking lecture hall. Then, your train of thought briefly wanders to what strippers do exactly, aside – of course – from stripping. Fan service? Lap dances? Are strippers even a thing anymore? But then you remember that you’re a fricking fine arts student, and that this is figure drawing class, and that seeing hot naked strangers isn’t that big of a deal. Nice. Trying to avoid the general vicinity of the model, you scurry right into your seat which is smack in the middle of the front row. Mother of shit. After a series of doing brief facepalms, you begin to set up your workspace. Only when your professor tells the class to begin do you feel your heart flutter in your chest. Nonetheless, you ignore your raging hormones, and attempt to begin. The moment you glance at the man’s porcelain white skin, though, you find yourself looking away almost immediately. The flutter in your chest is gone and is replaced by its violent trashing. Jesus Christ, what the everglubbing fuck is happening to you? You professor notices that you have yet to begin your sketch, as opposed to every single other person in the room. He sends you a soul-murdering glare that makes you realize that you’d rather get over yourself and your uncontrollable hormones than to displease this probably-spawn-of-satan-himself professor, so you stop asking Jesus what the crap is wrong with you and begin to make your rough sketch. Metaphorically flaming face notwithstanding, you manage to finish the outline of what was supposed to be the model. You think. Probably. Hopefully. Oh God, you’re fucked. With your frustration increasing with each passing second, you force yourself to actually take a look at the model more than two motherfucking seconds. As if on cue, though, his red orbs catch yours. The last thing you see before retreating back to the safety behind your canvas was how a hint of amusement plays across the features of his face before immediately shifting back to his previous deadpanned expression. Nope. Instantaneously, an explosion goes off in your head, and in a span of a second you find yourself all kinds of confused, flustered and terrified. Before you could register your own actions, you’re already standing up. Most of the class looks at you in mixed curiosity and surprise. Your professor, though, had obvious annoyance etched across his face. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. You have to think of something quick. Then, you make a ‘C’ shape with your hand, gesturing that you have to go to the comfort room. The moment your professor nods in reply, you’re already halfway out the room. For a long while, you pace around the hallway, cursing yourself for being such a bullshit shojo manga character. Out of all the feelings that bubbled in your chest, frustration was by far the strongest. Why couldn’t you do this? Aren’t you supposed to be some big-shot artist someday? How can you achieve that when you can’t even look at a naked man? Seriously, what the actual fuck, self? Without really thinking about it you slam your hear right into the vending machine, earning a shit ton of curious looks. “Pent up sexual frustration much?” you recognize the voice almost immediately. Your most ‘beloved’ seatmate smiles at you as she passes by. “Stfu.” You let your eyes trail back to the room, seeing everyone from your class walk through the double doors. “Break?” You ask her. “Yup. Are you gonna eat lunch or what?” “Nah.” You think for a moment. “I think I’ll try to save my output.” She narrows her eyes at you, “It looks great, okay? Let’s eat.” “I’m serious,” you say with finality. She lets it slide with a shrug, and in no time she’s gone in the mass of passing people. You head back to the room, only to find it completely deserted. Finally, you feel yourself relax, especially as you sat down on your chair. You adjust the canvas stand before resuming your work. Then, you pick up a HB pen from your pencil holder, and begin to refine the lines you’ve made. Given that the model was no longer there, you draw based from memory as well as you can. It is fifteen minutes later when you find yourself actually satisfied with your work, although you have yet to draw most of the model’s tattoos. He had ink all over his skin after all. How could you expect to remember each intricate detail? Not a moment longer, you proceed to do some shading – dark enough to guide you later on, but light enough to erase in case you’ve made a mistake. You take note of the weightlessness of your hand, as opposed to earlier that morning. A small smile finds its way across your lips. “You’re good.” You freeze almost immediately, as the foreign voice reaches your ears. It is as though the world’s cadence ceases only to make way for those two, short words spoken with an ethereal tone. You turn to find the model, making his way from behind the room towards where you are situated. Realizing that you have to actually reply to people when they compliment you, you bow slightly before thanking him. His face betrays no expression, but his eyes convey his amusement well enough. “I’m Uta,” he utters with an invisible smile. “It’s nice to meet you,” you manage to say without tripping on your words. “My name’s [Name].” “Don’t mind me. Just continue,” he says with a gentle tone that contrasts the expression of his face. You let your eyes trail briefly to the black characters tattooed across the white skin of his neck, before turning away completely. Not long after, an uncomfortable silence (mostly just for you) surrounds the both of you. Naturally, you struggle to break it. “Uta-san?” “Hn.” “Are you a friend of the professor?” you ask as casually as possible. You hear him scoff slightly from behind, as he takes the seat next to yours. The decreased proximity doesn’t help with your heart’s increasing pace. Dildo fucking shitfest, this is so goddamned weird. As if drawing a naked man wasn’t weird enough, but now the man in question was now watching you draw him and all his sweet, sweet nakedness. “I met Nishiki-kun years ago during one of my exhibits via an acquaintance. We’ve been quite familiar with each other since.” Pleasant nonchalance is present in his voice. You hum in response. Your brain briefly entertains the idea that Uta was the professor’s trophy husband just because it was hilarious to think that your cold-hearted professor could actually love something.   “So you’re an artist too, Uta-san?” You try your best to minimize the shaking of your hand by shortening the strokes you made with the pencil. At one point, you try to shift your focus from your chagrin to the mixed traces of graphite and charcoal present all over your hand. “Yes. I make masks.” You pause briefly to turn to him. Something about his specialty fits him so well, you thought. A smile stretches across your lips as you say, “That seems very interesting.” “If you think so, then you should drop by my studio sometime, and maybe demonstrate your skill to me as I to you one-on-one?” he offers without a hint of effort. Did he just- A tsunami of words flood your mind, only to get stuck at the back of your throat. So there you sat still with your lips parted as though about to speak, and yet no sound escapes. But then, the door opens. Your classmates begin to enter consecutively, paying no mind to you and Uta. Wordlessly, he sends you a millisecond-smile before heading back to the pedestal. He strips once again. This time, though, the reason behind your blush is no longer because of his lack of clothes. Thankfully enough, you’re a lot calmer than earlier. You manage to finish most of the shading just as the professor says that everyone should just be adding the final touches.

So you did just that. You darken Uta’s tattoos, and you erase a few stray smudges. Then, you begin to blend the areas where it is sparse with chamois (for the larger areas) and a blending stump (for the smaller ones). You finish in the nick of time. "Pass your work one-by-one.” The professor sits on his table and glares at all of the students (as usual). You decide to let the crowd thin first before you even do as much as to stand.

Meanwhile, you begin to tidy up (and by tidy up, you mean to chuck all your pencils and other shit into your zip-lock case before throwing in in your bag as fast as you can.) Grabbing your bag, you also take your unnecessarily gigantic sketch pad and shove it to your seatmate. “I’m counting on you,” you salute to her, before speeding towards the door. Before you could reach the solitary exit, though, you bump against someone. Uta. For the briefest moment, you could have sworn his hand grazed yours. The piece of paper nestled between your fingers serves only to prove its occurrence. But when you look up, he’s already making his way back to the professor’s vicinity. Without another word you practically run out of the room, face ablaze, trying to steer your train of thought away from the series of numbers sprawled across the lightly crumpled piece of paper in your hand.

No Hablo Castellano!

Any joy and confidence I might have taken from the introduction to basic French at middle school was soon kicked out of me at grammar school when I found myself in a class with girls in possession of prep-schooled fluency. Panic and shame tend not to be conducive to learning and my teacher eventually informed me I was wasting her time. Transferring to German with its not two but three genders was, unsurprisingly, a less than stellar experience too. Given that I couldn't afford to leave the country until my late twenties, my certifiably terrible foreign language skills were not much of an issue. Not wishing to be that Brit who doesn't even try, I've operated since then on a seven words and one phrase principle. Wherever I'm going, I expect myself as an absolute minimum to know ‘hello’, ‘goodbye’, ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘please’, ‘thank you’, ‘excuse me’, and ‘two beers please'. The linguists among you may find it inconceivable, but even these essential basics are sometimes a challenge for my memory. This small courtesy plus the international language of pointing has generally achieved what was needed. I have only once come a cropper, in spectacularly naive style, alone in Russia. An awkward scene ensued with me reduced to tears in a Moscow bookshop while two stony-faced women stared at me in impatient disgust as, ironically, I failed to summon the phrase for ‘I need to buy a phrasebook'. I made darn sure not to repeat this experience in Japan three years ago and, much to James' amusement, travelled with a little stack of index cards. There were therefore, grand plans to learn Spanish before leaving home this time. I'd tried teaching myself a bit after a holiday fifteen years ago, I could still count to ten, it would be ok. What idiot would spend five months in Latin America and not learn Spanish first? Well us apparently.

It is our great fortune then, that Chileans thus far seem to be friendly, kind and tolerant. I'm still not quite sure how long the 8th May went on, but we were awake for about thirty hours of it. This was excellent for mid-air exposure to recent film releases, not so great for being in a competent state in Santiago. We realised quickly that there weren't many foreign tourists around, few people spoke much English, and we didn't understand a word anyone said to us. Nevertheless, Santiago was easy to negotiate until a thoroughly confusing moment when we couldn't find a metro interchange. Still blessed with functional feet, we walked. It was only when the 9th May finally dawned, that it dawned on us the metro line we'd tried to follow on the map was only under construction. Cognitive impairment notwithstanding we set about exploring Santiago. Chile's capital allegedly lacks the looks and headline sights of some great cities, but we immediately liked the cut of its jib. Surrounded by the jaw dropping elegance of the Andes, Santiago has nothing to prove and therefore just gets on with it.

Wandering the streets getting our bearings we began to get accustomed to Chilean cuisine. It is safe to say that any health gains made on the trip so far, are under threat. While undoubtedly tasty, there is a big disparity between the rainbow of goods available in the fruit and veg markets, and the red meat on chips/in bread specialties that form the core of most menus here. First cousin of the pasty, the empanada with its myriad filling options rules the snack market. As we slowly learn to navigate the local ways, we have discovered lunch is more important than dinner and offers healthier options and better value. These fixed price, modestly portioned, three course lunches are written up each day on chalkboards outside and known as the ‘menu' for short. There is scope for causing confusion therefore, when you stand right next to it and try asking to see the menu. It remains the case though that I am craving vegetables and may have to sell my soul for an aubergine fairly soon.

While the hearty food may be the end of us, we are no longer likely to be flattened crossing the road. No one has motor scooters, there are functioning pedestrian crossings, and motorists are strangely polite to those on foot. For some reason though, yielding to other pedestrians doesn't happen on the pavement which is at odds with the general courtesy of the place. We are yet to get brazen enough to test whether holding course would lead to people simply walking into you or barging you aside.

Despite its mountainous backdrop, Santiago is almost entirely flat, which makes it eminently explorable on foot. We spent plenty of time noseying around various neighbourhoods, taking in plenty of art both corralled in galleries and running free all over the walls. Two outcrops puncture the flatness, Santa Lucia in the city centre, and the higher San Christóbal on the outskirts, which features its own funicular railway. Both offer superb views when the clouds and smog are favourable. San Christóbal with its prominent shrine, signalled the formal handover from Buddhism to Catholicism as the dominant religion and cultural influence of our travels. Near the base of the mountain we visited one of the exuberant houses which belonged to Nobel prize winning poet Pablo Neruda. This had been carefully restored after being intentionally damaged during the 1973 coup that immediately preceded his death. While Neruda died of cancer, many more were tortured and killed. The striking architecture and moving contents of the museum dedicated to the ‘disappeared' and persecuted of General Pinochet's military dictatorship were an impressive introduction to this period.

Just as our jetlag receded, we messed with our body clocks once more in the pursuit of a good techno night. With great quality music, a friendly crowd, and a no-frills venue in a lively neighbourhood, we were pleased to discover that the elements we love about the Birmingham scene were present on the other side of the world. When the electrics pack up five minutes into the headline set and everyone just laughs good humouredly and then cheers the guy that fixes it, you know you're somewhere sound. We followed this with a low-key day of pottering around for James' birthday, which he preferred not to dwell on unduly. The timing of our trip means it is too late in the season to venture south without getting unreasonably cold and wet, so the South American leg is effectively all points north of Santiago, mainly to the west of the Andes. We started to think more clearly about how to go about this. Time itself played a final trick on me on our last day in Santiago, when the clocks changed without our knowing, leaving me staring at my watch in incomprehension as James (and his phone) insisted it was an hour earlier than I believed.

Despite being a card-carrying crazy cat lady, I am finding myself with a nascent fondness for dogs. They are everywhere here, substantial in size, living their lives on the streets, doing their dog thing, interacting with humans but not answering to them. Like cats essentially. I find myself admiring their complete lack of bother about where they lie, be it crashed in the middle of a pavement, road or bus terminal. Those that are owned however, are noisily territorial as we discovered in embarrassing and slightly alarming fashion in San Alfonso. This day out in the mountains above Santiago also offered up the chance of cuddling a kitten for the first time in ages. Unfortunately this has triggered off an urgent need to have another cat in my life, five months before we can do anything about it. The transfer to Valparaiso was, therefore, a fantastic opportunity to fully immerse myself in cat spotting as well as indulging my geeky enthusiasm for funicular railways. Valparaiso features a huge commercial port, Unesco protected 19th century architecture, ubiquitous street art, and thousands of cats, over a series of hills so steep they are covered in funiculars.

Valparaiso also introduced us to drumming groups and protest marches. In most of the towns we've visited now, we’ve encountered groups of young people practicing their drumming, and we've watched them heading up a number of marches. We aren't sure what the significance of it is yet, but all will become clear at some point I imagine. We visited the second of Neruda’s three houses. Evidently poetry and diplomatic postings paid off after a humble start in life. We began to learn something about Chilean history including liberation from Spanish rule, and the vicious post-colonial wars with Peru and Bolivia over the mineral-rich territories of what is now northern Chile. Nitrate fortunes built much of Valparaiso, and furnished one of the imposing villas overlooking the port with an impressive Chilean and international art collection. The Maritime Museum gave an insight into the country's proud naval history and helped made sense of many of the street names that appear reliably in every place we visit. It was also in Valparaiso that we experimented with one of the country's classic drinks. The ‘terremoto’ or earthquake is based on pisco (Chile's grape-based brandy), in an unholy alliance with grenadine and pineapple ice-cream, and served by the half litre. The internet informed us it was unwise to drink more than one but after overcoming the initial taste of creamy cough medicine, we got a bit fuzzy and chatty and ignored its instructions with a second round. Neither one of us had a clear recollection of our movements thereafter. It definitely involved being weird and vocally enthusiastic about our dinner in a mostly empty eatery, then swooning over cats on shop counters on the way back to the funicular. I have mentally added terremoto to the rarefied biohazard list that includes tequila and absinthe.

A striking early impression has been Chile's apparent love of British 80s pop, US 80s soft rock, and 90s grunge. The musical side of our trip is very much on the up and the ghost of Sheeran has finally been exorcised. We don't yet understand why this music is everywhere but it has certainly enlivened our bus journeys. Chile, being enormously long and lacking in a rail service, is heavily dependent on long distance coaches. I am glad to report these are comfortable, safe, and almost never leave without you while you are sitting there waiting for their late arrival in the full knowledge of the ticket office staff, leaving you with seven hours to kill, an unplanned trip to see Deadpool 2 and a 1am arrival at your next destination (grrrr). Isolated transport issues aside, we made it to La Serena and miraculously, a kind, smiling chap let us into our guesthouse in the small hours. Having slept off the irritation, we had a chilled Sunday exploring the town and nearby beach. Chile experienced a significant earthquake and tsunami in 2015, which explained the long walk from the elevated town to the beach, and the new evacuation signs everywhere. James has an app on his phone charting all the seismic activity in the region. Incredibly, there are earthquakes all the time, but most are not noticeable.

It being Autumn in Chile we have been quite fortunate with mostly bright, sunny days. Coastal La Serena was a little misty in the morning, but an hour inland up the Elqui Valley in Vicuña we got our first taste of the clear desert skies that make Chile an astronomer's dream. Nights are cool, especially in the mountains, but there is a healthy respect for this in the form of multiple blankets and bedspreads, if not with actual heating or walls made of much more than plywood. Chile is one of the most seismically active countries in the world which might account for why so many dwellings are single storey. Damage by previous earthquakes and general deterioration reveals their timber framed construction, with adobe walls and a lath and render outer layer. Spanish colonial architecture abounds, adding to the wild west feel of the vast, mountainous deserts. Our cheerful host in Vicuña overcame our language barrier using a translation app and soon had us set up on a stargazing evening. In the meantime, we pottered around marvelling at the scenery, discovering more about Chile's first Nobel winning poet, Gabriela Mistral, avoiding horses tethered in the street, and decoding menus. I've never looked into a proper telescope before, so Sirius, the Milky Way, Jupiter and the Moon were a revelation of the genuinely awe-inspiring kind. Guided by an enthusiastic and thankfully bi-lingual physicist we had an exciting evening gazing aloft. The next day we focused on earthly wonders and went another hour up the valley to a pisco distillery, where we were shown through the process and tried some samples out of politeness.

Onward we went to Copiapo, a mining city in the desert and access point to the Nevado Tres Cruces national park, where the 6893m Oyos del Salado towers as the highest active volcano in the world and the second highest point in the Americas. Mining remains huge business in Chile. To a Brit who associates the idea of mining with a snuffed out industry and pit heads reduced to heritage attractions, it is strange to come up against very modern and profitable extraction activities. In the process we realised that parts of Chile do still have a rail system, but that it's devoted to freight for the mining industry. Remnants of a much more extensive network abound. Freshly restored stations and other classic buildings are suggestive of positive moves towards the acknowledgment and valuing of the country's historic assets. That Chile has the means for such programmes is heartening in relation to their successful push towards developed economy status, but it is encouraging to see that the quality of the urban environment is being considered along the way. Every city, town and village has a Plaza de Armas, a conquistador era ‘parade ground' town square, and frequently also a pedestrianised promenade nearby. These are places where gathering together, socialising and playing are actively encouraged. There are plenty of seats, permanent staging areas for performances and public events, thoughtful planting and structures for shade, and a noticeable absence of the aggressive deterrent measures that make skaters and the homeless unwelcome. We are yet to see any of these spaces mistreated, or any aggravation between the diverse groups using them.

We were keen to get up into the national park, but given the distance, altitude, remoteness, and potentially poor surfaces and signage, we were unsure how to approach it. As it transpired, low season meant there were no group tours available so it was either a case of backing off or hiring a 4x4 pickup and hoping our driving and navigation skills were up to it. Naturally we went in search of a vehicle and were soon in temporary possession of a beast of a Chevrolet we named Big Blue. As a serial Fiesta owner, the beast was something of a departure for me and was my first time behind the wheel of a 4x4. James used to own an old Land Rover so was better prepared, but we were both pretty ginger driving this metal death machine on the wrong side of the road for the first time. To get some practice we went on a short trip way back beyond human existence into geological history. We had the excellent mineral museum at Tierra Amarilla to ourselves, and avoided getting into any trouble on the roads. Emboldened, we went in search of supplies and spare fuel for our road trip and got an early night.

Neither one of us has been up to any serious altitudes before so we cracked on with the hydration, plain breakfast and pre-emptive anti-inflammatories while hoping for the best. In thirteen hours we covered 540kms and got up close to 4700m in the bright, cold sunshine of the snow-capped mountains. The improbably vivid turquoise Laguna Verde near the Argentinian border was our goal and we were very fortunate to discover that the road was fairly well sealed up to that point. We drove towards the rising sun, up and up, marvelling at the largely barren scenery, and hoping not to encounter too many mining trucks. The beast handled it with ease and we had minimal company on the roads. We spent much of the day totally alone with nothing but mountains ahead and in the rear view mirror. Our breath became a little short with even mild exertion when we hopped out for photos, but other than that and some sinus pressure we were lucky not to suffer any ill effects. We were regaled with such beauty that it was hard to know where to look. Water trickled under ice in vibrant green river beds, rock layers jutted and swooped, salt-flat lagoons stretched away into the haze, peaks gave way to peaks and more peaks. We reached Laguna Verde on schedule and had our lunch in the brilliant cold before turning back to seek out a different route back round the park. We felt very rugged, filling up the tank from cans, activating the 4x4 and heading off down the dust tracks that were barely distinguishable from the plains around them. After a final lagoon, James took his last stint behind the wheel, ably negotiating a laborious set of switchbacks as we began our descent while chasing the setting sun. I took the final leg, squinting into the dark and we and the beast arrived back unscathed.

We had to part from our big blue friend in the morning and hopped straight on a bus heading for Caldera on the coast. A fairly small town, Caldera punches above its weight as an active fishing and minerals port. Site of the first railway station in Chile, the Caldera area once boasted so many foreign workers and business owners there were four consulates. We settled into our hostel, pleased to note the presence of a plushy cat named Toulouse, and went wandering to the seafront. To our surprise we were rewarded with the sight of sea-lions, turkey vultures and pelicans. After a tasty but nutritionally barren empanada lunch we were in need of some vegetable matter. Options were limited in the evening so we plumped for the flashing lights of a Chinese. The restaurant was deserted save for the proprietors who were laughing like drains to the opening scenes of Jurassic Park III on a huge television in the corner. Through a blizzard of English/Spanish/Mandarin miscommunication we ordered some food and got drawn into the film. At some point during a pterodactyl attack on screen, a stack of crates began to move behind the restaurant counter, and a young man emerged from behind them. I assume his parents were just taking a pragmatic approach to the lack of space, rather than actually keeping him in a secret room behind a load of pop bottles.

Our second day in Caldera was all about museums and tasty fish. I may have also accidentally wandered into a pet food emporium and bought some cat treats for Toulouse, but that's just a rumour. At the first museum, a preserved nineteenth century house, guided tour was the only option and we were the only ones there. A delightful lady did her best with us, for over an hour, entirely in Spanish. Heading to the dockside fish stall and cafe that would provide our lunch, we could hear violin music being played out over the tannoy on the boardwalk. This created a lovely soundtrack for our meal. We visited the basking sea-lions afterwards. A large individual was propped up on its flippers, face to the sky, bathing in the warmth of the sun, its head swaying as if enraptured by the music. A few feet on and it became clear that the heavenly sounds were coming from a man in a vest top and combats on a fold-up chair by the fish market. With an electric violin in his hands and an electric piano propped on a car battery at his toes, he was a one man classical band. Around him, tough-looking fishermen and fishmongers had paused to listen and appreciate. Dogs lay and pondered. Two random gringos sat transfixed by the emotive language that transcends words, thinking of their loved ones in England.

Just in Time for the Holidays--

-- everything falls apart.

Hello, everyone, I have decided to reopen commissions with some price decreases. I find myself in a desperate strait for money while my roommate and I scramble to find a new place to live. I will also be taking on another job soon, but every little bit helps, and hopefully these commissions will bring in at least enough to help us pay for gas or cover the truck we need to rent to haul our things out by the end of December. Below is the information for drawing and writing commissions, please message me if you would like to take one of my available spots. Thank you so much.

PONIES

--Pencil Sketches: Three dollars ($3) for one full-body pencil sketch of any one pony. Extra ponies will be two dollars ($2) apiece.

--Line Art: Five dollars ($5) per pony

--Colored (Flat): Eight dollars ($8) per pony. If you would prefer shaded as well as colored, please note me. For any questions, please note me or ask on my profile page.

CHIBIS

--Pencil Sketches: Five dollars ($5) for one full-body pencil sketch of any one character (person or humanoid). Extra characters will be three dollars ($3) apiece.

--Line Art: Eight dollars ($8) per character

--Colored (Flat): Ten to Thirteen ($10-$13) per character. If you would prefer shaded as well as colored, please note me. For any questions, please note me or ask on my profile page.

Anthros

--Pencil Sketches: Five dollars ($5) for one full-body pencil sketch of any one character. Extra characters will be three dollars ($3) apiece.

--Line Art: Eight dollars ($8) per character

--Colored (Flat): Ten to fifteen dollars ($10-15) per character. If you would prefer shaded as well as colored, please note me. For any questions, please note me or ask on my profile page.

NO COMPROMISE INFORMATION ON ALL COMMISSIONS:

I will not draw fetish art, nor any pornography, as a personal preference. Please see this Tumblr for any of these things. You must be 18 or older to commission. Please do not note me in an attempt to ask for either of these things.

Minimum prices are non-negotiable-- this isn't Fable, you can't haggle (sorry guys)

Commissions which include the commissioner's original characters may be redistributed as many times as the commissioner wishes, however the commissioner does not have permission to claim my drawings as their own, nor does the commissioner have the right to recolor, shade, re-line, or add filters onto the drawing.

Commissioners who purchase pencil or line drawings do not have permission to line or color the drawing on their own and distribute it, whether credit is given or not.

Drawings may not be used to create stickers, banners, or other items for sale or profit, but only as items to be distributed by the commissioner with appropriate credit given.

Payment is to be given before the final drawing; all commissioners will receive a very basic sketch to determine if basic shape and character position is to their liking. Commissioner will receive updates at each stage of the drawing to suggest or correct any aspect of the drawing before final coloring and/or shading.

I have the right to refuse any commission at my discretion.

Prices can vary for some of these because commissioners may ask for additional shading, backgrounds, or props. Prices will be discussed in notes. I require references for all commissions, and if no picture can be given, it is necessary to provide me with a detailed written description. I do not consider "shinies" in the eyes or on the lips, props, horns, hoofs, etc. to be extra, and instead consider it part of flat coloring.

Writing Commission Info Pricing Information: Pricing for writing commissions is based roughly by each word. Normal pricing: Up to 1500 words: 1/2 cent per word (up to $7.50 USD) 1500-3000 words: 1 cent per word ($15-30 USD) 3000-5000 words: 1.5 cents per word ($45-75 USD) Erotica pricing: Up to 1500 words: 3/4 cent per word (up to $11.25 USD) 1500-3000 words: 1.5 cents per word ($22.50-45 USD) 3000-5000 words: 2.25 cents per word ($67.50-112.50 USD) The final product can be distributed to the commissioner's delight, but cannot be claimed as their own work. Similarly, I will be able to post the writing as I like as my own work, but will not claim characters written in it as my own, whether it is fan-fiction or featuring the commissioner's own characters. Pedophilia, pedophilia roleplay, bestiality (anthros notwithstanding), and rape will not be written with no exceptions, and those who attempt to commission these will be blocked. I also reserve the right to turn down any commission at my discretion. Will you pad the story to meet the next price tier? No. Dickens was paid by the installment, not me. I'm not out to write a novel, throw around extended metaphors, and wring another thirty cents from you. It ruins the work overall and my relationship with my commissioners. What if the word count is slightly above or below a price tier? I can be lenient, it's all situational. The likelihood is, a word count around 1530 wont get a bumped price, but a word count of 1550 probably will. It's negotiable, don't panic. Why does the pricing go up for longer stories? I often love writing the prompts I'm given, and can type out quite a lot for the story very quickly. Even so, this still takes about 4-5 days. If the story is difficult for me to write, I then have to take more time to ensure the details and story flow are the quality we both want, which requires the same level of dedication as the story that comes easily, and in this case, compensation is monetary.  The quality you expect and the quality I want to give go hand in hand, but bigger projects take more out of me. I have this great idea for a novel... You really don't want to be charged by the word, then. Why does erotica cost more? Sex sells, and it's a little more challenging to write something that flows well in erotica versus a bunch of frilly words thrown together to create a visual mess which won't impress me and certainly won't impress you. Also, you will need to be 18 or older to commission these. Will you write fan fiction for me? I will, under the condition that the piece is not published on FanFiction.net, or to a group dedicated to the fandom. These are for personal use only, because you don't own that character, and neither do I. I have a Naruto/Twilight/etc... OC, will you write with them? See above conditions. This character may be yours, but this is not a world you or I created ourselves. I have a completely original character and would like you to write with them. Is this okay? Yes, but I will need a biography, as much detail as you wish to give. Every little piece helps. If you do not have a bio, I will ask questions as necessary. How do you write OCs? Ships? Can you pair up my OC and yours? I write characters as close to the mark as I can. I also provide bits and pieces of writing to make sure the character acts appropriately and the personality is in order. For shipping, I need a little synopsis of their relationship. If one does not exist yet, then I need the description for both characters and their reactions to each other. As for shipping with any of my characters, I will certainly try, but I will not sacrifice my characters' personalities for the sake of a story, and if the ship won't work, I will tell you. Also, bear in mind that whatever story features my character is not canon (some of them don't really know where they're going or who they're going there with just yet). Also to ship with another person, I need permission from that person or proof that you are able to commission things for them. What kinds of stories do you write? I write a lot of erotica, a lot of romance. Most often I can find inspiration for death, sadness, insanity, fear, or rage. Cute things are perhaps the most difficult, especially for longer stories, but all it really takes is getting to know the characters for me to enjoy it. I write for all relationships (excluding the ones on the red list above) and can also write backstories, lineages, histories of worlds, etc. if you need these things for world-building or for an RP website.  Thank you guys so much for reading.