#Metre Scarf

[sergeifyodorov]

My darling you are always a little off your rocker and that’s why we’re all here xx

understood... have many nice days ideally all in a row, or perhaps whenever you need them most

#made me tear up a little. in a good way. ok moving on -> #im 35% of the way through a 1634 scarf that is pushing the boundaries of both 1634ness and scarfness. it's gonna be like 2 metres long #and then i will learn to knit

[vimbry]

I do have sims 2 ps2 just lying about which means I can recreate my old household if I want and yessss just as I remember it being. clunky to control and full of 2000s fashion

#idk if this was the Exact outfit I'm going off a rough memory but what I Definitely recall is #1. he had a scarf bc all oc designs had a scarf accessory #2. I wasn't confident enough to experiment with clothing so I stuck with a limited palette to be safe so it'd look good #and he looked like a gijinka of a mint candy #also the ps2 sims had LUDICROUS waists #just wanna point out that this is the highest body setting #I also remember being terrified of the fire code metre bc it thought it would start one if you went over it and wasn't just a memory limite

[eau-the-agony]

Why is knitting so hard why am I so dumb

#i ace one several metre long scarf and suddenly i cant make anything ever again #maybe i should try crochet again (hundreds dead thousands injured) #hamb goes on a ramb

[newtonsheffield]

I can’t get the image out of my head of Blushing all the way Home Kate sat next to her Grandfather at Anthony’s Harlequins games. Kate wearing a Harlequins scarf in support of Anthony and Poppy Sharma with his arms crossed wearing a Leicester Tigers Jersey and Scarf.

“He’s very talented, your Anthony.” Poppy Sharma huffed as Anthony tackled a Bristol Bears player by himself, the impact nearly audible from their seats. “I’ll give him that.”

Kate chuckled, “Wow, that sounded painful for you, Poppy.”

Her grandfather looked affronted. “I like Anthony. You know I like him. He’s a good man, he’s good for you.”

Kate nodded, clapping for Anthony as the play reset. “He could get you a Harlequins Scarf, you know. It would mean a lot to him.”

“It’s the most painful thing in my life, Katie. Your Anthony playing for this team. I’ve been a Leicester supporter for 56 years, I’m not stopping for him.”

She knew there’d be pictures of them everywhere tomorrow. It had become something of a joke online. Poppy steadfastly wearing his Leicester supporter’s gear, standing to cheer for Anthony’s brother in law when he took Down Anthony himself 2 metres before the try line. Anthony himself played into it, Posting photos of the two of them together after the matches

I’ll win him over one of these days.

“You could convince him to transfer to Leicester you know. Basset could make for him in the locker-room I’m sure. I could cheer for him then.”

“Poppy,” Kate rolled her eyes. “This was Anthony’s Dad’s team. His career started here and it’s going to end here as well.”

Poppy gave nod of begrudging respect. “Well, he’s loyal. I respect that I suppose.”

“He’s got you a Ticket to the England Scotland game next month.”

Kate saw the shift in him, his eyes widening, “Has he?!”

“Of course.”

“In the box, or the side line?” Poppy gasped.

“He knows you prefer sideline.”

Poppy gasped excitedly, “I’ll pay him for them.”

“Don’t be silly, they’re a gift. You’re with the rest of the family.”

“Well, I look forward to it.”

Sure enough, Poppy settled next to Kate a month later, his coat bundled tightly around him just as it had been the entire journey there.

“Why do you still have your coat on?” Kate narrowed her eyes at her Grandfather, suddenly suspicious.

“It’s chilly.”

“You never wear your coat, you unbutton it so everyone can see who you’re supporting.”

Poppy shrugged, an innocent look on his face “Ah well.”

“If you are wearing a Scotland Jersey under there just to spite him I am not bringing you anymore.”

She only grew more suspicious when he started to fidget in his seat as the crowd started to thrum with energy as the teams stood in the tunnel. And panic rose in her chest as Anthony started leading The English team onto the pitch and Poppy stood in his seat.

“Anthony!”

“Poppy what are you doing?!”

“Anthony!” Poppy hollered again and it caught his attention this time, Anthony turning in his direction. And finally Poppy took off his coat to reveal an England Jersey, Anthony’s number emblazoned on it, his name stretched across the back.

Anthony’s face lit up, grinning as he pointed, applauding with the crowd laughing around them.

“Well then.” Poppy huffed settling into his seat and taking the red scarf from the pocket of his coat. “I’m looking forward to being able to enjoy your Anthony being an absolute bloody unit tonight.” He cleared his throat, “Get em Anthony!”

Kate rolled her eyes, kissing her grandfather’s cheek. “He’s going to be so excited.”

And sure enough there’s a series of images on Anthony’s instagram the next day. Poppy standing proudly in the stands, a photo of himself grinning as he pointed and one of the two of them on the pitch at the end.

We’ve got Poppy Sharma boys!

#blushing all the way home au #kathony #anthony x kate #kate sharma #kate sheffield #anthony bridgerton

[w-m-heart]

Flufftober Day 7: Forever Sounds Perfect

Fandom: Moon Knight Pairing: Moon Knight Boys (Steven, Marc & Jake) x Reader Word Count: 1472 words Summary: You and your darlings go to a wedding, and suddenly all that happiness is exactly what you want for your future with them. In that happiness, you can't help but...pop the question. 

A/N: The reader in this might skew slightly more feminine because I essentially wrote it around the outfit, but no pronouns are used, so it's still gender-neutral

“You look gorgeous,” Steven murmured. 

You looked up to see him standing in the doorway, watching you with a soft look of adoration that made your heart skip. 

He was right though. You looked stunning. You were wearing a mulberry chiffon pantsuit that made you feel like a powerful boss. You’d brought a shawl for the day if it ever got too cool, but Jake had convinced you to keep it off. It was a good decision. Between the halter neck and sleeveless design, and the earrings, you felt unstoppable. Gorgeous too.

You held out your hand to him. “You look pretty breathtaking yourself,” you said with a soft smile. 

They truly did. Jake had chosen their suit, and every time you saw them in it was like the air had been sucked from your lungs. The jacket was a soft blue that made you want to run your hands all over it and the shirt beneath flowed over them like a second skin. Steven had made sure the suit was perfectly tailored to their build, and you’d thoroughly thanked him for it. 

Everything from their pants—which curved deliciously over their fine ass—to the tie Marc had long since loosened, fit them like a gorgeous glove. Half of you wanted to rip it off and just devour them, while the other half wanted to just stare at them for eternity. 

“You think?” Marc fidgeted with their tie beneath your gaze, loosening the knot further. Every second of this “monkey suit” business was making his skin crawl, and the fact that he was still here made your heart melt. 

You tugged him closer, winding your fingers together, until he stood between your legs. You tipped your head back and smiled at them. Reaching up with your other hand, you loosened the tie until it hung around their neck like an odd scarf. Then you took their other hand in yours and took a second to just adore them.

“I think it is taking everything in me to not tear that suit off you and show you just how much I like it.”

The tension disappeared from his shoulders and a spark of mischief entered his eyes as he smirked. “Oh yeah?” Jake drawled. 

He dropped one of your hands and trailed his fingers along your jaw, tipping your head back. He pressed his thumb to your bottom lip and his eyes darkened as your tongue flicked out. “And how do you plan on doing that, mi sol?”

Your own smile turned wicked.

Jake’s grip on your chin loosened as Steven fronted. “Not here, love,” he murmured with a fond and exasperated chuckle, even as his eyes never left your mouth. “We’ll get kicked out.”

Worth it, Jake mouthed and you grinned as you twisted in his grip to press a kiss to his palm. 

But still you pulled back. Steven was right. You were at the wedding of one of your work friends, and she would never forgive you if you disappeared for a quickie on her porch swing. The ceremony itself might have been over, but seeing as the reception was being held in the barn only a few metres away—well, her murdering you would spoil the evening.  

With a quiet laugh you pulled your darlings onto the swing next to you. They wrapped their arm around your shoulders and you curled into their side. The sun was setting and you could see why this farmstead had been chosen as the wedding venue. The day had been the perfect blend of summer and fall, but the sunset was sublime. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the trees and lit the entire world in a golden glow.

“...the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Marc murmured, and you looked up to see him gazing down at you. 

He wasn’t talking about the sunset.

You blushed hard at the love in his eyes and his words. You buried your face into his shirt so the sight wouldn’t kill you immediately. 

Their fingers curled beneath your chin again, pulling your face up. You swallowed thickly at the adoration in Steven’s eyes. His breath caught as he looked down at you and you felt yourself falling in love all over again. 

The four of you had been dating for almost two years now, and not a day went by where you didn’t thank your stars. Not one, not two, but three gorgeous men loved and adored you for who you were. All your good sides and bad sides—even the worst ones you usually kept hidden. 

The four of you had grown so much in the time that you’d known each other, and your heart skipped to remember how you’d met and fallen in love with each and every one of them. They were your darlings, and you adored them more than anything else in the world. 

“How’d you get to be so stunning, love?” Steven whispered, eyes wide as he drank you in. “And how’d we get so lucky?” 

“We must’a done something great in our last life,” Jake muttered. His thumb made a pass over your cheek that made you shiver. 

Your cheeks hurt with how hard you were smiling, but you couldn’t help it when they were saying stuff like that. Frankly you were the lucky one to have them, even if they’d never agree with you. 

Instead of passing out from happiness like you half wanted to, you cupped their cheek. “Thank you, darlings.” 

The love of all three of them crinkled the corners of their eyes as they smiled at you and dipped their head to meet you in the middle. It was a soft kiss, full of everything you didn’t need to say. It was a declaration of adoration and a promise of forever. Your heart skipped a beat and you leaned forward, fingers slipping into their hair.

Cheers broke you apart with matching gasps. You all looked over to the barn where you could see the bride and groom doing shots. You chuckled and dropped your head onto your darling’s shoulder. Their arm curled around your waist and they pressed another kiss to the crown of your head as you watched the wedding party getting more raucous with every shot.

After a quiet moment, a thought came to your mind and you blurted it out before you could convince yourself otherwise. “Do you think that could ever be us?” Your boys froze beside you and you hurried on before you lost your nerve. “You know, married.” 

You didn’t know what made you ask it, but now that you had, it was all you could think about. The four of you, bound together for all of eternity. A ring on your finger, a matching band on theirs. Walking down that aisle to where they waited for you. Suddenly that was all you could possibly want. You, them. Forever. 

“Which one of us are you talking to?” Jake asked, his voice low and tight.

You looked up at them, eyebrows furrowed. “All of you.” 

Did they really think you would choose between them? How could you? How could anyone?

They swallowed thickly, eyes darting over your face like they were searching for a lie. You pressed a hand over their heart and insisted, “All of you. I can’t have one of you without the others.” You licked your lips, suddenly desperate to get them to believe you. “There isn’t a part of your system that I don’t completely adore. I love all of you and I want forever, for all of us.” You swallowed, suddenly terrified their hesitation was a ‘no’. “If you want that too, that is.” 

They made a strangled noise and surged forward to slam their lips against yours.

This time the kiss was rough, desperate, like they couldn’t get enough of you. Their hands cupped your jaw, angling your head to deepen the kiss. They devoured you like it was the first and last time rolled into one. And you reciprocated with every atom of your being. 

Eventually they pulled back, resting their forehead against yours as you all gasped for air. Both your chests heaved as they cupped your cheeks and you gripped their lapels.

“Forever,” Marc gasped, pressing closer. “Yes. Yes.”  

You sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide as your heart thumped in your throat. “Yeah?”

Steven closed his eyes, a tear sliding down his cheek as he nodded frantically. “Forever. All of us. Yes, love.”

Jake swallowed as he fronted, clutching you closer. “We’re going to need a better proposal than that, amor,” he said gruffly and you laughed, your own eyes overflowing with tears. Then he broke into the most beautiful smile you had ever seen. “But forever does sound perfect.”

And from that moment, forever would always remind you of sunsets and porch swings. 

Thank you to @flufftober for the prompts! 💜

#moon knight #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #flufftober 2023 #fanfiction #ao3 #moon knight x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #flufftober #my fic: falling for them #fluff #wedding fluff

[ltwilliammowett]

Wreck of the carrack Mary Rose, built by unknown in 1511 and lost in 1545

Mary Rose was carvel-built with twenty heavy and sixty light guns comprising a mixture of muzzle-loading cast bronze and breech-loading cast iron guns. With a complement of some 500 men, she was built for Henry VIII and named for his sister, Mary. The first of her name in the British fleet, she took part in Henry’s first (1512-1514) and second French Wars (1522-1525), always as the flagship of the Lord High Admiral - his favourite warship. Her tonnage changed from some 600 tons in 1512 to 700 tons at the time of her sinking. The portion of the ship that was recovered is estimated to be equal to some 280 tons. The ship appears to have had a hold and four principal decks, the orlop, the main, the upper and the forecastle, although the latter might have had more than one deck.

The keel is constructed from three pieces of elm, scarfed together and bolted to the oak keelson, also in three sections and which sits on top of the floor timbers, with the main mast step acting as the central sector. Just aft of the mast step, by the keelson, there is a circular hole to make room for the lower end of the pump. The majority of the frames do not appear to be attached to the floor timbers or to each other but are held in place by the longitudinal stringers, and the outer planking of the hull, in oak, is fastened through the frames, stringers and ceiling planking by hand-cut wooden treenails, which have been hammered into pre-drilled holes and might be up to a metre in length. The ship underwent two major refits, the first in Portsmouth in 1527-28 which required the construction of a new dock, and a later one in about 1536, when it is assumed her burden was increased to 700 tons.

The ship was to some extent re-built at this time, to give her a complete lower deck of guns with hinged ports, almost the first British warship to be so equipped. A considerable degree of extra strengthening was added to the vessel and the evidence from dendrochronology strongly suggests that several riders, transom knees, and diagonal and vertical braces were inserted during these two refits, presumably to support new and heavier guns.

In 1544-45, Mary Rose was active in Henry’s third French war. When leading the advance against a much larger French invasion fleet off Portsmouth on 19 July 1545, possibly arising from a simple ship-handling miscalculation, she appears to have been caught by a flaw of wind. Late in the day she tried to tack and was swamped through her lower deck gun ports, sinking in some forty feet of water in a very short space of time with the loss of virtually her whole ship’s company of nearly 500 men.

#naval history #naval artifacts #shipwreck #carrack #mary rose #16th century #age of discovery

[lisbeth-kk]

#FFF212

Sherlock fandom.

He's late for the wedding ceremony. He's made a promise to John to be there on time. He'll do anything as long as it makes John happy.

Catch your breath

Sherlock’s cursing his brother for holding his attention this long, but then again, Mycroft isn’t aware of the wedding. At least Sherlock thinks he isn’t. Who can know when it comes to his nosy big brother. 

He’s late, and that’s intolerable. John’s said he didn’t need to show up, but Sherlock’s promised, and a promise made to John is something Sherlock takes very seriously. He wants John to be happy, and if that means that Sherlock must suffer through a Nuptial Mass in a catholic church, so be it.

That the bride has chosen St. Mary’s Catholic Church, being named Mary herself, shows off her vanity according to Sherlock. 

“Can’t you go any faster,” Sherlock presses the cab driver.

“Sorry, mate. I’m not going to lose my license because you’re late, even if it’s a wedding. Not your own, I hope,” the cabbie chuckles.

Sherlock just rolls his eyes at this ridiculous statement. If he were the groom, he’d clearly worn other clothes, though the cabbie doesn’t know that Sherlock’s bespoke suit is his everyday outfit of course. Sherlock’s seen some horribly dressed grooms over the years, even one wearing a coverall and crocs. The wedding had taken place in a prison, but still.

Sherlock looks at his watch. Four minutes until the ceremony starts. He calculates quickly, and then beckons the driver to pull over.

“I’ll get there faster running than at this speed,” Sherlock huffs and presses a twenty-pound note into the cabbie’s hand.

“Good luck, mate,” the cabbie shouts after him.

Sherlock focuses on the problem at hand, taking a few seconds to collect his visual map over the area from his mind palace, and then he runs. Fast.

He can’t let John down!

Finally, the church comes into sight. Sherlock sprints the last metres and takes the stairs two steps at a time. He opens the door carefully and spots John the second he enters the church room. John turns when he hears steps behind him, and Sherlock stops and pants heavily. Sturdy hands are placed on his upper arms and blue eyes beam up at him.

“You came!” 

Sherlock just rolls his eyes and tries to gather himself.

“Catch your breath and come sit down,” John whispers as the organ starts the praeludium.

When the ceremony is at an end, Sherlock takes a relieved breath and gathers his thoughts. He’s made it on time, didn’t disappoint John, the couple seem happy enough, and Sherlock can finally go home. John will, for obvious reasons, attend the party. He’s asked Sherlock if he wants to stay, but he didn’t make a fuss when Sherlock declined. This Mary’s got on his nerves already, even if he’s barely spoken to her. She’s evidently proud of her new husband, like he’s a prize she’s won at the fair.

Sherlock’s put his Belstaff on and is reaching for his scarf in the left pocket, when John appears at his side. He pulls out the scarf, puts it around Sherlock’s neck, arranges it the way Sherlock prefers and tugs at it. John’s gaze is warm with affection when he looks Sherlock square in the eyes and tugs some more, indicating for Sherlock to bend down.

“I’ll miss you, and I won’t be long. Just exchange pleasantries with Matt and Mary after dinner and maybe have one drink. Then I’m all yours for the rest of the weekend,” John whispers.

Sherlock closes his eyes and shivers with anticipation. If there’s anything Sherlock’s certain of in this world, it’s John’s promise. John pulls down the scarf slightly and presses a warm kiss to Sherlock’s neck. A low moan escapes Sherlock’s throat, and John chuckles.

“I want to devour you tonight, my love,” John states and rearranges Sherlock’s scarf.

Sherlock comes out of his daze, grabs John’s hand and kisses the palm reverently. What he really wants to do is snog John senseless, but they’re inside a catholic church, and this way he’s got something to look forward to. He lets go of John and walks to the exit. His breath is yet again unsteady, but this time for another reason altogether.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

#sherlock fandom #sherlock fanfic #johnlock #sherlock #john watson #flashfiction #gotta go fast #writeblr #writing prompt #writing community

[zeenimf]

STARPATH SNIPPET | THE ROOT OF YGGDRASIL

Transcript and Taglist beneath the cut~

Rasmus, Brim and Capella are led deeper into the club, manoeuvring past dancing humans whose eyes glow a neon pink, fire dust bursting from their noses. Brim pulls up his scarf as he pushes through.

“They are expecting you,” the guide says in a whisper. He opens a door made from lacquered oak; a door Brim could swear wasn’t there moments ago. Capella shoots Brim a concerned glance, but when another client sneezes his infected fire dust their way they hurry in.

The room they find themselves in is circular and not more than a few metres wide. Dark blue curtains hang from the walls, and as they let their gaze rise upwards the curtains blend into a dark sky where a hundred stars decorate an invisible dome. They appear to be grouped into twelve signs, though Brim has never seen these specific signs before. This cluelessness must be plastered on his face, for a voice coming from the centre of the room speaks.

“For an antiques expert, you are unknowledgeable about many things, traveller.”

Someone sits bent over a tree stump in the centre of the room. They’re wearing a dark blue cloak, a hood hiding their face. Brim takes a step towards them, hoping to catch a glimpse from under their hood, but he can see nothing. A shiver rushes through his body when he realises that that is all there is underneath the hood: nothing.

“How do you know about his work?” Capella asks, who joins up next to Brim, her hand feeling for the blaster hidden underneath her jacket.

“I know everything about all things inside this room,” they say. Their voice is soft and gentle, though the way it echoes off the curtains makes it loud and imposing.

“And since this Ashen root is one of Yggdrasil’s own,” they say while laying hands draped in shadows on the trunk, “I know everything there is to know.”

Before Capella can open her mouth again Brim grabs her shoulder, shoving her behind him.

“Are you one of those cultists?” he says. “We’re not interested in that.”

The figure continues, unbothered by Brim’s disinterest. They bring their hands to the centre of the stump, reaching into the wood to produce a pack of cards. The coating on the card is translucent, turning the white light of the stars above into a shimmering rainbow. The drawn card depicts a man sitting on a throne as he holds a golden sceptre.

“Cards?” Brim asks.

The figure nods. They trace the edge of the card with their fingers, the shadows draping over their hand dissolving into dust as they land on the paper.

Rasmus jumps off Brim’s shoulders and onto the stump. He looks at the hooded figure before taking two steps towards the pack of cards, carefully testing whether his paws can stand on the wood. He sniffs at the cards and jumps moments later, hissing.

“Brim,” Capella whispers in Brim’s ears, “Do you think they’re. . ?”

“I’m afraid so,” adds Brim.

-x-

Taglist for Starpath

@holyatlas @henrike-does-writing-sometimes @ink-fireplace-coffee @chayscribbles @writeouswriter @waysofink @houndmouthed

#my writing #writeblr #fiction #sciencefiction #sf #starpath

[angryducktimemachine]

Drew a few of my OCs (+ a guest OC by my dear friend @cheraxny ) in outfits of mine.

Hiram (belongs to my friend) and his partner Machuriel, our favourite little rogue Matthäus and last but not least: Friederick.

They're also all in scale to each other with Machuriel being a bit over 2 metres while Friederick just about missed the 1 metre mark.

[ID: a line up of different characters wearing different outfits.

Hiram is a Theelin with pink skin and turquoise hair and beard. He's wearing beige shorts, hiking books and a "Shrimp Heaven Now!" Shirt.

Machuriel is a Diathim with white glowing skin and blonde curly hair. They're wearing a black shirt, a floral waistcoat and grey trousers. In their left hand they're carrying a hanging flower pot with a pothos trailing out of it.

Matthäus is a three-headed Ratfolk with brown fur, wearing a deerstalker hat and a big dark coat with red lining and a scarf.

Friederick is a gnome with light skin and brown hair in a long braid. He's wearing a leg brace on his left leg and is wearing a formal shirt with fish on it and grey trousers. /End ID]

#Machuriel #Matthäus #friederick #oc #dnd #Pathfinder #star wars oc

[littlelasagne]

WIP Wednesday

I had a free week before Christmas and I wanted to write something festive for Levi's bday BUT I got super sick and couldn't finish in time 🥲 I am sick of getting sick 😭 IDK when I'll have time to finish this now. 😭😭 When someonestolemyshoes came to visit me, we found a plant shop right next to a tea shop. Levihan right?! I even bought a plant and named it Hange 😊 So this AU was inspired by those shops - Levi and tea, Hange and plants, but with my own spin on it. I spent way too long mapping out the street and not enough time writing lol. It's also enemies to lovers because I've never written it and thought it would be fun. Scuse typos!

Petra fiddled with the lock to her shop. Granny’s Fudge Pantry. Its pale pink and white exterior was kooky enough to convince the tourists to pay for extortionately priced fudge. At least it was good fudge.

“I’m rolling out the Christmas menu this week,” she said, gritting her teeth as she struggled with the lock. “I’ll bring you round some candy cane bites if I ever get this door open.”

The lock clicked and Petra bustled inside her shop. Hange stayed outside to relish the peace before she had to go inside and deal with the three hundred mini fir trees and potentially hundreds of christmas shoppers.

He came up the street in his long black coat, a white scarf round his neck and a briefcase in his hands. Huh, since when did Levi carry a briefcase?

Hange knew better than to try and talk to him, but pissing him off first thing on a Monday would make the start of his week slimy and ultimately, bring a lot of joy to hers.

“Good morning, Levi!” Hange called in her jolliest voice. He didn’t bother sparing her a glance. He stood metres away from her and just like Petra, he struggled to open the lock to his Tea Emporium. “Get up to much this weekend?” No answer. “Feeling festive yet?” No answer. “The boiler still on the brink in there?” No answer. “So what’s in the briefcase, you smuggling illicit tea or something?” No answer. “Talk to me, peahead.”

“Morning, Levi!” Despite the cold, Petra had come back outside. She’d taken off her coat and had a festive apron around her waist.

“Morning, Petra.” He always replied to her. Hange rolled her eyes. Petra beamed.

“I’ve got some nice Christmas fudge out this week, I’ll bring you some!”

“I’d like that,” Levi said. With a thump, he’d opened his lock and quickly hurried inside his dusty shop.

Petra smiled at Hange, her eyes darting to the ground and her cheeks flushing. She hurried back into the warmth. Sure it was pathetic, but Hange couldn’t blame Petra for having a crush on Levi. She had once harboured a crush – a brief one at that – on Levi too.

#wip wednesdays #levihan fanfiction #levihan #tea shop au #plant shop au #christmas #ive not written since september #it felt nice to get lost in a story for a while

[pinkestlittlebutterfly]

Merry (late) Christmas to everyone and especially @revoleotion!! I am your Secret Santa this year and since I know your tastes so very well I made you the fluffiest, most tooth-rottingly sweet Lisono you have ever seen. Enjoy!!

(You can also read it here on AO3, if the format suits you better)

Lily is quite excited; so much so that he forgot to take off his Santa hat. 

Misono pauses halfway down the stairs to the front door, where his Servamp is waiting for him, and takes a moment to savour the sight. The little white pom pom dangling off that Santa hat’s tip is bobbing up and down as Lily bounces on his feet; and the man is grinning much like a schoolgirl about to have her first date, giddy in a way that is almost childish. 

It’s cute; and flattering considering this is far from their first date. It’s not even their first Christmas date. They’ve had one every year since Misono discovered the shocking truth behind the big, bearded man bringing his gifts every year; one Christmas Eve when he was sixteen or seventeen and caught his Servamp in the act of taking off his fake beard, very nearly causing the first heart attack in Lily’s long, immortal life with his cry of outrage. 

(He never told Lily it was fake; that he knew long before that night. He deserves a secret of his own, he thinks, and it’s a nice one to keep. It would have been cruel to deny Lily the comfort of this familiar ritual right after the war, after so many things in their lives had already changed, so he played along for a few more Christmas Eves before ripping off the bandaid, making room to find new rituals, for a new love in a new time.)

“Do you need a few more minutes to get out of character?” He asks as he approaches his Servamp. Lily looks confused for a second but lowers his head obediently when Misono reaches up, allowing him to pull off the hat. 

“Oh my,” He says and chuckles, taking it from his Eve to stuff it into the closest cabinet, where the children currently enjoying their brand new, Santa-chosen toys somewhere in the house won’t find it. “I am inconsolable, my love, my excitement must have gotten the better of me.”

“Your age is getting to you,” Misono tells him, slipping into the coat his Servamp holds open for him, turning so he can button it up for his Eve, as he loves to do. “One day you’re going to get caught by someone who won’t be quite as forgiving as me.” 

“I will simply have to take the risk.” Lily’s sigh ghosts down the not-yet-buttoned collar of Misono’s coat, caressing his skin softly. “I can hardly think straight at the prospect of spending this night with you, my love, but I wouldn’t give it up for the world.” 

“You’re a flirt and a tease, Lily,” Misono says. But he won’t even act as though Lily’s flirting doesn’t do it for him, and he quite likes the triumphant grin with which his Servamp cups his blushing cheek, so he kisses him anyways.

---

Lily is quite excited; and Misono knows exactly why. 

They planned on taking the train into town, as Dodo prefers to spend Christmas Eve getting drunk on eggnog. Lily walks nice and slow for his Eve as they make their way through the snow to the station, but there’s a bounce to his step that betrays how very badly he would like to break into a sprint. Misono grabs his arm, tethering him to his side, and Lily grins at him from somewhere beyond his three metre alpaca wool scarf. 

Lily is a romantic at heart. He’s always been, no matter how hard he tried to deny it in the past. Lily loves love and Lily loves loving in a way that is grand and beautiful and blatant like that in the romance movies he makes Misono watch every December weekend. He loves flower bouquets and matching jewellery and pillow talk at midnight and kisses under mistletoes and every other romantic cliché in the book. And he loves being loved like that in turn, in a way that is undisguised and unconcealed and impossible to mistake for anything else. 

Certainly, there’s more to this – hidden little truths to decipher when cooped up in their bedroom, with one another’s comfort close. But for tonight, there’s no need to think about it too deeply. It’s simply part of who Lily is, who he has become with Misono by his side – when they first went out on Christmas Eve, to calm both of them down after the shocking revelation of Santa’s true nature, he nearly cried with joy wandering beneath Tokyo’s gorgeous canvas of Christmas lights; and in the end Misono found it impossible to deny him when he begged to do it again next year. 

Not that he would ever want to deny him. A walk beneath the Christmas lights, food and wine at the Christmas market, a night spent in a five star hotel booked months in advance are classic and cliché and thus, quite perfect in his book. They find free seats on the train and sit close to one another; and Lily rests his head on top of Misono’s and hums a joyful little tune. 

As they come closer to their destination, thick snowflakes begin falling beyond the train windows, a thousand little white gems against the darkened cityscape, adding onto the thick, fluffy blanket already carpeting gardens and rooftops and trees in the parks rushing by underneath them. 

“Look at that,” Misono says, nudging Lily, who is so busy burying his face in his Eve’s hair he probably has no idea what’s going on around them. “We’re having a white Christmas, what a terrible cliché.”

“You’re so brave for bearing all that kitsch, my love,” Lily says, positively trembling with excitement. 

Misono keeps watching him as they leave the train and spot the Christmas market just beyond the platform; a sight like what would be expected from the front page of a travel magazine Christmas special. Little wooden huts stand in neat rows, their little roofs covered in snow as though they’re puff cakes doused in powdered sugar, and framed with warm white fairy lights. Happy couples meander in between, and the air is ripe with their chatter, and heavy with the scent of spiced wine and cinnamon and sugar. And above it all, dangling off facades and spanning between houses, swaying gently in the wind as they cast gentle, warm light upon the glittering snow, like a night sky crowded with a million stars, there are more Christmas lights, utterly picturesque and almost too delightful to bear. 

Lily takes the sight in with stars in his eyes. It reminds Misono of the pictures Yamane took of him when he was younger and got his first look at a festively decorated Christmas tree; wide-eyed and so full of awe it’s almost jarring in the face of a vampire who has seen hundreds of winters before.

“How utterly scenic,” Misono says; sarcasm with no real bite. Truly, he could watch his Servamp smile at this idyll all day long. 

Still, when Lily turns and looks at him instead to smile even wider, he can’t help but blush. 

---

Lily is quite excited, which is understandable because Misono just told him they should look for their Christmas dinner. 

They’ve been wandering the Christmas market for half an hour or so now, hand in hand, taking in every picturesque detail. There’s fir trees in between the booths, decked out in silver and gold. There’s happily crackling fires over which meat and salmon are roasted. There’s lametta-adorned speakers blaring Christmas carols, and a gaggle of children laughing over some holiday-themed festival game, a giant Christmas pyramid slowly spinning at the market centre and happy, eggnog-sated couples taking selfies at its feet. 

There’s a lot of food, too, most of which they could never get from the Alicein kitchens. Christmas market meals have no obligation to be healthy, which makes them all the more enticing. 

“Misono.” 

Lily’s hands land on his shoulder with the weight of a very important discovery, and Misono stands at attention. 

“They have whole cheese wheels over there.” 

That is important indeed, so they go check it out at once. 

The cheese wheels, as it turns out, are for making pasta within, which is exciting enough for Misono to buy two bowls, even though the amount of cream poured over them is slightly worrying. It’s delicious; rich and flavourful and so creamy it sticks to his lips for Lily to wipe off with his thumb and a warm, indulgent smile on his face. 

It’s also way too much for him. But he has a Servamp willing to eat anything as long as it is from his Eve’s hands, and Misono feeds him the rest of his pasta as they wander on, looking for stollen or churros or maybe a crepe. 

It’s disgustingly cute. But he has come to enjoy disgustingly cute; at least once a year. 

---

Lily is quite excited. It looks gorgeous on him. 

They shared a cup of spiced wine; and it has painted his cheeks a lovely red and Misono’s vision a bit more rosy. He doesn’t contemplate his Servamp’s beauty very often – it’s a sight that has been present in his life since he could think, and it is as normal to him as every other part of who Lily is. But sometimes, all it takes is a few sips of warm alcohol and he can’t take his eyes off the man anymore. 

Lily looks so soft beneath the night sky of twinkling Christmas lights, their warm glow mirrored in the red of his eyes and catching in the loose strands of hair framing his face, making the snowflakes caught in them twinkle like diamonds. At some point his scarf came loose to flounce and dance around him as he pulls his partner through the twilight of the Christmas market, looping around his long legs whenever he turns to look at Misono. 

It all pales in comparison to his smile. God, he is so happy. He is happy to be here and excited for every little bit of it, and Misono can’t get enough of the sight. 

“Lily,” He says. Lily stops and turns to him, just in time to catch him in his arms. 

Misono looks up at him. They found themselves a little opening in the tightly packed market, a little square above which the strings of Christmas lights converge in a glittering canvas of twinkling stars. Lily looks like an angel, framed by their glow. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Misono tells him. 

Lily looks close to tears. Misono knows there’s no one else in this world who could bring out such a look in him, no one else in whose attention Lily revels quite this much. 

But he doesn’t cry. He just cups Misono’s cheeks, and kisses him, right underneath the Christmas lights. 

And if it was a romance movie, it couldn’t be more perfect. 

---

Lily is quite excited. The closer they get to their hotel, the greater his anticipation grows. 

It’s a different kind of excitement now. Less giddy, not one that shows in the bounce of his steps, his giggles, his wide, fanged grin. It’s quiet and confident. It’s a hand on Misono’s shoulder as he checks them in, an arm around his waist in the elevator. It’s in how he wordlessly takes their bags so Misono can unlock their room, in how he holds the door for him and locks it behind them. 

It’s in how he turns to Misono when his name is softly called and gives in to the gentle tug of his Eve’s fingers burying in the collar of his coat, pulling him down. In the hitch of his breath, the tremble of his lips before Misono presses his own against them once more, in how easily they part for him. In how he whispers “I love you” as they part. In how he’s so confident to hear it back but still blushes softly as Misono mutters “I love you too”. 

Perhaps this is the most romantic thing of them all, Misono thinks as Lily’s hands settle on his chest to work open the buttons of his coat, as his own respond in kind, slowly doing away with the layer of thick cloth separating them. That Lily is so sure of his love now. That in the comfort of each other, the small acts of love have become as undisguised and unconcealed and unmistakable as the big ones; that Lily is excited for him in the way he is for coming home. 

That he can give him what no beautiful and blatant movie romance in this world could achieve, in this moment that’s small and soft and unassuming and for no one but the two of them. 

Thank you for reading!! And finally, thank you to @animes-trash for organising the event again

#servamp #servamp secret santa 2023 #servamp lily #servamp misono #lust pair #lisono #hello to anyone venturing to the tags to see whether you'd like to read this #be warned it is just fluff no substance

[tagsecretsanta]

From @thundergirl007

From @thundergirl007 to @such-a-random-rambler

Content Warnings: kidnapping, held at gunpoint.

Winter and adverse weather never seem to make the job of a taxi driver any easier. One would have thought that, if the weather is forecast to be bad, people would stay home and not try to go anywhere. But no, people just love to try their hand at getting somewhere in time for the holidays.

For Roman, it was just another night, another job to do. Smoking a cigarette as he waits for someone to come and be his next - and probably last - fare for the evening.

It's freezing tonight, and dark as hell. From the look of the departure board that he can see from out here in the taxi rank, there are no more departures tonight. Either due to cancellations, delays or by the miracle that the flight has managed to take off to go to its destination. The arrivals board isn't looking much better. It's unlikely that he'll get many more fares here tonight.

There's a blanket of snow over the horizon, covering the trees and caking the fields with a thick layer of soft, white snow, but the roads have been cleared and gritted. What few cars dare to try and drive seem to be coping well with this weather. A good sign at least, it doesn't seem like there's any ice. Even if there was, Roman was a good enough driver that it really didn't matter. It snows here the moment it gets slightly cold.

He's just taking another drag when it appears that a group of arrivals have finally cleared baggage collection and are making their way to this entrance. The taxi rank leading to the car park, along with the drop off/pick up zone just a few hundred metres away. Roman stubs out his cigarette. There's a lot of passengers, some heading for a few of his colleagues in the cars up ahead.

Just as he finishes putting the cigarette in the ashtray, a tall, well-dressed man steps out of the terminal and makes a beeline for him. He has the strangest green eyes, and red hair curled into the most obnoxious style he's ever seen.

"Are you reserved, sir?" he asks, coming to a stop a few metres in front of him.

Roman tries to smile, to act like he's not freezing his ass off here. "No sir, hop right in," he goes around to the trunk of the taxi and pops it open.

Surprisingly the man doesn't get into the back of the car, but instead opts to put his own suitcase in the trunk, despite Roman reaching to do it himself. Most well-dressed assholes like to let him do all the work.

"Thank you," the man smiles earnestly, before heading to the back seat of the taxi.

Oh well. Time to make a bit more money.

It isn't long before they're off, away from the airport and the lights, and onto the lonely lanes that make up this part of the city's outskirts.

"So what brings you here on a night like this?" Roman asks, trying to make conversation.

The man has removed his scarf, having placed it on the seat beside him. "Flying home to visit family, but my flight has been royally messed with. What with the weather, and everything. This is just a quick stop, really."

"I get it," he chuckles, "most folks are probably in similar shoes to yours right now."

"You're telling me," the man laughs a little in reply, before the sound of a ringtone cuts through the air and silences them both.

The man pulls out an unsurprisingly expensive phone and answers the caller, leaving Roman trying to act like he's not listening in to everything.

"Hey Scott... Yeah, we landed about 20 minutes ago. I'm headed to a hotel for the night, I'm not going anywhere for a day or two at least... I know. It sucks, but I shall be there for our grand reunion before Christmas at least. I hope, anyway... Has Father stepped away from the office for once or is the great Jeff Tracy planning on spending Christmas at his desk?"

Roman's heart skipped a beat.

Jeff Tracy?

The Jeff Tracy?

No, no. Can't be. There's no way. There's no way the son of a goddamn billionaire is in the back of his taxi right now. Those pricks tend to get private limos, heck, private jets! What is this?

"Haha, I'm joking. Of course with Grandma involved he wouldn't get away with making Christmas about Tracy Enterprises."

The man makes a point of lowering his voice a little at that remark, almost like he forgot that he was in a taxi until that very moment.

No, that's definitely the Jeff Tracy that he's talking about. Tracy Enterprises. Billionaire corporation. Ex astronaut living it up with his money and his family.

And one of his sons is in his taxi right now.

The chance of a lifetime is right here, right now. His heart races as he pulls to a stop at an intersection, using the opportunity to reach for his own phone beside him.

His passenger is still talking away on that call as he unlocks his phone and tries not to make it obvious that he's sending a message. This intersection has a longer wait time than most. The time is now.

Got one of Jeff Tracy's sons in my taxi.

He sends that short, simple text to a... colleague. Hopefully he'll read it quickly, and think of exactly what he's thinking, and then they can all have an absolutely golden payday.

And it'll all be because of Roman.

"Sorry about that," the man back their says, "family checking in, you know how it is."

"Sounds like my brothers," he chuckles, "they like to know when I'm coming home because they want me to bring them some food on the way."

He smirks an acknowledgement that he sees in the rear view mirror, and he is looking at something on his phone now. Probably checking his bank account or something. But he's sufficiently distracted, and good timing too, because the phone vibrates beside me, the screen lighting up with the notification:

Can you bring him to the warehouse?

Roman's reply is a simple one.

On my way.

John was tired. Travelling at this time of year was always going to be more difficult than summertime, ironically enough, but today had just been a long day and he wanted nothing more than to crash into a bed of his own. Although tonight, a hotel bed would have to make do.

He wasn't really paying too much attention to the landscape around him. It was too dark and too snowy to really notice much anyway, but it was enough for him to notice the view change from a barely visible snowscape to a vaguely industrial setting. The empty fields became concrete buildings, with small, dark windows and huge electrical gates in the side of the wall. It's deserted here, there's no industry at this time of night.

"We shouldn't be long now, sir," the driver said, turning onto a new street, "I'm trying to avoid the weather this way."

"That's fine," John replied, turning his attention to his laptop bag that he had brought with him.

Had he packed his notebook? Where is it? The notebook that has all the notes he needs to use to write his report whilst on vacation. It's normally in the zip pocket of the laptop bag, but it certainly isn't here now.

Where had he put it?

John had put his phone down on the seat next to him as he pulled up his bag onto his lap and began to rifle through it, pulling out the contents in some sort of desperate hope that he had put it somewhere else in this bag.

"Sir?" the driver seemed concerned.

"It's nothing, I have money for the fare, I'm just looking for -"

"Oh, I know you have money, Tracy."

The sudden change in the voice of the driver forces him to stop looking through his bag and finally look at the young man who had been driving him around for the past half an hour or so. The car had stopped, somewhere derelict and abandoned almost, parked right in front of an old warehouse.

The driver was also holding a gun.

Held low through the seats and pointed right at him, the driver's face is like stone and John can't see anything else except for the barrel of that pistol.

"Get out of the car," he demands, pointing his pistol around vaguely.

John doesn't move though, he can barely string a coherent thought together.

"I said, get out of the car, Tracy."

Suddenly there are men outside the taxi. Three in total, all wearing black face masks, with two of them being visibly armed.

This situation isn't some kind of joke, or prank, or anything. It's real, real and dangerous. He's got a gun pointed at him and he's surrounded.

Nowhere to run or hide.

"Alright," he looks from the driver to the gun, raising his hands in a weak, pathetic attempt at surrender. "Can you put the gun down, at least?"

"You aren't the one making demands here. Move."

John takes a deep breath. Stay calm. Got to stay calm. He shuffles towards the door he had entered the taxi in, where one of the new arrivals was stood waiting for him. Wearing a nondescript black coat and gloves, the bandana covering their face, just a piercing gaze staring straight into his soul.

"Leave your stuff," the driver barks as John reached for his phone.

He's not willing to test whether this taxi driver will shoot him for this or not.

He opens the door, and the already chilly air from inside the taxi was replaced by a bitter bite that John could only instinctively try to suppress a reaction to, for fear his numerous assailants would turn those guns on him. The man stood there grabs the door and pulls it fully open, now pointing his gun at him. He tried not to look at it.

He had never been on the dangerous end of a gun before in his life, and never imagined it could ever happen. Being the son of one of the richest men in the world, he was warned of the possibility. When he moved out of the house to go work at NASA, he had pondered the prospect of things like mugging whilst out walking home.

But he still never entertained the idea of being robbed at gunpoint whilst taking a taxi.

He held his hands up as he stepped out of the vehicle, one of the other men appearing at his right, pressing the cold, hard barrel of his weapon into John’s side. Not a word needed to be said, and John stepped away from the door of the taxi.

“Get him out of here,” the assailant still stood by his door commanded, leaning into the back of the taxi and grabbing what was John’s effects. “Good job, kid, this’ll…”

John barely had time to say anything in protest, any chance to even hear what that kid said in response, before something hit the back of his head, hard. And his world faded to black.

Cold.

That’s the first thing he noticed.

This place was very, very cold.

John tried to open his eyes, and it was damned hard. He wanted to go back to sleep, he could ignore the cold that way, at least. He hadn’t noticed it until now, had he? This hotel room is freezing, though. Perhaps he should…

His hands were stuck. That was the next thing he noticed. They were behind his back somehow, around something, with something else tightly wrapped around his wrists, keeping them painfully in place behind him. It was awfully uncomfortable. The pain of trying to move them actually compelled him to open his eyes - they didn’t adjust very quickly at all, it’s dark in here.

In addition to the cold, the dark is overwhelming and overbearing, crushing down on his chest like a vice. He managed to move his legs - only slightly – but that was all he could move. He couldn’t really do anything else to get a better view of... wherever this is.

The room was small. Concrete floor and stone walls, a set of rusty garden chairs and a table are just about visible underneath the small window right by the ceiling across from him. There's a single lightbulb above him in the centre of the room, but it's not turned on. The door to the room is a few feet away from him and it's almost certain that it's been locked. He'd be surprised if it wasn't.

Looking up at the window, he could see a deluge of snow racing towards the ground from a deep, dark, daunting sky. The moonlight just barely visible through the clouds and the snowfall, it's almost a certainty that hours have passed - the snow was not this bad when he...

Come to think of it, how long had he been here? It was dark when he arrived at the airport. Then he got in the taxi. That was... the taxi driver! He must have brought him here, unconscious and tied up in his taxi. But it's so dark, so either he's only been asleep for a few hours and sunrise is all but around the corner, suggesting they are not that far from where he was kidnapped. Or he's been unconscious for almost 24 hours, and they've had time to travel further afield. He had checked in with Scott after - Scott!

Oh god, they'll all be laying eggs with worry if he really has been gone for over a day with no contact with anyone. Although, the still sane part of his brain thinks that would be a good thing. They'll be on the lookout, surely. They'll know something's not right.

Right?

Suddenly there's a loud noise somewhere above him. Footsteps. A door scraping open. Muffled voices.

The tiniest hint of light appearing through the cracks in the door.

The footsteps begin to pound towards him, most likely descending a set of stairs. There's no way this prison isn't a cold, dark, damp basement.

A lock clicks and a door unlatches, swinging open towards him, and two imposing silhouettes loom over him, the light coming from the distant bulb at the top of the landing making ascertaining their features difficult. The two figures step into the room, slamming the door shut and flicking a switch.

Light floods the room, and John screws his eyes shut at the sudden change, making it even more difficult to see his newly arrived captors.

Luckily, he wasn't kept in too much suspense for very long.

A hand grabbed at his hair, digging into his scalp and so unexpected that John couldn't even hide the cry of pain that escaped his lips. He forced himself to open his eyes, though. The once fuzzy silhouette coming into focus, the image clearing, and yet he still could barely tell a single thing about the man before him.

Pale. Blue eyes. Dark hair. Bandana covering the lower half of his face.

Just like before.

"Nice to see you've finally woken up. Took you long enough," the man sneered, almost mocking as he tilted John's head from one side to the other.

John's brain was wired with a thousand things he wanted to say to this man. A thousand questions. But right now, he couldn't string together a simple few words. Each question he wanted to ask was vying for priority in his head and he couldn't ask them all.

"We won't hurt you. Not unless you cooperate, and then we can all go back to our lives," the man speaks with a coldness to his voice, something in the way he said we can all go back to our lives. Like he hasn't got someone tied up in front of him. Like he hasn't had guns brandished at him, or even dragged him to goodness-only-knows-where. “I also wouldn’t advise shouting for help. We’re the only living souls around here for miles, and I’d hate to use more extreme measures to get you to shut up.”

"Who are you?" John managed to ask, looking the man in the eye.

"Doesn't matter who we are, Tracy."

"There must have been some kind of mistake -"

"Oh, no, no. No mistake here, Mr Tracy. Your passport says you're John Tracy, son of the billionaire. Your driver heard you talking about your father on the phone. There's no way you aren't Jeff Tracy's son."

"What do you want?"

"Oh, that old cliche. Well, my answer is just as predictable as you're expecting. I want a fat payday from your daddy dearest and you're going to help me get it," he turns away from John to face the other man, a much younger man than the one in front of him. "Bring his phone here."

The younger one pulls out a phone from his pocket, revealing the expensive model to John before passing it to his partner. The screen lights up from the motions, and the all too familiar screen flashes up. A night sky, the view of Earth from Aurora 18, the last time he was spaceside on his communication duties.

"Passcode please, Mr Tracy. We just want to send a message."

Scott Tracy needed coffee to function.

Gordon joked that he should probably just hook it up to his veins, with the amount he consumes to come around first thing in the morning. He's inclined to caffeinate more frequently in the times when everyone is home - particularly said Gordon.

He made his way to the kitchen to find his father already there, newspaper under his arm, coffee pot brewing away on the counter.

"Morning Dad," he greeted, trying to straighten his hair somewhat.

His father turned from what he was doing to face him, "good morning Scott. Did you sleep well?"

"Not really. I think I'm coming down with something, although I'm not sure where from."

"Ask your grandmother for some medicine, or even some soup."

Scott could only laugh. "And have me hospitalised just in time for Christmas? No thank you, father."

"Good point," he retorted.

The coffee pot was steaming away by now, and the patriarch reached to pour both himself and his eldest son a coffee that they clearly were in some need for. Scott took the chance to reach for a banana and an apple from the fruit bowl, following his father from the counter to the table with their coffees in hand.

It did feel good to be home again, rather than being on the Air Force Base, and Scott was sure his father would agree with him. The house was just much livelier with five sons instead of just the one since Alan is still at school. Not today, at least, but still several years behind the rest of them in age.

"Have you heard from John?" his father asked, unfolding the newspaper.

"Not since last night. I'd have hoped he'd have told us what his travel plans were. He said he was having to stop over in Cincinnati because of the weather, but he's not said what he's doing today."

"I'm sure he'll be trying to work that out for himself. The weather can get lousy around there."

"You're telling me."

Scott took a long drink of his coffee, enjoying the almost burning sensation as it rippled down his throat and warmed his chest. Probably not the safest way to drink coffee, but he's on leave right now - he can do what he wants. For now, at least.

"When do you have to go back to base?”

“Two weeks. I have plenty of leave to use up so I figured the holidays were as good a time as any to get it –“

The shrill tone of a phone ringing out loud stopped Scott mid-sentence. His phone was certainly not ringing, but his fathers was, and Scott took a bite out of the apple he had brought to the table whilst his father went to go and answer his phone. The apple was crisp and fine, perfectly ripe and red and there wasn’t a bruise in sight. Arguably an apple wasn’t enough sustenance for a man in his 20’s breakfast, but it’s one of the healthiest things that requires no cooking, at least until he’s more awake. Actually, he’s on leave – why should he be sticking to his Air Force habits when he could just make pancakes before Grandma burns the house down? It’s the holidays, after all. And it’ll definitely be -

“What are you talking about, Jenson? Where is my son?”

His father’s voice boomed from behind his ajar office door, a demand that shook the very foundations of the house and brought Scott to attention instantly. The only son not in the house right now is John. His father isn’t prone to exaggeration or dramatics.

Something must have happened.

“Who contacted the office? Have you called the police? Is my son alive?!”

“This message is for Jeff Tracy. If you want to see your son alive again, pay five million dollars into the bank account sent with this video. You have two days.”

The face of the man in the video is a sorry sight.

Sporting a fresh purple bruise on his chin and a busted lip, he’s reading from a piece of paper that’s just not visible on the video. His voice is detached and steady. His arms tied behind his back to the pillar by rope. When he finished speaking, there’s a few seconds where the video is silent, he’s not speaking and neither is anyone else, just lingering on his solemn expression. He’s looking beyond the camera - he’s trying to see if what he said got approval. It did, because the video stops there.

John was watching his own ransom video, and it made him feel sick. What the viewer doesn’t see is the gun aimed right at him behind the camera. They don’t see anything of the dark, dank basement. And they certainly don’t see anything of his captors.

What will his father think when he sees the sorry state of his son here in that video?

“Looking good, Tracy. Time to find out if your dad really does love you or not then,” the bigger and bolder of the two men pulled the phone away from John’s face, nodding with a sick sort of satisfaction, “if he pays us, we’ll tell him where you are.”

Putting the phone away in his pocket – John’s phone – the pair of men then both turn towards the door.

The one speaking did not even look at him as he did so.

“And if not, well. We’ll be back to make good on our end of the bargain.”

We’ll kill you. That’s what he means. John has no doubt that he would too. This entire… situation, seemed almost like a well-oiled machine, they’ve done this before. Kidnapped. Held for ransom. Left in a cold dark basement.

Murdered.

The smaller one lingers in the doorway for a moment as his partner proceeds up the stairs.

He wasn’t sure, but John could have sworn he heard the man say something to him, but it was too quiet for him to make it out. Too mumbled. Like he didn’t want someone to hear him.

Except that John could do nothing but stare at him. That younger one is almost certainly his taxi driver, his voice is too distinct for it to be anyone else. Until now John had thought he was a rather enthusiastic participant in the whole affair - but seeing him now – seeing his hesitancy to follow his partner, seeing the look in his eyes when his partner made that very thinly veiled threat, seeing how he can barely look at John now.

Has this gone a bit further than he expected it to?

John didn’t have the chance to question the younger man about what he said though, because he scurried off up the stairs, slamming the door shut and clicking the lock behind him, leaving him alone once more.

At least this time they had the decency to leave the light on for him, although that’s not saying much. They could just as easily come back and deprive him of that privilege too.

He tried tugging on his bindings again. Tight, and course and chafing on his wrists painfully. Damn! He needed to get out of here, and soon. Those 48 promised hours don’t mean a whole lot when they could just decide to kill him before that anyway.

Looking around the room with the light on was much easier than without the lights before. Everything was caked in a thick layer of dust, cobwebs in every corner, and even a spider was up on the wall near the window. From what he could see, it looked like that window could be opened, and with a little bit of luck – if he was able to get out of these ropes – he might be able to squeeze out of that window.

But then what?

This needed thinking about now. He has no idea where he is, it could be miles away from anywhere resembling civilisation or help in any way. The snow hasn’t stopped either, from what he can see, and whilst his captors have graciously allowed him to stay in his coat that they kidnapped him in, it’s hardly suitable for a blizzard. No scarf, no gloves, no hat, no decent shoes. The cold could kill him before he even reaches another person.

He needs a way to call for help. To at the very least send a message before he risks running out into the potential wilderness alone and succumbing to hypothermia.

A place this remote – if what his captors mentioned was true – would have to have some sort of phone or radio. Some way for people to communicate if they were trapped here by snow, right? Almost exactly for this situation? Communications is his job for spaceships, surely he can send an SOS to someone who can help him now?

That’s decided then. Stay here and call for help. Only run as a desperate last resort.

48 hours begins now.

As does his attempts at breaking out of these ropes.

It’s doubtful that they would make this easy for him, the knots are sure to be secure. Is there something he can use to create friction? Something he can use to chip away at the rope’s integrity. All he needs is to break, burn or cut through one piece of the rope and it should all come apart, right?

His eyes dart around nearby. There’s no kind of toolbox or anything, especially not within reach. Even a piece of broken glass or a shard of plastic is better than absolutely nothing else. Suddenly he saw something small, just at the base of an old, busted up wooden chair just to his left.

A nail sticking out of a board.

The nail looks rusty and bent slightly, but it has a sharp edge and that’s almost worth its weight in gold at this point.

The board is more like a handle of something. Not too big that it’s going to be easy to grab, of course, but not too small either. And it’s just a little bit out of the reach of his unbound feet.

This was probably going to hurt.

John scooted around the pole to face it as directly as he could, and shuffled down a little from his seated position, his arms straining against the pole as he used his left foot to try and reach it. He was so close. He fought to hold back a cry, any noise that would bring his captors right back here.

He gritted his teeth. Took a deep breath. In. Out. Countdown - Three. Two. One.

He made a desperate lunge for it, and just about managed to use his shoe to grip the edge of the board. Now was the time to be careful. One wrong move could push it beyond his reach, and then it’s all over.

Taking his time and equally trying not to dislocate his shoulders, he grates his ankle into the wood against the floor, dragging it millimetre by millimetre closer.

He exhales. No sudden moves now. It’s not over yet.

Bringing his other foot into play, he itches to bring the wood into a more comfortable reach. The broken piece of chair was just about in his clutches. Keep calm. Keep steady.

He shuffles back into his original position, the much less painful one. The wood was between his feet now, and it was a considerable effort to bring it closer to him with his feet. Why didn’t he become a gymnast in his youth? Gordon would probably be flexible enough for this.

Except Gordon isn’t here. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to see that blond mischief maker in person once more time.

Slam!

John froze. A loud noise from above his head practically shook the foundation of the cellar acting as his prison. He held his breath, hoping that the sound would not be followed by storming footsteps down to his location.

Each second felt like an eternity, waiting for something – anything – to signal that someone was coming down those stairs.

It didn’t.

Instead, something else made noise. An engine of some sort. Difficult to ascertain because it sounded really far away, just barely audible.

Have they left? The men? Have they decided to go wait out these 48 hours somewhere else? It’s possible, but it’s also just as likely that either there is a third person upstairs, or one of the two of them remains. All the same, he can’t ruin this now. He’s come so close.

This part of the operation was going to be both crucial and difficult.

He needed to get the wood from his knees to somewhere close to the pole, where he can at least try to reach it with his hands. Kicking it is unlikely to work, and even if he could from his current position, there’s always a risk that he could kick it just frustratingly out of his reach once again.

Could he stand up? Itch it closer with a little more precision? Bring it as close to him as he can?

It’s worth a try.

John leaned back as far as he could, into the post with as much force as he could muster for support. Flattening his feet to the hard concrete, he pushed, trying to push himself up the post, arching his back and causing a great strain as he did so.

It was too much. He had to stop, slumping back down to the ground.

But it didn’t deter him. He was certain that he could do it, he just needed to get up a few more inches and he knew he that he could move his feet, giving him the support he needed to stand completely.

In. Out. In… out… in…

And up!

With all his remaining strength he pushed hard on his feet, his shoulders practically wrapped around the pole as he pushed himself up off the ground, arching his back and quickly moving his left foot backwards, closer to him, to provide more immediate support and relief.

He couldn’t help but exhale sharply as he stood, secure in his position, shoulders aching like mad. It seems sad that this brought a smile to his lips, but a success is a success, and honestly, it felt like he’d just climbed a mountain.

He reached out with his right foot, nudging the wood closer to him with the tips of his toes. It was much easier to do so from this position. Much more controlled.

Much quicker.

Next was to put it where his hands would be able to reach it.

Taking care not to grab impale his foot with the bent nail, he kicked it very, very gently around the pole, turning his whole body with it as he did so. It took a few moments, but he was pretty certain that if he slid back down to his original position, he would be able to hold onto that piece of wood, and hopefully, use it to saw through part of his bindings.

Here goes nothing.

Practically repeating the procedure in reverse, he pressed his back to the hard pole and slipped downwards, as carefully as he could. All was going fine until the last few inches, where he dropped straight down and landed hard on his backside, his arms straining from all the effort of both lifting him up and lowering him down in such a short span of time.

But he finally had it! He could feel the chair arm in his grip, and having a feel around of it, he knew exactly where that nail was. Still bent slightly, but at least he had it. Now was the time, he knew he had at least some time before someone returned, he had to try and do this. Had to try and escape.

With a renewed resolve and the tiniest dash of hope lightening the heavy load on his chest, he manoeuvred the wood in his right hand, feeling the nail connect with at least some of the rope on the underside.

No time to waste.

“Have we heard anything yet, Nick?”

Roman’s mind was racing as he asked the question. Their truck was driving down the treacherous terrain, the road not even visible under all the snow that had piled on over the last 48 hours. He kept glancing at his passenger side mirror, looking back where the cabin should be.

His colleague snorted. “Why, are you eager for some spending money, little birdie?”

“No. I just… don’t know how this all works yet.”

“Well, it’s guaranteed that Jeff Tracy isn’t just going to pay anyone who asks for money without thinking. Even if his son’s life is on the line. Got to let him sweat it out a bit.”

“Why not just let John go then? Just leave him. Don’t even go back to kill him?”

“What do you think will happen to you – to the entire gang – if we do that?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right to kill him,” Roman shrugged his shoulders.

“Why do you care so much? He’s the son of a goddamn billionaire, he’s wanted for nothing his entire life. A spoilt brat who takes but never gives. He will have had a much fuller life in his 20-something years than you have had in your 18. Don’t you think we should have a slice of the pie for once? Isn’t that why you joined?”

“Yeah, but… killing someone? I thought we were just going to, I don’t know… get him to transfer his own money to us. Leave him be. I’ve never actually shot someone before, Nick.”

“Wow. You really don’t know anything, do you?”

Nick brought the van to a complete stop in the road, the wind whistling past their windows being the only sounds audible to Roman in that moment as Nick turned to face him, looking him deadly seriously.

“There are two reasons why, and I’m going to explain what a bad idea yours is. First of all, if we let him die without dealing with the body, we’ll have a rotting corpse to deal with, and I am not doing that again. It leaves evidence,” his partner explains, not taking his eyes of the road to look at him, “and secondly, he’s a loose end. If we don’t kill him, people may find him. Or he’ll escape, and that’s bad for you kid. You picked him up. He’s seen you, can identify you. You’d be going down for years for kidnapping and extortion.”

Roman’s stomach dropped. He hated to admit it, but he was right. John Tracy has seen him and that puts him in danger, and also their entire operation. Roman knows what happens to loose lipped snitches – he’s only been with this gang for a few months and has already heard of someone beaten to death for snitching to the cops when caught for a “minor” drug crime.

Having sympathy for John Tracy’s predicament is detrimental to his own situation, and as hard as it was to say, he really should bury that sympathy and focus on himself.

“I suppose you’re right…”

“Of course I am. I’m the boss, remember? We don’t want to let such a stupid thing be the way we’re caught. Especially not because of some rich boy.”

Nick turned back to face the road, putting the vehicle back into gear, and setting off down the snowy road.

Roman however, could only think if this sickly feeling would go away after getting his hands on a fraction of that money.

Yes!

He was free! The rope cut away and he felt it loosen around his wrists. His breath was stolen in that instant as he wriggled them around a little, just to feel for anything. And it did! He managed to slip his left wrist from the rope, and very quickly brought them both around to his front, massaging them gently where the coarse rope had dug into his skin.

Almost there, almost there, almost there!

He removed the straggling bit of rope from his right wrist and changed from a sitting position to almost a crawl. He wanted to stand, stretch his legs, scream.

Two of the three is satisfying enough for now though.

He immediately clambered up to his feet before covering his mouth with his now freed hands – is there someone still upstairs?

He crept soundlessly towards the cellar door. Pressing his ear up against the crack between the cold wooden door and the wall, he listened. Or rather, he tried to. His heart was pounding in his ears, thumping in his chest, making it hard to tell whether or not someone was there or not. Does he want to test it, to find out?

John looked around the table and chairs beside him. There’s a glass bottle here. Covered in dust, a spider web connecting it to the old table. If he were to drop it, break it, would someone come running?

Would he be able to fight them off if they came down to check? He had the chair handle, he could hide behind the door and hit them with it when they came in. But that chair handle has a rusty nail embedded into it – he doesn’t want to kill or seriously injure someone, even if they are involved in kidnapping him.

What about if he broke the bottle, then ran back to where they had left him? Act like he was still tied up, only attack if absolutely necessary. It’s risky. Both of the ideas are.

Is it worth the risk to just… open the door, climb the stairs, and see for himself? They may catch someone off guard, but equally, these assailants are armed, and have already said they’ll shoot him. What’s to stop them from shooting first, asking questions later, especially with what contempt they have for him? Whether his father pays the ransom is irrelevant at that point, if he’s dead.

Unless…

He silently rushed to the window. On his tiptoes, he could just barely see out of the window. The snow was incessant, falling quickly and coating the horizon completely in ice cold freezing snow. It looks like he’s in a valley of some sort, or at least halfway into one, because the trees seem to be getting smaller and lower the further away they are from him. The furthest side of this valley is hard enough to see because of the dark sky and the weather, but he can tell that there are no other buildings over there. The remaining 270 degrees of the house could point him towards civilisation.

He reached instead for the wooden chair at his side, very carefully lifting it up and placing it directly under the window. Despite its dusty nature and antique look, it still felt very sturdy. It should hold his weight… hopefully.

Holding on to the backrest, he placed his left foot onto the seat and applied pressure, just to see what would happen. It didn’t feel like it was going to completely collapse on him. He added his other foot and knelt on top of the chair for a few seconds.

They passed like an eternity, but pass they did, and he felt brave enough to try and stand on the seat.

There was a tiny wobble as he did so, but holding onto the tiniest windowsill in existence helped him regain his balance.

Well, this was a double-edged sword. He was both able to see more thanks to perspective and see less thanks to the worsening weather. That snowy fog had set in now, reducing visibility to just about 20 yards. He couldn’t even see the other side of the valley he was supposedly on.

If he was even on one at all.

On the one hand, it looked like this window could be opened, and he might just be able to crawl out of here.

But did he really want to?

It feels like he’s jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, here. If he gets outside, he’s not got long before he needs to either find help, shelter, or both before he succumbs to the bitter cold. If this cellar was any indication of how freezing it was down here, then he’d have… twenty minutes perhaps? Based on how he’s dressed now. There’s no guarantee here. And besides, he’d be leaving footprints. His only hope in that regard is the weather covering them up quickly.

Unless…

John started fiddling with the handle, unlocking it, and managing to push the window open as wide as it would go, fighting his way through the resisting snow as he did so. The cold front instantly hit him hard. A gust of wind blowing some of the loose snow into the basement with him.

He couldn’t give up now. He had to try this anyway.

He pulled his coat sleeve over his hand and gripped the hem of his sleeve in his now covered fist, using it to sweep away huge swaths of soft, freshly laid snow away from the window as much as he could. It all clung to his coat like it was magnetised, but most of the snow was being shifted.

John dashed off the snow from his sleeve and prepared to climb up.

He grabbed onto the outside of the window frame, pulling to see if it would take his weight, and then tried to force his head through, pushing up from the old chair,

It must look ridiculous to witness. He managed to pull himself partway through the window, his waist slightly caught on the catch at the bottom of the window frame. He could feel the open window against his back, practically preventing him from retreating now even if he wanted to. He kicked hard, as if kicking thin air was going to push him through at all.

But he wasn’t giving up yet. He could move, very slowly, very surely. He was making progress.

He knew he was through when he felt the window catch on his ankle before slamming loudly.

And he froze.

That was loud. Anyone in the house would have heard that.

For a moment, all he could do was lie there, on his front, in the snow like a fish out of water, waiting to see or hear anyone coming.

But no one came.

There must not be anyone in that house right now.

John scrambled to his feet, bringing his arms to his chest, and trying to keep warm. He needed to be quick. If there really was no one in the house, he could have a look around, see if there is something in there that can help him. A phone, a radio, clothes for this weather.

He began to run around the outside of the house. It looked to be a cabin of some description. Made of wood, with windows that were covered by curtains to prevent him from seeing in all of them. Perhaps it is not in use all year round, hence why his kidnappers thought this was a good place to keep him hidden from everyone that could have seen, heard or helped him. It would also explain why there are summer chairs and tables down in that cellar, it’s only getting use out here in good weather.

That does reduce the chances of warm winter clothing being here. But hopefully he can still find something useful inside. A bedsheet or blanket is better than nothing.

He reached for the door… and stopped.

What if there is an alarm system on this door? On the windows? It would alert the people whose house this is, and if those people are the ones who kidnapped him, it would certainly send them running right back to him!

On the other hand, what if this house doesn’t belong to them? If this house is someone else’s, some innocent party. It could alert them that someone is in his house, could alert the police.

But what if they think he’s the one who broke in? He could get into a lot of trouble with that.

He can’t stay out here forever. He needs to come up with a plan. Besides, there’s no way he can break a door down with his bare hands, not in this weather anyway.

He saw a relatively low window around the back of the building, and whilst he could not tell what was inside at this point here, he could take a chance and break in here.

Well, there was no chance of opening it from the outside.

His fingers tingled from the bitter air, what snow remained stuck to his clothing also helping to freeze him. He cupped his hands and brought them to his face, blowing hot air into them, just something to alleviate this.

He can’t stay here.

There’s a wood store just a few feet away, right beside what looks like a shed. The wood is chopped and not covered up for some reason – unless the cover has blown away. But this gave him an idea.

He grabbed one of the chunks of log, feeling its damp, rough outer shell bite into his skin. He rushed back to the window, braced himself, and threw it at the window.

It bounced right off it.

This wasn’t how he planned for this to go.

He picked it right back up, stood right in front of the window, and started hitting at the top right corner, banging with all the strength he could muster. A crack began to form from the impact – a pale, snow white spider web that gets bigger every time he drives the log into the same spot. He can hear the tiniest sound of cracking in the glass – it’s a sign that both gives him enormous relief and apprehension for when it will completely give way.

The weapon he’s using to smash the window is starting to splinter. He can feel them in his grip, digging in hard, piercing him on a microscopic level.

But this is more important.

It took some time to break, but when it did, the breakthrough came quickly.

The whole thing shattered into several larger pieces, and hundreds of tiny shards, sending them flying both into the house and outside.

He used the log to try and clear away the straggling pieces of pain that remained in the frame.

“Ah, damn it!” he cried before he could stop himself, catching the side of his hand on some glass. It was bleeding quickly, and he brought the hand to his chest, trying to apply what pressure he could. The cold air and his warm blood were not a recipe for a good experience.

It was only here that he realised no alarm was blaring. No flashing lights or any sort of alert that someone had broken into this house.

He supposed that he was owed some good fortune, at least, and didn’t waste any more time. Pushing the curtain aside, he scrambled in through the broken window and tried not to step in too much glass. The last thing he needed was holes in his shoes if he needed to run out of here into the snow.

It looks like he’s in a corridor connecting the kitchen to the living area. Or at least, he assumed it was the living area. This floor of the house was much tidier than the cellar would suggest, but still in a state of disuse. There’s sparse furniture – barely even a chair in the living room, let alone anything else in there like a table, bookshelf or paintings hanging on the wall. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners, damp setting in through the ceiling, the curtains were discoloured and murky. Discoloured patches on the walls from where things had once been hanging and had not been for some time.

Abandoned. Deserted. Empty.

John rushed down the corridor, sucking some of the blood from the wound and pressing it back against his coat. Kitchen. Kitchen’ll have something to stem this bleeding, surely. A towel, maybe. Hopefully even a first aid kit, especially if this place is being used as a hideout by those men. There’s bound to be something, anything!

He was right. The kitchen seems to be where any sign of life is around here. Dirty and used utensils, a few water bottles. There are things here, and things are important right now.

Anything in the most desperate situation can become the most useful thing in the whole world.

He wrenched open cupboards and drawers, not finding a whole lot. The occasional pan, plate and cup, but mostly spider webs and dust. It looks like all his captors left was their litter. This isn’t much good to him here.

There was a set of stairs leading up from the kitchen just beside this set of cupboards, and a door just next to them too. Pulling open the door, he realised there was a padlock at the top of the door. That’s the stairs to the cellar then. He’d have never made it out of this door even if he tried to climb these stairs.

There was a pair of rusty old scissors in one of the cupboards and picked them up. Cold to the touch, and when he tried flexing the jaws of the tool, it took effort. They were clearly last used years ago. But they were quite sharp, and he was able to loosen them somewhat with a bit of gentle work. There was no sign of any towels or anything sanitary to use to clean this wound, so improvising it is. He grabbed the hem of the nearest curtain and cut along the width of the fabric. Not too much, but enough for him to wrap the murky green fabric around his hand.

Not the cleanest, especially not since he cut it with a rusty knife, but he’s certain that his father got him fully vaccinated as a child. Any consequences from his makeshift first aid can be dealt with later, that’s a problem for future John, the John-who-is-not-here-anymore.

The blood was stemmed for now, seeping through some of the layers of the fabric, but it should stop soon (hopefully, he thought). His coat was a write off though – he looked like he had murdered someone – and certainly wasn’t getting those stains out. There was just enough that it’s clear he’s not bleeding to death but that he was seriously injured.

Immediate first aid situation dealt with.

Next is an SOS.

It was fair to assume that based on the lack of… anything resembling furniture in this house, that finding working technology was going to be a no go. But all the same, this place is remote enough that surely someone who previously lived here needed to contact someone during inclement weather, no? There will hardly be telephone wires and even if there are, this weather will have truly messed with them.

Even so, he works in communications. It’s his whole job. Finding a way to communicate is priority one and even if it’s a walkie-talkie he finds, he could make use from it.

Think, John, think!

Where is the most likely place for a radio receiver to be in a house in the middle of nowhere?

Upstairs? It’s worth a try, there isn’t much else down here.

Upstairs was much, much smaller than downstairs by a considerable amount. There was only two rooms connected to the landing. One was a bathroom, the other a bedroom.

The bathroom was more of a wet room than a bathroom as such. Tiled, clinical, still as filthy as the remainder of the house. There wasn’t anything in this room – even the showerhead was missing from behind the glass. The skylight here wasn’t doing much to illuminate the room from all the snow weighing down on it.

The bedroom was barely any better. There was an old, springy mattress on an antique four poster bed. The mattress was in a sorry state, greying, frayed and a few springs poking out of the holes that were present on top. Not a bedsheet in sight.

There was an enormous wardrobe leaned against the wall.

And in that wardrobe? There was nothing of any use. Just another empty thing in this house!

John even went and flipped the mattress on the bed, just in case there was something there.

This was getting difficult now. Getting stressful. He has no idea how long it’s been since those men left, and even less of an idea of how long it will be before they return. They could come back any minute now and it’d be over. They have guns, he doesn’t. He can’t take on two of them – what if they brought back more this time?

It doesn’t bare thinking about.

He could feel the blood pumping through the wound in his makeshift tourniquet, feel his heart pounding in his chest. Thoughts racing through his head. Words never said. Emotions never expressed. Feelings never experienced. Seeing his family one last time. Being among the stars in the sky.

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling the lump rise in his throat and the bitter tightness in his windpipe. That awful, horrible, familiar feeling.

Tears threatening to overwhelm him.

He hitched his breath, desperate to stop this feeling in its tracks. Dying to just not feel this way. It’s not productive. Not going to help. Not going to do anything.

But that horse has long since bolted. Far too late to lock the barn now.

His knees gave way beneath him, and he was left gripping the edge of the mattress as well as that rusty pair of scissors that he had brought up here, squeezing the very life out of cold, unfeeling, all but dead metal.

It hurt to cry, hurt to feel anything in this situation. To realise how close he is to losing all that he holds dear in such a… such a horrific turn of events. He was going home for the holidays and yet he’s here, bawling his pathetic eyes out in the middle of nowhere.

Please. Just one mercy. That’s all he asks. Just one more chance at everything. This isn’t fair. Not a way to…

No.

He can’t die here. Can’t. Won’t.

John Glenn Tracy will not let it end here.

He will survive.

One last chance.

There was one last object of interest in his room. An old letter writing desk, with the cover locked over it and everything. Well, not locked. Simply closed. He undid the catch and opened the desk properly.

That’s when he saw it.

A radio.

Old, battered, dirty. But when he flicked at one of the switches and saw one of the lights turn on… The sight of such a primitive but lifesaving piece of technology brought a swelling feeling of relief washing over him, like a wave crashing over him.

He practically knelt in front of it, transfixed over that tiny little light staring back at him, like a child following a fish around a tank – pure fascination.

It seemed to be working. Definitely capable of sending and receiving transmissions. There was a pair of headphones that he put over his ears, hearing the all too familiar crackle of dead radio signals over the airwaves. He pulled the microphone closer, tapping the metal cover and hearing the thrillingly heart-stopping pom-pom in his ears.

This might work.

This might… actually work!

“Mayday, mayday, this is John Tracy.” He began his announcement, steeling his voice and speaking with the same voice he uses in space, of all places. “I was kidnapped two days ago, and I need assistance. Can anyone hear me?”

The radio cackles back at him. No reply.

Yet.

He begins to repeat his call over the air. “Mayday, mayday, this is John Tracy calling anyone in the area for assistance. Can anyone hear me?”

Still, nothing.

He fiddles with the frequency, turning the dial and listening… waiting for the tiniest, most infinitesimal change in the tone of the sound. A sign that someone was there, someone was able to help.

Call for help. Change frequency. Rinse. Repeat.

“Mayday, mayday…” he felt his throat burn from the repeated calls, the lack of any water provided making what is literally his job much harder than it needs to be.

And the worst part was, it was making the process monotonous. Listening into nothing for ages makes his brain hurt, dehydration providing the backdrop for a migraine that is only going to make this worse. It felt like an eternity, between each broadcast being made and silence received in return. Perhaps he hoped someone was there, just not able to answer, with them fruitlessly hoping he would announce his position.

In fact… what if he tried that? He doesn’t know much, but every little bit helps, right?

“I need help, I was kidnapped, please respond. I’m not sure where I am, an abandoned house I think. Can anyone -”

“… lo?”

John’s heart leapt out of his chest.

A person?

“Is someone there?” he asked, speaking clearer and with more focus than before. “Can someone hear me?”

The pause felt interminable.

“- Tracy, we’re reading you, strength four.”

“Oh, my god, yes!” he couldn’t help but cry out. Finally! He was through, through to someone, he was talking to someone else! “Please, I need help. I’m not sure where I am, but the men, they’ll be back soon. I -”

“I’ve got a general fix on your position based on your transmission, Mr Tracy. Don’t move, I’ve got a search and rescue squad headed for you now. Stand by.”

The last few days felt like a whirlwind of adrenaline for the entire Tracy family, but John was certainly the one feeling the burn in his head even now. Turning over in his bed, cocooned in his darkened bedroom beneath several blankets, he just wanted to sleep forever.

“How are you feeling John?” Scott knocked gently on the door and announced his question without stepping into the threshold.

John stirred, rubbing his eyes as he came around a little more.

“Tired, I think,” he answered, looking at the watch on his wrist and immediately shooting up.

His elder brother marched in, “don’t get up,” Scott said in the Scott Tracy patented do not disobey my words in this moment voice that he’s perfected ever since they were boys.

“It’s nearly two in the afternoon, Scott, I shouldn’t be in bed -” he tried to protest, but he was held down by a gentle hand on the shoulder.

“You must have needed that beauty rest then. You were suffering from fatigue and pneumonia pretty badly.”

John knew he wouldn’t be able to win against his brother, so stood down whilst offering the most pathetic protest. “I’m fine now, Scott. I swear.”

Feeling fine was all he could feel. The police had spoken to him yesterday – or when was it? It feels like months ago – they had managed to track down three men involved in his disappearance. Local gang members in Cincinnati, small time crooks hoping for a big break. Small fish, for lack of a better term. A refined racket for what they had in resources as a bunch of kids and adults with a bone to pick.

Scouts identified targets as taxi drivers, they reported anyone potentially worth robbing, and the rest of the gang did the hard part. Except John wasn’t just worth robbing – he was worth ransom.

Somehow this did not make John feel any better about his survival.

Scott sits himself down on the side of the bed next to him. “It’s easy to say, isn’t it? Yes, physically, you’re fine. But take my word for it. Your brain needs more rest regardless of how your body protests that you want to get up. And I know you want to get up, it must suck to be here like this. But for once, I’m with grandma on this one. You went through a lot and need that rest more than ever.”

His brother adjusted the blanket that was draped over his body. The tattered old thing that’s probably been in the Tracy family since the medieval period. It’s nothing overly special, it’s red and black and just as comfortable – and comforting – as it was when he was a child sick with a fever, chicken pox or anything. Grandma always did know when to bring it out.

John picked a little at the bandage that adorned his hand, pressing it down at the thought of Grandma seeing him mess with it. “Yeah, she does know best.”

Scott took an overexaggerated look around the room. John’s room. Has been since they were very young and still lived here on the family homestead. He was pretty certain that the only thing that’s changed in as many years, aside from them as boys growing into men, is their beds getting progressively bigger until now, when they only occasionally are here to sleep.

“I must say, I am surprised that Dad has left your room unlocked at all,” Scott gave a wry smirk, nodding at the open door.

John returned the grin. “What, you mean he hasn’t locked everyone else’s rooms yet? Put security cameras everywhere?”

“Funnily enough, no.”

“Surprising.”

gggrrroooooooowwl.

Their little conversation was interrupted by John’s stomach, painfully signalling that despite his beauty rest, he needed beauty food now too.

“So nurse Tracy. May I leave the confines of this bedroom for an hour? I should like to stretch my legs and have some food, if I may?”

The elder brother stood up, holding out a hand for him to help his brother up.

“Why of course Mr Tracy. Please, allow me to escort you to the living areas.”

John didn’t need to do much to know that he was home again, with his family, where he belonged.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #tag team secret santa #thunderbirds fanfiction

[zoetica]

Chimeric Variable Mantle. Conceal, reveal, and stun with abandon – this polymorphous object’s limit is your imagination. Symbols and specimens from my Alien Botany series adorn your body and evolve into something of your own design. At nearly three metres of luxe, creaseproof chiffon, this might be the most extravagantly-proportioned scarf on Earth, guaranteed to impress the most discerning of interdimensional trend-setters. Shawl, dress, kimono, tapestry, sari, cape, sun cover… You decide.

#Zoetica #Zoetica Ebb #Alien Botany #Fashion #wearable art #gothic fashion

[jamiesfootball]

Grey

Thought I had a good bit for this week's word, then found out most of them are right smack dab near high climax moments or words I've shared before.

As such @jamietarttsnorthernattitude has given the go-ahead and reshare some previously shared snippets.

You're Gonna Go Far Kid

It hits Roy on the pitch in the middle of practice on a grey Tuesday. Weimar, his hell-bent angel of a striker, whips the ball from 30 meters back. Ball hits the net, she celebrates like the fucking hooligan she is, and Roy can barely choke out an excuse to the  attacking coach before he’s fleeing the pitch. He locks himself in the first supply closet he finds. He mourns. He goes home to Jamie. Jamie feeds him an aberration against God. Roy scarfs it down and chokes back the gratitude that Jamie’s still there, petulant and alive and scratching his fork against Roy’s plates while he eats, and not contemplating anything that would snuff that out of the world. Once upon a time, Roy couldn’t have said the same thing. But Jamie isn’t Roy. Roy is so grateful that Jamie isn’t Roy.

The Vacant House Behind Our Home

In the center of the field, where any one of the Greyhounds might step out and witness him, Jamie shucked off his shirt. Below lay the undershirt -- the undershirt that it turned out was not entirely void. Mostly void, but high on the middle of his chest was a patch of shirt that wasn't void at all. It was a grey; a light, watery grey spot that faded in uneven patches, save for a single line that cut through the grey space over his heart. No. Not a line. A drip.

The Leverage AU I'm Not Writing

"You can't cut it down that low or it'll have to grow up from the graft." Jamie yanked the big-scissors back from a deadened stalk. “Then you should’ve swapped me with Keeley,” he hissed. A while ago she'd been gagging over the comms. Her and Ted had a long debate--the kind Jamie would never get away with--about whether she actually had to clean the mark's bathroom as part of her reconnaissance. Yes, the tank was an excellent place to hide stolen jewels; no, she'd never found one there in her life. Jamie wondered if the housekeepers wore maid outfits. Keeley would look dead fit in a maid outfit. He'd look dead fit in a maid outfit. Anything would look better on him than the grey, stiff-collared maintenance uniform Beard had presented without comment. The earbuds made it sound like Roy was right behind him, whispering disapprovingly, "Keeley's on the inside so she can crack the safe when she finds it. And you're supposed to be keeping a lookout on the armed guards. Focus." The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Focus, he said. Like Jamie had the luxury of forgetting that not ten metres away stood a burly man armed with an assault rifle and a blind spot in the cameras. All Jamie had was a pair of big-scissors and a prickly old bastard in his ear. Honestly? He'd rather scrub the bathroom.

Gift Fic

If it weren't for the mud beneath their shoes, the English would pretend rain wasn't wet. If it weren't for the point differential, the Greyhounds would pretend Wembley didn’t happen. And if it was left up to Lasso, Jamie Tartt would never have tried to do a handstand on wet asphalt in the rain.

I Still Feel Like the Same Person I've Been

Jamie blinked blearily as light and shape solidified into light grey fabric with royal blue stitching. He swallowed. Awareness pooled into him at a steady trickle. His face pressed against the seat. The jacket bunched up around his shoulders, tucked all the way to his nose The warm stuffy heat of sleep behind his eyes. The coach wasn't moving. They were in Richmond. He'd slept the whole way to London. The blistering, mortifying heat of what the fuck. He didn't dare to move. The Greyhounds shuffled past him in agonizing silence. Jamie kept his face buried, didn't so much as twitch as he hid his face into the fabric, hoping that some-fucking-how they'd just walk on by. One by one the other men passed his seat at the front of the bus, that horrible, exposed feeling multiplying a hundred-fold with every step. Until there was one left. He felt pinned under the pressure of that gaze, laid bare and skinned alive under the weight of its judgement. He knew, logically, that he likely hadn't fooled it's owner, that the way his eyelids struggled to lay flat and the way his jaw clenched probably gave way the fact that he was just pretending to sleep. That didn't mean he'd back down. They stayed as they were, Jamie Tartt and Roy Kent, stuck in a stalemate to see who would crack and leave the bus first.

Oh God You're Gonna Get It (You Have Not Been Given Love)

Even though he'd just been over the other week, everything just seemed-- --bleaker. The cleaning service had been in, that could explain some of it -- the lack of hoodies and vests thrown about and the absence of trainers piled at the front door. No mugs. None of Roy's books with the spines bent worse than a Beckham goal. But everything else? Grey beige sad. Fucking lifeless, somehow worse than he remembered. A blank slate box -- not a place to store a person. The odor of cleaning products hung acrid and defensive, from the hallway through to the living room. Even the strip of grass out the windows didn't seem inviting anymore. Greenery taunting behind a pane of glass with nothing to beckon outside. Bushes clipped in perfunctory order. Outdoor seating; no sign any of it was ever used. At least the succulents on the table were holding up well. Maybe Roy could grab them. Would that fucking help? He seemed to enjoy the tour Phoebe gave him of the yard -- was he a plant person? Roy didn't know. Didn't seem likely, but then he hadn't thought to ask-- --fuck, he hadn't even thought to ask Jamie what he needed to grab from his house. He picked up one of the succulents. Weightless plastic. Free of dust and life. Fake. "Fuck," Roy breathed out. The house echoed back.

#just a big massive grey post #word game wednesday #ficwip #roy kent #jamie tartt #writing snippets #cw suicidal ideation

[dcyllom]

What's Your Name?

Hey @lovememadly92, merry Christmas!! I'm your secret santa for the hbowar fic exchange! I'm sorry this is a few days late but I had some major technical difficulties with the Google Doc I was writing on which stopped me from posting earlier. There's also going to be another part to this that I'm still trying to recover, so I'm sorry for the wait 😅 🎄 

Request: one of the men falling in love with an SOE agent and vice versa for either enemies to lovers or friends to lovers.

Pairings: Lewis Nixon x OFC (Rosemary Young)

I hope you like this, Merry Christmas! :)

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A branch snapped. Rosie stiffened, glancing around the clearing she was in. There was a rustling to her left, perhaps ten metres away. 

A voice called out, shaky in the uncertainty of the night. “Flash!”

Rosie exhaled sharply, relief flooding her body before answering in kind. “Thunder.” There was a pause after she spoke, followed by hurried whispers, as the Americans she’d been addressing registered the feminine tone of her voice. 

She waited patiently. Branches were pushed apart as a face streaked with black appeared, eyes shining in the moonlight under thick brows. Rosie and the man stared at each other, before the quiet was broken by a nasal voice. 

“Hey Lieutenant, can we move out? My foot’s cramping.” The Lieutenant glanced behind him, one brow raised, before shifting forwards. Several khaki-clad figures holding rifles stepped out cautiously, all aiming their guns at her head. There were four of them, with eagles emblazoned on their jackets. 101st Airborne, then. Just who she was looking for.

Rosie spoke as reassuringly as she could. “Bonjour, les Américains. I am with the French Resistance, and have been ordered to aid the Americans with their landings for Operation Overlord. I have a message for your Colonel Sink.” She knew her French accent was impeccable, but she didn’t like how it made the man in front of her grin so smugly.

The Americans looked between each other for a moment. Rosie caught movement in her peripheral vision, seeing a young, clearly uneasy Private on the left of the rag-tag group of soldiers fiddling with the safety catch of his gun. The Lieutenant noticed her gaze move, and followed her line of sight.

“Put the damn gun down, Penkala. She look like a Kraut to you?”

Rosie let her shoulders relax as Penkala lowered the gun, and the Lieutenant strode forward, hand outstretched and smirking. “Pleasure to meet you, miss. I’m Lieutenant Nixon, intelligence officer with the 101st Airborne.” Well, that explained the smug grin. This officer had likely been briefed on the SOE agents who would be joining their little adventure back in England. He had a smooth, self-assured voice, and was clearly well-educated. He also happened to be quite handsome, and he looked like he knew it too if the gleam in his eye was anything to go by.

Rosie gripped his hand firmly and shook it, hoping the flush in her cheeks would go unnoticed in the low light. “Call me Thérèse. You are five miles from your drop zone, Lieutenant Nixon. I have been searching for your men and your Colonel for the better part of the night.”

“Well, mind telling us where we actually are, Thérèse? We’re in a bit of a hurry.” His tone was light, but Rosie heard an edge to it all the same. Her mouth thinned. 

“Take out your map, Lieutenant, and I will show you where you are.” Nixon looked a bit ruffled at the change in her attitude, but did what she asked all the same, pulling the scarf from around his neck. Rosie watched curiously as he shook it out, and then shone her flashlight on the silk to reveal a detailed map of Omaha and Utah beach, and the surrounding countryside. 

The other Americans crowded around them at the behest of their Lieutenant, and she pointed to a point just east of a little French village on the outskirts of Saint-Marie-du-Mont, the silk slippery under her finger. The Lieutenant swore under his breath, something Rosie privately thought the village of Pouppeville did not deserve. The words drawn from his superior’s lips also caused Private Penkala to look at him askance, twisting his shocked face to stare very hard at Rosie with beseeching eyes in what she assumed was supposed to be an apology on Nixon’s behalf. He needn't have bothered. Rosie’s good opinion of Lieutenant Nixon had not been very high to begin with anyway.

The trek to Drop Zone C, where the paratroopers she was accompanying were meant to have landed before hell opened up on them, was made quick by Rosie’s knowledge of the hedgerows they were skirting around. To his credit, Lieutenant Nixon did not question her competence as she led them through the Normandy fields, but he did tail annoyingly close, his arm brushing her shoulder occasionally. Rosie would’ve been tempted to stop abruptly so he would run into her back, if the commotion wouldn’t have put them at risk of alerting any nearby Germans. Rosie cast a look at Nixon, only to find him already staring at her and unnervingly close. But before she could do more than lift an eyebrow they heard noises from the hedgerow on the opposite side of the road they were on. 

Nixon held up a hand and the Americans were silent, watching, waiting, to see if they’d been spotted. Rosie crept forward, only to be stopped by a hand grasping her wrist. She gritted her teeth and wrenched her arm out of Nixon’s grip, moving silently across the road to lie in the ditch just in front of the hedge. Rosie reached behind her, aware of the brown eyes burning a hole in her skull, and pulled out her pistol before shifting forwards to peer through a small hole in the leaves. 

A few tired looking Wermarcht soldiers were walking along the path, talking quietly amongst themselves as they came back from what must have been a patrol.

She turned around slowly, meeting Lieutenant Nixon’s frantic eyes, and held up her fingers to show the number of Germans there were. The Lieutenant motioned something to her, but he was using US Army hand signals and was therefore being quite useless. She could see him mouthing ‘Thérèse’ at her, but she ignored him, throwing up a hand to halt any movement the Americans might make. She took aim, and fired, dropping the German closest to her with a neat shot to the head, before taking out the other two in quick succession. They barely even had time to shout in pain and shock, unaware of their fate due to the silencer attached to her pistol.

Only the crickets buzzing in the grass could be heard for a fraught second, before a loud “What the fuck!” came from the nasally soldier, who was apparently called Liebgott. Rosie slipped back to the Americans, stuffing her pistol in her pocket, only to be met by Lieutenant Nixon’s slack jaw.

His gaze became tense, hands flexing at his side. “Don’t take a risk like that again. Let us handle it. It’s our job.”

She stared at him. “It is also mine, and that I am far more experienced at this than you, Lieutenant. I would expect an intelligence officer to already know this, but apparently not. Now follow, unless you want me to leave you at the hands of the next Germans who decide to wander through here.” She walked away, leaving the disgruntled but mollified soldiers to trail in her wake towards the sounds and conversation of the American base.

Rosie earned a lot of sideways glances as she strode through the crowd of soldiers, with their harsh accents and loud voices. Eventually, however, just when she was losing hope that she’d ever find an officer amongst the men scattered around the Normandy village where they’d set up a base, Lieutenant Nixon surged forwards from behind her to greet a harried but kind  looking man who made himself known as Captain Hester, and Rosie was able to leave the aggravating Lieutenant behind in order to find Colonel Sink.

But, before she could slip into the crowd, a hand wrapped itself around her wrist once again and she was pulled back to face Lieutenant Nixon.

“Hey, Thérèse, before you run off–” He stopped as she attempted to rip her arm out of his hold, but he’d clearly expected this as he simply adjusted his grip as she glared at him.

“Before you run away, I wanted to say thanks.” Rosie stayed silent, not trusting herself to speak. For a moment, he didn’t speak either, just looked at her. “Your name’s not really Thérèse, is it?”.

Rosie’s answering smile was smug.

“What’s your name?” Nixon pressed.

“Call me Rosie, Lieutenant Nixon. My apologies, but I really must be going. I have a job to do,” and with that she slipped out of his loosened grip and darted through the mess of soldiers, dodging as she went and ignoring the shout from Nixon after her

“Hey, hey! Is that even your real name?!”

But Rosie had already vanished into the night.

#band of brothers #lewis nixon #easy company #band of brothers fanfic #hbowarsanta23 #hbo war #lewis nixon x oc

[meadow-selfship]

Bewitched: ch. 1 (Sheriff of Nottingham x s/i)

Title: Mass

Pairing: George, sheriff of Nottingham x s/i Hadewych van Heiden.

Summary: During mass, they meet for the first time. Plans are set in motion, strategies are formed, the witch has divined her prophecies.

Warnings: None. Yet

Divider by @/saradika

Mass. The sheriff disliked it, but he’d be a fool to forget it’s political significance, so he made his way through the small crowd of needful people and into the church building. He took his usual spot at the front, his cousin at his side, and bowed his head in respect. The priest’s voice droned on, and soon the sheriff found himself restless.

As he usually did during this time, he looked over to where the pretty maid Marian sat. Instead caught sight of another, a young woman he hadn’t seen before. The light from one of the stained glass windows hit her, making her stand out. As if chosen by god. For a moment, the priest’s voice faded away. It felt like there was only her and him in the church. A modest black dress over white, and a silk scarf rested gently on her head. Yet; everything about her was in colour. She wasn’t beautiful, not like Marian, or some of the other girls he liked to enjoy, but something about her captivated him. Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up. Their eyes locked.

The world brightened. Colours swam around her. She was the sole focus. Even though they were many metres away, he swore he could discern the intricate floral pattern on her scarf, the colour of her eyes, the soft hairs that pulled free from her crown braid during the horse ride here. Logically, he knew he shouldn’t be able to see that from this distance, but he did. He could even smell the way in which she smelled like lady Marian, fainty of perfume, faintly of hay; and of an innocence that was purely her; of sweetness, like candy that leaves a stickiness on one’s lips.

Lady Marian who sat at her left, bumped into her, which broke their eye contact and the moment was gone.

After mass, the sheriff was glad to see the unknown woman followed lady Marian to pray to Mary in one of the alcoves, and not leave right away. The priest had a word with him, and he caught the pair just as they made for the door.

“Lady Marian, how lovely to see you again,” he greeted, with a kiss to her knuckles, before he moved on to the unknown lady. “And who is your companion?”

Swiftly, and with the most charming smile, he took her hand and repeated the gesture, letting his lips linger over her bare knuckles. His breath tickled her wrist, the scratch of his beard, her soft skin under his lips making it more intimate than it did with Marian, who kept her hands covered.  

“Sheriff, this is lady Hadewych, my friend from the continent,” said Marian with a tight-lipped smile.

Hadewych made a small curtesy. Marian’s hand rested, protective, impatient, on her shoulder.

“A pleasure to meet you, sire,” she said. George delighted in the sound of her voice, high and innocent, yet pleasant. Her accent was difficult to place, but foreign.

“You are not from here? Then I simply must welcome you to Nottingham properly.” he said, arms extended in a jovial gesture.

Seemingly not noticing Marian’s discomfort as her hand tightened on her shoulder, Hadewych smiled warmly. “Thank you, sire.”

“Both of you, dine with me tomorrow,” the sheriff said, his voice smooth, pleased with her receptiveness. “I’ll show you around the town, my castle. I’ll have a duck slaughtered for the occasion.”

“Sheriff, that’s truly very kind, but tomorrow… that’s rather short notice,” interjected Maria, worry etched in the lines of her forehead.

Hadewych leaned in to speak softly to her friend. “Why not? I’d like to go.”

George’s smile turned smug at the whispered words. “I insist. What other welcome can I offer but my personal attention? Especially with those rogues running around the place. No, my lady Hadewych, you deserve to see what good Nottingham has to offer.”

After they exited, George pulled his right hand man, Guy of Gisbourne, aside. Guy gave a meaningful raise of his eyebrows, aimed at the two women making their way to their horses.

“Marian’s new friend sure looks sweet,” Guy grinned, the gravel in his voice making the word ‘sweet’ sound filthy.

George glared at him, but saw little reason to argue. Before he got ideas in his head, he needed information. “Guy, my cousin…” Holding him by the arm, he led him to the stables to talk away from prying eyes. “I want you to see if you can bribe one of Marian’s servants – her lady in waiting perhaps – to see what you can find about lady Hadewych. Anything is useful, where she’s from, how long she’ll be staying, who her family is, what are her previous loyalties, why is she here, anything. Got it?”

“What about Robin Hood?”

The sheriff’s expression darkened. “Leave him to me. I expect you back soon enough. Now go.”

Once home, he went straight down to the dungeons, the echo of his footsteps on the stone stairway only emphasising the silence of this part of the castle. It grew colder the deeper he went.

“Mortiana!” was George’s only greeting as he entered, making his way over to Mortiana’s altar, the upside down hanging cross a familiar sight. It was always colder here, but his guardian didn’t seem to mind. He hugged his thick cloak around his shoulders.  

“You seem chipper today,” she said, appearing from behind a stone pillar on the other side of the room. Always just where he didn’t expect her to be, yet always in those damn dungeons. She approached him, taking a good look at him with her mismatched eyes. She was a good deal shorter than him, but made up for it with an intimidating aura. A woman who wasn’t scared of any man.

“You met someone,” she said, “and that’s why you’re here.”

“Indeed, madam.” George nodded at her, respectful. “Lady Marian brought a friend today… Lady Hadewych is her name. What can you tell me about her?” his lip curled at the mention of the word ‘friend’, but before he even got the words out, Mortiana’s face twisted in a smile.

“Let us see…” and she cleared the table by swiping everything rudely to the side. Taking a ladle, she scooped from the pot that was brewing and put it on a plate. Boiled pine needles. With her long nails, she scooped a few out of the hot water, and chewed them, looking displeased. George watched her, impatient, and worried at seeing her reaction. She spit them back out, onto a spoon, and cracked an egg. The yolk was orange, with a film of blood. Taking the spoon, she mixed them, and then looked up to her protégé with a grin.

“I see her, in your future. She has great potential for you, sire.” She poked her ring finger nail in the gross mixture, and tasted it. “Her life trajectory is entwined with Nottingham, now that she’s come here…” Her sinister giggle echoed through the dungeons. “Innocent, yes, but not quite… With a careful guiding hand - from you, she can be pivotal in playing an important role for us. Another household, she is close to. That could be your link.”

“Who?”

“Someone of royal birth… That would be that pretty lady,” the witch grinned.

“Aah, the King’s cousin,” said George, a pleased grin forming on his face. “That would make things a lot easier, as I can’t control Marian if she stays outside the city’s walls.”

“But you should take care, sire. This situation requires a… gentle hand.”

“As if I can’t be gentle,” George scoffs, but even the word sounds strange from his tongue.

After his talk with Mortiana, the sheriff felt a sense of optimism. Perhaps having a friend inside Marian’s household would help keep an eye on things. And then there was… the moment they shared. Did she feel drawn to him similarly? Was it fate guiding their eyes towards the other? He was sure that, with Mortiana said, it will all unfold soon enough.

Hadewych seemed… innocent. Young, but not much younger than Marian. It would be easy to have her wrapped around his finger – and he’d enjoy indulging in the spoils of his efforts. Now with Guy elsewhere, finally giving him some peace and quiet, he had all the time to think. The lack of information about this potential new pawn was frustrating.

The way she looked at him… even now it sent a shiver down his spine, that unpleasant churning sensation following right after. Her innocence… He couldn’t help but imagine her, charmed by him. See those doe eyes stare up at him, laying on the furs in front of the fireplace. It’d be easy – a maiden like her wouldn’t know the touch of a man and even the smallest of affections would make her heart race.

After dinner he summoned a servant girl to his chambers – to practice his gentler hand. When the wench grew mouthy, he lost his patience and slapped her to shut her up. The only voice he could bear to hear, was Hadewych’s. He sent the girl away, who left in tears, clutching her chemise, and he sighed deeply. Alone again, even more frustrated than before. He laid himself on the furs, hand outstretched to the fire, letting it warm him, and stared into the flames for a long time.

#george of nottingham #sheriff of nottingham #sheriff of nottingham x oc #🥄a heathen's something pure🤍 #self ship community #robin hood: prince of thieves #sheriff of nottingham x s/i #s/i x f/o #selfshipping #robin hood (1991) #self ship #hadewych van heiden