#javelin studies

[javelinbk]

Paul McCartney doesn’t stroke hands with guys: a study

#in his defense #he’s not actually stroking hands in any of these #so maybe the full context is ‘you don’t stroke hands with guys...’ #‘...you sit on their laps and kiss them but you don’t stroke hands’ #or something #poor george #having to deal with paul’s gay crisis even on his deathbed #apologies for my crappy editing but it seems to fit with the strength of paul’s argument #and yes I know there’s loads more moments I could have used but we’d have been here for hours #paul mccartney #john and paul #ringo starr #the beatles #mclennon #javelin’s vids #javelin studies #javelin’s edit

[tosahobi-if]

Back muscles you say? I think it’s very important for…. Science. To share this. (If you don’t mind)

JSAJFSJ I FEEL LIKE I JUST ACTIVATED SLEEPER AGENTS (i'll probably share them when i feel a little more confident about my anatomy! i'm still learning right now hehe)

#lawfulevilaristotle #anon #(s) #still doing body studies #recently i've been interested in how javelin throwers develop

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

AMC AMX-4, 1967. A 4-door version of the American Motors eXperimental concept that was effectively a fastback saloon version of the first generation Javelin. It never made it beyond a fibreglass prototype

#AMC #AMC AMX #AMC AMX-4 #prototype #concept #design study #sports saloon #1967 #1960s #fibreglass #dead brands #AMC Javelin

[adrift-in-thyme]

I worked on the fic as promised and…it got out of hand. So instead of a snippet I’ll just give you guys the whole thing XD Thank you all for providing that extra nudge I needed to finish it!

Though there’s nothing too descriptive here, there are brief mentions of blood, injury, and captivity. So be careful and take care of yourselves <3

————————————————————-

There is another fae in their group.

Hyrule has sensed it since he joined this little band of heroes. Fairy magic is soft, gentle, easy to miss when it is not in concentrated amounts. But there is a strength to it, an unbreakable force that little else possesses.

While the dark arts are vicious, like a javelin through the heart, fairy magic is soothing and unshatterable. Dependable and comforting.

There are many different magical signatures amongst the men and boys who share his name. Some torn apart and melded back together into something stronger. Others as mighty as a gale force wind, or as swift and discerning as a rabbit, as decisive and resilient as a barricade. Still others as fierce as a soaring hawk, as vicious and protective as the wolves that prowl the forest, as crafty and quick as the mischievous foxes that sometimes play around Hyrule’s feet.

Hyrule keeps his eye on them all as they travel, discovering who they are, watching their tells, learning the ways their faces portray their emotions even when they attempt to cloak them. And he wonders who amongst them is a brother in more ways than shared spirit. Who among them flits on a pair of silken wings.

He wonders until the day Time breaks.

Their journey is a long, arduous one, treacherous and laden with pitfalls. It’s only natural that it would take its toll. Still, Time holds out impressively. Even while he studies him with the other heroes, Hyrule never sees that mask of his slip, never sees a chink in the armor he wears.

At least, not for the first three months of traveling together.

But then, one day, there is an accident. A simple slip up born of exhaustion. During a battle with a group of black-blooded beasts in Twilight’s Hyrule, Warriors doesn’t see a monster lunging for him. Not until it’s too late.

And when he crumples into a limp, bloodied heap, Time’s mask shatters.

He doesn’t manage to piece it back together for the rest of the day. Not when he carries Warriors back to camp. Not when he lays the captain down on his bed mat and helps Hyrule tend to him. Not even when Warriors comes to, groggy and sore but very much alive and very much himself.

The captain teases him about being over protective. Time’s answering smile is a hollow one that doesn’t reach his eyes.

The injury had been a severe one, Hyrule won’t deny that — perhaps, more so than any of them have endured thus far. But Time seems to take it the hardest of any of them. And Hyrule can’t help wondering if maybe, just maybe there is something more behind his behavior.

Could it be that Time has been feeling the overwhelming nature of this quest the same as the rest of them, caving beneath its weight but unwilling to show it?

So, during dinner that night when Time sets aside his untouched food and slips silently away, Hyrule trails after him.

He goes a short way into the surrounding forest, footsteps soft, ears pricked for any sound of disturbance. Then, he stops, casts a quick glance around him…and disappears.

Hyrule peeks out from the cover of a nearby bush, eyes wide as he stares at the place where the old man had stood. For a long moment, he remains motionless, thoughts whirring, trying to decipher what has just happened.

Hero of Hyrule or not, people don’t simply dissipate like the morning mist. Though, with Time’s seemingly endless collection of masks, he supposes something of the sort is possible. Still…

Hyrule frowns.

There is something else here, hovering in the damp night air. A familiar magic that now drifts lazily over to him in delicate wisps.

Hyrule straightens. His brows dip further.

He knows what Time’s magic looks like, smells like, feels like. It is difficult to ignore, after all, tangled and tortured as it is. Such power is meant to flow freely. But Time’s has been grasped in hands that are not his own, grasped and mangled, suffocated, stretched to its breaking point and further, morphed into something completely unlike what it must have been at the start.

It is nauseating to behold at times. Right now, however, right now Hyrule can’t bring himself to look away. Because threaded in between the heartbreak and pain are gentle strands of the faintest blue fae magic.

The traveler steps forward. His eyes travel over the trail Time’s power has left behind, leading all the way up into the highest branches of a nearby oak. If he squints, he can make out a tiny dot among the lush leaves, shimmering emerald.

His lips part in a silent “oh.” He dares to take another step forward, then another and another, wings issuing from his back as he goes, body shrinking until it too can soar up to the haven of foliage.

Time doesn’t startle when he lands quietly on the branch. He remains sitting where he is, legs hanging over the edge into the open air, wings wafting gracefully back and forth. Hyrule stares at them, almost taken aback by their beauty.

He should have expected it, he supposes. Every fairy’s pride is their wings, after all. But Time’s unforgiving plates of armor, his dull gray tunic and obsidian trousers, the glowing marks of crimson and navy blue adorning his face – they provide such a severe air. Strength, dedication to duty, and unyielding courage are what they convey.

His wings, however, they speak of softer things, fragile things held close and treasured.

They are long, sweeping along the height of Time’s body in flowing curves like those of a butterfly. Their translucent surface is colored a deep emerald and adorned with veins of pale pink. They remind Hyrule of the vibrancy of the forest after a long, hard storm; of the look of leaves when the emerging sun caresses their dewy surfaces.

He walks closer, almost enraptured by this sight. Perhaps, he should turn away from something so vulnerable. That is likely the polite thing to do. But he has traveled far beyond politeness now, mesmerized as he is by this discovery.

And when Time says, “Hello, Hyrule,” there is nothing in his tone to communicate that this is an invasion of his privacy. On the contrary, he sounds calm, unbothered. He pats the spot beside him and slowly, Hyrule settles down upon it. Their wings nearly touch.

“So, it’s you,” he says, awkward and awestruck.

A small smile quirks the old man’s lips. His gaze remains trained on the heroes gathered far, far below them. Their laughter and chatter float up to them in bubbles of murmured joy.

“Yes, it’s me,” he says, mildly, as though this meeting is no shock. As though he has been expecting it for a long while.

Silence settles for a moment as Hyrule scrambles for what else to say.

“How?” Is all he can come up with.

Time chuckles. Hyrule is certain the sound is lighter than usual.

“I’m not sure.” He cocks his head, bangs falling aside so Hyrule can see his markings. “I have theories, of course, but I have no way to prove any of them. And those who might have been able to explain are long gone.”

His voice is good-natured enough but the words carry a weight that Hyrule can feel in his soul. He ducks his head.

“I’m sorry.”

Time shrugs. “Their fates were not your doing. There is no need for you to ache for them. Or for me.” He turns now, a smile brightening his face once more. “What about you, Hyrule? What is the nature of your transformation? Were you born with it?”

“Oh, it’s just a spell,” Hyrule replies, quickly. “Though, I’ve wondered if I was born with fae blood in me. I don’t think it would’ve worked otherwise.”

Time hums, thoughtfully. He is quiet for a moment, once more staring down at their comrades.

“I wondered why I felt the presence of one of my brethren amongst the group. But it wasn’t my place to pry. Besides, I assumed it was only a matter of time before I discovered who it was. Secrets don’t stay concealed for long in a group such as ours.” He grins. “It seems you found me first, however.”

Hyrule laughs. “It sure seems that way.”

“That isn’t why you followed me though, is it?” The old man’s gaze is sharp and discerning as he pins Hyrule with it. The traveler fights not to sink into himself beneath it.

“No.” His voice is a bit smaller than he wants it to be, embarrassment sneaking into it against his will. “It isn’t.”

Time nods and looks away again. Stance relaxed, expression guarded, he waits. Hyrule swallows, gathers his courage, and continues.

“I saw how upset you were about Wars.”

Time flinches almost imperceptibly. The walls that had gone relatively low rise again so far Hyrule is taken aback by it. Yet, he plows on anyway.

If anything, Time’s reaction validates his decision further.

“And…I saw how you tried to hide it, too. And I wanted to make sure you were okay. Because you don’t, old man, you don’t have to hide what you feel.” His gaze travels to those magnificent wings again, grander than his own, yet so similar. “Or what you are.”

“It’s dangerous,” Time murmurs. “You know that, traveler.”

Perhaps, he is talking solely about feelings and the open expression of them. But Hyrule sees a bottle anyway, brimming with desperate magic, translucent sides smeared with blood and tears, it’s top shut so tightly the air has grown thin.

“Not with us,” he says, firm despite the dizzying rush of fear the memories bring. “Not with me.”

He scoots closer. His shoulder bumps against Time’s, their wings brush. Time’s next exhale catches at the end.

To anyone else such proximity would be touching enough, a display of closeness between two brothers in arms and spirit. But Hyrule knows that to fae it means even more than that.

Wings are not only the pride of the fairy people. They are also their greatest power — and their very life. To allow someone else to touch your wings so freely is a show of trust as momentous as when Time had shown them his ocarina. Not the one embued with sacred magic and given to him by Lullaby. No, the one that is even more precious to him that even that one. The one Sariah had given him so very, very, (very, very, Hyrule adds for good measure) long ago.

The stiffness that had seeped into Time’s posture eases slightly. Hyrule feels a smile stretch across his face.

The two of them grow silent, allowing the symphony of night creatures to fill the space between them. Hyrule swings his legs, back and forth, back and forth, listening to the crickets and owls singing in time with the laughter of his brothers. Time still looks down upon them.

Watching over them, Hyrule realizes with a sudden burst of warmth.

Their leader can seem cold sometimes, distant. Little had he known the depths of his love for the heroes with whom he shared a spirit of courage.

There is much, he thinks in wonder, that he doesn’t know about the old man.

Beside him, Time sighs and exhaustion permeates it. “You all aren’t going to give up on me, are you?”

Hyrule sends him a grin. “Nope. We’re not gonna stop until we know all your secrets. All of them. And we’ll know because you’re comfortable enough with us enough to share them, because we’ve earned your trust enough to be gifted them.”

Emotion burns in Time’s eye when he turns to the traveler. His face is more vulnerable than Hyrule has ever seen it before — even when Warriors fell.

“My trust isn’t easy to earn.”

“And Hyrule isn’t easy to save.”

Time holds his gaze for a long moment. Then, he smiles. It is small, almost shy, but Hyrule knows it is a gift. The first of many, if he’s lucky.

“Well, then, I suppose you’re amply prepared for such a challenge.”

Hyrule leans in closer, pride welling within him when Time returns the gesture, and his grin grows.

Yeah. He thinks, watching with wide eyes as fairy dust floats around them. I am.

We all are.

#trin writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse #linkeduniverse fic #lu time #lu hyrule #angst #but also a hearty helping of #fluff #fairy time au #hehe that’s a tag now #I had so much fun with this #I never write time and hyrule as a duo #which is a shame cause I love their dynamic #so I loved getting a chance to do it here #also #it’s always a joy getting one of the boys to support time #he needs comfort too darn it and he’s gonna get it whether he likes it or not

[sophswritingthings]

PART 9 🫠🫠🫠

So you know how Mizu went to assassinate that one girl and when coming back from the successful kill that some random kid she decided to trust actually snitched on her?? (Cant trust kids for shit anymore 😔😔), well i had an idea for reader and her to fight off the army like the badass couple they are.

So when the army comes around and says their grand plan and how they are gonna wreck shit up. Mizu ofc tells Ringo to bring everyone down to the cellar to keep them safe and shit, including reader of course because reader is just a magnet for trouble atp but Reader says “absolutely not” and goes to help her wife. Since she’s an Ex-Shinobi she definitely knows how to sneak around and be stealthy so she readies herself and even makes makeshift weapons like a rope javelin and smoke screens.

So when Mizu is out struggling with her wound, reader is out killing the rest of the other stupid men because she still has anger nestled in her from her Frenemy encounter. Some of the men even recognize her to be daughter of the infamous Shinobi “black death” (or smth idk, making this part while doing trigonometry homework 😓😓). And reader just doesn’t respond and kills them heartlessly. And then she helps Mizu and they fight together with such precision it’s beautiful.

At the end of the fight, The guards who were looking for akemi found her ofc and Reader wanted help even if Akemi was threatening to kill Mizu but Mizu just stops Reader and reader is like “☹️ i wanted to help her though.” (Best i can come up with while studying and doing homework 😭😭)

pairing: mizu x fem!apothecary!reader

warning(s): heavy blood, injury, swearing

a/n: really can’t trust them little bastards anymore 😞 and not the trigonometry homework 😭 I pray for you bestie

summary: after returning from your little encounter; you find a child snitched on mizu for doing her work. the thousand claw army shows up; and you and your wife are ready to fuck shit up.

word count: 1,225 words / 6,751 characters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

bang—ban—ba—b—

your eyes flash up to the door, suddenly snapped out of your anger. 

mizu slowly gets to her feet, sliding her hat back on her head. you follow close behind—you promised never to leave your wife’s side, and you wouldn’t.

you step outside the brothel, the workers pooling outside behind you.

your eyes widen, recoiling back when you saw the thousand claw army; a young boy nestled at their side. 

mizu looked absolutely pissed when she saw the boy. 

oh, god. what now?

you turn your attention to the man, held by his hair. 

slash.

blood tricked down his throat, practically gushing onto the floor as his eyes rolled back and body went limp.

you’d seen so much death you didn’t even flinch.

mizu, promptly, threw off her overcoat, hat and glasses.

she didn’t give a shit who saw, right now; they’d all be dead soon, anyway.

“ringo,” mizu narrowed her eyes, placing an arm out protectively. “get them all downstairs.” she said in a hushed voice, ushering everyone inside as she boarded up the door. “keep them there and stand guard, don’t leave, you hear me? unless I say so you stay down there.”

everyone began being ushered downstairs, you stay still, holding your ground.

“you too,” she hissed, looking up up and down for a moment.

“oh, no.” you place a hand on her arm, “we are in this together; always have been. I know what I’m doing—two is better than one fighting a whole army, isn’t it?”

she narrows her eyes further, letting her eyebrows furrow being sighing.

“do as I say,” she whispers, “stay in the dark and stay out of sight. strike only when a few are around; never take on a whole group at once.”

you nod, squeezing her hand.

“we’ve got this, don’t worry.” 

you smile. you seemed so sure; it soothed her worries that something would happen to you—if only a little.

you slink into the darkness, pressed up against the wall. your wife is on the other side; glancing down the hall every so often. you have three kunai's in between your fingertips, and a small javelin type weapon in your other hand.

the thundering footsteps of the thousand claw army storm past you, never even stopping to look for you. after they separated, a little, mizu glanced at you—she gestured you forward.

you tossed one of the kunai's at the back of one of the men's throat; piercing through with a sharp “plunk” sound.

you took the next man, slipping past him as he attempted to swing it you—your small size coming in handy. you dash under his arm, grabbing his bicep and slashing the javelin across his throat with precision.

you may have been covered in blood, but you had plenty of pent up anger from your earlier encounter. the adrenaline of fighting was pumping through your body; you weren’t sure how long it'd been since you fought.

mizu grabbed your hand, pulling you along to the next area. you slunk into the darkness, peering around to see three more men come into your vicinity.

mizu slashed her sword across his waist, chopping one in half. you took on a different one; tossing your kunai's and pinning him to the wall with puncture wounds in his chest and legs.

you pulled them all out; smirking as he fell to the ground lifeless.

you tossed one of your kunai's to your wife, who caught it quickly—stabbing it through the warriors chest. it was laced with poison, so if the would didn’t kill him, the vile certainly would.

mizu groaned, scooting up against the wall—tucked away into a skinny hall. 

you're heart dropped—

—she was holding her stomach. four stab wounds from the claws punctured her skin.

you rush to her side, sliding onto your knees. you place pressure on her wound, slipping some bandages out of your kimono. you had no herbs or poultice right now; but as long as mizu didn’t bleed out, you'd be fine.

you leapt to your feet, leaving her to breathing heavy and struggling with her wound.

five men surrounded you.

you'd watched mizu handle the same situation with beautiful precision.

you could try.

you grabbed one of their arms, as they reared up to claw you with those metal claws of theirs—you sweat your foot under their feet, knocking them to the floor as you punctured his chest with your makeshift javelin. 

you tugged it out of his chest, turning around and slashing another’s throat—you tossed your poisoned kunai's at two others, stabbing their heads and knocking them to the floor.

you kicked the last one to the floor, digging your heal into his stomach.

you tossed the javelin down at him, letting out a scream before going limp.

“how many,” you huff, gazing at mizu, who was looking at you with almost lovesick sparkling eyes. “more?”

“plenty more..” she tried to get up, groaning as she fell back to the ground.

“careful..” you hiss, eyes narrowed. you wiped a dash of blood from your face.

“I’ll be fine,” she heaved herself to her feet, latching around you as you made your way outside. she had her weapon in one hand, your hand in her other.

you gazed at the hundreds of soldiers.

just you and your wife… fighting all them off.

seemed reasonable enough.

you hopped into battle, the two of you having each other’s backs the entire time. mizu, every so often, would pass you her weapon—and in turn you'd pass a few of your kunai's.

it was like a wedding dance; at least, your version of it, since you never had one.

you're breathing was heavy—and your entire body was soaked in blood, as was mizu’s. some of it was hers, most of it… wasn’t.

she reached out for your hand. she placed a tender kiss on top of it;

“thank you, my love. but please… never offer to fight with me again.”

her words make you giggle, placing a kiss to her cheek.

“whenever you need help, my darling, I will offer it—over and over again even if it gets me killed every time, in every universe,” you smile softly.

“mizu!”

“master!”

the two calls sound from the brothel doors, akemi and ringo, both covered in dashes off blood—come running out.

guards. warriors. more of them.

your head whips to the side; your eye widening as more guards approach. though they don’t seem violet, your hand stands readied in case they chose to be.

“we are here to collect princess akemi of kyoto,” they announced, gazing at akemi.

“no,” akemi hissed. “you won’t let them take me. right, mizu?”

mizu gazed into her eyes for a moment. she sighed, adverting her gaze.

“take her,” mizu hissed.

“what?!” 

akemi exclaimed, her voice hollering out mizu's name as she was lifted and taken away by the guards.

her screams hurt your heart, covering your ears so you didn’t have to hear them.

when it died off; you gazed at your wife.

“we should have helped her,” you murmur. “I wanted to help her.”

“we can’t help everyone we come across,” mizu settles down on the curb of the street. “she would only weigh us down; we don’t need the bounty of some stollen princess on our shoulders.”

you advert your gaze, “I suppose we do not.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#mizu #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #mizu x you #blue eyed samurai #fanfic #fic #fanfiction #ask #asked and answered #x reader #request #fic request

[journeytothewestresearch]

The Crow's Nest Chan Master of JTTW

I am reading back through Journey to the West (Xiyouji, 西遊記) and was reminded of a strange, seemingly throwaway character who appears at the end of chapter 19, the "Crow's Nest Chan Master" (Wuchao chanshi, 烏巢禪師). He is described as an accomplished cultivator who lives in a juniper tree nest on Pagoda Mountain (Futu shan, 浮屠山), just beyond the border of Tibet (Wusicang, 烏斯藏). Zhu Bajie claims the master once asked him to jointly practice austerities, but the pig-spirit passed on the opportunity. Flash back to the present, and the pilgrims pass into his domain. After a brief chat, the Crow's Nest Chan master orally passes on the Heart Sutra (Xin jing, 心經) to Tripitaka.

There are two things that interest me about the Chan Master. The first is his magical abilities. Sun Wukong is offended by the monk but fails to hit him with his staff:

Enraged, Pilgrim lifted his iron rod and thrust it upward violently, but garlands of blooming lotus flowers were seen together with a thousand-layered shield of auspicious clouds. Though Pilgrim might have the strength to overturn rivers and seas, he could not catch hold of even one strand of the crow's nest (Wu & Yu, 2012, vol. 1, p. 391).

This reminds me of an event from Acts of the Buddha (Sk: Buddhacarita; Ch: Fo suoxing za, 佛所行讚, 2nd-century), an ancient biography of the Buddha:

The host of Mara hastening, as arranged, each one exerting his utmost force, taking each other’s place in turns, threatening every moment to destroy [the Buddha, but] … Their flying spears, lances, and javelins, stuck fast in space, refusing to descend; the angry thunderdrops and mighty hail, with these, were changed into five-colour’d lotus flowers…” (Beal, 1883, pp. 152 and 153).

This points to the Crow's Nest Chan Master having great holy powers.

The second thing that interests me is that he is based on a historical monk, Niaoke Daolin (鳥窠道林, lit: "Bird's Nest" Daolin; 741–824). Here is his full biography from the Records of the Transmission of the Lamp (Jingde chuandenglu, 景德傳燈錄, 1004 to 1007):

Chan master Niaoke Daolin ... was from Fuyang in Hangzhou and his family name was Pan. His mother, whose maiden name was Zhu, once dreamt of the rays of the sun entering her mouth, after which she conceived. When the baby was born a strange fragrance pervaded the room, so the name ‘Fragrant Light’ was given to the boy. He left the home life at the age of nine and received the full precepts at the Guoyuan Temple in Jing (Jingling, Hubei) when he was twenty-one years old. Later he went to the Ximing Monastery in Chang’an to study the Huayan Jing (Avatasaka Sūtra) and the Śāstra on the Arising of Faith (Śraddhotpada Śāstra, Aśvagosa) under the Dharma Teacher Fuli, who also introduced him to the Song of the Real and Unreal, and had him practise meditation. Once Niaoke asked Fuli, ‘Could you say how one meditates and how to exercise the heart?’ Teacher Fuli was silent for a long time, so then the master bowed three times and withdrew. It happened that at this time Tang Emperor Taizong had called the First Teacher in the Empire [Daoqin] of Jing Mountain to the Imperial Palace and Daolin went to pay him a formal visit, obtaining the True Dharma from him. Returning south the master first came to the Yongfu Temple on Mount Gu (Zhejiang), where there was a stūpa dedicated to the Pratyekabuddhas. At this time both monks and laymen were gathering there for a Dharma-talk. The master also entered the hall, carrying his walking stick, which emitted a clicking sound. There was a Dharma-teacher present from a temple called Lingying, whose name was Taoguang, and who asked the master, ‘Why make such a sound in this Dharma-meeting?’ ‘Without making a sound who would know that it was a Dharmameeting?’ replied the master. Later, on Qinwang Mountain, the master saw an old pine tree with lush foliage, its branches shaped like a lid, so he settled himself there, in the tree, which is why the people of that time called him Chan Master Niaoke (Bird’s Nest). Then magpies made their nest by the master’s side and became quite tame through the intimacy with a human – so he was also referred to as the Magpie Nest Monk. One day the master’s attendant Huitong suddenly wished to take his leave. ‘Where are you off to then?’ asked the master. ‘Huitong left the home life for the sake of the Dharma, but the venerable monk has not let fall one word of instruction, so now it’s a question of going here and there to study the Buddha-dharma,’ replied Huitong. ‘If it could be said that there is Buddha-dharma,’ said the master, ‘I also have a little here,’ whereupon he plucked a hair from the robe he was wearing and blew it away. Suddenly Huitong understood the deep meaning. During the Yuan reign period (806-820 CE) Bai Juyi was appointed governor of this commandery and so went to the mountain to pay the master a courtesy call. He asked the master, ‘Is not the Chan Master’s residing here very dangerous?’ ‘Is not your Excellency’s position even more so?’ countered the master. ‘Your humble student’s place is to keep the peace along the waterways and in the mountains. What danger is there in that?’ asked Bai Juyi. ‘When wood and fire meet there is ignition – the nature of thinking is endless,’ replied the master, ‘so how can there not be danger?’ ‘What is the essence of the Buddha-dharma?’ asked Bai. ‘To refrain from all evil and do all that is good,’ answered the master. ‘A three-year-old child already knows these words,’ said Bai. ‘Although a three-year-old can say them, an old man of eighty can’t put them into practice!’ countered the master. Bai then made obeisance. In the fourth year, during the tenth day of the second month of the reign period Changqing (824 CE), the master said to his attendant, ‘Now my time is up.’ And having spoken he sat on his cushion and passed away. He was eighty-four years old and had been a monk for sixty-three years. (Textual note: Some say the master’s name was Yuanxiu, but this is probably his posthumous name.) (Whitfiled, n.d., pp. 56-58).

Sources:

Beal, S. (Trans.). (1883). The Fo-sho-hing-tsan-king: A Life of Buddha by Asvaghosha Bodhisattva. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Retrieved from https://archive.org/details/foshohingtsankin00asva/mode/2up.

Whitfiled, R. S. (Trans.). (n.d.). Records of the Transmission of the Lamp: Volume 2 - The Early Masters. Hokun Trust. Retrieved from https://terebess.hu/zen/mesterek/Lamp2.pdf

Wu, C., & Yu, A. C. (2012). The Journey to the West (Vols. 1-4) (Rev. ed.). Chicago, Illinois: University of Chicago Press.

#Journey to the West #JTTW #Sun Wukong #Monkey King #Tripitaka #Tang Monk #Tang Sanzang #Xuanzang #Zhu Bajie #Pigsy #Crow's Nest Chan Master #JTTW characters

[alexilulu]

Books I Read in 2024, #6: Runequest: Roleplaying in Glorantha (Greg Stafford Steve Perrin Jeff Richard Jason Durall and friends, Chaosium Inc., 2019)

A bronze age-styled fantasy epic setting originally published in 1975 (as White Bear and Red Moon), Glorantha is one of the founding touchstones of fantasy storytelling in the RPG space that draws upon historiography and a firm integration of magic and mysticism into the firmament of its setting.

My first experience with Glorantha, like a great deal of others, was King of Dragon Pass. I don't remember exactly where I first heard about it. It's either on SA in the LP subforum back in the early 2010s or Tumblr in the same era; if it's the latter, Jared is entirely to blame for this, and probably because of him telling me stories about it in my car over the years.

King of Dragon Pass is a management game in which you play the tribal leader of a Heortling group exiled from their homeland in the wake of Belintar's accession to the throne in the Holy Country of Esrolia, forced to travel to the forbidden land of Dragon Pass where centuries ago the Dragonkill War wiped the land clean of all human presence. For you see, the Dragonkill War was named not for what we did to the dragons, but what dragons did to humanity.

Glorantha is like that.

Glorantha sticks in my mind easily, to be honest. It draws such a stark picture of itself so quickly you can't help but feel arrested by how committed it is to being itself. The Gods are so real that reenacting their greatest deeds invests you with their awe-inspiring power, and the Runes they wield are so bound into the fundament that embodying and studying them allows you to manipulate reality directly yourself.

The game itself is straightforward; every skill is rated from 0 to 100, and you roll 2d10 to roll under your skill rating, which you can further influence by channeling your passions or the Runes that represent you. Its character creation is delightfully baroque and fitting with the focus on historiography: you roll to generate the general lifepath of your parents and your own history in the last 21 years of Dragon Pass' history, during an eventful lead-up to the Hero Wars starting in 1625 when the world will enter a true tumult as empires face off.

I really just love the little things about the world here. Glorantha is detailed in the way that only a seasoned reader of history would be, with a light touch to give you plenty of room to imagine your own tribes in the region, the foibles of each village that give it real texture. The book grounds you in the idea of being from each ethnic group, the stereotypes others hold for them and the realities of their lives.

More than once it states that the Orlanthi recognize 6 gender roles and 7 forms of marriage, which is both a refreshing acknowledgement and also just a good reminder that societies for centuries have seen things in ways that would be foreign to the modern reader, and that you have to think of these societies in the context they've been shaped by.

The various pantheons of the world rule. I could evangelize about Orlanth, the god of storms all day, but it rules that the chief god of the largest and best-known pantheon, the Lightbringers, is the god of the season of utter disaster where life becomes cheap and dangerous, which i suppose makes sense as far as who you would beg to for survival during.

It's combat is dangerously swingy, in a way that kind of rules, in that you can plan for a lot of bad things to happen but you really can't stop that 5% roll from putting a javelin through your soft palate. This is your granddaddy's RPG, there's no luck recovery methods. You die, you beg the local priest for a resurrection and pay him handsomely for the privilege and don't do that shit again.

It just sticks in the mind for me. Very few other RPGs take the sort of careful, historically and culturally-focused bent on producing and placing a world in the way that Glorantha does. It feels lived in and loved, with a clear idea of itself and what it wants to be. I wish I could say the same for more games in the space.

#Alexis Reads Books 2024

[twoidiotwriters1]

Daughter of Olympus (Leo Valdez xFem!Oc)

A/N: Tough day for bad bitches -Danny Words: 2,097 Series' Masterlist Previous Chapter / Next Chapter Listen to: 'Home' -by Catie Turner

XLII: Local Dumbass Knew What She Was Getting Into and Did It Anyways

The last time she dreams of Percy, Ara just opens her eyes and he's there, sitting cross-legged on his bed. He doesn't speak at first, just studies her with curiosity. 

She knows it's him and not a made-up Percy, someone has allowed them to see each other earlier than expected.

"You look like her..." he tilts his head. "But are you really..?"

Ara sits up on her bed, but she moves carefully, afraid to wake up if she makes the wrong move. "Percy, where are you?"

The boy looks around the room ignoring her question. "This is your place?"

"Our place," she knows Percy got his memories stolen just like Jason, so she starts with the basics. "When your mother adopted me, I asked if I could share a room with you just the first few months, cause I'd never slept alone," she tears up a bit. "Now I sleep alone all the time, here and in camp."

Percy smiles. "You are Ara, my sister, right?"

Percy calls her sister all the time, she was used to it already, but it's been months since they last spoke, months since they saw each other, and yet she is still a sister to him.

"I think someone wants us to talk," Ara continues, trying to keep it together. "Dunno what they want us to say."

"You sound kinda different from what I remember," Percy's eyes brighten. "You've been eating your veggies, Birdy?"

Ara abandons her bed in an instant and Percy hugs her as soon as she reaches him. The contact feels so real it makes her sob. She gasps. "I should kick your ass! You've had us worried!"

"I'm not having a blast out there either, you know?" He scoffs, squeezing her smaller frame tighter against him. "But I'm happy to see you, even if you look different."

She holds his face and looks at it hungrily: he also looks different, his features are sharper and he appears to be stronger now, judging by how she struggles to get out of his grip. "Tyson was close to finding you and then he lost track—"

"It's a long story," Percy cuts in. "But I promise you're close to finding me."

"Don't—"

"I promise," he insists, squeezing her shoulder. "Trust me."

"I always do," Ara pouts. "Don't die, Nemo. Or I'll force Hades to spit you out, just so I can kill you myself."

He laughs. "You got it, General."

I speak to Kronos's army using my charmspeak. "As the last child of Olympus, I carry the duty of defending it."

I lift the javelin and pray to any god that's listening to help me out, cause I really need to make an impression, and before anyone has enough time to doubt the reasoning of what I've said, I throw my spear at a Hyperborean. 

I watch him fall, then seize my compass and turn it into Almighty. I raise the sword over my head and scream. "FOR OLYMPUS!"

The monsters are pretty frantic, so Pollux has no problem keeping the hallucination going. I charge towards their army and when Chiron concludes Lily and I have no intention to slow down, he decides to distract Kronos.

My plan also works on most of the demigods from the enemy army. I can't blame them, Achilles never spared a soul, so running away is the smartest choice here. 

Pollux's power isn't strong enough to fool the monsters for long though, so they probably see just a blur, and they can't decide whether to run or stay. 

I jump off of Blackjack when we get close enough to the monsters. He rises from the ground with Pollux holding onto him and I land on top of Ethan Nakamura. As soon as I touch him, he screams in realization. "It's a trap!"

An arrow flies over my head, Lily has stopped a dracaena from ripping my head off. I get up and kick Ethan's stomach for good measure. I use my charmspeak again. "Give up!"

If I hadn't been blessed by my mother in advance, my reach wouldn't have gone as far as it does. The monsters closer to me drop their swords, and some get on their knees begging for mercy. Arrows come down flying all around me, evaporating the monsters on the spot. 

I run forward and a monster tackles me, but then a miracle happens:

Nico Di Angelo's arrival is enough to split the crowd. He's wearing black armor that, to be honest, makes him look really cool. He lifts his sword and kills the monster that has me pinned on the ground. 

I thought I'd failed to convince Hades, and even though I hadn't said anything to Lily, I'd assumed he was determined to let us die. I guess I was wrong. "Sorry for the delay," Nico helps me up. "But I know it's never a good idea to steal the spotlight from an Aphrodite."

It's the first time in days that I manage to smile. "Thank you."

"Son of Hades," Kronos sneers at Nico. "Do you love death so much you wish to experience it?"

"Your death," the boy replies, lifting his sword again. "Would be great for me."

"I'm immortal, you fool! I have escaped Tartarus. You have no business here, and no chance to live."

Nico and I share a look and he picks Almighty from the ground, handing it back to me. "You're gonna kill him, or what?" He asks me casually.

Kronos notices me at last. Luke's eyes haven't looked in my direction in so long, that it hits me like a ton of bricks. It's weird 'cause he doesn't look any different, just... worn out.

But I, on the other hand, am a whole other version of myself.

"You," he seethes. "This is the last time you disrespect me."

"Yeah," I adopt a fighting stance. "It is."

The ground quivers under our feet and skeletons spurt out of every crack, seizing monsters without warning. 

"Drop your weapons and retreat!" I yell, Nico, Lily and I move together. "You're done!"

"HOLD YOUR GROUND!" Kronos screams. "The dead are no match for us!"

"The dead are not the ones you should be worried about, old man," Lily says, aiming two arrows in his direction.

Hades shows up riding his spooky chariot. "Hello, Father. You're looking... young."

"Hades," Kronos glares at him. "I hope you and the ladies have come to pledge your allegiance."

"I'm afraid not," The god looks at Lily, Nico, and me. "My son and his friends convinced me that perhaps I should prioritize my list of enemies." His eyes Percy. "As much as I dislike certain upstart demigods, not all of them are deserving of oblivion. It would not do for Olympus to fall. I would miss bickering with my siblings. And if there is one thing we agree on—it is that you were a TERRIBLE father."

Kronos shortens the magical barrier and leaves most of us out, only a small group remains in it, and my brother is one of them. 

"NO!" I run towards it and Hades does too, but we're both pushed away.

"Are you serious right now?"

"Lily, he knew about Camp Jupiter before any of this happened and he never mentioned it!"

"If Chiron couldn't, what makes you think Nico could?" Lily leaves her dagger on Ara's nightstand and gets up. "His new sister is Roman, right? Perhaps he was afraid to lose his family again if he talked."

"So you're saying I shouldn't tell Annabeth about it?"

"Gods, no! She's having meltdowns left and right! She'll murder Nico! My sister's already way too pressed about the delays, don't freak her out more."

Ara scoffs, obsessively folding and unfolding the clothes she's planning to take on the quest. "I'll murder Nico when I see him—no wonder he never stayed here, he knew Jason would recognize him, that asshole..."

"Hey..." Lily stops her. "You can't be mad at him for wanting to protect his sister..."

"And where is his loyalty to us?" Ara demands grumpily. "He owes us."

Her friend stops her from folding more jeans and shorts. "Are, whenever he visits you're always fighting. You promised Hades he'd be welcomed with open arms—"

"He's the one who continues to act like we're out to get him! If he were nicer—"

"Ara!" Lily stomps her foot in frustration. "You always do this! You push Nico and me into the crowd, telling us it's easy because you have no problem doing it, but it's not fair!"

"You wanna talk fair?" Ara argues. "Nico saw us dying with worry every day for the last six months and said nothing!"

"What could he tell you that Jason hadn't? And being fair, Ara, after you met Leo you left camp like it wasn't important to supervise us anymore, like you'd gotten what you wanted from us so the rest didn't matter."

"I'm sorry?" The girl glares at Lily. "I care about this camp more than you seem to know, Lily. Unlike Nico, who only cares about his reputation!"

"How can you say that after what he did for us during the war?"

"He tried to kill my brother and felt guilty when it didn't work!"

"It wasn't his plan and you know that!"

"I don't wanna go over this again," Ara rolls her eyes and turns away from Lily. "I've got other things to worry about..."

"Like your prophecy?"

Ara freezes. Annabeth must've told Lily about it, so there is no point in asking how she found out. She wonders how long Lily sat with this information, letting it boil until she could spit it out. 

"I was going to tell you," Ara says quietly.

"I doubt it."

"I was going to tell you once I knew what it meant," she clarifies.

Lily starts to leave the room. "You're unbelievable, and I'm done."

"Don't do that!" Ara follows her out. "Why do you have to turn every conversation into a test? Every time I choose wrong, you treat me like I'm still small dumb Ara!"

"Because you keep hiding stuff only to tell us about them at the last second so we have no chance to stop you! You've always been like this, and that's why no one thought you'd be a good leader!"

Ara comes to a halt at the top of the staircase. "Did you?"

"What?" Lily stops midway down the steps.

"Did you think that as well?"

"It doesn't matter," Lily's eyes are cold, like two pieces of sharpened ice. "You move faster than I can think. I struggle to keep up and you don't care if I'm still grieving. Nothing's been enough for you since you became the daughter of Olympus."

"If you could believe in me for just a second, maybe I wouldn't need to do everything on my own."

"I believe in you," Lily's grip tightens on the handrail. "Learn the difference between concern and distrust, Strategus. Whenever you do something foolish is like you don't understand how lucky we are to have—"

"No," Ara replies, anger seeping through her words. "You are lucky to have survived, I worked hard to get here. I earned my place as Olympus's General, don't you dare say I'm here out of mere luck."

Lily looks up at her, eyes darkening. "You used Michael and I to crawl your way up, and you barely made it out," she turns and keeps going, quickly reaching the bottom of the stairs.

Ara stays at the top of the staircase, her chest tight and her head pounding. A girl calls her name downstairs and she immediately rushes down, thinking it's Lily.

She finds Annabeth instead.

"What's wrong?" Ara asks anxiously. "Not another delay?"

Annabeth's eyes are bright and eager. "Get your things. We leave in an hour."

My parents wake up and start fighting, which is something I never thought I'd see, but they're doing a pretty good job. Kronos runs to the entrance of the Empire State, and I lock eyes with Percy.

Clarisse and Chiron are out of the fight, and Annabeth and Thalia are trapped inside the border with him. I see him fall to the conclusion that I must do the one thing he can't.

"You're in charge," he shouts. "Don't make me regret it!" Before leaving, he tells Mrs. O'Leary to look for Chiron under the debris. 

Lily and Nico stand by my side, weapons ready. "Heard him loud and clear," Lily nudges my arm. "So you better do something."

I nod, taking a deep breath. "Hermes, Hephaestus—Take the mortals to safety!" The campers start pushing the people out of our way. I turn to the demigods that are left. "We end the war today," I lift my sword. "Camp Half-blood!"

Cheers and cries of war respond to my call. I roar a second time. "Praise Hades!"

Lily and Nico echo my cry, and some campers repeat it as they charge against the army of monsters. Nico's dad shines brighter, and he attacks Kronos's barrier with renewed force.

Next Chapter ->

Taglist.

@siriuslysirius1107 @ask-giggles1303 @ash-the-hoarder @im-planning-something-look @bandshirts-andbooks @coolninjapaper @thewaterlily @whenisthefall @1randomcomic @you-bloody-shank @sunflowergraves @owlalex44 @taylordaughter @typicalsolangelolover @writingmia @espressopatronum454 @slytherinnqueen @orbitingpolaris @obxstiles

#twoidiots writing #pjo fanfic #pjo hoo toa #pjo fandom #percy jackson and the olympians #leo valdez x oc #leo valdez fanfic #doo

[breakingnarcos]

Stay With Me

Nacho Varga x F! Y/N Pinkman

Concept: Lalo and Nacho are in breaking bad and you're Jesse's sibling. You confront Lalo and Nacho about their bad tailing skills You may or may not of caught the eye of the one and only Mr Varga himself.  

Summary: Your brother Jesse, is currently away after the events that went down with Tuco Salamanca. Not only does he have the DEA up his ass, rumours have it there's another Salamanca in town with his partner wanting to figure out what happened to his cousin. The last couple of days you’ve noticed two men tailing you, they always seem to be in either a green 1970 Chevy Monte Carlo or 73 AMC Javelin AMX. One night you go to a party with your university housemates, you spot them there and decide to catch them off guard and confront them. 

warnings: mention of stalking/tailing, swearing?, mentions of drugs/alcohol. 

The cold evening air of Albuquerque brushed past your skin. You were sat in the back of your friend Jacks car, while your other friend Billie, playfully argued with Jack over whos playlist was the best to listen to at this moment.

Your gaze and thoughts were more focused on the enchanting evening sunset, reminding you how young the night was. The one thing about Abq, the sunsets never get old. 

You pull the glass bottle to your lips and the warmth of the berry flavoured kopparberg hit the back of your throat. The sensation of your insides warming distracted you from the cold breeze that danced over your skin.    

It had been a long week, you were ready to finally destress and forget about your studies for just one night. The idea of just being able to live a little tonight brought a smile to your face. One of the good thing about university was the parties .

You also wanted to free yourself from the current paranoia you were experiencing, two men had been following you in their cars lately. Especially after the events with Jesse, Walter and Tuco.

You assumed they were following you to see if they’ll be able to find Jesse but you where smarter than that.

“Y/n, do you have any particular song you’d want on?” Bille asked while blowing out the smoke from her joint and then facing you. 

“I reckon we should play teenage dirtbag, it’s a great one to sing along too’’ you stated and took another sip of the alcoholic beverage she had.

Jack skipped through the songs that he had playing through his Ipod, stopping at teenage dirtbag. The three of you shouted the lyrics of the song to your heart's content. 

You finally pulled up to the big house. The three of you got out and made your way to the house that was blaring music, the florescent lights beaming out the windows. You walk through the door and the smell of alcohol, weed and smoke all hit you at once.

You wanted to get another drink in your system, something a lot stronger than cider.

You held Billies hand as she dragged you through the crowd of warm bodies, you catch the glimpse of one of the guys who had been following you.

He had dark black hair with a sliver streak in the front, fox like features that were slightly sunken due to his age. He had a tattoo that wrapped around his arm.

Without panicking you wondered where the other guy was that seemed to be at his hip most of the time. He was a lot smaller than than other guy, he had dark features with doe eyes that could make anyone fall for him. But his cold stare warned anyone off.

As you reach the bar Billie grabbed shots and some triple vodkas with coke. You tried your best to not look suspicious as you looked around for the other guy, you didn’t want any surprises tonight.

“Hey take this it will calm the nerves” Billie nudged the shot into you

“Sorry I’m just still stressed after the exams” you took the shot and pulled a face when the taste of rum burned the back of your throat. “Jesus, I didn’t expect that to be rum” you coughed.

“We got to start strong” she handed you the triple vodka and coke and the two of you then went to go and look for Jack who was probably already chatting up some girl.

You guys kept drinking throughout the night and also danced when good music came on. The alcohol had started to boost your confidence, making you feel untouchable.

You had came up with a plan to confront the guys that had been tailing you, awfully. You felt their eyes on you the entire night, watching your every move and every person you interacted with.

You went up and got another drink moving out of their sight, the one with dark features got up and followed lingering behind you. You grabbed your drink and turned around quickly purposely spilling your drink on him.

“I’m so sorry” you shouted over the music “I didn’t think there was someone behind me” you start drying him off with your hands and you feel for his keys.

“It’s okay” is all he mutters out. He then walks past and goes to buy a drink.

You quickly slip away walking down the street finding the car that matched the keys. You knew you only hand a limited amount of time before the two strangers knew you’d slipped away.

There it was a red 73 AMC Javelin AMX that had white stripes down the front. You lead against the car and the cool metal caused goosebumps to form on your legs.

Lalos POV

“You see her man?” I look around while questioning Nacho. We’d been following this chick for a week, hoping she’d give us a hint as to where either Jesse or Hiesenbrugh might be.

But fuck, we had nothing either this chick was smart and knew we was onto her or we had the wrong fucking one.

“Nah it seems like she’s slipped out” Nacho answered looking around.

“Come on, let’s just get out of this hell hole” I started walking towards the door and Nacho followed.

We walked down the street towards his car and he stopped before we turned the corner “I can’t find my keys i must of dropped them at some point. Fuck”. We then heard a jingle of keys and then looked at each other as we turned the corner.

Y/N POV

“You looking for these?” You announced while standing up from leaning on the car while walking over to the two strangers with confidence. They just looked at each other before looking back at you.

“Yeah your tailing is pretty shit” I tuned and looked at the shorter man “also your way to easy to pick pocket - so both of you. Either get better at tailing or at this point tell me what the fuck you want with me”

———————————————————————

Ayyy thank you for reading if you made it to the end.

I’m not the best writer but I want to get better. Also I need to EXPAND my brain rn and have something productive to do.

#brba #better call saul nacho #nacho varga #nacho x reader #nacho varga x reader #ignacio varga #better caul sall #lalo salamanca

[starlitmark]

Pairing: Newfie!Jaehyun x fem Basenji!reader

Genre/ Trope: fluff, angst, enemies (idiots) to loves, high school au

Rating: PG

Warnings: language, pet name (he calls the reader pup), aggression, mentions of heats/ruts, feeling overwhelmed, injuries, blood, infirmaries, kissing

Word Count: 8.7k

Hybridverse Masterlist || Newfie!Jae Masterlist

Spring Sophomore Year

“Fuck you Jung!” you yell when you get to the track, “It’s our turn on the field.”

Your blonde ears twitch angrily on your head glaring daggers into the back of the tall boy’s head. You have never gotten along with Jung Jaehyun, you’ve been classmates for years now. Not once have you ever enjoyed his presence. Especially now in high school, he’s become even more aggravating than he was before. You watch how his tail stops wagging and he turns around with a slight smirk on his face. His floppy brown ears frame his face as he looks down at you.

“Sorry, pup,” he says with a very condescending tone, “did I upset you? Why do you need it anyway? You guys run around the field on the track, no harm in us practicing for this weekend’s game.” he shrugs with a chuckle.

“I have girls who need to practice javelin and discus! They can’t do that if you’re stupid sweaty asses are running around kicking a ball.” you yell at him.

You may be much smaller than him, you being a Basenji and him being a Newfoundland, but that doesn’t stop you from standing up to the large dog hybrid. You step closer to him and poke your finger into his chest making him look down at you directly. He still just smirks at you and lets out a light chuckle.

“Sorry pup, it’s our day for the field.” he instigates further by petting your ears, but you smack his hand away.

“No, Jung, it’s not. You had the field on Monday. It hasn’t even been a week, it’s our day.”

Slowly one of his teammates walks up and puts a hand on his shoulder, “Jae, we could just go to the JV field for the day-”

“No Jungwoo, it’s okay,” he interrupts his friend, “let them run around while we practice. I’m sure it couldn’t hurt to have your field girls do some running with you, could it?”

You growl under your breath but eventually cave and walk away. Your ears are flat against your head in anger towards the larger hybrid. Your teammates look over at the soccer players and you watch how their reactions are extremely varied. You notice how one of your sprinters very clearly eyeing up one of the more muscular players. You’ve never understood why some of the older girls on your team ogle at them, sure you’re still 16, you haven’t presented yet, but you still don’t understand what they see in those boys. They’re dumb jocks who just think with the wrong heads. You don’t let him stay under your skin for too long though, you channel that energy into your practice.

One of your teammates, a snowhare, has always been known for her speed. It only makes sense with her being a hare, but even then she runs faster than any of the other bunnies or hares on the team. For a long while, you thought that she’d pursue track as a career. Then one day she told you that there were two reasons she wasn’t. The first is that she isn’t allowed to, as a hare, she’s seen as having advantages over human competitors. The second is that she has a high passion for science, specifically pharmaceutical sciences. That’s what she’s been planning to study for a while now and has no wish to change her mind. Not only is she an athlete and a science enthusiast, but she’s also a dancer. Her primary partner just so happens to be Jaehyun’s best friend too. It is absolutely the worst feeling going to her performances and having to see the horrible Newfoundland hybrid there too. You often spend time with her though, she’s one of your closest friends and you just have to tolerate seeing Jaehyun to support her.

“Hey,” you hear her catch up to you panting, “you seem out of it. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing important, just still a little bitter about the dog on the field.”

She laughs slightly, “He’s not that bad! He watches me and Sicheng practice sometimes. He’s really a great person.”

“You don’t get it!” you groan, “Here, let’s sit on the bench for a little break and talk.”

She nods and you continue to run towards the area with benches. The moment you get there she tosses you your water bottle before grabbing her own and sitting beside you.

“So explain to me why Jaehyun is so horrible?” she asks with a laugh.

“You really don’t see what I do? He’s cocky as fuck, he’s rude as fuck, he’s just horrible!” you rant, “Don’t you see how he belittles us while we’re out here? Come on, it’s obvious. He tried to pet me today!”

She lets your rant while you take your break, though she doesn’t understand what you’re seeing she still listens. When you start to run again though she challenges you to a race just to see how good your endurance could be. Racing against her is the best way to test that and even get more of a workout in. Everything was going perfectly smooth until you heard a deep laugh resonating across the field. When you check to see what was happening you saw one of the younger runners sitting off to the side clearly flirting with one of the soccer boys. You see red. Stopping in your tracks you march onto the grass and right up to the goalie who just happens to be that insufferable Newfie hybrid.

“Um, could you go away?” he groans, not even looking at you.

“Tell your fucking teammate to get back on the field then and stop flirting with my sprinter.” you bite back.

Jaehyun nods toward the team manager who notices that he’s requesting a break. When the whistle blows he immediately takes his gloves off and throws them to the ground. He turns towards you and you can see the fire in his deep brown eyes. Though you do feel slightly intimidated by his stare, you don’t back down. You hold eye contact with him and stay standing there with eyes glaring holes in his skull. He grabs your arm and drags you towards the benches by the away bleachers where no one was. Both the soccer and track and field teams are sitting by the home bleachers.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” he grits out.

“What am I playing at?” you scoff, “What are you playing at? You’re apparently so nice to everyone else so why the hell are you such an ass to me?”

He steps closer, his face hardly two inches from yours, “You annoy the living hell out of me. I’m nice to everyone, but you make it particularly hard to be nice to you. I would be nice if you weren’t so rude to me to start with.”

“What?” you question, slightly taken aback.

“You heard me, now fuck off and keep running little pup.” he smirks before leaving to take his break finally.

You stood there for a few moments processing what just happened. What he had just said to you. You weren’t the first one to be mean to him, he had started it, you don’t know when or what he did. You know he did though. You didn’t get much time to deeply think about it though, this was the last practice before the final match of the school year. You needed to get your head in the game and not let his comment hold you hostage.

You try so hard to not let his comment bother you, you can’t stop thinking about it. Sitting in your literature class the next day you can’t seem to focus on anything but what he had said to you. Were you mean to him to start with? Why would you do that though? He had to have started it all, he just had to have. When your teacher calls out your name you snap back into reality and try to figure out what he had just asked you. Panicked you look around for any classmate to give you a hint. Unfortunately, Jaehyun was the first to make eye contact with you. He chuckles slightly and pushes his hair out of his eyes, making his ears move back with his hair only for them to fall in his face again. You feel desperate for any help though right now, so you nudge the larger hybrid with your elbow. He glares at you but then sighs and starts speaking.

“I’ll answer for her.” he sighs.

You sigh out in relief not processing what he’s saying then either. You don’t process anything that anyone’s saying for a few moments until you hear your name called again.

“Since Jaehyun seems to be a great help to you, you two will be partnering for the final project.” your teacher comments before moving to the next topic.

You turn to the larger dog hybrid and glare through him. He returns a similar look to you but there’s an edge of something else you can’t quite pin. When the class ends you’re still thinking about his comment from the other day, and now also the slight glint of something else in the glare he sent you.

As you quickly walk down the hallway on the way to your next class you feel someone grab your shoulder and attempt to turn you. The moment you see who it is you’re ready to growl at him. You’ve already seen Jaehyun’s face enough today, you do every day having to share a majority of your classes with the insufferable brunette dog. Your ears point straight forward alert to your surroundings.

“What the fuck do you want, dog?” you growl at him.

“Your number.” he deadpans, you’re shocked by his statement, sighing he explains, “Look, he made us partners for the final project. If you want to do it and get a decent grade on it we need to have some sort of communication. I don’t want to talk to you, you don’t want to talk to me. At the end of the day though, we’re classmates, we need to communicate if we want to pass that project.”

“Fine, give me your phone.” you grumble, hating that you agreed with his logic. “We also have summer training the same week for the fall season. I guess I should be able to talk to you and try to come to some sort of agreement regarding the field.”

“Oh, pup,” he chuckles, “we both know you’re too stubborn to give up a day on your precious track.” You don’t respond, you just shove his phone into his chest with an offhanded comment that he needs to text you so you have his number too. Turning on your heel you quickly shuffle away towards your next class before you’re marked late. You can hear his horrible chuckle as you walk away clearly angered by his words.

The whole rest of the day you tap your pencil or fingers on a desk out of annoyance. You dread having to work on a literature project with the person you hate most. During your last class of the day, you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. You aren’t supposed to have phones out during class but this teacher also doesn’t care much. Reaching into your pocket you check what it is, you suppress another growl seeing the notification.

Unknown Number

|| Hey it’s Jaehyun. Come over to my place after school so we can work on the lit project.

You quickly change the contact name and respond to him.

You

|| Send me your address and I’ll come at like 3 or something.

Dickhead

|| Don’t worry about that, my older friends Doyoung and Taeyong drive. I’ll just tell them I need to take you with us.

You

|| Doyoung as in the bunny hybrid the grade above us and Taeyong as in that senior ragdoll hybrid? The ones who are dating?

Dickhead

|| They aren’t dating but yes those two. They’ll give you a ride with me. I doubt you want to ride the bus home just to walk to my place.

You

|| That’s suspiciously nice of you…

Dickhead

|| Accept it before I change my mind.

You groan and turn to where the Newfie is sitting across the room and nod at him. Though you hate the idea of spending more time than you need to with the other, you knew it had to happen for this last-minute project. You watch how a slightly smug smirk makes his way to his lips as he watches you nod at him. Immediately after he unlocks his phone again, you assume to text those older friends to tell them what’s happening. For the rest of the class, you sit there still very annoyed with the arrangements assigned to you. You knew that if you had presented your scent would be rather sour or bitter, whatever quality was the opposite of it normally. You hardly pay attention to the lesson, it was hardly worth it with the school year coming to a close within the next few weeks. As soon as the bell rings signaling the end of the academic day you get up ready to run out of the room. You would’ve made it out too if it wasn’t for a very broad body stepping in your way. You run face-first into their chest with an ‘oof’ before looking up to see Jaehyun again smirking at you.

“Did you forget I’m taking you home?” he questions lowly.

“No, I was just hoping to avoid you longer.” you huff, “I could’ve probably found you loitering around the school somewhere once everyone cleared out.”

“Yeah, okay pup, let’s go. Doyoung is waiting by the front lobby for us. Taeyong’s already in the car cooling it off.”

“Stop calling me that.” you grit, “I’m not a pup.” “But aren’t you?” he questions, “You’re not exactly very big.” You growl lowly, “I’m a Basenji. I’m not meant to be as fucking huge as you are.”

You speed ahead of him despite not really knowing where you’re going. You vaguely know what Doyoung looks like, he’s a dutch rabbit, he has tall brown-grey ears on top of his head, his hair always remaining a deep inky color. When you see him though you also get grabbed by the Newfie hybrid behind you. You try to jerk your arm out of his grasp but it’s no use. You look up at the taller bunny and try to be amicable but it’s hard when Jaehyun has a death grip on your bicep.

“Jae let her go.” Doyoung sighs, “It’s nice to finally meet you. He talks a lot about you.”

“Huh?” you ask slightly baffled by his words.

“I do not!” Jaehyun fights back, shoving Doyoung slightly,  “I only complain about her.”

Doyoung starts slowly walking away, “Whatever helps you sleep at night puppy. Come on, Yongie is waiting for us.” You chuckle slightly and lean toward Jaehyun, “You’re sure they’re not dating?”

“I’m sure. Taeyong is practically attached to his girlfriend at the hip.” he chuckles back.

You continue walking and think for a moment, that was the first positive interaction you’ve had with him. At least the first one as far as you can remember. It felt nice, it almost felt right to be kind and playful with him. The entire walk to the car you watch how Doyoung’s ears twitch in different directions subconsciously listening to all the sounds around him. When Jaehyun starts whining about the heat of late spring, Doyoung decides to chime in as well. It’s quickly evident that neither of them enjoys the heat very much. Jaehyun’s fur is far too thick on his ears and tail which in turn causes more sweat to pool on his legs and face from the extra layer of warmth on his skin. Doyoung just doesn’t enjoy it because he’s freshly presented and hates how he can smell everything around him so clearly and wants nothing to do with it. He also whines about how it being bunny mating season doesn’t help.

By the time you reach the car, you’re laughing and smiling with the two boys. You see a much more petite framed kitty hybrid in the driver’s seat happily soaking in the sun’s rays through the windshield. Doyoung rounds the car and plops himself in the front passenger seat. He quickly greets his kitty friend and they start talking about their days.

“Bag.” Jaehyun states.

“Bag?” you question.

“Give me your bag. I’ll put it in the trunk for you.” he clarifies.

“Oh, um, thanks.” you respond unsurely, “Here, just be careful my laptop is in there.”

“Mhm, I wasn’t planning on throwing it, don’t worry. You can take whatever side you want. I don’t care either way.”

Nodding at him you climb into the seat behind Doyoung and introduce yourself to Taeyong. He has soft grey and white ears on his head. They twitch slightly, though you don’t know what it means you can assume that it’s something good. The bright smile that rests on his lips only solidifies the idea of him being happy right now.

“You know, Jaehyun likes you a lot more than he lets on.” Taeyong comments offhandedly.

“He hates me.” you correct.

“He doesn’t,” Doyoung adds, “he really likes you a lot.”

Before you can ask any more questions Jaehyun climbs into the car and says hi to his oldest friend. Taeyong immediately meets his hello with a warning that he better not shed on the car. In reality, though, Taeyong should be the one worrying about shedding the most, especially with his pale-colored fur. The ride to Jaehyun’s home was actually enjoyable. With the windows down, and the breeze hitting your face you couldn’t have been more comfortable. 

You’ve never really minded the heat but both Doyoung and Jaehyun insisted that the windows be put down when there was perfectly functional air conditioning in the car. Taeyong whined about it at first saying he’d rather have the AC on and enjoy the sun coming through the windows. The first few minutes were slightly awkward, especially since you didn’t personally know the older two hybrids in the car. 

They didn’t seem to mind your presence though, they seemed to enjoy it. Though your mind did still wander to what they had said to you before Jaehyun joined you in the back seat. What did they mean by him liking you a lot more than he lets on? He treats you like an enemy, there was no way that you could ever think of him liking you, even in the slightest. You stay in your thoughts for the whole drive to Jaehyun’s home. You aren’t broken from your thoughts until you feel someone nudge you. Shaking your thoughts off you look to your left and see Jaehyun with a seemingly content smile resting on his lips.

“Come on. I promise my parents don’t bite.” he jokes lightly before climbing out of the car and grabbing your bags.

Doyoung turns around in his seat and looks at you for a moment, “Don’t let his competitive feistiness cover for what he feels. We’ve known him for years, we know how he is.”

You simply nod and get out of the car, you see how Jaehyun’s tail wags while walking towards his front door. Somehow you find a smile growing on your face watching him. Maybe this won’t be as bad as you assumed it to be. Still, you keep that facade of hatred over your emotions to be safe rather than sorry. You take note of a car sitting in the driveway, a rather nice one at that. Then finally after you finish surveying your surroundings your eyes fall back on Jaehyun, he’s waiting for you. His smile still resting on his face, only wider than before. You walk rather quickly to catch up to him before speaking.

“Why do those two take you home if someone’s here?” “Hmm?” he then notices how you gesture towards the car, “Oh, dad normally isn’t home this early. Normally he stays late at work. Mom doesn’t get home for another hour or two though depending on how traffic is.”

You nod in response, “Also, do you not drive yet?”

He shakes his head, his floppy brown ears swaying back and forth with the motion, “I turned sixteen in February but I still only have my permit. I’ll get my license on my seventeenth birthday.” he pauses for a second, “Actually no, my parents always go out on my birthday, I’ll probably get it the day after or something.”

He gently pushes the door open and steps inside. His home is actually rather comforting, you can smell the mixture of his parents’ scents in the home. Though, his father’s is much stronger, which makes sense considering that he’s home. The first visual thing you take in is the pictures of them all over the walls. Approaching one you notice it’s from his kindergarten graduation. A soft smile creeps up onto your face seeing it. His ears are clearly far too large for his body still, his smile is over-exaggerated and shows off the empty gap where a front tooth should be. His dad, you notice, is a German Sheppard while his mom is a Newfie like him. Moving down the hall you find more pictures like this each one of them you can feel the love and happiness radiating. The one that captures you the longest though is one that was done by a professional photographer. It looks to be around the time of early middle school, maybe sixth grade, his parents are throwing leaves around him and you can practically hear the giggles coming from the young Jaehyun in the picture. It’s something you can’t help but feel comforted by.

“Hey, I need to go talk to my dad for a minute, the kitchen is right through that archway if you want any snacks or a drink.” he offers, his dimples showing when he smiles again.

You nod and watch him disappear up the stairs, you continue to wander through the living room area for a while, amused by looking at all the family pictures. It’s clear that Jae is an only child, it seems that he’s also one of the only younger ones in the extended family too. There was one boy in the pictures you did vaguely recognize but you didn’t think too hard about it. All you noted was that you had definitely seen those spotted ears before somewhere.

“You enjoy looking at all my family photos?” you hear a deeper voice behind you.

You jump slightly and turn around to see Jaehyun descending the stairs, “Just admiring the effort put into decorating around here.” “Mom really prides herself on decorating and making it comfortable in here. She always jokes that it’s her omega urges… kinda grosses me out but I know she does love making it homey and safe here for me.” he laughs lightly, “Dad said it’s cool to work in my room.” “Huh?” you question slightly shocked that he had offered that.

“My computer is up there. We’ll need to do research and stuff, I don’t want to overwork your laptop. I took your bag up when I went to go talk to him, I hope that was okay.”

“Oh, um, yeah, we can do that.”

He hums slightly and turns around to walk back towards the stairs, this time you follow. You can see that his mom does love making this place feel comfortable. Not a single place seemed bland, everything was made to feel safe no matter if it was a space on the wall or if it was a house plant sitting on a small table in the hallway. You chuckle under your breath slightly as you pass by a rather awkward school photo hanging on the wall. It’s clearly from before he hit his growth spurt or started playing soccer. He looks rather scrawny and shy in that picture but still, it’s charming somehow.

“And here’s my room.” he announces rather unceremoniously.

He throws the door open and immediately moves to flop belly first onto his bed. You tentatively step into the room and again take in your surroundings. His bed was pushed against the middle of the far wall, to the left of it you take note of his dresser and closet, and to the right is where his computer is set up. A few energy drink cans sit on the desk there seemingly empty. On the opposing wall, his work desk is set up and a textbook lies open there. You walk toward the desk and notice that it’s a child development textbook, college level.

“Can I ask you something?” you ask taking a seat in his desk chair.

“That seems a little friendly to me but go for it.” he responds, turning his head towards you to show he’s listening.

“You said your parents go out on your birthday every year. Why do they just leave you here, on your birthday of all days? It seems a little cruel.”

“Oh, my birthday is Valentine’s Day, when I was little they would spend it with me, and my grandparents would come too. When I got older though they decided that we can just have an early dinner and then they would go out for their date.” he lets out a sigh, you can tell he isn’t keen on the plan his parents had chosen.

“That’s not right,” he picks his head up and tilts it in confusion, “It’s not. Yeah, you’re born on Valentine’s Day but you’re still their child, you should come before any dates they want to have.”

He chuckles lightly and rolls onto his side, “You know, for hating me, you sure are trying to make me feel better.”

“You didn’t let me finish.” he gestures for you to continue, “I was going to add that I see why you’re so insufferably competitive, your dad’s a German Sheppard but that’s off-topic.”

“Is that it?”

“It makes sense,” you scoff, “anyway let’s work on this project.”

“Do you even know what topic we’re doing?”

You feel your ears move back in slight embarrassment, you had no idea what the project was on. That nauseating smirk grows on his face knowing that you didn’t know what was happening. He moves to sit up crossed legs in the center of his bed, head still tilted as if he’s completely innocent. You have half the mind to walk out of the house and all the way home because of his snarky attitude. He finally does explain what it’s on and though you aren’t thrilled with the topic you both know you need to do it to pass the course. 

He gestures for you to come to sit beside him on the bed. Though you hate the idea of sitting within five feet of him you do need to have him look at your laptop when you’re doing initial research. As you begin researching your topic you hardly notice how time passes. You do notice other habits of Jaehyun’s. You’ll never say it out loud but many of the habits you find rather adorable. He has a specific habit of playing with the tips of his puppy ears when he’s frustrated or focused. When you called him out on it he explained that it’s been a habit for years that he couldn’t seem to break. He also chews on his lip when he’s trying to find the right words to say or write down. Again, you’ll never admit how attractive you find it.

By the time you finally look away from your small laptop screen you notice that it’s dark out. You also become aware of your surroundings again, you can now smell that his mom is physically in the house. You also note that it smells like she or his dad is cooking something. You let out a sigh thinking about the fact that you have to walk home, both your parents are working night shifts this week in preparation for their research team fieldwork. Jaehyun’s eyes are on you but for a few moments, you don’t look back at him.

“You okay? You look like you’re thinking about a lot.”

“No, just planning my walk home. My parents aren’t home tonight.”

Just as Jaehyun was about to respond you can hear his mom calling upstairs for him to come down for dinner. From the sound of it, you don’t think that his dad told her that you’re here too. He gives you a tight-lipped smile and asks you to come down to dinner with him. He claimed it would be cruel if he didn’t offer you food with how long you’ve been here. When you reach the kitchen you see a rather beautiful woman with ears just like Jaehyun’s leaned over the stove making sure the last of the food was cooked properly. The brunette canine walks up to her placing a kiss on her cheek.

“Hi mom,” he smiles sweetly, “I don’t think dad told you. I have a guest.”

She gasps and immediately turns around and gives you one of the brightest smiles you’ve ever seen, “Oh, your girlfriend?”

You blush hotly, “No, we’re just partners for a project.”

She hums in response.

“I know that hum,” Jaehyun comments grabbing plates out of a cabinet, “What are you not saying?”

“Nothing, just a mother’s instincts.”

Jaehyun doesn’t push further and continues setting the table quietly. You have no idea what to do or where to stand so you just awkwardly stand by the doorway with your hands clasped together in front of you. You swear that Jaehyun’s mom has a sense for your emotions, it would make sense with her being an omega, it’s just foreign to you. With both your parents being betas you never truly got the nurturing effects that kids with omega parents get. She walks towards you and takes your hands in hers. Her smile lines show near her eyes but still hardly give away her age. She doesn’t say anything but guides you over to the fridge.

“What would you like to drink, dear?” she offers gently.

“Oh, just water, I need to stay healthy for the summer training coming up.” you respond.

“You’re an athlete too? Jae why didn’t you say anything?”

He just shrugs and moves the food over to the table. You explain to her what sport you participate in and that you’re actually training the same week as Jaehyun this year. She continues to ask questions about it all and about school. You know she’s probing slightly trying to figure out something but you don’t let it bother you. After all, you’re a random girl in her house hanging out with her only child. Dinner is rather pleasant, his dad does eventually come down. It amused you seeing his mom chastise his dad for being too deep into work and not eating properly. You can see a lot of both of them in Jaehyun. He’s definitely nurturing like his mom, you see how he is towards his teammates. He definitely gets his determination and work ethic from his dad. You’ve only met him this one time but you can tell he’s a very hard-working man.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” his dad starts, “are your parents coming to get you?” “Oh, um-”

“I was going to ask if we could take her back home.” Jaehyun interrupts before shoving a spoonful of food in his mouth.

“I guess I can do that!” his mom responds, “Are you staying much later?”

“We need to do more work on the project.”

“Wow, your voice got so deep all of a sudden.” his mom sarcastically comments.

You giggle lightly, “He is right, we wanted to finish the outline tonight. It won’t be long though, we only have a page left to do.”

You explained after that both your parents were working and they immediately understood. Neither of them wanted you walking home in the dark, especially with you not having your phone on you. You finished the meal not long after and helped Jaehyun wash the dishes though his parents insisted that you didn’t need to do anything. You nearly killed him when he put a handful of bubbles on your ears. He quickly apologized and wiped them off with a dish towel though. He just found it adorable how you acted when you got mad at him.

After cleaning you returned to his room and worked on your project. You didn’t process how tired you were though. You moved so your back was rested against his headboard and pillows making it much more comfortable for you to work. He joined you not long after whining that he couldn’t see what you were working on. You knew you were a little tired but you must’ve overestimated your ability to still work. You feel your head fall to the side onto Jaehyun’s shoulder but you can’t be bothered to move. You aren’t sure when you fell asleep or for how long but when you wake up the first thing you hear is his voice. You don’t bother opening your eyes yet though.

“It’s not anything mom, she was tired and I didn’t want to be rude and wake her up.”

“Jae, you know I know. You two are very much like how dad and I were at your age… just minus the fake hate.” she pokes. “Mom, it’s nothing.” he insists, “I still need to do this last bullet point before we leave anyway.”

Now you decide to start shifting around against his arm. You feel him tense under your movement but doesn’t purposely wake you up. Finally, opening your eyes you look up at him. He looks like he froze at that moment. You just sit up and look at the laptop screen as if nothing happened.

“You got a lot done!” you enthuse, “Thanks for letting me sleep, you could’ve woken me up and sent me home.”

“It’s, um, it’s nothing. I just need to write this last bullet point and then mom said she can take you home.”

You hum a reply back and begin reading everything over. You don’t think about the close distance between you two, maybe it’s exhaustion maybe it’s something else but you don’t address it.

August before Junior Year

The end of the school year came and went, you actually were invited to the graduation ceremony this year. Over the past month, with Taeyong and Doyoung giving you rides to Jaehyun’s home, you had grown rather close and Taeyong wanted you to come to the ceremony. Doyoung cried but he’ll never admit it. You’ll never tell Taeyong how his bunny best friend sobbed and babbled about how his older friend was going to uni and was going to be too busy to hang out.

Summer training started slowly, the week of straight practice starts tomorrow. As of the past month or so it’s only been practices two or three times a week for a few hours. You did, however, notice that Jaehyun has been missing from practices for the past week. Not that you were keeping track. You debated asking that upperclassman Jungwoo if he knew. Jungwoo was co-captain this season and seems to be thriving in that position. You could also text the Newfie hybrid but that seems like it would be crossing a line. Sure you did that massive project together and you went to his house every day through May and the beginning of June but that doesn’t make you friends.

Before your thoughts could run too far from you hear a familiar voice you haven’t heard in a few days. It’s Jaehyun, he smells different though. You notice how his teammates crowd him, Jungwoo tries to diffuse it though, and tells them that he needs to catch the other captain up.

“You seem distracted.” your snowhare friend says while nudging you.

“Hmm? Oh, no it’s just weird how Jaehyun disappears for a week and then comes back as if nothing happened.”

She chuckles, “You notice something I don’t? He seems the same to me, the only difference is that he built a little extra muscle over the summer training sessions.”

“I smell… macadamia nuts.” you say trying to pin where it’s coming from.

She just brushes off your comment as if it’s nothing and lets you know that the other track and field athletes got all the field equipment needed.  You nod but are still fixated on trying to find where that foreign scent is coming from. Today was a prep day to make sure you had a starting headcount for people and an inventory of the equipment you have. For the majority of the day, the scent fills your nose, it doesn’t seem to bother anyone else though. It doesn’t help that today the soccer team is using the field to do their inventory and headcount, again without your knowledge. Your eyes keep wandering over to Jaehyun, you can pin why they do but it happens. It’s not until a few of the soccer boys come walking over, Jaehyun among those boys. As they approach the scent gets stronger but again no one else seems to notice besides you. You shake your head trying to brush it off and continue counting the discuses and separating them by weight. Your hare friend snickers beside you and you give her a confused look.

“Don’t look now but it looks like your mortal enemy is walking this way.” she comments, then turns back to separate the standard javelins from the lightweight ones.

You groan but do notice that they have a trajectory that leads directly to you. Instead of addressing it, you choose to go about your business and continue doing inventory. Still the closer they draw the stronger the nutty scent becomes. You nearly lose count of the discuses as the scent grows impossibly stronger. Then a shadow covers you. Looking up from your seat on the track you see Jaehyun towering over you.

“It’s you!” you exclaim.

“Huh?” the Newfie replies, “I was going to come over here and see if you guys need or wanted help, we’re done doing everything we need to do here.”

You don’t respond, you just stare at the larger dog hybrid for a few moments silently.

“Hello, pup, you there?” he teases.

“It’s you, you’re the one who smells like macadamia nuts.”

“That would be my scent, yes.”

“Learn how to use a scent blocker when you’re around me.” you hiss.

“I, um, hate to break it to you, but I can hardly smell him.” You glare at her slightly, “You can’t smell that pungent nut smell? Whatever, no we don’t want your help.”

“You were so nice to me a few weeks ago, what happened?” he questioned, he almost sounded hurt.

“It’s training season.”

He turns around and leaves, you finish up the rest of the inventory rather quickly after and send everyone home. Your friend drives you home and you start to feel a little feverish, you blame it on the summer heat. You couldn’t get sick right now with a week of training laying right ahead of you. The moment you arrive at your home she yells that she’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow morning to ensure that you would be on time.

You hardly touch your food that night at dinner, starting to feel more feverish as the night went on. Still, you prep everything you need for the next day to avoid any rushing first thing in the morning. Laying in bed that night you toss and turn the entire time. Jaehyun’s scent is still in the forefront of your mind. The heat coursing through your body was becoming unbearable. Then it hits you, you’re presenting.

“Are you ready?” your friend asks through the phone at just past 7:30.

“I don’t think I can come to practice.” you admit.

“What I’m coming over, you’re talking nonsense.”

You don’t know how long it takes her to get to your house, your sense of time and reality is warped. When you look towards your door and see it opening though you see her long ears peeking in. She stumbles back for a second.

“Well, you presented.” she says still trying to adjust to the strong scent of vanilla.

“Yeah,” you whine, “I’m not in any condition to practice.”

“I’ll cover the captain duties this week, and I’ll email you the practice schedule so you have it for when this is all done.”

You simply groan, nod, and roll back over hoping the pain and fever would subside soon. The only things you could focus on were the pain you were feeling and the thought of Jaehyun’s scent. You couldn’t figure out why you were so enticed by his scent. You were starting to think that he triggered your presentation with his. You don’t know if he’s officially a beta or an alpha but what you do know is that you want to be completely surrounded by his scent more than anything right now.

You had presented as an omega, the only reason that shocked you was because you have two beta parents. You had expected to be a beta too. Your scent was near enough to a beta that you could pass for one, at least until your curves set in more. You had looked letter for letter at the routines and practice you missed because of that week of pain. You knew you had a lot of catching up to do and it wasn’t going to be fun.

You had decided to get to the track early to get a few laps in before the actual practice started. To your dismay though, Jaehyun was there too. He was practicing penalty kicks, you knew he needed to work on those. He’s never been the best at them. When his scent hits your nostrils you feel like you might collapse. You blame it on being newly presented and being overly sensitive to scents around you. He sees you, smiles, and waves before going back to what he was doing. You don’t know how to reciprocate the sentiment without seeming weird or different. As you walk toward a bench to put your bag down you receive a text

Dickhead

|| You okay? You missed the entire camp last week…

You

|| Yeah, just got sick.

Dickhead

|| I don’t think you were sick… you presented. I can smell your vanilla.

You try to control your reaction to his message, it almost felt lewd in a way seeing him say that. You still can’t keep your scent from changing with every mood you had, your mom said that would come with time. Right now it was nightmarish though, everyone knew exactly how you were feeling just by being near your scent. Now, you knew Jaehyun could smell your slight embarrassment. He smiles again, and you watch him walk toward you. His curly brown ears bounced with each step. Subconsciously your tail starts wagging, you don’t know why. What was there to be so happy about? The knowledge that Jaehyun knew what you were going through last week? His smile stays plastered on his face even when he’s standing toe to toe with you. Looking up at him you don’t know where to focus. Then a sudden rush of calm runs through you. You knew Jaehyun just released pheromones, you don’t care though, they made you calm again.

“I never said vanilla was a bad thing.”

“Huh?”

“I like it.”

“And I like the macadamia nuts, it’s very nice.” you gasp and cover your mouth realizing what you just said.

Jaehyun smiles brightly at you, taking your chin in his hand, “I think we both know what’s happening.”

“I’m just overwhelmed with scents right now, I feel like I can smell everyone within a ten-mile radius.”

He sighs and pulls you into a hug, you’re completely surrounded by his scent, “We’re mates.”

“We’re what?” you ask muffled into his collarbone, “How do you know?”

“I knew before we presented. Also, not to be cocky but I’m pretty sure I triggered your presentation. My mom works for a medical team as their hybrid specialist. When you didn’t show up last Monday and then your friend mentioned you wouldn’t be here all week I asked her.”

“What exactly?” you ask again, with no intentions of leaving his embrace.

“I asked if mates could trigger each other’s cycles or presentations. She said yes but it’s only with really strongly bonded mates, regardless of what their relationship is at the time.”

You don’t say anything for a while, you just stand there in the heat of summer hugging him. In your mind, it’s not an option to break the hug. You’re so sensitive to everything still and Jaehyun’s scent is keeping all of that away right now. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand up to touch your ears. The last time he tried this you nearly bit his hand off, now, you melt into the touch and let him pet you. The sweet moment doesn’t last though, internally you blare with an alarm and break out of his hold. You jump back and cross your arms over your body.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something?” his voice filled with panic, his long tail curled between his legs.

“How do I know you’re not just messing with me?”

“Why would I mess with you about something as serious as being mates?”

“I still don’t like you Jaehyun, I need to go warm up. Goodbye.”

And with that, you walked to the opposite end of the benches and started stretching. The moment that everyone else arrived you started running as if your life depended on it. For the first time since your freshman year, you surpassed your snowhare friend and leave her in the dust. She tried for at least an hour to get it out of you. You just played it off as the leftovers of presenting. Your nose was still filled with an overload of scents, you could smell your friend’s gingerbread scent, it was nice but you just wanted to not smell anything at all right now.

Still, Jaehyun’s lovely macadamia nut scent flooded your senses. You’re so distracted with your thoughts you don’t process anything around you. The only thing you could focus on, other than Jaehyun, was the flurry of thoughts; what Jaehyun had just suggested to you, what both Doyoung and Taeyong had said to you the first day you met them, the implications that his mom had implied later that same night, the way you still find comfort in the memory of falling asleep on Jaehyun’s shoulder. All of it, it was too much.

You weren’t paying attention to your surroundings, you had a vague knowledge that the soccer team was doing drills on the field the track surrounded. They were getting the new recruits ready for the fall season. You’re on the brink of tears while running when a soccer ball comes flying toward you. You don’t have the time to avoid it. It hits you directly in the head causing you to tumble forward onto the asphalt. Your knees and hands are all scraped up and bleeding. The only thing you want right now is Jaehyun. You hate him, but you know he can comfort you. You sit there on the track for a moment just staring down at your hands and knees. A moment later you’re lifted and in someone’s lap. It’s Jaehyun’s you don’t need to look at him to know it. The gentle pheromones he’s letting out lull you into a state of calm again rather than panic.

Without thinking you reach up one of your injured hands and start playing with one of his fluffy brown ears. He hums slightly and lets you, if it gives you comfort that’s all he cares about right now. “You’re okay, pup. I got you.” he says in a soothing tone, “Let’s take you to the infirmary and get cleaned up.”

You just nod against his chest and let him hold you like that. You’re vulnerable, you had always been known to hate Jaehyun and now here you are being held by him like a child. Even when he stands to let his coach and yours know that he would take you to get cleaned and bandaged, you try to communicate that you can walk and he is having none of that. He insists that he can carry you and you shouldn’t have to walk while injured.

The walk there is quiet. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you with questions and conversation when you’re not completely present. You don’t say a word because you’re still far too lost in your mind. You arrive at the infirmary and still, you don’t say a word. He gathers the material to clean out your wounds, silently. He takes your hands in his and cleans them thoroughly before putting large bandaids on each heel of your hand. Finally, against his better judgment, he knew he needed to ask you at least this one thing.

“Why don’t you like me?”

“Hmm, I don’t like you because you don’t like me.” you say in a soft tone.

He hums in acknowledgment as he presses an alcohol-soaked cotton ball to your knee, and you hiss at the feeling. “I never said I didn’t like you. When we were in middle school I might’ve taken my teasing too far and made you think that though. If I’m being honest, I really like you. I kept up this back and forth with you for so long because I didn’t know how to approach you without getting my head bit off.” he confesses

Hearing that made you come back to the present moment fully, “Jae,”

“Yeah, pup?” he asks, looking up at you from where he sat on the floor.

You don’t say anything else, you lean down and press your lips against his. You hold his face with your bandaged hands hoping to hold him in the kiss longer. He smiles against your lips and kisses you back softly. Though you want to keep kissing him longer he pulls away. Tilting your head you ask a silent question. He chuckles when he notices how your one ear flops to the side with your movement.

“I would absolutely love to kiss you again, but I am trying to clean out your cuts. I don’t want you hurting more than you need to.”

“Fine,” you playfully sigh, “only if you promise to kiss the cuts better later. They were your fault.”

“How were they my fault?” he asks with an exaggerated sigh, “You know I will though.”

“You’re distracting, and it was your teammate that kicked that ball.”

He huffs slightly, his tail smacking the floor for extra effect, “Keyword: teammate. It wasn’t me that kicked that ball, not my fault.”

You smile, down at him as he tediously removes and pebbles that got stuck in your skin and dab it clean with the alcohol cotton balls. Your hands still throb slightly trying to recuperate from the shock of falling. You don’t mind though and reach your hands into his hair tussling the wavy hair and scratching the base of his ears. His tail immediately reacts and starts wagging.

“Thank you.” he says, lip caught between his teeth in focus.

“For petting you?”

“For loving me back.”

“If you just spoke up sooner we could’ve been dating for a long time now.” you tease.

“It’s not my fault you’re fucking scary.”

You gasp in fake shock and he beams at you again as he discards the trash. He immediately returns and scoops you up into his arms hugging you tight to his body. Your tail wags violently behind you, the curled bit hitting against your lower back. You can feel the happiness radiating off of him as he hugs you. You hope he can feel the same coming from you. As he places you back down on the ground he places a wet kiss on your cheek. You make a noise of disgust wiping his saliva off your face and onto his t-shirt.

“I hate you.”

“I love you too, pup.” he giggles, placing a soft peck on your lips.

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[everlastiingiimmortals]

When it comes to Ratio's appearance, the first thing one might notice about him will probably be his bicep (hard not to. he just has it out there like nothing), but really I think the more striking thing about his appearance is his eyes. Though not as obviously feline in appearance as Jing Yuan's, there's something that seems distinctly, if vaguely, cat-like about them all the same. Perhaps it's the way the rings of pale gold in his inner irises pierce through the dark, or the shape of his pupils, or perhaps his stare -- regardless, there's something distinctly unsettling, even intimidating about them.

While I don't think Ratio is necessarily adverse to eye contact, I do imagine it's rather hard to get a good look at his eyes because. well. gestures to the headpiece. That, and the fact that he very much favors his personal space. But if anyone were to be fortunate enough for him to allow them to study his face, they'd find he has beautiful long lashes, and in certain lightings the maroon of his eyes seems more purple than red, and vice versa -- yet the yellow of his inner irises never changes. Somewhat in contrast to the rest of his form, the angle of his jaw, cheekbones, and the tall shape of his nose give him a rather slim face, rather than the sturdier, squarer face shape that I give Jing Yuan. His lips are also a little on the thinner side, usually set in a frown.

I somehow have a penchant for fluffy haired muses -- Jing Yuan is not my first, Ratio will definitely not be my last -- but I'm sure you all can tell from the way I draw him that his hair falls in waves; though not as curled as Jing Yuan's, without proper care and with too much humidity his hair definitely starts to curl in a more unruly, frizzy manner (common in the summer of his home) and he hates it. Mullet. Wolfcut? Whatever. Yes. Moving on.

Ratio definitely has an athletic build, with a low body fat percentage mostly due to his pickiness and aversion to heavy foods. That being said, he is very conscious about how he eats, and is as diligent in exercise as he is any of his fields of mastery. A healthy body begets a healthy mind, he'd say, and I do imagine when particularly stressed he has a bit of a tendency to be excessive in his exercise, despite his acute awareness of moderation, if only to sweat out all his agitation and have an even more rewarding bath -- another overindulgence of his. Well defined trapezius muscles, side shoulders, and strong arms, of course, both due to carrying heavy things all the time and working with stone. Otherwise, he has something of a swimmer's body; swimming is one of his preferred means of exercise, though he'll also go on runs, and yes, discus and javelin are things that he can and will indulge in on occasion, as he does appreciate traditional sports. Powerful legs! Good for swimming and walking with stone! He doesn't train so much with weights, as marble is enough of a weight on its own. Don't ask him to do boxing. Don't ask him if he does παγκράτιον (pankration) either. Those are too brutish for him. (And before you ask, no he's not very flexible. Yes, he stretches to warm up before exercising but he is also SO stressed ALL the time because of PEOPLE so his muscles tend to be quite tense. Tension headaches are, as much as he does his best to care for himself, unfortunately common)

The efforts of his labor show in his hands-- though deft (he twirls a piece of chalk between his fingers in his trailer), he does have callouses on his palms and the sides of his fingers from his chisel, hammer, and pen. I'd say his hands are slightly rough due to stonework, too, but it's not like woah, your hands are rough levels. He keeps his nails short and neat, because the buildup of chalk and marble dust underneath gets easier to manage and clean that way. No manicures/pedicures that aren't his own care, though, because he doesn't want other people touching him.

Due to how much time he spends outside, though, he's definitely got a warmer skin tone than in canon, also because I like it that way. He is a man of the coast and you can pry mediterranean Ratio from my cold dead hands.

#//about; (DOCTOR OF TRUTH) #the ratioposting continues #ratio: i dont engage in /brutish/ behaviors or activities #also ratio: would absolutely throw hands if someone pissed him off enough without hesitation and is soooo not proud to admit it #reading this over i realize it sounds like the descriptions in a bad fanfic but fuck it we ball

[javelinbk]

Ringo’s ‘I got you girl’ hand: a study

#I know! a non-john-centric post from me #but some of my favourite people are ringo girls #don’t make me say it #ok fine #pringo #once you pop you can’t stop #paul and ringo #javelin studies

[spreadyovrwings]

64 Oslo Square

"Companion'. Middle English. From Old French ‘compaignon', literally 'one who breaks bread with another.

Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it's more than worth it. It's worth it because of you.

Warnings for this chapter: i guess vague peril?? some very minor injury description? mostly just a lot of flirting

//

Chapter Six

“D’you reckon I could get this stuck in his hair?”

John looked up to find Roger with his arm raised, moving his hand back and forth as he lined up the shot. He had one of Freddie’s guitar picks between his fingers and was aiming it at Brian’s cloud of hair.

It had been a long night. The boys arrived at the recording studio sometime around nine, each of them exhausted already from work or uni, and started off strong. A few good ideas had been tossed around but Freddie and Brian had been discussing one single refrain for almost 25 minutes now, and the fantasy of the rock and roll lifestyle had rather lost its sheen.

“You could probably lose the whole guitar in there,” John said.

“Don’t tempt me.”

John exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

He liked Roger a lot. They were the closest in age and liked a lot of the same things. When he had an idea, John would quietly run it by Roger, who would either grin and enthusiastically tell him to tell the others too, or twist his mouth and suggest something better. It wasn’t a system John enjoyed, he had faith in himself and his ideas, but it was certainly helping him find a voice in the group, slowly but surely.

Roger leaned back, his chin raised like an Olympian primed to throw a javelin, and sent the pick soaring across the room. It would have found its target had Brian not turned his head at the last moment. The pick hit him square in the centre of his forehead.

“Ow! Oh, for f-” Brian rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “Why don’t you fucking grow up?”

When he only mimicked him, Brian threw the pick back at him so hard, Roger almost fell off his stool trying to dodge it.

John hid his smile behind his hair.

They called it a day after that.

Wrapping his coat around his thin frame, John grimaced at the thought of the long journey home. He couldn’t afford the luxury of the bus, even if it happened to be running at this hour, which he seriously doubted it would be. Thankfully, he still had the bike.

John slipped his aching hands into his faux fur-lined pockets. The coat was warm and soft, even if it had definitely seen better days. He’d plucked it from a hanger on Roger and Freddie’s stall last weekend. The weather simply refused to get any warmer, despite the fact they were almost in the middle of spring, and he couldn’t go on wearing two jumpers and a moth-eaten scarf.

Curling his fingers into fists, John dug his blunt fingernails into the softer flesh of his palms. His fingertips no longer stung from tugging at the thick bass strings, but the tingling feeling never really went away. It was nice, comforting, familiar in an uncertain world that seemed to be changing day by day.

Freddie hugged him at the door, which was nice. Freddie gave good hugs, proper ones. He wrapped his strong arms around you and pulled you into his broad chest, squeezing you tight as he told you how lovely it was to see you and how he couldn’t wait until your paths crossed again.

Still, it left John’s skin smarting as he awkwardly pulled away and offered a feeble reply. Physical touch still felt alien to him, though he couldn’t begin to decipher why. It was getting easier though, thanks to you.

John was so often alone in his university digs, sometimes a day or two could pass without him speaking to anyone, even the other students who shared his floor. He supposed he should try and be more sociable but between the band, his job and his studies, it wasn’t often that John had the energy.

He could hear them, though, hear their music blaring through the thin walls and their laughter ringing out behind his closed door when they went out at night. He would simply pause whatever he was doing until they went away, like a fox caught in the headlights of a passing car.

He sometimes toyed with the idea of joining them but never got up from his desk, his bed, the soft blue rug his mum had found for him in a charity shop in town. John never knew what to say. He never knew what to do with his body, how to stand, how to appear relaxed when his stomach was wrapping itself up in knots.

Maybe if you were there, he might feel braver. John never felt more himself than when he was talking to you. He’d never met anyone who made him feel so calm yet so excited at the same time. He wondered if you would come dancing with him. If he asked, would you say yes?

Alone now, John wheeled his bike onto Holland Road. He still didn’t know the city all that well but this little patch was becoming more and more familiar. Every so often, he would recognise a spot where he’d almost or completely fallen off his bike. With an odd feeling of fondness, he smiled at them as he passed them by.

Rainwater spattered his face, falling thick and fast now. It cooled his skin, sending a shiver down John’s back.

A man suddenly appeared in front of him, rushing to get out of the rain. John recoiled when one of his hurried footsteps fell right in the middle of a puddle and sprayed water all over his favourite pair of jeans. Grumbling under his breath, John kept going.

It wasn’t long before his mind drifted back to thoughts of asking you out. There were a few places he knew, dark little clubs with just enough room to dance, and music that made you want to let your body move, even if you hated to in the world outside.

As John’s boots clomped against the paving stones, he pictured you in the outfit you wore the other night to his gig, a tight skirt and a low top that almost had him skipping a few notes. He thought about pulling you closer as you moved together, the music pounding in his ears as he felt your soft, warm body press into his.

John felt his face heat up. That was decided then. He’d ask you out, he’d take you dancing, he’d take charge and make a decision and not let you slip through his fingers.

The night was black and cold. There was no one around. Perhaps if he’d been paying more attention to where he was going, it wouldn’t have happened.

With his head bowed against the rain, John couldn’t see much more than a few paces in front of him, but he could hear footsteps approaching him again. Fast.

Thinking someone else was just rushing to get out of the rain, he tried to wheel his bike out of the way. The next thing he knew, his feet had left the ground.

Oddly, his only thought as he fell was of how embarrassing it was that he’d tripped over his own feet, and he could only hope that no one would notice his mortifying tumble.

In the split second he was in the air, John tried to right himself. It meant he landed awkwardly on his wrist. John hissed through his teeth and tried to sit up, but his hand slipped on the wet paving slabs and he slumped to the ground.

He tried again, and was vaguely aware of someone speaking, a harsh voice that he knew he ought to be listening to, but all John could focus on was the pain gnawing at his body and the horrible, cold rainwater seeping through his clothes.

Aching and disorientated, he pulled his hands into his chest. One palm was grazed from the rough pavement. His other wrist was unnaturally warm, as if blood was blooming beneath his skin. John clutched his wrist as he carefully twisted it from side to side. Not broken, he was relieved to find, just smarting badly.

Someone grabbed the front of his jacket. John thought they were helping him up and tried to catch their hand in his, but they batted him away.

Confused, he tried to speak, but then he felt a cold hand push inside his jacket, searching his inside pockets.

John froze. His breathing stopped. He was being mugged. Someone had hit him, shoved him to the ground, and now they were rooting through his pockets.

He felt fingers wrap around his wallet and reflexively pressed his hand against theirs through his jacket, but they just shook him off again.

“Wait-” He meekly tried to get them to stop. “Wait-”

His voice didn’t sound like his. John barely recognised the wavering, broken sounds coming from his own mouth.

“Don’t- Wait, please-”

He watched the hand pull his wallet from his pocket and feebly tried to grab it back, but they swung round their other fist. It collided with the space just above his cheekbone, narrowly avoiding his eye. They must’ve been wearing a ring because John thought he felt something come dangerously close to puncturing his skin.

Disorientated and frightened, John instinctively pressed his palm against his eye socket. He closed his mouth and resigned himself to the ordeal, hoping it would all be over soon.

He supposed he was lucky. After that, they were gone.

When John finally regained sense of his body, of himself, he prised his hand away from his eye. There was a bright smear of scarlet on his palm, though he wasn’t sure if that was from the deep graze that ran along the heel of his hand, or if their ringed fist had managed to cut him.

“Oh, God,” He ran his other thumb over his bloodied palm, then winced when his wrist throbbed. “Oh, God. Oh, shit. Fuck.”

John wasn’t sure how long it took to gather himself and stumble to his feet. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. By the way his body ached and swayed when he finally righted himself, he wouldn’t be surprised if it had been days.

To his dismay, he realised his wallet wasn’t all they’d taken from him. Your bike was gone. He hadn’t even noticed them wheel it away.

Numb from what had happened and from the cold, John wandered in a direction that looked vaguely familiar. His heels kept catching on the uneven streets, and every time he stumbled, it pushed the sob sitting in his chest higher and higher up his throat, until John had to bite down on his lip to keep it from wobbling pathetically.

At last, the narrow, empty street opened up into a wide road, and John realised he was in Kensington. Through the fog in his brain, the notion that there was a phone box nearby rose to greet him. Who he would call, he had no idea. The police? Roger? The only person he really wanted was you but he didn’t have your number.

Still trying to decide what to do, John stepped out to cross the road, his mind dull and his body sluggish.

“Woah woah hey!”

He felt someone yank the back of his jacket, hard. A car horn blared as it roared by. John stumbled back onto the pavement, his arms windmilling. Another second and he would’ve been a goner.

He wheeled around, hands raised to defend himself, his heart hammering in his chest.

You beamed up at him, shaking your head.

“What’s the ma’er with you, New Boy? You never ‘eard of The Green Cross Code?”

You looked him up and down, up and down. As you took in his soaked clothes, his thin, shivering limbs, and the red mark, blooming like a rose over his left eye, your expression slowly sank into confusion, then fear.

“John?”

He didn’t know how to explain all that had happened. He didn’t know how to express everything he was feeling. A thousand beginnings rushed to the tip of his tongue but none seemed right.

Before he could speak, John felt his body crumple, like someone had cut all his strings. He stumbled, his hands finding your shoulders, then the tops of your arms. He was too exhausted to be embarrassed.

Close now, so close he could feel your warm breath on his stinging cheeks, he heard himself say,

“Help me.”

He didn’t remember much after that. When John cast his mind back, tried to recall what you had said next, how his hand had ended up in yours, or even just the expression on your face, he came up blank.

The next thing he did remember was you guiding him through the doors to 64 Olso Square. He remembered because you had to walk in backwards to keep his hand in yours and to make sure he didn’t trip over the small step at the entranceway. The sight had made him smile, until that horrible chill settled over him again like a cloak, and John was yanked back to the present.

He was in the silent kitchen before he knew it. Where were you taking him? Why did you care so much? Did you have a plan? John hoped so. He could hardly string two thoughts together, let alone two words.

He noted, through the fog in his head, that together you passed the phone hanging on the wall. So you weren’t going to call for help. You weren’t going to shirk the responsibility onto someone else. John wasn’t sure what was more surprising, that you seemed to want to look after him or that you were guiding him towards the door to the flat above the bakery.

That ripped him from his haze. He didn’t want to be a bother. It was bad enough he’d troubled you. It was the middle of the night, or at least, John thought it was. He didn’t know the people who lived above 64 Olso Square and this certainly wouldn’t be a good first impression.

He tugged your hand, pulling you to a stop.

“Nononononono,” John shook his head, eyes wide. “Don’t disturb them. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

You pushed through the first door to a tall staircase, covered with a thick brown carpet.

“And they won’t mind. Trust me.”

Shakily, slowly, you led him up the stairs to a second door. The brass numbers, stark against the bright white paint behind them, proclaimed the flat 64b.

John watched you pull a keyring from your pocket, then slot a silver key into the lock.

“You know them fairly well, then.”

A tiny smile crossed your lips.

“You could say that.”

It wasn’t until he was standing in the middle of the living room that he put two and two together. The cogs of his brain had finally started to turn again, and realisation chimed like a bell when he saw a photo of you, Mickey and Gladys, looking a few years younger, on the mantelpiece.

“Oh,” John said.

He felt your hand slip up his arm, then your fingertips press softly into his shoulder.

“Sit down. I’ll be right back.”

John was faintly aware of you disappearing into the next room but he couldn’t seem to bring his eyes to follow you. He couldn’t move, the slow rise and fall of his chest was the only sign that he was still alive at all.

Still, the numbness that had enveloped him was finally beginning to fade, but a hyperawareness of his surroundings had swept in to take its place. The artificial light seemed too bright. The clicking of the radiators as they hummed into life, their sharp metallic smell, it set his teeth on edge.

Then you were back, and everything felt alright again. Or at least, he knew it would be, eventually. It was perhaps his favourite thing about you, that you made him feel safe for the first time in a long while. And even if John felt so shaken, so afraid and so lost that he couldn’t imagine ever feeling like himself again, you were a warm constant, a reminder that feelings were fleeting and nebulous, and he would feel alive again soon.

He flinched when he felt your hand rest on his shoulder again.

“Oh, dear… Oh, my dear…”

You spoke so softly, John didn’t know what to do with himself.

He looked down at his feet. He’d left a small puddle of rainwater on your faded blue carpet. It was dripping off the hem of his jeans, the ends of his fingers, his hair.

“I’m…”

His apology died in his throat.

He kept thinking about what you said. ‘Oh, dear…’ It reminded him of his mother. It reminded him of his Year One teacher, who was so kind to him when he fell and scraped his knee. It reminded him of Freddie, of every time his new friend had been gentle with him.

He thought about those words, ‘oh, dear…’ and the ones that followed, ‘oh, my dear…’. One simple word and an ocean of difference.

“You’re all soggy,” You smiled gently as your hand drifted down to rest against his chest. “I brought you a towel. And a cuppa. And a biscuit.”

“Thank you,” John said, or at least he thought he did. The words didn’t seem to come from him, they just floated past his ears.

He raised his gaze to the mantelpiece again. You were smiling in the photo. You were maybe two or three years younger than you were now and had your arm around Gladys’ shoulders. On your other side, Mickey was beaming, a fag in his mouth and one hand pointed upwards towards the bakery’s gleaming scarlet sign.

“I moved in the same day I took the job,” you said, following his gaze. “Gladys knocked some money off the rent. It means I don’t get ou’ much but you can’t argue with the commute.”

John didn’t say anything. He just focused on your hand over his heart, warm and steady, like a lighthouse in a storm. Then your fingertips tucked into the front of his shirt, between two of the buttons, and tugged gently.

“C’mon. Sit.”

You slipped your hand into his again, gently guiding him towards the small dining table that sat in the corner of the room. Together, you peeled off his soaked jacket, carefully threading his arms through the sleeves, then you were gone again to hang it over the radiator.

While you busied yourself, John cast his eyes around the room.

Your flat was small, though after living in uni digs for so long, it seemed almost palatial to him.

There was the living room, with its small, square television and a low coffee table covered in magazines, books, and two empty mugs. He couldn’t see into the kitchen from his seat at your two-person dining table, but John could just make out pale yellow wallpaper and patchwork tiles that ran along the circumference of the room.

There was another door leading off from the living room. John supposed it must be your bedroom. He wondered momentarily what it looked like, if you had posters on the walls, what colour your bedspread might be.

He must still be in shock, John decided. Only a man who’d suffered a serious trauma would be curious about another person’s duvet cover.

He felt your eyes on him and looked away from your bedroom door, hoping you wouldn’t think he was getting any ideas.

John’s gaze landed on a pile of wool on the sofa, creamy white with two needles haphazardly stuffed through its heart.

You followed his gaze. Obviously feeling sheepish, you grimaced.

“I thought I’d make a blanket for Mickey’s baby.”

John’s mother knitted. And crocheted. She could knock up a blanket or a jumper in mere days. Nothing she’d made had ever looked like that, though.

“I didn’t know…” He paused, treading carefully. “You could knit.”

“I can’t.”

You glanced back at your pitiful, threadbare creation, then pressed a chocolate Digestive into his hand.

“You should eat somethin’.”

John finally cracked a smile. It stretched his cold skin, making his muscles ache, but it was real.

Slowly, carefully, though without trepidation, you stepped between his knees.

As he munched on his biscuit, John didn’t even notice how his body opened up to you. His gaze was fixed on your failed knitting project, though he wasn’t seeing anything.

“You just need to work on your tension,” he said, the ghost of something his mother would say.

John didn’t notice your curious glance. He only came back to the present when he felt your fingers settle along the length of his jaw.

John let you turn his face towards you and tried to resist a shiver when your other hand came to rest under his chin, ever so gently tilting his head up.

Your eyes were dark and restless, crossing his face, back and forth, up and down, taking him all in, while John just let his head sink into your touch.

You were so warm. How was it that you were always so warm?

“What happened?”

Your voice was gentle but firm. John wondered if he was imagining it, or if you were trying to hide a simmering anger.

“I was walking home from the studio.”

“On your own?”

“The others all go the opposite way.” John frowned. “Why were you out so late?”

“I took your advice and met up with me mates.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “I have had a couple drinks so tell me if I’m bandagin’ up the wrong bit.”

John started to laugh but didn’t get far. Now that everything was quiet and calm, the memory of what had happened to him was coming back to him in sharp flashes. Suddenly, his whole body felt sore. His wet clothes had chilled him through to the bone.

“It’s my fault,” he said quietly.

Too quietly. You frowned.

“Sorry, darlin?”

If he hadn’t felt quite so awful, John was sure that would’ve made him blush.

“It’s… It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. I shouldn’t have taken that shortcut.”

“It’s not your fault, John.”

Your thumb ghosted over the aching skin around his eye, finding the pockmark left by his mugger’s ring. You pressed down with the pad of your thumb and John jumped, hissing through his teeth.

You apologised, then asked,

“Someone attacked you? Did you know ‘em?”

When John shook his head, a few strands of his hair stuck to his clammy, wet cheek and he had to brush them away.

“No. No. I don’t think so. They took my wallet. Jokes on them, I don’t have any money.”

“Did they take your bass?”

“I left it at the studio. But they…” John closed his eyes when he felt hot tears start to well. “I’m really sorry. They took your bike.”

He heard you sigh and feared the worst, but you spoke his name so softly, it was enough to make his chest clench.

“It’s okay. It’s alright.”

He felt you step even closer, your hands so warm against his aching skin.

“It’s just a bike, darlin’.”

“But it was-”

You lifted his chin again. John opened his eyes to find you looking at him so softly, he thought he must be dreaming.

“Just a bike,” you said firmly, and brushed a hand over his hair.

The gesture practically made him melt into your touch. If your sweet voice and gentle hands were enough to slow his racing heart, your next words sent it tripping over itself again.

Smiling, you bowed your head and pressed your lips to his forehead.

“You’re the sweetest boy I’ve ever met.”

John didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t sure he could even speak. But you just smiled down at him. Silhouetted against the low yellow light, you looked practically angelic.

You lifted his hands, holding his palms up so that you could inspect them. Your hands were so much smaller than his, your fingers could barely wrap around his wrists, but you moved him around with ease.

John watched your face as you surveyed the damage, how your mouth twisted and your forehead creased, making him feel truly seen for the first time in his life.

“Alrigh’,” you said, and gently placed his hands back in his lap. “Don’ move.”

Then you were gone again, back into the small kitchen.

John watched you walk away, his mind humming, ticking over, just waiting for you to come back. His eyes felt heavy, even moving his head was a sluggish, awful task.

When you did come back, it was with no small amount of relief that you immediately stepped back between his knees. He thought he could happily stay in that position forever.

Your thighs brushed his as you leaned closer, and John jumped at the contact.

“Stay still.”

You were smiling faintly as you dabbed a warm, damp cloth against his skin.

It smarted at first, but soon John found himself sinking into your touch again. It felt good. John hadn’t expected you to be so gentle, although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. You’d been nothing but kind to him since the day you met.

He was just starting to let his heavy eyelids droop when he felt your forearm bump his nose. John raised his head.

You huffed, your mouth twisted.

“Sorry.”

You couldn’t seem to get the right angle. Even seated, John was tall enough to cause you problems. Manoeuvring around him meant either awkwardly crouching, leaning into him, or asking John to look up at you in a way that put pressure on his aching muscles.

It seemed to have knocked your confidence. Keeping your bottom lip caught firmly between your teeth in concentration, you quietly apologised again and again.

After a few minutes of awkward dithering and nervous touches, John sighed.

“For God’s sake. Just c’mere.”

Frustrated and annoyed at himself for ending up in this mess, John had very little room left for shyness. He wrapped his hands around your hips and pulled you into his lap, shifting his thighs apart so that you could sit there comfortably without fear of falling.

You were tense against him, clearly surprised, though not half as surprised as John. He just kept his eyes fixed on the wall behind you, his hands firm on your hips. To keep you steady, he told himself, though he didn’t believe it for a second.

You didn’t move at first. You just stared at him. Even if John could speak, he wouldn’t have been able to think of a single thing to say.

Something unspoken moved between you, then you returned your attention to his face, now at a much more accessible angle.

You smelt incredible. Was that an okay thing to notice about someone? Would it be weird if he told you? John wasn’t sure. You smelt of cinnamon and warm bread and sweat and the rain. It clung to your clothes, as he clung to you. Maybe it was better to just keep quiet.

As hard as he tried to ignore it, John had to admit your new position had other advantages. Although he was sure his wet jeans and bony thighs must have been uncomfortable for you, you were certainly doing a marvellous job of warming him up.

You thighs were rounded and full, and so much softer than his own. He could feel your muscles tensing and relaxing in tandem with his own as you both worked to keep you balanced in his lap. It was comforting to feel your body moving with his, almost like you were one being.

How strange, John thought, as you dabbed the warm cloth down his neck, that he’d become so starved of contact that touch often made his skin crawl. But you…

John always found his body aching for yours, like it was always reaching out to touch you without him asking it to, mentally and emotionally, as well as physically. You were the only one that made him feel peaceful. You were like dozing off in the fields behind his childhood home on an August afternoon.

For the sake of his own heart, John tried to zone out as best he could.

He ended up honing in on the steady tick tick tick of the wall clock, though it was barely enough to keep his mind away from your warm body, the gentle touch of your hands, and your dark eyes crossing over his face.

It was only when you moved to grab something from the table behind him that he gave any sign that he was still in the room. Your chest pressed into his as you leaned over him, your hand on his shoulder, and John had to fight the whimper sitting in his throat.

As you settled back down, your eyes were firmly fixed on his, and John realised his fingers were now pressed into your soft hips. He licked his lips.

Looking up at you like this, he felt so small, and vulnerable in a way that normally would have made him completely shut down, but something in the way you looked at him set his heart racing for an entirely different reason.

You shifted again. It meant you inadvertently rolled your hips against his. At least, he thought it was an accident. John was too busy trying to keep his lonely body in check to be sure.

He pressed his lips together, trying to keep his breathing steady. Hopefully you wouldn’t notice how he shifted beneath you, his trousers suddenly uncomfortably tight.

“Stay still,” you said again.

Shit.

John did as he was told.

You raised a cold compress to his face. He flinched away from you instinctively. This was going to hurt. But you offered him a soft smile, whispering that it would help

John sighed. He closed his eyes and let you take care of him.

Minutes tucked by in silence. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and the occasional hiss from John whenever you pressed the compress too hard against his aching eye socket.

“I’m not squashin’ you, am I?” you asked after a while.

John grunted, his cheeks starting to feel hot.

“Don’t worry. I know I look like a twig, but…”

He cracked a smile, only wincing slightly when you moved the compress to a different part of his face, just above what was probably turning into an impressive bruise.

“I know,” you said, laughing softly. “But I’m fat.”

“You’re not fat.”

“’s not a bad word, John.”

He was quiet for a moment, then John’s eyebrows jumped under the compress.

“You say it like it is.”

He licked his lips again when you met his gaze and held it.

He’d got you there. Comfortable as you were in your body, it hadn’t always been easy. John knew that. Old habits were hard to shake and the odd deprecating comment sometimes slipped out. He always caught them.

John watched you wrinkle your nose, the way you always did on the rare occasion you had to admit that someone else was right.

You handed him the cold press and told him to keep it against his eye, which he did dutifully.

To his dismay, you lifted one of his hands from your hips. John’s stomach twisted. He’d been enjoying the contact more than he cared to admit, and your warm, soft body was the only thing grounding him to reality. Thankfully, you just turned his hand over so that you could study his grazed palm.

“You are a bi’ of a twig,” you said eventually, then smiled to let him know you were only kidding. “This will need some De’ol, is that alright?”

John frowned as he watched you carefully brush away the grime and tiny pieces of grit from his deep graze.

“Haven’t seen Dettol since I was a little boy.” Then, worried despite your reassurances, he asked, “Do you think I’m..? Too twiggy?”

“No,” You were beaming, your voice soft and low. “I think you’re perfect as you are.”

John had to hide his blush behind his hair.

“I think I might’ve hurt the other one quite badly. I landed on it funny. My wrist, I mean.”

“I might ‘ave one of them sock things. You know, for sprains. Will tha’ do?”

John nodded.

“Thank you. You know, I don’t think I’m actually that twiggy anymore. Not after all the stuff you make me take home.”

“Oh, really?”

“I can barely fit in my stage gear.”

You burst out laughing, then shook your head at his grin. You liked this side of him, when he felt relaxed enough to be silly and to poke fun.

John felt the tension in his chest start to ease away at last. He was safe. He was with you.

“If I were to invite you to another gig, would you fancy it?” he asked, feeling suddenly brave.

You hummed, turning the wrist he thought he might’ve sprained and toying with each of his fingers.

“I dunno. Are you gonna wear that pretty little outfit again?”

The sparkly trousers were Roger’s. The black and white striped top, he was sure that belonged to Freddie. When it came to stage clothes, they swapped about a lot, but John was particularly fond of the velvet bow tie and silk jacket he’d managed to dig from their market stall a few weeks ago.

“You liked it?”

“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about it.”

John knew he must’ve been red as a tomato. He practically blew a vein trying not to move around in his seat too much. It was the first time you’d been alone together somewhere private. Maybe the couple of drinks you’d sunk with your friends had loosened your tongue. Whatever it was, he liked it.

Your praises made him feel like he could melt into a puddle, and it was a thrill to know you thought about him at least as half as much as he thought about you. Whispering to each other in your dark little flat, it was the most intimate moment John ever experienced.

“If you liked that one, you’ll love the thing Freddie’s got me in next week.” He nodded to his wrist. “If I can play.”

“Mm, can’t wai’.”

You let go of his wrist, and for a moment, John feared the moment was over, but then you slipped your hand around his jaw and lifted his chin yet again, so that he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

“For the record,” you said, all brevity gone for now. “I like skinny boys. Don’t go changin’ for anyone. Okay, John?”

“You do?” he asked, half afraid of the answer. “I look alright?”

“You’re perfect, John.”

With your hand so close to his throat, he knew you must’ve felt him swallow hard, but he tried not to think about it.

Far too soon for his liking, you let go of his jaw. John knew he should probably at least pretend that he wanted to get up, but you were still looking at him closely and he didn’t think he had the energy to try and stand up.

“Perfect,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I think you’re brilliant, John.”

Instead, he closed his eyes, and let his hands slip around to the small of your back.

“And you feel nice.” John sighed as he let his body sink into yours. “You feel really nice.”

He felt your body tense as he rested his head against your chest, then, slowly, he felt you relax again.

Your hand came up to rest on the back of his head, and when you slipped your fingertips into his hair, John let out a shuddering breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

The floodgates opened. Soon, John could feel more hot tears carving furrows down his cheeks until they pooled on your shirt, though you didn’t seem to mind.

As he tried to even out his shaky breaths, you just stroked his hair, whispering softly to him.

“It’s going to be alright… You’re alright, John… You’re alright. I’ve got you… I’ve got you…”

When, at last, he could breathe evenly again, John raised his head to look up at you.

You smiled, your hand still smoothing over his hair.

“You wanna get in the shower?” you asked, brushing away a stray tear with your thumb.

John had to force his way through the fog in his brain to understand what you were asking. Your kind hands were incredibly distracting, and the way you looked down at him, one hand on his cheek, keeping his gaze on you… He knew he’d do whatever you asked, so long as you kept looking at him like that.

The next thing he knew, he was standing under the shower.

The water ran a lot hotter than the weak, tepid spritz he’d become accustomed to at uni. John almost yelped when the warm water hit his skin. It didn't take long for him to adjust, though. Now he couldn’t bear the thought of stepping out again.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there. Seconds felt like hours, minutes felt like centuries. He wouldn’t be surprised if he got out and found the morning sun peeking through the living room curtains.

John closed his eyes, tilted his head back and sighed, letting the water wash over him, warming his blood and soothing the anxious shivers that still wracked his body.

Your bathroom was much like the rest of your home. ‘Messy’ seemed a strong word, ‘lived-in’ seemed more democratic. There were bottles and bottles of hair products, sun cream and various moisturisers on top of the cabinet, and the laundry basket in the corner was full to the brim.

The yellow towels hanging by the door matched the sunflower-coloured bath mat, and a series of half-full shampoos and conditioners were lined up along the side of the bath like skittles. He’d almost sent them tumbling into the bath when he stepped in.

John picked one at random, a white bottle with a pale yellow label and stark black writing.

“Everynight Rainwater Soft Rinse,” he read aloud to himself.

That seemed fitting. John squeezed some into the centre of his hand, then turned his palm over and rubbed the shampoo into his hair. He recognised the smell immediately. It was you.

You in his lap, so soft and so close, your warm weight, your hand lifting his chin, your fingers wrapped around his jaw. You, you and your clever eyes that saw straight through him and your pretty mouth, always tugged back into a smirk whenever you teased him. God, he loved when you teased him.

His lip caught between his teeth, John tried to focus on washing his hair, but he couldn’t ignore the warmth pooling in his abdomen and the pounding of blood in his ears.

You, the way you always stood so close to him but never close enough. You and your sharp tongue and your talented hands and your endless, unshakeable need to take care of him, to understand him, to know him.

Did you fancy him? Did you love him? Were you in love with him? You’d never said as much but surely, surely the way you were with him, the way you talked, you must at least like him. Everyone seemed to think so. But why didn’t you just say?

John picked up the shampoo bottle again. Rosemary, cinchona and clover blossoms. He didn’t know what half of those ingredients were. He tried to figure them out, one by one, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from his own wandering thoughts.

He couldn't stop thinking about how your hands felt on him. Touch had always been such an uncomfortable experience. It was a private, intimate thing, something he trusted very few with, but John always caught himself leaning into you, aching for you to touch him. The thought of your hands mapping his body was enough to make him whimper softly.

You, pushing him down onto that comfy looking sofa, or even your yet-to-be-seen bed. You, yanking his head back by his hair and taking his mouth with your own when he gasped. You, pinning him down and gripping him tight and making him yours again and again and again, making his voice shatter and his body completely unravel, and all the while you’d just look down at him and smile.

John swallowed thickly. He turned and faced the shower, letting the water hit his face as he reached down and cranked up the cold.

When he was a little more presentable and no longer shivering, John stepped out of the shower and wrapped himself up in one of the soft towels you'd pointed out to him.

Looking down at his sad, damp pile of clothes, John felt a pang of woebegone self-pity shiver through him, but then a more practical issue arose, and he’d always been far better at dealing with those.

Toeing at the freezing, soggy pile of clothes he’d peeled off, John called out,

“Hey, Skip?”

As if you had read his mind, you said,

“I laid out some clothes on the bed!”

John hesitated.

“Oh.”

He pushed down the handle and pulled the bathroom door open a crack, just enough so that he could peek out without you being able to see much of him. He needn’t have bothered, you were on the sofa, having another go at your knitting, and John had to crane his head out further to see you properly.

“The bed that’s..?”

He pointed across the hall to the door opposite.

You didn’t look up, but even from across your flat, he could see you smiling.

“I promise I won’t look.”

For some reason, John wasn’t entirely sure he believed you.

He stepped back into the bathroom so he could tighten his towel around his waist, until there was absolutely no possibility of it slipping down on his very short trip across the hall to your room.

When he was sure he was safe, he pulled open the door fully and slipped through into your bedroom, not daring to glance your way as he did so. If he had, he might’ve seen you glance up at the last second before he disappeared inside your room, and he might’ve seen you smile.

John flicked on the light. Your room was lovely, just as warm and inviting as the rest of your home, as you. There was colour everywhere, in the posters and photos pinned to the walls and the endless rows of knick knacks on every available surface.

He couldn’t help feeling nosy. There was still so much he didn’t know about you, so much he couldn’t wait to learn, and here he was in the very glossary of your life. But John restrained himself. After all, you were waiting for him with a cup of tea and, hopefully, another biscuit.

He dried himself off and slipped into the clothes you’d left out for him.

When he thought he looked vaguely presentable, John gave himself a firm, fortifying nod in the mirror. He tried to brush his damp curls back from his face, hoping he wouldn’t look too much like a Cocker Spaniel as it dried.

It was then that he caught sight of a small, square box, tucked between the mirror and the door. Just poking out was a large balloon whisk and a loop of thick, black wire. The infamous machine had finally given up the ghost, it seemed.

John scooped up the box and opened the door.

You were still knitting when he came back into the living room. John watched you for a moment, feeling small and uncertain when you didn’t offer any instructions.

He noticed you’d hung his clothes over the radiator, even his socks, which was a little embarrassing. John could only thank his lucky stars that the rainwater hadn’t quite reached his underwear.

“How are you feelin’?”

He looked back to find you looking up at him, your fingers finally still. You’d managed a few more rows but the blanket was riddled with holes. He wasn’t sure you could even call it a blanket. He tried not to smile.

“A lot better.” John ran his palms up and down his thighs, smiling. “These are soft.”

The clothes you’d left him were obviously an old pair of pyjamas, a faded T-shirt with the name of a radio station printed across the chest and a pair of orange and brown tartan trousers.

You gestured for him to raise his left hand, then you carefully slipped a compression wrap down his wrist. It wasn’t much but it would support his strained muscles and, hopefully, force him to take things easy for a while.

“The look is complete.” You frowned when you realised what he was carrying. “What’ve you got that for? I was gonna chuck it tomorrow.”

John perched on the very edge of the sofa, tucking his legs behind the coffee table, and placed the box down in front of him.

“I think I can fix it. Do you have any tools?”

“John, you don’t ‘ave to-”

“I want to. C’mon, it’ll take my mind off...”

He was starting to feel better, but John knew you wouldn’t let him fix anything for you unless he laid it on thick. He also knew, or at least, he was starting to understand, that while you had a clever way of getting him to do whatever you wanted, he seemed to have the same effect on you.

His scheme worked. You twisted your mouth, probably still unconvinced, but relented with a sigh.

“Well, I mean, I have a toolbox. But I never use it, so I dunno if there’s anythin’ useful in there.”

“I don’t need much.” Feeling guilty, he added, “Honest, love, it’ll help.”

Within minutes, John had the whisk in several different parts, neatly placed in strategic points around your coffee table. He also had another cup of tea and three chocolate Digestives.

He could feel your eyes on him, watching him as he worked. You didn’t say anything, though, apart from asking the occasional question. John supposed you were probably trying to figure out what to do with him next.

He caught your gaze briefly as he lifted the main body of the whisk up to his eye-level.

“So,” John said. “Is this how you saw your evening going?”

You twisted your mouth again.

“Do you wanna call anyone?”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Your mum? Friends? That Roger lad seems nice?”

John didn’t look away from the whisk. He just kept turning the screwdriver around and around.

“They’ll all be asleep.”

He’d glanced at the clock on your bedside table when he was getting changed. It was almost two in the morning.

You shrugged.

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

“It’s alright.”

John cheered softly when the last compartment came away. A muddle of multicoloured wires sprawled out.

“This is quite interesting, you know. When did Gladys buy this?”

“God knows. Probably not this century.”

“Would you know where she got it?”

The look you gave him made it quite clear you didn’t know or care, and that you weren’t going to let him get away with changing the subject.

“I’m okay. I’m okay, really.” John summoned a reassuring smile. “The shower did me the world of good. Anyway, you’re… I’m where I most want to be.”

That made you go quiet.

John just tried to focus on his work. He knew that look on your face all too well. Even when you weren’t speaking, he knew your mind would be whirring, thinking of the next step, how best to look after him. It was a feeling he still wasn’t entirely used to but it made your poky flat feel like home.

“You can stay ‘ere tonight, if you like,” you said at last.

John finally lowered the screwdriver, his eyes wide.

“That’s not what I meant when I said- I wasn’t trying to-”

“I know. I want you to stay.” You smiled and rested your hand over his. “Stay.”

The word was so heavy, it seemed to linger in the space between you. John thought he might be able to reach out and wrap his fingers around it. It filled a hole in his heart he hadn’t even known was there, and assuaged any dregs of worry about you not liking him as much as he liked you.

Stay. He would. He’d stay forever, if you asked.

His heart in his throat again, John accidentally let the screwdriver slip through his fingers. He lunged to grab it and ended up knocking his sore hand against the coffee table. He yelped, clutching at his wrist, although that only made it smart more.

“Oi, watch that ‘and! I’m not driving you to the ‘ospital at this time of night.”

You laughed, shaking your head, then to John’s delight, you took his hand in yours and kissed his aching wrist, right at his frenetic pulse.

“Tell me, will you ever play again?”

John summoned a pained smile.

“I think I’ll manage. Thanks again for coming the other night. It really meant a lot.”

“It was nice seein’ you up there. You sounded great.”

“Did you like the music?”

“I mean, it’s no ABBA, but…”

John snorted.

“I’ll try and wangle a song into our set list next time.”

“Oh, then I’m definitely comin’. Can’t miss the look on your mates’ faces when you suggest ‘People Need Love’.”

“You know, I still haven’t heard this album.”

“I’ll lend it to you. It’ll change your life. And, hey, maybe I can bring some of my mates to your next show? I think they’d really love it. Or, at least, they’d like your drummer.”

John grinned, trying to ignore the slight itch in his chest. That was the second time you’d mentioned Roger tonight. He pushed the thought away, choosing instead to focus on the fact that you still hadn’t let go of his hand.

“I’d like that. The more the merrier. And I promise, next time it’ll be in a proper venue and there’ll be dancing and- and lots of people and…”

You squeezed his hand gently.

“And I’ll be there, right at the front.”

“Dancing?”

“If you can call what I do dancin’. There’s a lot of,” You waved your free arm in the air. “And,” You swayed your hips as best you could while sat down.

John caught his own reflection in the television screen behind you. He had a dopey, lovesick expression, his shoulders low, his whole body leaning in towards yours, as if pulled by invisible strings. It should’ve made him baulk, pull himself together and change the subject, mortified. But instead, he heard himself say,

“We could go dancing. Together.”

You raised your eyebrows but seemed pleased.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m a bit of a mover.”

“I bet.”

Your smile had an edge to it so sharp, John thought he might cut his lip if he leaned in to kiss you, an ache that was slowly becoming unbearable. He loved when you looked at him like that, like you would completely unspool him, if he’d only ask.

Then your gaze shifted and a sliver of rarely spotted vulnerability eked out.

“No one’s ever offered to take me dancin’ before.”

“Not even your boyfriend?” John flushed when your smile abruptly dropped. “Gladys told me about him. He sounds like a bastard.”

You shook your head, sputtering like a firework until your tongue caught up with your brain.

“Why the- Why’s she tellin’ you about my old boyfriends?”

“Why does Gladys do anything?”

John tried to laugh it off but your expression was losing its softness, your grip on his hand growing looser and looser.

He sighed.

“She cornered me the other day and said I ought to be nice to you ‘cause your last bloke was a twat and she wouldn’t be happy if I-”

“What?”

Much to his dismay, you took your hand back. John barely resisted trying to grab it back. In fact, just holding your gaze required herculean strength.

John really hadn’t intended to tell you about his little conversation with Gladys. In fact, she’d sworn him to secrecy.

You’d been seeing a boy for months, a seemingly nice boy who worked for the bakery’s suppliers. He flirted with you relentlessly on every drop-off until finally, after much plying and pulling, he managed to get you to agree to a date. Things seemed to be going well from Gladys’ perspective, but after a few good - if boring - months, he left without much ceremony, an explanation, or a goodbye.

“John,” you pressed. “She wouldn’ be ‘appy if you what?”

“Messed you about.” John could feel his cheeks prickling with embarrassment and knew he must be turning red. “She wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to- I don’t even know, really. She didn’t say much, I promise. She just doesn’t want it to happen again.”

He watched your expression relax, then soften with understanding.

“She’s very protective of you, you know.”

That brought back a little of your smile.

“I know. A bit too protective sometimes but it’s nice.”

“She loves you so much. So does Mickey.”

The unspoken, ‘And so do I’ was so obvious, John almost choked on it, and had to style it out as a little cough.

At last, you rested your hand back over his, and John was able to breathe again. Your fingertips brushed the rings on his middle and fourth fingers, then slipped higher to wrap gently around his wrist. He hoped you wouldn’t be able to feel how fast his pulse was racing.

“I wouldn’t, you know,” he said, after a moment. “Mess you about.”

You smiled.

“I know, John.”

He should kiss you. He should kiss you right now. You were gazing at him so sweetly, leaning into him, one hand on his knee, the other still wrapped around his wrist. He should kiss you, make you moan softly against his mouth, show you how much he adored you with his tongue, his teeth, his hands, with eveything he had. He should. But he couldn’t. Not yet.

John cleared his throat, his gaze dropping to the broken whisk, still laid out on the coffee table.

“These, er… The wires are loose,” he said.

You blinked, surprised, then laughed softly when you realised what he was talking about.

“Can you fix it?”

“I can fix anything.”

“Mm, my hero.”

The bubble of tension was broken. Your hands left him. But you were still close, closer than you ever had been.

John couldn’t help stealing little glances at you, wondering what you were thinking about as you watched him work, a little smile on your face.

“Nah, you’re my hero. Rescuing me from muggers. Getting me this job. Looking after me.”

“I like lookin’ after you,” you said, your tone surprisingly earnest. “You’re a nice boy, John.”

Embarrassed, John just kept his eyes on the wire he was fiddling with.

“What did he do, then?” he asked, clumsily changing the subject. “This rubbish boyfriend?”

“Oh, the usual. Said some horrible things. Left me for a girl he decided he liked be’er.” You smiled, but it barely met your eyes. “You’d never leave me for someone else, would you, Johnny?”

“Never,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave you for anything. He’s an idiot.”

You made a non-committal hum, like you didn’t believe him or thought he was only kidding around.

John looked up.

“No, but he really is. What a moron. You’re…”

He watched as your expression turned expectant. Too bad he had no idea how to finish his own sentence.

You were kind. The kindest person he’d known in a long time. And you were so sure of yourself, of your role, while John sometimes felt torn between paths. You were clever, and fun, and so bloody beautiful, John hadn’t stopped thinking about you since the day you met.

You must’ve seen something in his eyes, a hint at his inward panic, because a smile slipped across your face again.

“Are you s’pposed to be in tomorrow?”

John nodded. He was meant to start his shift in just a few hours. He’d forgotten all about it.

“I’ll tell Gladys you’re poorly. You should ‘ave the day off.”

“Will you manage?”

“Somehow, I reckon we’ll struggle through.” You grinned. “The mean streets of Kensington can finally relax, safe in the knowledge you’re not gonna crash into anyone or anything else on that bloody bike.” You tapped the end of his nose “Y’menace.”

John brushed at his nose, feeling guilty all over again.

“I really am sorry. I promise I’ll get you another one.”

“Don’t be silly. I never used it anyway. All I’m worried about is how you’re gonna get around. Can’t be a delivery boy if you can’t make any deliveries.”

You must’ve seen the flash of anxiety that crossed through John’s mind because you reached out and brushed the pad of your thumb against his chin.

“Don’t worry, love. Honest. We’ll figure somethin’ out. You were always too good for it, anyway. Maybe this is a sign you’re ready for a promotion.”

John managed to summon a smile.

“You want me in the kitchen? Me?”

“Christ, no.” You laughed. “No, don’t think you’re quite there yet. I was thinkin’ more along the lines of a sales assistant. Pretty boy like you? You’d be great for business.”

John felt his skin prickle and knew he must be blushing, but you were talking again before he could recover properly. It only grew worse when you brushed the same thumb against his cheek, then held his jaw in your hand, your expression much more open and earnest now.

“You’re safe,” you said. “That’s all that matters to me.”

“Thank you,” John said. “For everything. You know, you’re the one person I thought about after it happened. Just wanted to see you so badly.”

“‘s funny, I’d just finished telling my mates all about you when I found you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they can’t believe you’re in a rock ‘n’ roll band. They think you’re cool. Didn’t ‘ave the ‘eart to correct ‘em.”

John swore at you under his breath and pinched your thigh, not hard, but enough to make you yelp and bat his hand away.

“Hey!”

You laughed together, but before John could do anything to stop it, his smile stretched into a wide yawn. It made his eyes squeeze shut, and a few sleepy tears pooled in the corners of his eyes

“Oh, dear.” You squeezed his hand one last time then stood up. “C’mon, Johnny. Bedtime.”

“Where do you want me? To sleep,” he added, wincing.

“You can share with me? Or the sofa’s comfier than it seems.”

“Propositioning strange boys and luring them to bed. My mother warned me about girls like you.”

You pretended to look appalled but the twinkle in your eye gave you away.

“I’m not lurin’ anyone!”

John grinned.

“And yet…”

You looked at him for a moment, just smiling. You were thinking, John knew, about him. Then you shrugged.

“We could go next week.”

“Dancing?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you and me. Or Mickey was talkin’ about doing the pub quiz. At The Park Tavern on the corner? That could be fun. You’d ‘ave to help us think of a be’er team name, though. He wants us to be Buns Of Steel.”

“That does sound fun. I don’t know if a work outing is the best thing for a first date, though.”

“A first…”

It seemed to take you a moment to process exactly what he’d said. John realised, with no small amount of delight, that he’d flustered you.

Amused, he watched you recover, feeling a faint sense of self-satisfaction when you couldn’t seem to think of a clever response.

Instead, you just laughed and shook your head, then went into your room. You reappeared again carrying a duvet without its cover, a pillow he knew was from your bed, and an extra blanket, just in case.

“It’s a big bed, y’know,” You passed him the duvet, then the pillow. “Room for a small one.”

John’s fingers brushed yours as you finally passed him the extra blanket.

He wished he could shrug off the ache you sparked in his chest as nothing more than a schoolboy crush. But the need to be close to you, to touch you, talk to you, be with you, it was impossible to ignore. It was just never the right time.

Still, he couldn’t help wondering what you might do if he slipped his fingers through yours and pulled you into him so that you were standing between his knees again. What you might say if he pressed his face into your soft stomach, his free hand on your hip, keeping you there, keeping you close. What would you say if he admitted all that he wanted to every time he saw you, the words that teetered at the very tip of his tongue?

You were looking down at him expectantly, a smirk at the corner of your lips. You were joking, teasing him. He knew that. But John also knew, he knew, if he could just be brave, if he just stood up and took your hand, you would lead him into the next room without hesitation. He was a nod away from the thing he ached for most.

“Ask me again,” John said, weary of himself, of this day, of his own inexplicable worries. “After we’ve been dancing.”

Clearly unaware of his inner turmoil, you just sighed.

“Promises, promises.” Then, more seriously, you asked, “Are you gonna be alright?”

John leaned back against the sofa, his borrowed duvet over his lap.

His pain wasn’t gone. His wrist still ached and his bruises and scrapes still stung, a constant reminder of what had happened to him. John’s hair was still a little damp and had been starting to make him shiver, quelled now by the blankets you’d given him.

He felt smaller. Like he’d shrank back inside his head, his own body, He felt tired and hollow and unsure, but you had slowly, gently pulled him back to the present.

John didn’t know what he would feel like tomorrow but right now, he was okay, he was safe.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

“Anytime, John.”

You turned to leave but stopped at the last moment.

“I know it’s not much but my door is always open if you ever wanna ge’ away from your digs or you just wanna watch telly, or… I don’t even know what I’m- You can come round. Anytime. I’d love to ‘ave you ‘ere… Outside of work… And not because you got mugged. That’s what I’m trying to say. I’d love to see you.”

John thought it was perhaps the most nervous he’d ever seen you. He made you nervous. Him.

“I’d love that too.”

You look relieved, though he couldn’t imagine why. John knew you had been dancing around each other pretty shamelessly, but even he thought it was fairly obvious that he’d give anything to spend more time with you.

“Fab.”

You tapped your palms against your thighs, nodding to yourself.

John wondered if you wanted to say something more or if you were just stalling for time, as he so often did, hanging around the bakery long after his shift had ended or long before it began, just to spend more time with you.

Finally, you reached down and held his face again, then to his surprise and delight, you kissed his other cheek. John tried his best not to lean into your hand but he knew he practically purred every time you touched him.

You brushed back his damp hair, smiling softly, then finally pulled yourself away.

“Na night, John.”

“Na night, Skip.”

/

John was still fast asleep when you awoke the next morning. Blinking against your warm bedroom light, you blearily got yourself dressed as quietly as possible so as not to disturb your guest.

When you finally emerged, groggy from the lack of sleep and dreading the thought of dealing with customers, you found John stretched out on the couch, snoring away.

It was strange. You’d come close to convincing yourself that the whole night had been a strange, elaborate dream. But here he was.

You couldn’t help yourself. You gazed at him for a while, just taking him in.

John was safely tucked under the spare duvet you'd dug out of the bottom of your wardrobe, but you could still see that he’d managed to twist his body into an awkward shape he would definitely regret when he woke up.

You were glad you’d thought to give him an extra blanket, it could get cold in the flat at night, and John had tugged the tatty old thing right up to his chin.

His mouth was hanging open, just a little, and his face was relaxed and peaceful. One of his arms was dangling over the end of the sofa, his hand hanging limply, almost like he was reaching out to you.

It took all your strength not to play with his pretty hair, strewn across the pillow like a beautiful figure in a renaissance painting.

You wished he’d just agreed to share your bed. There was more than enough room and, selfishly, a part of you hated the idea of leaving him out here on his own. You wanted him within reach, where you could keep an eye on him and make sure nothing else could happen to your lovely boy.

You went to the kitchen and poured him a glass of water, then scribbled down a note telling John he could help himself to anything he wanted, clothes, food, your home was his. You left it and the water on the coffee table, then bent down and squeezed his hand.

“Sleep well, gorgeous.”

You smiled fondly to yourself, then went to work.

A few hours later, the ovens were on, the bread was cooling on the shelves, and the pastries were ready to be served.

Usually, you would have the radio blaring but you didn’t want to risk waking John. You also didn’t have the pleasure of Mickey’s company, as he’d yet to turn up. You were too busy to worry, he’d probably spent the night in the local and was having trouble dragging himself out of bed.

It was almost seven when Mickey finally rolled in.

You scoffed when you saw him. He looked cartoonishly exhausted. His eyes were red and droopy, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days.

He grunted when he saw you, standing there with your hands on your hips. Mickey was a man who knew when he was in trouble,

“What time do you call this!”

“Sorry, darlin’. Sorry. Rita woke up in the middle of the night sayin’ the baby was comin’ and I’ve spent all night in the ‘ospital.”

Mickey waved a weary hand at you when your jaw dropped.

“Turns out it was just practice pain? False labour, they said. False my arse. Poor girl was ‘ollering like she worked at Sotheby’s.”

“She’s alright?”

“Yeah, just knackered. Took her ‘ome just now.”

“Well, if you wanna be with her, you can? It’s not like it’s gonna be mental today.”

Mickey smiled.

“I might pop home at lunchtime. Thanks, love.” He laughed, reaching back behind him to shrug off his jacket, “You know, it’s funny. We were-”

He stopped suddenly, his gaze caught somewhere over your shoulder.

You turned around to find John standing in the kitchen doorway.

He looked almost as worn out as Mickey, but a damn sight better than he did last night. To your utter delight, John’s hair was a tangled, fluffy mess, thanks to him not drying it properly the night before, and his voice was low and coarse as he murmured,

“Morning.”

You glanced at Mickey. He was still staring. You could practically see him doing the calculations in his head, putting two and two together and getting five, as per usual.

“Mornin’.” You tried to hide your smile behind your hand. “How you feelin’?”

“Good. Yeah, good. A bit sore but…” John grimaced and rubbed at his lower back. “Hi, Mickey.”

Mickey was still staring but he did manage to ask,

“Alright?”

You looked back at John. He was wearing your clothes, you realised. A Kinks T-shirt that had long since faded and the same pyjama trousers he wore the night before. He was carrying a bag of what you could only assume were his damp clothes, and the whisk, neatly coiled up inside its box, good as new.

John passed you the whisk with a shy smile.

“I’ll, um, I’ll call you later, yeah?”

“Okay. Oh, John? Will you give us three rings when you get in so I know you’re alright?”

“I will. Thanks again. For everything. You were amazing.”

John glanced at Mickey. There was a little pause. Everything had been said that needed to be, your goodbyes had been made. But John hadn’t moved.

He looked at Mickey again, almost like he was waiting for him to leave and give you some privacy. Then John looked at you.

Somehow you understood. He’d made up his mind to do something, and it had taken so much courage to work himself up, John couldn’t back down now.

Both you and Mickey stared as John finally drew in a clearly bolstering breath, then he took your hand and kissed your cheek, as he must have rehearsed in his head a hundred times.

“See you,” he said, then he was gone.

You watched John leave, hoping he’d look back, but he must’ve made himself too nervous. Still, you couldn’t help admiring his little show of bravery, and you could still feel the warmth of his fingers against yours.

Mickey’s gaze slid to you, heavy with incredulity.

You raised a finger.

“Now, before you say anythin’-”

“I don’ believe this.”

“Mickey.”

“I don’ believe this.” He shook his head. “You did it. You finally did it. You finally fucked the delivery boy.”

Your mouth fell open.

“What! No! No, I didn’t!”

“You think I was born yesterday? Did you see him? Looked like he could barely walk.”

His insinuation made your voice catch in your throat and you made an embarrassing and frankly incriminating sort of squeak.

“He was mugged last night!” You finally found your voice but it sounded as flimsy and reedy as baking paper. “I found him up the ‘igh street and took ‘im ‘ome with me.”

To your relief, Mickey’s expression turned serious.

“Mugged? Round ‘ere?”

You explained everything, finding John on the edge of the pavement, so dazed and confused, he almost stepped out into the oncoming traffic. You described how he shivered when you took him home, how he seemed barely able to speak at first, and how long it took him to come back to himself.

When you were done, Mickey swore under his breath. He scratched his square chin, shaking his head.

“But he’s alright?”

“I think so.”

You glanced towards the door, almost hoping John would come back. You didn’t like him out of your sight. But he needed to rest.

“Oh, Mick, you should’ve seen him. Poor thing looked like he was gonna shake right out of his clothes.”

“Whose clothes are you shaking off?” Gladys asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen doorway.

Mickey gave her a weary look.

“John’s.”

Gladys looked surprised, then faintly impressed.

“You finally made your move, then?”

You chose to ignore her. Your cheeks were still burning from Mickey’s assumption, you couldn’t take much more. Was it really so obvious that you wanted to rail the delivery boy? Maybe you needed to be more subtle in future, these were not things colleagues should know about each other.

“Listen, he was soaked-”

“I bet.”

“And I thought he was gonna catch his death,” You pressed on valiantly. “So I invited ‘im in, gave him a shower and a cup of tea…”

“A shower.”

“It was all very innocent!”

Mickey scoffed.

“He left wearin’ ‘er clothes.”

You had to smile then.

“Yeah, that was quite nice, actually.”

“He didn’t make a move?” Gladys asked.

You snorted, nodding when she offered you a cuppa.

“Chance’d be a fine thing. But he did say…” You bit back a grin. “Well, he said we could go for a dance sometime next week.”

To your surprise, Gladys didn’t look surprised, just very, very pleased.

“That was my idea.”

“Glad!” Mickey sighed. “You can’t mess about with her ‘n’ the scruff. You’ll scare ‘im off.”

“That reminds me,” you said, your amusement suddenly vanishing. “He said you told him all about my love life. Have you finally, properly gone mental?”

Gladys threw up her hands, her countless brightly coloured bangles and bracelets jangling together.

“Well, ‘e asked! I wasn’t gonna lie to ‘im, was I?”

“Asked what?”

“Well, ‘im and Mickey were talking about, you know, what you got up to in your spare time and if you were seein’ anyone…”

You glanced at Mickey but he was the picture of innocence.

“And I ‘appened to be passin’ by and mentioned you hadn’t been out with anyone since that lad you used to see who lived down by Battersea Bridge. And, well, ‘e asked why you weren’t seein’ ‘im anymore and, you know, he’s just got one of them ways about him, hasn’t he, John? He asks the right questions.”

You scowled at the memory. He wasn’t even worth mentioning. That boy had brought you nothing but heartache and misery. He was nothing like John, who seemed to brighten every time he saw you, and never once made you feel like he was doing you a favour by being kind to you.

“Don’t be cross with ‘er,” Mickey said. “She’s only tryin’ to help and ‘e did ask.”

“I think he’d be good for you. He’s sensible, kind.” Gladys grinned wickedly. “Did you see ‘im with his kit off?”

You almost didn’t want to dignify that with an answer but you knew you’d never hear the end of it if you said nothing.

“No! But he… The flat’s gonna feel really empty without ‘im there.”

Memories of the night before rose in your mind. It really did all feel like a dream. You pictured John perched on the very edge of your sofa, his knees pressed tight together, his spine sloping as he bent over the whisk he was trying to fix, fix for you.

“I like ‘aving ‘im around,” you admitted.

Mickey and Gladys exchanged a knowing look that made you regret your momentary lapse into misjudged honesty.

You huffed and went to look busy in the kitchen, but they followed you anyway.

“You know what I did when I first started seein’ Al?”

Mickey tried to speak, probably to let Gladys know he really didn’t care to know anything about your boss’ relationship with that salamander in an M&S suit, but Gladys bulldozed over him.

“You wanna get yourself down to Debenhams. You find yourself the perfume section and smell every bo’le till you find the one ‘e wears, then you spray it on your pillow.”

There was a stunned sort of a silence. No one moved for a moment until Mickey grumbled,

“Christ.”

You blew out a long breath, puffing out your cheeks as your mind whirled with thoughts of the pretty boy who’d fixed your bike, the whisk, and brought nothing but good luck to the bakery.

“I don’t think I’m quite at that level yet but I’m close.”

The only thing John had broken was the pattern of isolation you’d brought upon yourself. You hadn’t even noticed it. Maybe John had seen it because he felt it too. Maybe you could fix each other.

“He does smell bloody amazing, though Glad,” you said, too lost in thought to be embarrassed. “And he looked so tiny sitting on my sofa, all wrapped up in blankets and- And he fixed our whisk!”

You patted the box John had handed you. You were still cradling it in your arms like an idiot.

His hands had been so big as they brushed yours. He still smelt like your shampoo and soap, his pretty hair all fluffy and unruly.

His narrow little body had made him look so small in your clothes. You couldn’t stop thinking about how angular John’s upper arms were as he fidgeted with his curls, how his open and relaxed expression made him look so drowsy and malleable.

Your grip tightened on the cardboard box.

“I knew I liked that boy.”

Mickey took the box from you, giving it a small, triumphant shake for good measure, like he’d won the Premier League.

“Give ‘im a kiss from me next time you see ‘im.”

You ignored him and tried to get on with some work, but Gladys was still annoyingly interested.

“Have you kissed him?” she asked, looking hopeful.

You sighed.

“No, not yet. It’s gettin’ ridiculous. I just wanna shove him up against the wall every time I see him.”

Gladys seemed to approve.

“So long as you don’t do it in the kitchen. We’ve got enough problems without the Food Safety lot shuttin’ us down.”

She finally bustled off to make herself look busy in the office, leaving behind a whirl of sickly sweet perfume.

Again, you thought about John, how nice it had been to see him wearing your clothes, smelling like your shampoo, looking so comfortable in your home, it looked like you’d known each other for years, not months. You hoped he’d call soon.

The bakery door opened. You straightened out your expression, trying to put away thoughts of pinning John down on that sofa and kissing him everywhere you could reach. At least, for now.

The mask you put on for customers slipped the moment you saw who was walking up to the counter.

“Speakin’ of problems.”

You glanced at Mickey but he was too busy gazing devotedly at the whisk John had fixed. He would be no help for a while.

Resigning yourself to the situation, you sighed, and went to deal with your least favourite customer.

Alastair brightened as you approached, though there was no light in his expression. He smiled but without any sign of warmth, and as you got closer, Alastair drew himself up to his full height, whether subconsciously or not, and looked down at you with practised ease.

“Cup of tea, love, when you’ve got a minute,” he said, accompanying his request with a spine-chilling wink. “How’s things this morning?”

You set his cup down on the counter with more force than necessary.

“They’re fine.”

“It’s been lovely seeing the place busy. Gladys has a nice little business here, doesn’t she?”

“Yep.”

You were about to turn your back and return to the safety of the kitchen, when Alastair placed his hand over yours.

“You know, I’m not a bad guy.”

Alastair’s touch alone was enough to make you shudder. His nails were too clean and his skin was pale and smooth, like his hands had never seen a hard day's work.

You wanted to snatch your hand back but a voice in your head sternly told you not to give him the satisfaction. Instead you narrowed your eyes and held your ground.

“You really believe that, don’t you.”

He had the audacity to feign innocence.

Your hand was beginning to feel clammy under his.

“I don’t know what I ever did to upset you-”

“You don’t upset me, Alastair. I hate you.”

“Oh, beg pardon.”

He finally retracted his hand. You resisted the urge to wipe away the feeling of him on your trousers.

Alastair breathed a disappointed and aggravatingly paternal sort of sigh, as if he was being completely reasonable and you were being unnecessarily antagonistic. It was enough to set your teeth on edge. You almost threw the kettle at him but held back, for Gladys’ sake.

“You’ve never liked me. I often wonder why that is. I’m not doing anything wrong, am I? Have I actually ever given you a reason to hate me?”

Annoyed, you realised he might be onto something. If Gladys liked him, he couldn’t be all bad. And Alastair did try, tried to talk to you, to Mickey. He even stayed and helped clear up tables sometimes, nothing that would ever threaten his neatly pressed suits, but he tried.

Perhaps you had been too hasty to decide to dislike him. Perhaps you should just try and be happy for Gladys, after everything she’d done for you.

Something, not quite an apology, but perhaps a wafer-thin kind word, sat on the tip of your tongue. But you hesitated, whether out of embarrassment or uncertainty, you couldn’t say, but you were glad you did, as Alastair’s next words made your stomach lurch.

“If it’s because I’m seeing your mum, you really have nothing to worry about. I’m going to take good care of her.”

You stared. You weren’t sure for how long but it felt like a year. You were just so stunned, the cogs of your brain felt like they were clogged up with chewing gum.

“You think Gladys is my mum?” you said slowly.

“I…”

Alastair, to his credit, had the decency to look sheepish.

“You think Gladys is my mother?”

“No?”

“What do you- You think Mickey is my grandad?”

Alastair threw his hands in the air, as if you were being completely unreasonable.

“I just assumed!”

“You didn’t ask?” You spluttered, hardly able to process what this meant. “Do you know anything about Gladys?”

“Of course, I do! I care about her very much!”

“But you don’t know I’m not her daughter?”

Incredulity gave way to anger, anger to seething rage. You snatched back the tea you’d poured for him and dumped it in the sink, then turned and waved the empty mug at him.

“You don’t know her. That’s why I hate you, Alastair. You don’t know her, you don’t know us, you don’t know the shop. You don’t know anything. Do you even know why we’re called 64 Oslo Square?”

Alastair glanced either side of him, like he was conferring with his teammates on University Challenge.

“You’re… Half Norwegian?”

Unamused, you levelled him with a hard stare.

“Get out of my shop.”

To your surprise, Alastair rose slowly to his feet. His long fingers dragged along the counter as if he had all the time in the world, his expression aggravatingly nonplussed. Then he smirked.

“It’s not yours, though, is it?” he said.

Your chest felt like it could cave in.

Alastair gave you one last awful smile then dropped a few coppers onto the counter, adding insult to injury.

“Oh, by the way, was that your new delivery boy I saw leaving? He was here nice and early.” Alastair raised his eyebrows. “Perk of the job, I suppose.”

You were grateful for the counter between you. It was all that stopped you swinging for him.

You wanted to fight back, to yell and spit and give him all the venom you could muster, but for some reason, the mention of John felt like a slap to the face and all you could do was watch Alastair walk away.

It was only when the door closed behind him that you finally let out a long breath. Hands balled into fists, you tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter what he thought, Alastair didn’t matter at all, he was no one. But somehow he’d managed to needle out all your insecurities with cruel accuracy.

Tears of shame and anger pricked in the corners of your eyes.

He was right. This wasn’t your bakery, it never had been and wouldn’t be for a long time. What did you have if not this place? What would you be if you weren’t this? Nothing. And no one.

The phone clanged in the kitchen. You barely noticed it at first. By the fourth ring, you shook yourself and grabbed it from the wall.

Angry at yourself for letting Alastair get to you, furious with him for coming into your home and talking to you like that, and annoyed at Mickey for never picking up the phone, you barked a not-so-friendly greeting down the line.

“No wonder they prefer you working in the kitchen if that’s how you treat your customers.”

At the sound of John’s voice, you immediately felt yourself relax. You loosened your grip on the telephone, your shoulders sinking.

“Hi, New Boy,” You winced at how eager you sounded, but it really was wonderful to hear from him. “You made it then.”

“All in one piece, just about.”

“Three rings, I said.”

“Couldn’t help it, I missed you.”

You rested your forehead against the wall and closed your eyes. The metal was cool against your skin, still flushed with anger.

You heard John give a shy laugh, the way he always did when he’d given away more than he’d meant to, and smiled.

“Thanks again, for everything,” he said, changing the subject quickly.

“Don’ worry about it. You can turn up on my doorstep anytime. There’ll always be a cuppa waitin’ for you at mine.”

“Well, hopefully nothing that dramatic happens again anytime soon but that sounds nice. You make a really good cuppa.”

You felt yourself preen at the compliment and hated yourself for it.

“You gonna get some more kip?”

“Can’t,” John grunted. “Got class in an hour.”

“Did you sleep okay last night? Was worried the sofa would do your back in.”

“No, no, it was fine. But I…”

When he didn’t say anything, you moved the phone away from your ear and looked at it quizzically. You tapped the speaker and heard its tinny response. No, you hadn’t lost him.

You quickly pressed the phone back to your ear when you heard John’s voice again, faint from a distance.

“I kept thinking… Kept thinking about what you said. About sharing the bed? Kept me up half the night.”

Your chest squeezed, shocked and excited and nervous all at the same time.

“Why’s that?” you asked, even though you knew the answer already.

“Kept thinking about getting up and…”

You heard John shift at the other end of the line. You could close your eyes and picture him, leaning against the wall beside the payphone outside his digs, his free hand coiling the wire around his fingers again and again, around and around. He’d have his eyes fixed on the floor, his mouth firmly drawn, but his forehead would be furrowed, focused and sure.

“I did, to be honest. Got up a few times. Got as far as your door once.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“What?”

He wasn’t letting you get away with it. If he was going to bare his heart, you would have to do the same.

“Come in,” you urged, hardly believing you were even having this conversation.

John went quiet again. You worried you’d pushed him past his limit, but then he said,

“Too scared, I suppose. And I didn’t wanna wake you. Not after everything you’d done for me. I just laid there and thought about how the clothes you leant me smelt like you. And I thought about the things we talked about. And about dancing. And…” John paused again. “And about you sitting in my lap.”

It was your turn to go quiet, though not because of any trepidation or shyness, but because of a sudden rush of giddiness, a wobbly sort of feeling in your chest that made you feel silly and flustered and hot under the collar. It wasn’t a feeling you were used to. You couldn’t remember the last time someone had flirted with you.

“I can’t wait to see your best moves,” you said, bravely soldiering on while visions of sitting in John’s lap again waltzed through your head. “I bet you can move those hips like nobody’s business.”

His laughter made your cheeks burn.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Yes. Yes, you would. Very much.

“I didn’t sleep much either,” you admitted. “Kept waiting for you to knock on the door.”

“You wanted me to?”

“I…”

You had stared at the door all night, heart racing at the thought of what it would mean for you, for your life, if he knocked, and yet hoping and wishing he would anyway.

You’d imagined helping John out of his shirt so that you could trace your fingertips down his neck, his chest, to his stomach, still somewhat concave despite your best efforts, and then lower still. You thought about his eyes on you in the half-light of dusk, watching you like he always did, taking his cues from you.

Did his blush reach all the way down to his chest? Did he have anymore little birthmarks? Scars from his childhood? Where would his hands instinctively land if you pressed into him, your face? Your waist? Your hips? What would it sound like when he groaned your name?

John underneath you, looking up at you with those big grey-green eyes. John’s bass-roughened fingertips running over your skin, his mouth everywhere, his soft hair between your fingers, and all the while he’d be moaning and rutting his hips up into yours, begging you to touch him. And when you finally did…

You had to clear your throat before you spoke again. Your wandering thoughts had made your vision go hazy.

“I was hoping you would.” You shrugged, even though no one was around to see it. “Shame. Nevermind.”

“I suppose I’ll just have to be braver next time, then.”

“I s’pose you will.”

“That seems to be a running theme with you.”

Mickey stepped into view, looking at you curiously.

“Who is it?” he mouthed, shaking his thumb and little finger beside his head in the shape of the telephone.

You turned away from him, pressing the phone tighter against your ear. You couldn’t miss a word of this.

“What does?”

“I dunno. I dunno, really. Just thinking about all the times I wish I’d been braver with you.”

“It happens a lot, then?” you asked, realising you had the same problem.

“Everytime I see you.”

His bluntness was refreshing. John was always candid and direct, even when he was obviously feeling painfully shy. His voice was sure and steady, even through the crackling handset. You liked that about him. Very few people were so honest, so plain-spoken. You trusted John to know exactly what to say and exactly when to say it.

You could’ve stayed there forever, flirting with the cute boy whose only thought, when he was scared and alone and hurt, was of you. But Mickey had started to tap his wrist emphatically. You glanced towards the front door. There was already a queue forming outside.

“Mickey’s waving at me. I have to go.”

John huffed, disappointed. You couldn’t help but agree.

“Have a good day, Captain,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “And thanks again.”

“Anytime, New Boy. I’ll always be there to slay your dragons.”

“My hero.”

John paused, like he was looking for something else to add, an excuse to keep you on the line for just a minute more. You found yourself hoping he was successful, but eventually, he came up empty-handed

“Thanks, love,” he said, drawing out the endearment’s syllables, emphatic and unmistakably purposeful. “Have a good day.”

“You too. Bye, love.”

You heard John exhale sharply, clearly pleased you’d returned the favour. You couldn’t recall ever wanting to kiss someone more.

It seemed neither of you wanted to be the first to hang up. Slowly, regrettably, you came to a silent agreement, and after another quiet goodbye, you both set the handset down with a dull clunk. Disconnected.

You stared at the phone, processing all the information John had given you. It was an odd sort of feeling, to know that someone you wanted so badly wanted you just as much in return.

A customer rapped their knuckles against the door, an incredibly rude gesture considering you were busy fantasising about bending the delivery boy over the counter.

In a move you hoped no one noticed, you brushed your fingers against the telephone as if it were John’s hand, then went to start your day, your mind whirring as you realised you had already decided you were definitely going to kiss John the next time you saw him.

#john deacon #queen #john deacon x reader #john deacon reader #john deacon fic

[scuderlia]

ty to the lovely @supercollide for the tag

are you named after anyone? i'm named after a saint and a song

when was the last time you cried? today lmao. i cry a lot i find it very cathartic, and it usually makes me feel better.

do you have kids? nope

what sports do you play/have you played? gymnastics, volleyball, basketball, badminton (i sucked), american football (until i learned about CTE) and then flag football, shot put / discus / javelin, rowing (for one summer), and boxing

do you use sarcasm? i would never

what is the first thing you notice about people? eyes, or like, teeth

what is your eye colour? blue with yellow central heterochromia, but they just look green.

scary movies or happy endings? scary movies!

any talents? i can sing, play [waves hand] a few instruments, and i'm really good at trivia and retaining information. also coming up with cat puns.

where were you born? western canada (in a blowup pool in the living room... i was a homebirth)

what are your hobbies? music, writing, dj-ing / radio, hiking, skateboarding, and i build furniture for fun lmao

do you have any pets? i have a standard poodle

how tall are you? 180cm

favourite subject at school? i really loved chemistry, but all the sciences honestly. and i got a perfect grade in every social studies class i took from the seventh grade onwards. also art... obvi.

dream job? i don't dream of labour, but i'm studying architecture and plan (hope) to go into a design / bio-design field.

~ i tag: the girl reading this (pls do it if you'd like)

#tag game

[theculturedmarxist]

And then the war began. It turned out that Charap and his co-author were right about Western weapons and deterrence—the Russian Army went in despite the Javelins and Stingers that had been sent to Ukraine by NATO countries—but wrong about their military utility. The Russian Army used low-flying helicopters, vulnerable to Stinger fire, and sent armored vehicles, in a juicy column, straight down a main road toward Kyiv, where they were destroyed. Subsequent studies have pointed to Russian carelessness, timely U.S. intelligence, and, above all, Ukrainian mobility and courage as the prime factors in the debacle of the war’s first weeks for Russia. But the weapons helped.

Wait, hold on. That didn't happen. Right? I remember when that happened, and I remember what happened. Don't I? Fuck.

The Sun says that Ukraine destroyed it with drones, in the headline anyway. In the actual article they only claim to have destroyed a couple at the front which stopped the column, but that sounds like bullshit to me because no one else reported it and the accompanying image obviously isn't of the fucking convoy.

CNN says that what stopped the convoy was mechanical failures and lack of fuel/supplies.

A few days later, they apparently just broke up and left. That's the conclusion on the wikipedia page as well.

So no, I'm not crazy. I remember because it was a massive fuckup on the part of Ukraine that there was this massive stationary column just sitting on the road for days and they weren't able to do anything about it.

Fucking hell.

#ukraine conflict #propaganda #gaslighting

[mariacallous]

When I spoke to Ekateryna Derkach over a videoconference call on May 25, she looked bleary-eyed. The night before, according to Ukraine’s Air Force, Russian forces had launched 36 Iranian-designed Shahed drones toward key infrastructure and military targets in western regions of the country. In their apartment roughly 15 miles outside Kyiv, roused by the off-and-on whine of air raid alarms through the night, Ekateryna, her husband, Andrey, and her 6 and 12-year-old boys took cover in a hallway corridor and in the bathroom.

Russia’s aerial bombardments of Ukraine’s cities have left people in a state of constant high alert. “We cannot sleep at night, we are all very tired,” says Derkach, a 36-year-old press manager for a US-based IT company with an R&D office in Kyiv. “They start these missiles at 12 o'clock, [or] at three o'clock, when it's really hard.” But thankfully casualties from these attacks are increasingly rare, at least in Kyiv, which sits under a defensive umbrella of anti-aircraft systems, including US-made Patriot missile batteries, which in May were credited with shooting down 13 Kinzhal hypersonic missiles, some of the most sophisticated weapons in Russia’s arsenal.

But that air defense—and other core elements of Ukraine’s war effort—rely on shrinking US and NATO supplies of weapons. In the southeast, the Ukrainian armed forces have begun their long-awaited counteroffensive, expending huge quantities of matériel—laser-guided rockets, artillery shells, howitzer ammunition, and of course, drones, which are in some ways the defining weapon of the conflict. The war’s demands have strained the country’s supply chain and those of US and European allies. Stockpiles of rockets and missiles and the parts needed to build them—from titanium castings, ball bearings, and explosives for ammunition to solid rocket motors, ruggedized microchips, integrated circuits, and optical sensors—are reaching dangerously low levels. The US has already stopped transferring Javelins, the long-range, portable anti-tank missiles pivotal to stopping Russia’s offensive early in the conflict.

“We’re at the point, where, with some things like artillery, if we wanted to give the Ukranians more, we’d have to take them away from some of our units of the National Guard,” says Marc Cancian, a senior adviser at the Center for Strategic and International Studies think tank. “We’re already at the point where [US defense officials] are not comfortable. The question is whether they’re getting even more uncomfortable.”

The war in Ukraine, in short, has exposed the challenges of keeping a modern army supplied in a prolonged conflict, and it has prompted calls for the US to rethink the funding and structure of its military supply chains, which have long relied on a small number of enormous manufacturers, century-old factories, and Cold War–era thinking. The future of the military-industrial complex may be far more decentralized, several military analysts say, with small shops, tech startups, and mom-and-pop manufacturers feeding into the defense base. It is, in many ways, a model that resembles Ukraine’s own defense industry, which has by necessity become a small-scale, hyper-flexible one, with drones and other devices being designed and built, often on the fly, in workshops and garages.

The United States has allocated more than $48 billion in supplemental appropriations for security assistance for Ukraine since the war began in February 2022. On top of that, as reported in The New York Times, the recently approved $858 billion national military budget includes a 55 percent jump in Army funding to buy missiles, a 47 percent increase in the Navy’s weapons purchases, and expanded authorization for the Defense Department to make multiyear spending commitments.

Typically, this money would be funneled primarily to so-called prime manufacturers, who are attractive to the Defense Logistics Agency, the Defense Department’s procurement arm, because they have existing relationships with suppliers and can provide a one-stop shop for order fulfillment, says Bryan Rudgers, director of government and business development at Jamaica Bearings Group, a New York-based stocking and distribution company licensed to sell parts—seals, gaskets, bearings, motors, gyroscopes—to the US government on behalf of larger aerospace companies like Eaton Corporation and Meggitt.

In the military-industrial food chain, Jamaica Bearings Group is a mid-level player, largely in the inventory and replenishment business. When fighter jets need to get repaired or retooled, with tires, wheel bearings, or other broken systems, it supplies the parts as the “sole source partner” for larger companies, who use them to produce things like hydraulic systems and sensors, which then often feed even larger manufacturers of major weapons platforms, say, F-15s.

Since most munitions being sent to Ukraine from the US are being drawn down from existing stocks, Jamaica Bearings Group is seeing an uptick in order requests. But these orders are haphazard and hard to predict, Rudgers says, making it risky for small manufacturers to hire or invest in new facilities. “They're issuing awards to companies like ours to start replenishing the wares that they have depleted. But they’re trying to do it to fill today’s needs, and not looking at tomorrow's needs,” Rudgers said.

Some factories, like the Scranton Army Ammunition Plant, one of several that produce the US Army’s 155-millimeter artillery rounds, have gone into overdrive, ramping up production of 155-mm artillery shells from 14,000 a month to more than 20,000 a month, with plans to go to 70,000 a month by 2025, Jeff Jurgensen, a spokesperson for the Pentagon, wrote by email.

But sources at smaller production facilities, including a foundry in Montreal, which produces small batches of custom aluminum parts for Javelin missiles, claim the war has had little appreciable effect on their businesses. Though the company is included in a subcontracting deal for the fulfillment of a joint $16.5 million Defense Department Javelin production contract awarded to Lockheed Martin and Raytheon in 2019, taking on new work would be difficult.

“Foundry work is not that easy to get up and running and expand,” as one employee of the company, who spoke on condition of anonymity, says, citing worker shortages as a lingering problem. “You could add a second shift, weekend or overtime work, but to suddenly come into a new multimillion-dollar building … that wouldn’t be done unless there was a huge amount of work.”

The promise of on-time delivery is table stakes in a cutthroat industry in which prime contractors have the power to make or break deals. Training new engineers or technicians, or shifting positions to boost capacity for long-tail orders could threaten the timelines of existing contracts. Plus, a manually intensive “lost wax” casting method, in which molten metal is poured into molds, is done in small batches of a few parts a day and requires exacting dimensional specificity. Unlike at an automotive factory capable of mass production, “every single part has to be individually made,” the employee says.

A lot of equipment being sent to Ukraine isn’t, strictly speaking, military gear, and is being produced by smaller businesses outside of traditional US and European acquisition channels. MacroFab, a Texas-based cloud manufacturing company linked to a network of roughly 100 factories in the US and Mexico, is “seeing a huge demand for consumer tech, like satellite communications tools and machine vision being adopted for military use,” says CEO Misha Govshteyn. “We don’t always know where products we build go, but our customers tell us privately we know these products are headed for special forces in Ukraine.”

At least a dozen companies have worked with MacroFab to ruggedize consumer-grade electronics for use by Ukrainian forces, typically by modifying digital prototypes into fabrication protocols that are sent to factories with the capacity to churn out built models quickly. Products range from circuit boards to activate the claws of drone grenade drop kits to hockey-puck-sized satellite base stations valuable to military units because they can keep communications running when cellular internet signals are jammed or spoofed, Govshteyn says.

Among the bottlenecks MacroFab is facing is in microchips, where high demand in consumer products, autos and other areas is far outstripping supply. “The constraint is coming from demand from numerous industries, but the negative impact is felt on products needed for the war in Ukraine—field programmable gate arrays, high-power field-effect transistors, and iridium receiver chips,” Govshteyn says.

To keep pace with orders, which, once finished, are often sold directly to NATO, MacroFab has hired 25 employees within the past nine months: “All this is urgent, and when they place these orders, even though they're placing them for consumer technologies, it's life and death. So they're always asking us to move faster,” Govshteyn says.

The speed and responsiveness needed for modern warfare is also why so much of defense manufacturing is happening on the fringes of the big contracts, according to Brett Velicovich, a former US Army Special Operations intelligence officer, who has brought thousands of drones into Ukraine since the start of the war.

After serving multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan and running counterrorism operations and drone strikes against terrorist leaders, Velicovich has more recently turned his attention to humanitarian work, going to Ukraine at the start of the war to extract stranded Americans and, later, helping the nonprofit humanitarian organization UkraineFriends.org evacuate and house Ukrainian refugees and deliver millions of dollars of aid—including 90 ambulances, 75,000 individual first aid kits, 50,000 wound kits, and hundreds of laptops—to civilians, many of whom serve in informal territorial defense units on the front lines.

These aid shipments are often sourced from private donors; their delivery might involve, say, packing 50 to 60 duffel bags of medical supplies on a US commercial jet to Warsaw, passing through Ukraine customs, then loading the bags on trains or rented buses and driving them to makeshift distribution warehouses. Velicovich also works through back channels to deliver drones acquired from private companies to military groups or aid organizations in “serious, pretty dangerous environments,” using open source mapping technology to track the movement of Russian forces.

Ukraine has an almost unending need for drones, which it has used to great effect on the battlefield, but which are quickly expended. The Royal United Services Institute, a London-based think tank, estimates Ukraine is losing 10,000 drones a month, largely due to Russian electronic jamming; that means they need to be shipped in, or built quickly, to sustain their impact.

Often, the need for flexibility in supplies means that systems are being purchased outside the “sausage making and voodoo” of large-scale US defense contracts, says Andrew ​​Coté, chief of staff at BRINC Drones and former deputy secretary of defense for special operations for the Defense Department. BRINC has delivered 60 glass-breaching Lemur 2 search-and-rescue drones to comb shelled urban buildings for survivors. Often, Coté says, he’s communicated directly with Ukrainian intelligence officers and military officials over Signal and WhatsApp to coordinate deliveries.

Even before Ukraine’s defenders showed the world how effective drones could be on the battlefield, the US was looking at how it could quickly adapt civilian tech for the front line. In 2020, the military’s Defense Innovation Unit selected a handful of drone companies in a competition to design an “inexpensive, rucksack portable” security and reconnaissance drone. One of those was Teal, a company later acquired by another drone manufacturer, Red Cat. The company, which was awarded a total of $2.7 million, worked with the DIU to convert commercial drones costing between $7,000 and $15,000 to meet military specifications.

Since then, Jeff Thompson, Red Cat’s CEO, says, the company has had time to source scarce parts, assemble engineering and product teams, and build out a new factory in Utah that can produce thousands of drones per month. “We are just cranking out drones right now at a great pace,” Thomson says.

Red Cat recently announced that it will fulfill a purchase order to provide 200 long-range, high-speed FPV (first-person view) drones to Ukrainian drone pilots engaged in conflict with Russia. Often operated by former Drone Racing League competitors embedded inside Ukrainian tactical units, FPV drones have been the rising star of the battlefield because of how inexpensive they are to make—some versions can be churned out for as little as $500—and their speed and agility.

Building smart, rather than big, systems, and trusting smaller, more innovative companies, might just be a way to fight wars without breaking the bank. It’s an approach for which the US may look to Ukraine for inspiration. While they still need Patriot Missiles and high-tech artillery, in underground warrens and retrofit manufacturing facilities across the country, Ukranians are using 3D printers and CNC lathe machines to weaponize consumer-grade drones with cameras and aftermarket drop kits.

“If the US, the Northrop Grummans, the Boeings, the Lockheeds of the world understood, actually, how the Ukrainians are doing this on the cheap,” Velicovich says, “they would be out of business.”