#mr Dover Mr Dover MR DOVER !!

[piovascosimo]

im dying of jealousy of the fans who were there tonight, but i hope they all had fun, because i was freaking out here from home seeing them do so many of my obscure faves.

#blur #if they had done #bone bag #i would have died #but come on #pyongyang #clover over dover #all your life #even #mr briggs #and theme for an imaginary film are favourites of mine #that was such a great surprise! #please blur do more b-sides! #do bone bag in buenos aires pls #hahah #i think it's too low energy for a festival but i want it

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Aesthetic vs Function

( Don’t forget to come see my on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord )     “Sir, I am getting several urgent dispatches from the loading area.”

Captain Morris looked up from his data pad at his communications officer.

“Is something wrong?” he asked as he stood up and walked over to their terminal station on the bridge. The officer held his hand to his headset, listening to the messages before answering his captain.

“It appears several of the Corvo soldiers are refusing to relinquish their weapons. Security got involved and the Corvo resisted; two arms men were injured.”

This perked Morris’s interest, and not in a good way. The Corvo were allies in the war effort and he had heard of their abnormal customs from other captains so he had been prepared to give them some leeway while they traveled on his ship, but it was another matter entirely when his crew were harmed.

“Mr. Dover,” Morris called out, “a word if you would.”

From the opposite side of the bridge the master-at-arms Tristan Dover strode over to his captain. He was not a tall man, but wide in frame. His broad muscled shoulders meant that in some instances aboard the ship he needed to turn himself to be able to pass through doorways.

Tristan stood at attention and saluted Morris who returned the salute in kind.

“Are you aware of the situation in loading bay…”

 The captain turned to his communications officer who quickly understood the meaning and spoke “Loading Bay 4.”

“Thank you, “the captain replied before continuing, “yes, are you aware of the situation in loading bay 4?”

“I am sir.” Travis replied crisply. “My security details passed the word along to me just now.”

“Any further details?” the captain inquired.

Travis crossed his arms. “I was told that the Corvo refused to relinquish their weapons upon entering the loading bay. When the matter was pressed and the security detail made to enforce the issue the Corvo drew their weapons and attacked them.”

“Casualties?”

Travis shook his head. “Minor wounds only.”

The captain nodded. He paced back and forth between the terminals, stopping to read strands of data or make a quick check with the monitoring officer, then returned back and pointed at the communication officer.

“Tell the security details to hold the Corvo in the loading bay until Mr. Dover arrives.”

The officer nodded and relayed the order over the com while Morris leaned in close to Travis.

“Remind our guests that this is my ship, and while they are on my ship they will follow my rules and that injuring my crew is not to be tolerated.”

Morris leaned back and was about to leave when he stopped himself and leaned back in. “I don’t mind a dirty decking, so long as it is not cluttered.”

Travis nodded at his captain and left the bridge; cracking his knuckles and flashing a smile. -----------------

It took about thirty minutes for Travis to make it to Loading Bay 4. He needed to make a quick stop at the armory to grab a few things. When he arrived he found at least a dozen security officers standing in a line separating the Corvo from the rest of the loading bay. The deck crew still went about their duties save for the occasional glance over at the commotion.

The Corvo were easy to pick out from behind the wall of security as despite having a humanoid form stood roughly seven feet tall on average. They were adorned in a mixture of combat armor and religious robes.

As Travis approached the security officers stepped aside to make a path for him. When he got to the front one of saluted.

“Good to see you sir.” They replied crisply. Travis grunted in response and stepped forward to the Corvo’s.

“I understand there has been an incident here and you have attacked our crew.” Travis began with a calm yet authoritative voice. “I am here by order of the captain to remind you that while we are allies you will follow the rules of this ship while you are onboard.”

One of the Corvo stepped forward and looked down at Travis. His shoulder guard was decorated with three blue stripes signifying that he was the leader; or at least that’s what Travis thought it meant. The only thing he generally cared about in briefings when dealing with aliens were ordinance and cultural triggers for violence.

“I am Mak’t, and I would apologize for this misunderstanding.”

He reached down and began pulling out what appeared to be a sword from a sheath. The security officers made to raise their weapons but Travis forestalled them with a wave.

“These, “ Mak’t began as he pulled the sword free, “are our Okamban blades, sacred to our people.”

As he fully withdrew the blade it burst into bright blue flames as if the very air ignited it on contact.

“It is said that so long as these blades burn the spirit of our ancestors continue to watch over us on the battlefield; and so we could not surrender them as your officers asked.”

Travis watched the flame flicker brightly and whistled in wonder. “A fancier blade I have not seen,” Travis admitted, “but I find it rather odd in this age to bring a sword to a neutron cannon fight.”

Mak’t sheathed his sword once more while shaking his head.

“Forgive me for saying, but the weapons of your people and of our enemies are inferior to our blades.” He rested a hand on the hilt and looked down at Travis, matching his cold gaze with his own. “We have been trained to block their attacks on the battlefield rendering them useless before us.”

Some of the security officers behind Travis rustled at that remark but he paid them no mind.

“Seems we’re at a bit of an impasse here then, friend.” Travis admitted. “Luckily for you the Captain has given me the authority to resolve this situation.”

He pointed to the collection of warriors standing behind Mak’t. “If you and two of your warriors can land a single blow on me with your blades then you can keep them while onboard, but if I win you will surrender them without hesitation and spend the remainder of this journey in the brig for the assault you carried out.”

Mak’t looked puzzled at this challenge. “Why would you face three of us alone?”

Travis smiled. “Thought I’d give you a fighting chance,” he said mockingly as the Corvo warriors growled in anger, “seeing that your disadvantage with weaponry is so staggering.”

Saying nothing at first, Mak’t just looked down at the tiny human before him before nodding in agreement. He made a soft clicking sound and two other Corvo warriors stepped forward, each drawing their blades while the human security officers stepped back to create a ring like circle around the parties.

“So, we’ll go on the count of three then.” Travis announced. His hands casually cradled a rifle between them as he watched the three Corvo warriors prepare themselves. Each took a different stance with the light of their flaming swords casting dozens of differing shadows about them.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

The Corvo warriors to either side of Mak’t lunged forward ready to bring down their flaming swords in an instant; screaming in their alien language as they got within three feet of Travis before he brought up his own rifle.

In a flash Travis brought up his rifle and fired at the closest warrior. The sudden attack broke the warriors forward momentum as they brought their weapon up to block the attack only to find that rather than an energy blast they were being pelted with dozens of tiny rocks.

The flaming sword blocked some of them but far too many simply went around the sword and embedded themselves into the alien’s skin causing them to scream out in pain and fall to the ground.

From the corner of his eye Travis saw a blur of motion and side stepped just in time to avoid the downward swing of the second warrior. The blade carved into the decking with a loud hissing sound before the warrior pivoted and brought the blade up for a slash at Travis’s midriff.

Pulling a knife free that had been strapped to his leg he casually flung it into the blade rather than around it. The second warrior was confused until they felt the burning hot sting of molten metal the knife had been reduced to shower his body. The armor he wore protected some of their frame but since they were not wearing a helmet a glob of red hot metal landed on the alien’s cheek giving off a stench of burning flesh.

Surprisingly the warrior rallied themselves than give into the pain only for Travis to bring up his rifle and fire another scatter shot center mass sending them balling over in pain. Travis couldn’t see but given the goop now dotted around the floor he wagered some of the rock salt just punctured one of their eyes.

With the two companions dealt with Travis turned his attention to Mak’t who had not engaged like the others when the fight began.

“You fight without honor.” Mak’t announced. “To use such trickery against true warriors is the act of a coward.”

“If I recall you said you were trained to defeat modern weapons,” Travis countered, standing between the downed Corvo warriors, “that my attacks would be rendered useless by your weapons.”

 He unceremoniously kicked one of them hard in the back drawing the ire of Mak’t as he took up a stance for the first time.

“I even gave you a three on one advantage and you still say I am being unfair.”

“Your tricks will not work on me.” Mak’t declared.

Travis didn’t even bother to respond as he casually pulled a canister from a harness across his chest and threw it directly at Mak’t’s feet. Mak’t jumped backwards expecting further trickery rather than attempting to deflect it. To his surprise the canister did indeed not explode but rather began shooting out large volumes of a thick white gas.

The gas began to billow out more and more until the gathered ring of spectators was engulfed by it. Mak’t looked up from the canister just in time to see Travis donning a strange mask over his eyes and mouth.

It was only then that Mak’t heard coughing and gasping from his fellow Corvo warriors behind him and realized the gas must be some form of airborne weapon. He tightly clenched his mouth shut and carefully stepped forward to meet Travis in final combat. His breathing control would allow him at least ten minutes before he needed to inhale again giving him more than enou-

Mak’t made it barely three steps before his eyes began burning. They felt as if hot daggers were being shoved into them and twisted by the most merciless tormentor. This sudden influx of pain broke Mak’t’s concentration and he gasped out for air. No sooner had he taken his first breath did his lungs begin to share the burning sensation his eyes did, forcing the warrior to his knees as his hands feebly wiped his eyes again and again.

Through the blurry sight left to him he watched as Travis walked through the white cloud and stood over him. The human looked down at him and Mak’t could only imagine the look of smug satisfaction he must have held to see him brought so low.

Instead of gloating or boasting about how their weapons weren’t as inferior as Mak’t had declared, he brought down his fist as hard as he could against the alien’s face sending him straight to the floor.

“I think we count this as my win, yeah?” Travis asked the now unconscious Mak’t. He waved over the rest of the security officers who had likewise donned gas masks of their own and began the process of collecting the decorative swords from their guests before ushering them down to the med bay and finally their new home in the brig.

#humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #humans are weird #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #rock salt #space swords

[nikethestatue]

Chapter 1

London, England

1890

Elain Archeron

London’s Victoria Station greeted its new visitor with a cacophony of noise, chaos and excitement. Clutching the instructions and the address that she received from the stern and cold Mrs. Amren, who was the organiser of this wild scheme, Elain Archeron attempted to follow the directions inside the clamour of the train station, though it was proving to be difficult.

She’s never been to London before and now, the place terrified her. She was pushed and shoved without consideration for her gentler sex, those around her were shrieking, yelling, and shouting something all the time. There were people, whole families, whose skin tones were different from her own, whose fashions and outfits were odd and contradictory. There were people of different religions as well–she could tell Jews and Hindus and Muslims. She was educated and well-read, so she was not surprised to see those who came from Africa, and India, or even the Chinese, and scarf-clad women from Poland, or maybe Russia–but seeing them all in the flesh was overwhelming. She never imagined that people of so many various colours, sizes and shapes existed. 

She continued her walk through the station, jerked off her feet by the blaring claxons from the train, clutching her travel satchel close to her chest. It had her only possessions inside–her two dresses, her unmentionables, stockings, another pair of boots, hair ribbons and pins, her spare corset, and toiletries. 

Her walk was interrupted constantly, men offering rides and calling out “Miss! Miss!” to her. But she kept her eyes down and shouldered her way to the massive doors of the station. 

She must be mad.

Mad.

It had to be that!

To be doing this, she couldn’t be normal.

She was here, in London of all places, alone, to meet with some mysterious man.

What if he was Jack the Ripper?

She’s read the papers–Jack the Ripper was rampaging on the streets of Whitechapel and what if Mrs. Amren was his co-conspirator? What if she lured unsuspecting country girls to London, and into the clutches of Jack the Ripper?

Elain’s read and enjoyed the tales of Sherlock Holmes, that wiley intriguing detective, who solved crimes–but if she thought about it more, why was there so much crime in London? People stole and abused and murdered others. It was horrifying.

Where she was from, St. Margaret’s Bay, the biggest crime last year was Ollie Oswald stealing Mr. Clarence’s goat, and Maggie May becoming pregnant out of wedlock. That thought sobered her right up, though still, Maggie’s out-of-wedlock babe was hardly the same thing as a mad serial killer running around the streets of London and slaughtering women of ill repute.

Elain finally existed the station and stood on the street, all her senses assaulted by even more noise, the stench of manure, hordes of jostling people who were all rushing somewhere, paper boys who were announcing the latest headlines – another Ripper murder, apparently – vendors peddling food and all sorts of items, handsome soldiers, and every spoken language imaginable. Elain recognised everything from French and Italian, to some dialects that she was unfamiliar with, Slavic, German and even Scandinavian speech. She had a knack for languages, and having spent time in Dover, with her father’s ships, she’d seen sailors, merchants and visitors from every part of the world. Stupidly, she thought that Dover was a busy city. It had nothing on this monstrosity.

She walked over to where the cabs were parked awaiting passengers.

“Good mornin’ Miss, in need of a ride?” one of the drivers asked.

“Yes, this is the address,” she handed him the paper that Mrs. Amren had given her, which had the address and all the instructions. Mrs. Amren had also given her ten pounds, which was more money than Elain’s seen in a long, long time.

She could buy so much for ten pounds! Dresses and a pair of shoes, meat pies, maybe even a pastry, tea, lodging…Her whole family survived on four-five pounds a month, and here she was, with ten pounds, six shillings and 3 pence in her pocket. Mrs. Amren told her that the tenner had come from the gentleman who took care of her travel accommodations and spending money.

Once she was situated in the carriage, they took off,  the driver navigating the streets and the chaos of other cabs and pedestrians with expert precisions. Elain knew that they were going to Westminster, and she wished to see the cathedral, and the abbey, but she did not, though she was pleased that they’d be staying far away from Whitechapel.

“Dog and Hound, Miss,” the driver announced and then opened the door for her.

It was a public house and also offered lodgings and once Elain exited the cab, she thought that it looked presentable and clean. The facade of the building was well-kept, brick, with garlands of wisteria wrapping around the lower part of the building and the very large bay window. Once she paid for the ride, she walked inside–she’s been to public houses and taverns before–but this one looked very well kept, with a beautiful walnut bar, all sorts of hunting pictures and engravings on the walls, and burgundy and green seats. There were not many patrons milling around, but it was also only 10:30 am. 

Elain approached the proprietor, just like Mrs. Amren told her to do and said, “Good morning. I am here to see Mr. Arthur Johnson.”

The man straightened at the mention of the name, and then quickly and accommodatingly told her, “Follow me, Miss.”

“Where are we going?” Elain whispered, baulking at the invitation.

“Mr. Johnson is waiting for you Miss. My understanding is that he wished to have a conversation with you in private.”

Elain’s never been with a man in private, let alone in an unfamiliar city, but what choice did she have? She already felt like she signed her life away, when she was meeting with Mrs. Amren. The woman had a heap of papers and documents for Elain to sign, mostly about confidentiality and non-disclosure of any information that she was to learn. There were financial papers as well, but Mrs. Amren told her that they would be finalised should the contract be signed. 

They stopped at one of the doors and the proprietor knocked. A man’s voice answered promptly.

“Enter.”

“You may proceed, Miss,” he told Elain and then stepped aside.

This is where I die, was her only thought. 

It was definitely Jack the Ripper. There have been whispers that he came from the upper classes, maybe even nobility, and she was going to meet him right now and he was going to skin her alive. And then her body would be baked into meat pies, just like Sweeney Todd did it. They said that the mad barber did not exist, but Elain begged to differ. Stories like that didn’t just happen to be written due to someone’s fevered imagination. He must have existed.

So she would be abused, killed and then will end up in a pie.

-

He sat in a wingback chair.

That’s all she saw when she finally dared to enter the room. The man. The gentleman.

A very tall man by the looks of it, considering how far his long legs stretched. He was dressed in all black, elegantly, in a way Elain wasn’t used to seeing men dressed on a Thursday morning. His jacket was stylishly tailored and his boots were perfectly polished. However, it was the man’s face that gave Elain pause. He was handsome to an unusual degree, the panes of his face sharp and sensual at once. Large, slightly slanted eyes of a peculiar colour regarded her with detachment and mild scrutiny. When he licked his full lower lip, Elain couldn't help but notice the movement and she balled her hands at her sides, suddenly feeling tense and hot. He had the look of a foreigner about him–dark bronze skin, thick black hair cut unusually long on top, and those strange light hazel eyes.

“Elain Archeron, I presume,” he asked at last, and his voice was deep, low and just as sensual as the rest of him. Like a whisper of black silk in the wind. The accent was unfailingly upper crust. 

“I am, my lord,” she confirmed and curtsied.

“Please sit,” he gestured to the sofa across from his chair.

She did as she was told and noticed that he held a photograph of her in his fingers. His hands were large, with long, strong fingers, but surprisingly, the hands were covered in thick scars–burn scars from what Elain could gauge. Mrs. Amren said that the photograph was a requirement and Elain was forced to travel to Dover to have her photograph taken. It was expensive, and she needed to sit in the same position, unmoving and silent, for almost seven minutes. In the end, she didn’t even think that the photograph looked like her. But following her handing the photograph off to Mrs. Amren, she received an invitation to travel to London–-she supposed that it did the trick.

“How was your journey?” he asked politely.

“Very nice, thank you, my lord.”

“I wished to have our conversation first, if you don’t mind, and then you may rest.”

“Of course,” she agreed. Her fingers were shaking and she attempted to hide them in the folds of her skirt, though she was sure that he noticed it.

His tone was light when he assured her, “there is no need to be nervous. I believe we ought to have a talk first and you aren’t obligated to anything, and neither am I.”

She nodded and allowed him to talk, because it was just easier. Her throat was tight and her mouth dry. Her dress felt itchy against her skin and the collar borderline was suffocating. 

He stood up and she had to crane her neck to take in his full height–he was probably six and a half feet tall, and when he moved to pour water into a glass, she definitely noticed how thickly muscled his arms and shoulders were, and how slender he was otherwise, trim and lean and strong. He handed her the glass and then leaned against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and drumming his fingers on the surface.

“I am Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris,” he announced simply. 

Elain’s hand stopped mid-way to her lips, as she stared at him wordlessly.

She’d assumed that he would be a nobleman, perhaps a baron, maybe a count, but a duke? The Velaris family was well-known: it was said that they came to Britain all the way back with William the Conqueror. It couldn’t possibly be the same Velaris? Could it?

“I am sorry, my lord,” Elain said softly. “You are the Duke of Velaris?”

He nodded, “the very same”.

“But…” she bit her lip, “I was under the impression that you were married, my lord? To Lady Morrigan?”

The lovely Lady Morrigan, Countess of Hewn, was renowned for her beauty. Elain had seen her in newspapers and other publications. The Velaris-Hewn nuptials was the society wedding of the year just a couple of years back. 

“I am,” he confirmed calmly. “And since you are bound by our confidentiality agreement, I will disclose that my lady wife had suffered a grave incident last year. She was thrown by her horse, and had broken her spine. Unfortunately, she suffered a brain bleed from her injuries as well. She is my wife and will remain so until she or I die. But alas, she is bed-bound and without sense or consciousness. Now, you must understand that her condition is not known to anyone, other than my most trusted servants and her nurses. It must remain so until I produce an heir. The child must be mine, and upon the birth, we shall announce that Lady Morrigan suffered compilation in labour.”

Elain sighed and murmured, “I am sorry, my lord. For you and your lady wife. It is truly tragic and I am…just sorry.”

He cocked his head and regarded her quietly for a while.

She’d only known him for about fifteen minutes, but she could already see how observant he was, methodical even. There was a calmness about him, an almost predatory stillness, and she sensed that he dwelled in some dark places inside his head. Perhaps it was the sorrow  resulting from his wife’s condition, or maybe something in his past, but this was a man of secrets and unanswered questions.

“May I ask some questions of you?” he inquired at last.

Elain sipped her water and nodded once.

He didn't use any props, not notes or correspondence, when he said,

“Elain Archeron, twenty-one years old, the middle of three sisters. Tell me, why are you, of all people, responded to my advertisement?”

“We need the money, my lord,” she admitted plainly. 

“There are other ways to get money,” he noted, his dark brow raised. “You are a maid of gentle breeding based on your family’s history–a merchant father, a mother who was from a well-to-do family. Surely you can think of other ways to…” he stopped and scrubbed his scarred hand over his chin, before continuing, “tell me, why?”

“My father has lost his fortune,” Elain explained, her voice quiet. “My younger sister has a disease of the stomach that makes her vomit and she is frail and weak. She needs medicines, which we cannot afford. My older sister is a proud woman and…” her voice trailed. How could she explain Nesta? She couldn’t. Nesta was smart, even cunning, but she was better suited for running an estate or even a business. Haughty, proud and demanding is what Nesta was. But she was not one for sacrifices. “And that leaves me. I…well, I answered the advertisement in The Times, and was contacted by Mrs. Amren. We met and discussed the offer…and,” she swallowed, “I am interested.”

“What do you understand of the offer and the proposal?” he asked seriously.

She tugged on her skirt and peered down, looking at the floor. 

Quietly, she answered,

“A gentleman requires the services of a female to produce a child, an heir. The gentleman is willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the child and…well, would pay all throughout the pregnancy…That is all.”

He sighed and turned, his movements measured and languid, as he walked to the window and clasped his hands behind his back, as he looked out on the busy Vincent Street.

“I fear, Miss Archeron, that you are underestimating the commitment that this ordeal would require of you,” he said, almost to himself.

Elain’s heart dropped.

He wasn’t interested.

He did ot find her comely or appealing or satisfactory. Perhaps he liked her photograph, but seeing her in person made him change his mind.

Ten thousand pounds was an astronomical amount of money.

It was enormous. At the height of their success, the Archeron family wealth was estimated at about fifteen thousand pounds, which made Elain and her sisters very appealing on the marriage market. To have a large portion of that fortune come back to them would guarantee a bright future for all–they could all marry well, they could cure Feyre’s illness, they could operate on their father’s mangled leg and send him to Italy or France to recuperate. They could have fine homes and wardrobes and servants. 

Currently, they existed on about four pounds a month, for the four of them. If they were lucky. 

“I don’t think that I am, my lord,” Elain found it in herself to answer boldly and firmly. “I understand what is required.”

“You understand that you must lie with me,” he was still not looking at her, and therefore couldn’t see her flaming cheeks, “and have relations with me as if I were your husband. You would be required to do so at my beckoning and pleasure, for at least six months,”

“What happens after six months?” she interrupted him, confused.

He turned his head and explained,

“I am willing to allot six months for the conception to take place. Children are usually not made in a day…it may take time, and I realise that. I feel that six months is an adequate amount of time for you to conceive. If you don’t, then we will part ways, since clearly we would not be compatible enough to create a child together.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek and then asked,

“And if I don't…conceive that is? What happens then?”

He shrugged,

“You will be paid five hundred pounds for your troubles and you will leave. Naturally, you will be bound by the non-disclosure agreement for the rest of your life. That extends to me as well, Miss Archeron. If we proceed with this…arrangement…whatever the outcome is, your name will not be mentioned or besmirched, so that you have a chance at a successful marriage with a man of your choosing.”

“I appreciate that, my lord,” she said sincerely.

He went back to the desk and gathered a stack of papers in his hands, though he did not give them to her yet. He was clearly still deciding on something, his brow furrowed. At last, he said,

“These are the financial terms of the arrangement, Miss Archeron. If we proceed, you will sign and retain a copy for yourself.

“Again, I urge you to consider everything with utmost seriousness,” he pressed. “This is not a trivial matter. Your involvement with me may last up to a year and a half. It is quite a long time for a woman of your age to dedicate to a…male. One who will not marry you in the end, and whom you shan’t see again.

“Furthermore, if there is a child, it will be wholly mine.”

A shudder ran through Elain and she suddenly became cold. When he put it like that, it did give her pause. Because in exchange for the money, she would be required to give up her baby. Theoretically she understood that–when she began corresponding with Mrs. Amren, and when they finally met, this was thoroughly discussed. But seeing this man in the flesh, even briefly imagining that there would be…coital relations involved, though Elain wasn’t quite sure precisely what it all entailed, and then there would potentially be a pregnancy, which was something that was often fraught with dangers, only to end in a painful labour, and then…the separation. Permanent separation from a baby that she’d give birth to. From the man too. Yes, he was strikingly handsome–to her great relief–but she knew that she was in danger of developing feelings for him, which he surely would never reciprocate. He had his poor wife and was devoted to her, and was only after an heir to carry his name and his legacy. Elain would be left without love, without companionship, without her babe, but with money. She supposed that she could have more children, but the idea of giving up her son or daughter seemed terrifying. Her firstborn. 

Azriel looked up at her and watched the warring emotions that danced on her face. 

“Would you like me to read out the terms?” he asked at last, his expression slightly softened, even kinder.

She swallowed and nodded.

He glanced at the first page and began reading.

“The female in the arrangement is expected to be an unmarried and unbetrothed maid, of good moral standing and a virgin. She is to be free of diseases and for the duration of the arrangement she may not be seen with a male or engage in any manner of relations with a male other than the Requestor.

She would enter into the arrangement willingly and would be required to have sexual intercourse with the Requestor at his bidding. The Requestor shall not physically hurt, slap, hit, abuse or force the female, and will not verbally insult or berate her. If the female is unwilling or unable to have sexual relations with the Requestor, she is to notify him immediately and provide an explanation as to the cause. Relations are not required from the female when she has her monthly flow. 

The female is expected to live on premises of the Requestor’s abode and accompany him upon his travels. She shall have her private room(s) at the dwellings. She is not expected to sleep with the Requestor or share his private quarters. The female is required to maintain her decorum at all times, and may not fraternise with the help. The female is not to divulge any part of the agreement to anyone, including her family. The female will not occupy a place at the servants’ quarters and will not partake in meals with them. The female will have a maid of her own to assist her with personal matters. 

Upon conception, the female is to remain at the Requestor’s home, under the care of his physicians. She is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, to ensure a successful pregnancy. She will be assisted during her labour by a midwife, a doula, nurses and physicians. Upon delivery of the child, the female will be allowed to bond and nurse the infant for up to one week (if she wishes  to do so). After one week of recovery, the child will be removed from the female’s care and presence. At that time, the arrangement would be considered fulfilled and would be terminated.

The Requestor guarantees the following payments:

£1000 for taking the female’s virginity

£50 weekly stipend, for up to six months of service

£50 weekly stipend for the duration of the pregnancy

£1000 for labour and delivery

£10,000 for the birth of a live child

All legal fees, room and board, wardrobe allowance, personal and beauty treatments, transportation, et cetera would be provided by the Requestor. 

The female may be allowed to spend Christmas with her family (up to one week), as well as one week of her choosing as a personal holiday.”

He did not ask whether she was agreeable to the contract, but simply handed it to her and said,

“Read this over and be thorough. Any questions, you should ask me.”

Elain didn't answer for a while, but he didn’t seem impatient, and wasn’t put off by the awkward silence between them. Instead, he went over to a sideboard upon which stood a decanter and some glasses and poured himself a drink of whatever it was.

She finally broke the silence and said,

“This is much more than ten thousand.”

It seemed that she took him by surprise with her comment and he looked at her with expectation.

“The contract was for ten…this is closer to twenty,” she pushed. 

“Is that a problem?” he queried.

“I just…” she blushed, “I don’t want to be unfair. I was fine with ten. Why a thousand for the virginity?”

He sat back in the wing chair and sipped his drink, before saying,

“Seems only fair. I would be taking something that doesn’t belong to me and isn’t intended for me to take. You ought to be compensated for that.”

Theoretically, what he was saying made sense to her, but it seemed so…transactional. And, of course, it was a transaction. There were no feelings involved. 

Craning his head side to side, he added after a pause,

“The pleasure is free, if that makes you feel better. I won’t be charging for it, and I won’t be paying for it either. You can enjoy it free and clear.”

If that meant to be a lighthearted comment of some sort, it didn’t land, because Elain looked at him, perplexed and said. “What pleasure?”

He chuckled softly, “Sexual pleasure, Miss Archeron.”

“There is no pleasure in relations such as those,” she argued primly.

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing into the leather and smiled at her, though the curve of his beautiful mouth was both challenging and sinister.

“And you are an expert then?” 

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she couldn’t even believe that she was discussing this with a man she didn’t know.

“I am no expert, my lord,” she told him, “but what pleasure could there be? It is an act designed to propagate the species.”

He propped his head on his fist, crossing his long, muscular legs and swaying his boot-clad foot casually. A lock of his silky black hair fell on his forehead and Elain had the insane urge to go and fix it for him. His handsomeness didn’t help. Elain had feared that the man would be old and paunchy, sweaty and balding. Why else would one need to contract for a woman to give him a child? She figured maybe he was missing limbs, or had distorted features, or perhaps some unappealing trait…but she definitely, definitely did not expect Lord Night. She had some parameters that she had set for herself in regards to the arrangement–if the gentleman seemed brutish, if his looks made her squeamish, if he had a visible disease or if his visage repelled her, she would not have gone along with the scheme. As much as she needed the money, she also knew that she wouldn’t have a child with someone cruel or unappealing. She wanted her baby to live in a loving environment and with a parent who’d want them and care for them. 

The problem was that Lord Night’s appearance quickly overrode her good sense. It wasn’t something that she ever considered–that he would be so handsome and so titled that she’d forget all her common sense and all the expectations that she had prior to meeting him.

Stumbling a bit over her own tongue, she asked at last,

“What sort of pleasure is there?”

“Ahhmm Miss Archeron,” he smiled at her, “why do you think people have lost their minds and morals through the centuries over love?”

It was an excellent question, to which Elain did not have an answer. Why indeed?

“Well, perhaps, you will have the chance to find out,” he got up and straightened his jacket.

“I do not want love, my lord,” Elain insisted brusquely. 

He nodded slowly,

“Yes, yes. I know. You need the money.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t fall in love, Miss Archeron,” he suggested.

But why did it sound like a challenge.

“Take the rest of the day to think about everything,” he told her. “These rooms are yours for the night. You may order food and drink. St. John’s Gardens are not far–should you wish to take a stroll. 

“I will call upon you tomorrow, at 10 am, and I expect an answer.”

* UK £10,000.00 in 1890 would be equivalent to £1,644,035.82 in 2023, an absolute change of £1,634,035.82 and a cumulative change of 16,340.36%.

#elriel #pro elriel #elriel fanfiction #my writing #elain archeron #azriel and elain #azriel #elain x azriel #elain #fanfic writer #the agreement #ACOTAR fanfiction #acotar fanfic

[olympeline]

My fellow multishippers, do you have a certain pairing where you’re happy to ship Character A with others, but Character B is only allowed to be with A?

That’s me with Arthur and Francis, respectively. I can ship Mr. Slutty Englishman with almost anyone (USUK, PrUK, SpUK, PortEng, etc.) but France is totally different. Unless he’s joining their Dover strait, I don’t want it. Any other relationship is just “pre-canon” for the eventual FrUK which happens later. Like sometimes I’ll ship a little Auld Alliance era ScotFra, but it’s with the knowledge they’ll eventually break up and be replaced by FrUK. Meanwhile if Arthur gets together with someone else, Francis just stays alone. Arthur finding non-French love means Francis becomes le bachelor eternal

Which is all terribly unfair to poor Francis, but the shipper’s heart wants what it wants so whaddya gonna do heh

#hetalia #fruk #aph france #aph england #hws france #hws england #my posts #multishipper #multishipping #i’m so sorry francis #rip your love life #it’s eyebrows or nothing #commit to the fuzz #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy

[papesatan]

“Ero veramente un bambino difficile. Non è che non capissi le cose o facessi fatica ad apprendere. Era semplicemente che non riuscivo a star fermo più di cinque minuti… che più o meno era il mio massimo periodo di concentrazione. Finivo quasi sempre per essere espulso dalla classe. Fu lì che, dopo avermi visto quattro o cinque volte in corridoio, Mister Pigden si prese cura di me. M'insegnò tutto lui. Non solo la didattica, ma anche a controllarmi, a canalizzare la rabbia e a contare fino a dieci prima d’esplodere come facevo di solito. Io non lo so perché mi scelse, ma lo fece. Mi diede delle responsabilità. Ero io a dover raccogliere i registri degli insegnanti, io a controllare che tutti bevessero la loro razione di latte. Era davvero bello, semplicemente mi sentivo importante. Mi ha fatto capire che potevo servire a qualcosa. Era l’uomo più grande del mondo. Amo quell’uomo.”

Cresciuto senza padre e frequentemente abusato dal patrigno violento, Ian Wright (uno dei più grandi bomber della storia dell’Arsenal) descrive così il suo rapporto col maestro Sidney Pigden, l’uomo che in qualche modo ne mutò la vita. I due si rincontreranno solo nel 2005 e alla vista del vecchio maestro, Ian scoppierà a piangere, incredulo: “Non posso crederci… mi avevano detto che era morto”. Lo sguardo  svagato e smargiasso che cambia d’improvviso espressione, gli occhi che cercano disperata conferma, la sacra deferenza nel togliersi il cappello e, su tutto, la voce dolce e gentile del vecchio maestro che sembra provvedere ancora a quel bambino, al suo cuore smarrito, fissandolo intensamente come a dirgli: “Va tutto bene, sono qui e sono fiero di te”. Avrò guardato questo video centinaia di volte, di continuo, e ogni volta penso QUESTO, insegnare è questa cosa qui e non riesco a trattenere le lacrime, perché chissà se un giorno Rayan riuscirà a costruire il robot che ha in testa e ad aprire un negozio di elettronica, se Mirko diventerà papa Michele I, come tanto sogna, o Jacopo farà il calciatore, e incontrandoli, ormai anziano, si fermeranno a salutarmi, mi vedranno, ricorderanno tutto e allora saprò d’avergli lasciato qualcosa, una briciola di vita nel taschino, saprò d’esser stato un buon insegnante e non solo un freddo businessman, pronto a lucrare su asineria e ignoranza per vile tornaconto, ogni bambino una fattura. Non so se sarei in grado di fare ciò che ha fatto Mr. Pigden con Ian Wright, in un mondo, il mio mondo, in cui le mele marce si sostituiscono al primo morso, perché troppo dispendiose. Chissà se sono ancora capace d’insegnargli qualcosa di buono. Chissà cosa ricorderanno un giorno del loro folle tonto maestro.  

[cosplayinamerica]

Captain America / Mr. Rogers : @booty_mk19 / photo: @story_logic

My origin story is my kids- I started taking them to cons maybe 12 or 13 years ago, and they wanted to cosplay. Trying to be a good Dad, I joined in with some simple stuff- Dr Who or Slenderman, things I could do with stuff in my closet already or spending less than $20 at Goodwill.

Then I found I enjoyed it- nothing makes my day more than being asked for a picture or a kid running up to excited because they recognize me.

My kids are adults now… but we still go to Katsucon, Otakon, and our local Dover Comic Con every year.

I tend to cosplay characters from older media- Gilligan from Gilligans Island, Robin from the 1960s Batman TV show, that sort of thing.

So when I saw a comic strip about Thor and Mr Rogers, the idea of Mr Rogers carrying Mjöllnir was born. From there, the Steve Rogers/Fred Rogers connection took over- and not just with me. There’s a fan theory that after Steve Rogers took back the Infinity Stones, he went into public television.

#katsucon #katsucon 2024 #cosplay #captain america

[laddersofsweetmisery]

My former English professor is retiring and gave away a bunch of the books in her office. She's a gem. I giddily returned to campus just to sort through her collection. Super excited about the ones I brought home with me. I thought someone else might appreciate some of the books I found.

I've already began poring over the poetry collections, but what should I read first? Are there any that you guys have read that you highly recommend?

Books included in Photo 1:

● Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen (Alta Edition includin Persuasion)

● Robert Burns by David Daiches

● Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy

● Leigh Hunt's What is Poetry? by Albert S. Cook

● Love Letters Between a Nobleman and His Sister by Aphra Behn

● Virginia Woolf: A Biography by Quentin Bell

● Holy Madness: Romantics, Patriots, and Revolutionaries 1776-1871 by Adam Zamoyski

● Earnest Victorians by Robert A. Rosenbaum

● Lord Byron: Selected Letters and Journals by Lord Byron, Leslie A. Marchand (Editor)

Books Included in Photo 2:

● Orlando by Virginia Woolf

● Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

● The Portable Irish Reader, (The Viking portable library) by Diarmuid Russell

● The Last Days of Pompeii by Edward Bulwer-Lytton

● Becoming a Heroine by Rachel M. Brownstein

● To the Lighthouse Virginia Woolf

● East Lynne by Ellen Wood, writing as Mrs Henry Wood

● Poetry and Prose of Alexander Pope edited by Aubrey Williams

● In Memoriam; An Authoritative Text, Backgrounds and Sources, Criticism (Norton Critical Editions) by Alfred Tennyson

● Daughters and Fathers by Lynda E. Boose, Betty S. Flowers

Books Included in Photo 3:

● Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy

● A Sentimental Journey by Laurence Sterne

● Goblin Market and Other Poems by Christina Rossetti (Dover Thrift Editions)

● Sound the Deep Waters: Women's Romantic Poetry in the Victorian Age includes works by Christina Rossetti, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, George Eliot, Alice Meynell, and Edith Nesbit

● The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler

● The Monsters: Mary Shelley and the Curse of Frankenstein by Thomas Hoobler and Dorothy Hoobler

● Wordsworth and the Poetry of Human Suffering by James H. Averill

● Victorian Ghost Stories: By Eminent Women Writers (Part of the The Virago Book Series) edited by Richard Dalby

● The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood

● Victorian Poetry and Poetics by Walter E. Houghton G. Robert

#bookish #bookworm #books #book haul #booklr #book tumblr #books and literature #booklover #booksbooksbooks #books & libraries #bookblr #book blog #women reading #reading #literature #english literature #literary fiction #literary #margaret atwood #jane austen #thomas hardy #virginia woolf

[sasha-rackett]

i love you rusty quill gaming seasons 2 - 4. i love you sasha rackett. i love you dover episodes. I love you Paris arc zolf smith. i love you rome sidequest. i love you grizzop and wilde in damascus. i love you azu’s introduction. i love you catacomb tpk. i love you surprise body horror episode. i love you botched resurrection. i love you sasha’s falcon scar. i love you mr. ceiling. i love you zolf and sasha in paris and on the airship. i love you wilde secret agent reveal. i love you 18-month time skip. i love you earhart in japan. i love you resurrection sequence. i love you skraak. i love you cel. i love you grizzop. i love you zolf. i love you sasha. i love you azu. i love you hamid. i love you rqg.

#rqg #rusty quill #rusty quill gaming #sasha rackett #zolf smith #hamid saleh haroun al tahan #azu #grizzop drik acht amsterdam #cel sidebottom #can you tell i love sasha and the paris arc #she is very special to me

[gerardpilled]

organization tags

Links to tags for specific shows from 2022 and years from before that! All dates are formatted in the standard American way.

I did this mainly for my own reference, but any issues, please let me know!

Posts in which I couldn't remember/identify precise years have been tagged with the era (ex. "revenge") but posts that do have years are not also tagged with eras. I might be off for some of them, sorry. Most of these are in relation to Gerard, again sorry.

If there aren't any posts under the tag that means I haven't tagged anything yet and/or I am in the process of changing over tags :)

pre-2001

bullets

2001

2002

2003

revenge

2004

2005

black parade (bp)

2006

2007

2008

2009

danger days (dd)

2010

2011

2012

post-break up

2013 Hesitant Alien (ha)

2014

2015

post-HA ("mr netflix")

2016

2017

2018

2019

2020

2021

2022 shows

eden (5/16), eden 2 (5/17)

mk (5/19), mk 2 (5/21), mk 3 (5/22)

dublin (5/24), dublin 2 (5/25)

warrington (5/27)

cardiff (5/28)

glasgow (5/30)

paris (6/1)

rotterdam (6/2)

bologna (6/4)

munich (6/6)

budapest (6/7)

warsaw (6/9)

prague (6/11)

berlin (6/12)

stockholm (6/14)

bonn (6/17), bonn 2 (6/18)

North America

okc (8/20)

san antonio (8/21)

nashville (8/23)

cincinnati (8/24)

raleigh (8/26)

elmont (8/27)

philadelphia (8/29)

albany (8/30)

uncasville (9/1)

montreal (9/2)

toronto (9/4), toronto 2 (9/5)

boston (9/7), boston 2 (9/8)

brooklyn (9/10), brooklyn 2 (9/11)

detroit (9/13)

st paul (9/15)

chicago [(riot fest) (9/16)]

atlanta (9/18)

newark (9/20), newark 2 (9/21)

dover [(firefly) (9/23)]

sunrise (9/24)

houston (9/27)

dallas (9/28)

denver (9/30)

portland (10/2)

tacoma (10/3)

oakland (10/5)

vegas (10/7)

sacramento (10/8)

la 1 (10/11), la 2 (10/12), la 3 (10/14), la 4 (10/15), la 5 (10/17)

wwwy 2 (10/23), wwwy 3 (10/29)

mexico (11/18)

Oceania/Asia (2023)

Auckland/Tāmaki Makaurau (3/11)

Brisbane (3/13), Brisbane 2 (3/14)

Melbourne (3/16), Melbourne 2 (3/17)

Sydney (3/19), Sydney 2 (3/20)

Tokyo (3/25)

Osaka (3/26)

#ref

[gerec]

AU-gust 2023

16. Road Trip

Pairing(s): Cherik Warnings: N/A

Charles received the letter upon his arrival in Calais, which led him to believe that it had been sent before he even left England to begin his travels. Grinning, he thanked the porter for bringing his luggage, and agreed to meet his tutor Mr. Summers for a late dinner, before retiring to his room and unsealing the envelope.

Dearest Charles,

Yes, I did send this letter ahead of your arrival, as I knew you would take your time in Dover before making it across the Channel! Just know that you are missed already, as Tony’s attention span is dismal on a good day, and he is entirely insufferable without your slightly less irritating presence around to keep him in line.

(And no, he has still not forgiven his father for forbidding him to join you on the Grand Tour. I imagine dinners at the Stark household will be very chilly for the foreseeable future.)

In any case, I have made arrangements for a Mr. Erik Lehnsherr to meet you in Calais and interview as your translator and guide. The man is a bit taciturn but well-educated and well-travelled, and most importantly speaks French, German, Italian and Dutch. He comes highly recommended by Christian, who met him and took him on as a guide during his own tour three years ago.

But Emma, you say, will this man be good company on the road? And will he be easy on the eyes? While I cannot attest to the former, Christian assures me that he is quite handsome indeed, enough to meet even your high expectations. Most importantly, he shares the same worldly outlook on relationships as you do – and my dear brother of course – so I am certain you two will get along splendidly.

Do remember to write, as I suffer here in London without your charming presence at all the best parties. I will keep an eye on Raven and Dr. McCoy, and send details of their burgeoning relationship.

Yours,

Emma

----

Mr. Lehnsherr sent word the next day, and Charles was quick to agree to a meeting at the hotel. He invited Mr. Lehnsherr to join him for dinner, but the man declined, citing a previous engagement that sounded more like a contrived excuse. And while everything Emma said in her letter was true – he had travelled all over Europe, and was fluent in all the languages of the countries Charles planned to visit – he was also prickly and almost condescending, as though he didn’t quite approve of the frivolous nature of Charles’ travels. His answers, when asked after his family and where he called home, were distressingly vague and curt, and, as their conversation drew to a close, Charles could not imagine spending months on the road with this man, who proved even more infuriating than his two best friends back home.

Finally, after he’d had enough of Mr. Lehnsherr drinking his brandy and insulting England’s weather, he blurted, “Why do you even want this position? You clearly do not approve of my reasons for coming to the Continent, or even to care for my very person. This trip is a chance for me to open my eyes to the wider world, Mr. Lehnsherr, and I will not waste it at the side of someone who will hinder instead of help me.”

Mr. Lehnsherr smiled, perhaps the first genuine one of the evening and replied, “Would you welcome the truth, I wonder? Well, here it is Mr. Xavier. My work as an artist requires that I travel, and a position like this helps me with my expenses. And while I do not think you will learn anything truly meaningful and worthwhile on a trek of luxurious decadence through Europe, I am a quite capable guide, and will do an exceptional job in showing you exactly what you ask of me. Whether you choose anything beyond the attending fancy parties is entirely up to you, as is the way you choose to flaunt your privileged wealth.”

Charles was stunned, entirely unused to such harsh judgement from someone he’d met mere hours before. He bristled as Lehnsherr watched him with those steely blue eyes, sharp and accessing as though he were measuring Charles’ character and finding him lacking. Part of him wanted to send Lehnsherr away with a sound rebuke, and yet another, bigger part wanted desperately to prove him wrong; to show him that Charles was not merely a spoiled rich boy, and that he intended to use his position as heir to the Dukedom of Norfolk to better the lives of those in his care.

“I assure you that I did not take this journey on for the parties,” he countered, with just enough chill in his voice to make his affronted feelings known. “I welcome a thorough education, not just of the rich but of the poorest in the land, though, would you call it decadence if I wanted also to admire great art and learn about music and history to enrich my soul? Before I must be married off and swallowed whole by a life of duty and tradition?”

If anything, Lehnsherr’s smile only grew wider, and for the first time, he met Charles’ gaze with something like approval. “I would be happy to oblige you, Mr. Xavier, in whatever manner of decadence you wish to indulge.”

His cheeks flushed with heat at Lehnsherr words, and he remembered what Emma had intimated in her letter; that the man might share his proclivities for the same sex. He held his breath when Lehnsherr closed the distance and lightly brushed Charles’ cheek with his fingers, only exhaling when he grinned and then stepped away again.

“Well, Mr. Xavier,” Mr. Lehnsherr said, licking his lips as he took a slow sip from his glass of brandy, “do I have the job?”

Charles blinked, flushing again when he realized he’d been staring at Lehnsherr. He poured himself a refill, before turning to meet the man’s steady gaze.

“Yes. Mr. Lehnsherr. Be ready to leave the day after tomorrow.”

#cherik #gerec writes #au-gust 2023 #road trip #the grand tour #18th century #day 16

[emma-frxst]

The Implicit Demand for Proof (9)

Pairing: Detective David Loki x reader

Summary: you, a forensic psychologist, get called in on a high priority child abduction case in Conyers, PA. What happens when you catch feelings for the mysterious detective Loki?

Warnings: spoilers for the movie, movie level violence, slight change of events, language, fluff, angst

Series masterlist here!

A/N- reblogs and comments help me the most! Let me know your thoughts, even if it’s only a keysmash. Let me know if you want on or off the tag list. Thanks for reading!!

-The next morning-

It was raining and raining, hard. The sun refused to come out from behind the clouds. You watched the raindrops roll down the window in the break room. Leaning your head against the cold glass, you checked your phone. Again. No notifications.

You’d been waiting on Loki to call you with any info, but you’d just be happy to hear from him. He was out tailing Keller Dover. You were back at the station trying to find a lead on your prime suspect.

You grabbed your snack from the vending machine and walked back towards your desk.

You felt your phone vibrating in your pocket.

Well speak of the devil.

“Yeah?” Your opening remark getting strait to the point, leaving no time for pleasantries. Loki must have been rubbing off on you.

“Hey, Dover caught me following him so I’m heading back. He’s definitely hiding something.”

“Damn.” You replied, biting your nail. It was an anxious habit you’d yet to quit.

“Yeah. So get this…Mrs. Dover thinks Keller has been helping us this whole time. She has no idea where he’s really been.”

“Oh hell.” Your words oozing with irritation. Just what you guys needed was to chase after Keller Dover.

“And she called me last night thinking Anna had come home all cause a damn window was open in the house. She isn’t gonna be any help. She’s been taking sleeping pills this whole time.” Loki let out a sigh.

“Oh great.” Sarcasm rolling off your tongue with ease.

“Found a bag of Lye in their basement- which, by the way, is like a dooms day pepper’s dream- half used.”

“Well that may be a bad sign for us finding Alex Jones..if Dover did do something to him. Under high heat and pressure, lye can turn corrosive enough to disintegrate a body.”

“Yeah.” Loki sighed. “I know.”

“Shit.” You anxiously a hand through your hair.

“Well, I don’t think Dover killed him. He’s sure that Alex knows where the girls are, won’t kill his only lead.”

“Yeah.” Loki said. “Maybe”

Silence lingered only for a moment, and in that moment you saw your opportunity.

“Hey..uh…you wanna go and grab lunch?” You asked, nervously fidgeting with the lid on your coffee cup. You felt like a teenager asking out their crush, except you weren’t a teenager and you were working and hungry.

“Um..” His heart was screaming yes, but his brain was screaming no. He had to solve this case, needed to before time ran out, before it consumed him.

“Uh..not now. Really need to find out what Dover’s been doing and find our guy from yesterday. There’s a good place you can order from-“

“Yeah, no of course, the case.” You interrupted. “See you back at the station then.” You said and abruptly hung up the phone. That did make you a little upset, which was stupid, but you were really looking forward to getting lunch with him. Just him. Not sharing a table with three others in the break room, eating while working, or eating by yourself at your desk. You wanted lunch with Loki. Hell, forget lunch, you’d settle for just the detective.

You hoped Loki’s refusal wasn’t personal. You had overheard that Loki solved every case he’d ever been assigned, you guessed he didn’t get that track record by going out for lunch with co workers.

.

Loki walked into the bullpen, his jaw clenched and shoulders stiff. He was desperately hoping y/n was able to get a lead. Didn’t help that he’d just been in a yelling match Keller Dover..again.

His body became less tense at the sight of y/n, who was currently talking on the phone.

David sat at his desk and began to search for more background on Keller Dover. He couldn’t help but glance over at y/n.

God, she was so pretty.

Almost like she felt him staring, she turned and locked eyes with the detective for a moment. Lokis heart definitely skipped a beat but he wouldn’t admit that. She flashed a polite smile, then went back to writing down a few notes.

“Okay, thank you. Bye.” She hung up.

David expected y/n to immediately swivel her chair towards him and tell him if she’s got a lead.

He wanted to see her eyes light up cause she found something and he wanted to hear the sweet sound of her voice.

She didn’t.

She didn’t even say hi, just kept working.

Unusual for her.

David thought to himself for a minute.

What could be wrong? Other than present circumstances, of course.

‘See you back at the station then.’ Her words echoed in his mind.

She’s upset about lunch? Damn it. Should’ve said yes. Maybe I should apologize? But it’s only lunch, isn’t it? Am I overthinking it? Is y/n overthinking it?

Just talk to her.

Right. Talking.

He tapped his fingers nervously on the desk, glancing at y/n once more.

Play it cool David, play it cool.

Just ask her if she’s got any leads.

“Got anything?” He finally asked.

She let out a sigh.

“Almost.”

Loki raised his brow, encouraging her to elaborate.

“I got results back from sending the sketches of our suspect to my people back home. I had them run the sketches with FBI facial recognition software- Comparing them with Pennsylvania drivers Licenses. It came back with only 5 results. I’ve confirmed 2 of 5 alibis. Working on the rest.”

“That’s..fuck, that’s great.” He said, growing excited at such a good lead.

Loki hesitated before his next sentence.

“So..what happened to ‘staying on the same page’ ?”

Y/n’s demeanor changed before Loki even finished his sentence. She drew into herself, crossing her arms as she spoke, “I’m sorry, Loki. I just get really zoned into my work sometimes. And like you, I’m not used to having a partner, you know?”

Y/n rolled her chair back to her desk.

“Yeah. I know.” Loki replied.

In the field, he was trained so he could handle almost any situation, but his relationships were a different story. Loki had always been a loner, never really getting close with anyone.

Loki and Y/n worked at their desks for a while, both afraid to create tension with the other.

.

“Huh.” Loki remarked, leaning back in his chair.

Y/n leaned back in her own chair, peering out from behind the narrow cubicle wall that divided their desks.

Loki noticed her staring and motioned for you to come look at his computer.

David hoped y/n would view the gesture as an olive branch, albeit unnecessary, as the perceived tension between him and y/n was purely based on raised emotions and the two of them running on empty. David had come to learn over the last six days, emotions were tricky things to navigate, especially when y/n was around.

She rolled over to him in her chair, leaning in close. Loki caught a whiff of her perfume, he was immediately intoxicated by the scent. It suited her.

Y/n’s brows knitted in confusion

“William Dover Obituary?”

“Look.” Loki pointed to his computer screen. “Dover’s father killed himself when Keller was a teen. Left Keller the house. I bet that’s where he’s going during the day and possibly keeping Alex Jones. I’m gonna go check it out.”

He stood, putting on his coat.

“I’ll keep on these leads, let you know when I have something.” Y/n replied, flashing him another polite smile.

Loki returned it with the same gesture.

On the drive to Dover’s dad’s old apartment building, Loki grew increasingly suspicious of the man, especially when he pulled up to the property. It was super dilapidated and he was sure the inside looked worse.

After entering through the window, Loki’s suspicions were confirmed. It was a perfect place to hide a body among other crimes.

He entered what he assumed was a living area only to find Mr. Dover laying on the floor. Loki hoping he hadn’t drank himself to death since their earlier conversation.

“Hey, rise and shine.” Loki said, kicking him.

Not dead, just drunk.

.

Loki’s tour of the building was cut short by his phone ringing.

“Shit.”

Caller ID: (f/n) (l/n)

If anyone was going to interrupt him, he was glad it was y/n.

“Hello?”

“Loki! I’ve got our guy!” Yn was practically yelling. “The Clerk from the mall called, got his license plate and he’s the last guy on my list. Bob Taylor. 437 Carrol Street. Meet you there.”

“Yeah? Ok. Meet you there.” He replied and slipped his phone back in his pocket.

“Go home Mr. Dover” he ushered and hurried out the door.

-

Perm tags: @chromecutie @xenomorphique

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[realest-slenderman]

Dear Mr. Man.

We are taking legal action against you for your refusal to show up to court. We sent you two prior letters, yet you chose not to respond to either. Show up to court immediately, or you will be arrested.

Sincerely,

Ben Dover, Attorney at Law

THE FEDS ARE ALWAYS ON MY ASS BRO

[nikethestatue]

The Agreement

Chapter 2

Azriel, Lord Night, the Duke of Velaris

This woman, Elain Archeon. 

As he made his way out of the inn, Azriel decided to take a walk. 

It was a pretty spring day, with the skies a cloudless picturesque blue, so rare in London that he felt that he owned it to himself to enjoy it. It would be a decent one hour walk from here to his house in Belgravia Square, but he needed to think.

He didn’t want the girl to stay too close to him, therefore, he had arranged for the lodgings to be in Westminster, but far enough away. And yet, despite the precautions that he took, he also relinquished his name and title to her at their first meeting –and it was not something that he had planned on doing. He also didn’t plan on the meeting to go the way that it did, but here he was. 

When he had put out his advertisement, and sent the requirements to Mrs. Amren, his criteria was rather simple. He was looking for a female aged 17 to 26, a virgin, with a good reputation, a pleasant appearance and free of diseases. Medical records were obtained from the local physicians–Azriel did not want to deal with TB, gout, or any other unpleasant conditions. He wanted someone well-proportioned, and not too slim or sickly, and neither did he want a girl who overindulged in food. She was to carry his babe, and needed to be healthy and preferably fit. He preferred someone spirited, with a good, cheerful disposition, though he knew it would be difficult to gauge. Anyone could pretend to be anything for a few hours. Ideally, the chosen girl would be someone curious, easy to talk to, and someone who had at least basic education. She needed to be able to read and write, so she could sign the contract.

Everything about Elain Archeron had checked out, after he received reports from his investigators, who had travelled to Dover and to St. Margaret Bay to gather more information about the woman. 

The woman, whose photograph unsettled him deeply. 

Truthfully, he wasn't expecting much from his advertisement. It was absurd to assume that 90% of responders would not be opportunists and madams, crafty whores and sob-story adventurists. Naturally, no one was familiar with his identity, and even Mrs. Amren, with whom he’d worked before, and who’d proven herself to be an agile and witty woman, was not entirely sure whether he was the one to actually place the advertisement. She was the one who sorted through the respondents, and Azriel’s army of servants and investigators was at her disposal. Mrs. Amren narrowed down the list for him, whittling it down to manageable, and selecting the few girls who seemed to fit all the criteria, before sharing the photographs with her employer. 

There were only four women who made the cut. 

The first one was a hearty red-haired girl, with a big bust, wide hips and a strong body, named Bryce Quinlan. Her face was appealing and she had large, beautiful amber eyes. Despite her simple appearance, she was in fact interesting to talk to. Gregarious. Well-read. Inelegant. A farmer’s daughter, who studied to be a teacher, she was unapologetically interested in money. Which was absolutely fine with Azriel. But if she was a virgin, then he was a giraffe. He was half-afraid that she’d tackle him on the floor and ride him into oblivion. She might have impregnated him.

So that was a no.

The next girl…he already forgot her name, because the moment she stepped into the room, she buried her face in her hands and began to weep loudly. Then she turned around and ran away.

So that was that.

Disappointed, he still had high hopes for the next girl.

Her photograph intrigued him–she was attractive, with an open, unblemished face, pin-straight hair and big, light-coloured eyes. When she arrived, she was taller than he assumed, and remarkably pleasant of face. She was Irish, and spoke with a lovely accent. Her eyes were bottle green with shades of aqua, and her hair turned out to be reddish-brown. Her face and hands were covered in a smattering of freckles. Gwyneth Berdara was her name.

She was a librarian at the Trinity College Dublin–an unusual position for a female. But she was also a student there, one of very few females accepted to study at the university. Her tenacious attitude, and her open, friendly manner impressed Azriel. She was not young–almost 25–unmarried and studious. It was clear that she was a learned woman, interested in academics and the pursuit of her goals. 

“Why are you here?” he had asked her bluntly.

“I don’t wish to marry, Lord Night,” she admitted to him. “And neither do I wish to live in poverty, like so many of my kind. I want to teach and I want to be an academic, but I am realistic–it’s not a position that is easy, or even possible for a woman to achieve. Who’d want to have a female as a professor?” she laughed, sadly, and unhappily.

Azriel understood. She was correct in her fears.

“This opportunity,” and she pointed between the two of them, “would allow me independence. I wouldn’t be saddled with a child, but I would have the money to continue my studies and live the life I wish to live. Perhaps become a suffragette.”

He could see it. This Gwyn Berdara was the kind who wouldn't sit back and hope for a happy ending for herself. She’d fight for it. Carve it out.

In the end, Azriel knew that she wasn’t for him. Mostly, he didn’t want to deny her her goals. He was realistic–even if she thought that the child wouldn’t impact her life, he was convinced that that wouldn’t be the case. 

He did what he thought was right in this situation. He wrote a check for £1000 and wished her luck in all her future endeavours. He didn’t have to, but he felt a paternal kind of tug towards her. That amount of money would set her up for life. For him, it was a drop in the sea of his wealth.

Lastly, there was Roslin. He couldn’t recall her surname, but Roslin was a beautiful woman with thick auburn hair, brilliant blue eyes and a thick scar on the side of her neck. The scar did not disturb him, though he wondered what had happened to her to receive such a nasty wound. The conversation flowed comfortably, but Azriel noticed quickly that Roslin was…dazzled. She sighed and batted her lashes, wrung her fingers, smiled and blushed. Azriel thought that she would serve him fine, but it was quickly apparent that she was looking for a husband, and not for a gentleman who needed her to bear his child. Azriel didn’t even want to start upon this road. He dismissed Roslin kindly and politely, and thanked his lucky stars that he did not offer her his name. He was well known and his face was featured in the newspapers with some frequency, but he hoped that Roslin wasn’t someone who read much about political affairs or the War Office.

Elain Archeron was a latecomer. He’d basically given up on the idea of finding anyone even remotely suitable and the task was taking too long for his liking. So it took him by surprise when he recognised the name–Archeron, as in Archeron Shipping, Ltd. It was an unusual surname, which only one family in Britain possessed. Because the origins of the family were in fact Greek. It was once a well-established, successful, widely known shipping company, which had fallen on hard times. When he’d asked Elain about her reasons and she told him about her family, he already knew the story. The father, Voldemar Archeron, had run the company into the ground with bad investments and even worse weather–three of his ships were lost at sea. Whatever was left of the wealth, he squandered. Ida, his wife, had died a few years back of typhus. The three daughters were left without dowries or good prospects. Back about a decade ago, the eldest sister, Nesta, was proposed as a match to none other than the Duke of Dorchester. Her dowry promised to be so big, that her lack of a title didn’t seem to matter. And then, it all just disappeared one day, including Dorchester’s interest. Azriel didn’t know much about the middle or the youngest sisters, until he read the name ‘Elain Archeron’. Mrs. Amren confirmed that Elain was indeed one of the Archeron sisters and it piqued Azriel’s interest even further. Seemed like pure madness that a young woman from a good family, and with what was confirmed to be a spotless reputation, would be interested in selling herself, her womb, and her potential for money. It intrigued him for whatever reason. 

There was something that they had in common–the Archerons were also someone who had made it big, who were successful, yet who always remained the outsiders, because of their origins. He could relate. One look at his dark golden skin, his jet-black hair, his aquiline nose and the slant of his eyes, and it was obvious that he wasn’t exactly English. Which he wasn’t. His mother was from the Middle East, an exotic, gorgeous woman, who became his father’s obsession. His father, an English duke, dragged the woman here, actually married her! Yet never allowed her to forget that she was something else. A foreigner. Someone lesser. Azriel’s mother was a beautiful, sad woman, who spent most of her life behind the walls of their various estates–too strange to truly become Lady Night, the Duchess of Velaris, yet virtually enslaved by Azriel’s father. The only kindness his father permitted was for them to adopt baby Cassian. Azriel and Cassian were cousins, though they viewed each other as brothers. 

In some way, Azriel wondered if he was repeating his hateful father’s ways?

Was he also forcing an unsuspecting woman into a situation of bondage and sexual slavery? All because he saw Miss Archeron’s photograph and knew, without doubt, that she must be delivered to him. 

Simply put, in the photograph, Elain Archeron was gorgeous.

Elain Archeron

The sweetest face, gentle and innocent, like a blooming flower. Thick lustrous hair. A plump cheek that he wanted to sink his teeth into. He didn’t know her colouring, and needed to find out. Were her eyes black or blue? Green or brown? What colour was that beautiful thick hair? He wanted to know what her neck would taste like. How her hands would grip his arms. He needed to see beyond what the photograph offered him. 

Seeing her photograph made him send a telegram to Mrs. Amren, requesting an immediate meeting with Miss Archeron. 

Today, he saw the girl in the flesh, and he came to realise that he wanted nothing, absolutely nothing more than for her to agree to the arrangement. 

He’s been faithful to Morrigan–they had planned on a happy marriage, not one of convenience, but certainly one of mutual attraction and respect, and eventually, maybe even love. And he’s been faithful to her since her accident. No, he wasn’t planning on living the life of a monk, but he needed to secure himself a child, a legacy, for he couldn’t divorce his wife and had to remain married to her while she was alive. Frankly, in the past year, he didn’t have time for any liaisons and didn’t want to arouse any unnecessary questions about the state of his marriage. 

Elain, however, was something unexpected. His plans changed the moment she stepped into the room and looked at him with that shy, yet slightly defiant gaze of her huge brown doe eyes. Sad eyes, which spoke of hidden sorrow and grief which was her own. Brown. They were brown. Dark caramel came to mind when he looked into those eyes. Pale, but flushed cheeks, and full, plump lips. A tiny cleft on her chin, and a birthmark on her cheek. Golden brown curls tucked under a simple hat. The dress was plain, a little ill-fitting, definitely not tailored. He imagined that the dresses were shared among the sisters, and it was probably one of the better ones that they had. She wasn’t wearing a jacket, and he could imagine that the poplin dress offered little warmth to her too-thin frame. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t wear any jewellery, even something simple, but the hat was decorated with three beautiful flowers, and there was a little flower brooch on her lapel. 

Azriel didn’t expect to be actually fully attracted to her. He thought that she might be pretty enough for him to willingly stick his cock into her. But he was intensely and immediately drawn to her. He fought the urge to come up to her and cup her little heart-shaped face between his hands. He wanted to press his lips to those pink, soft lips, and offer her her first kiss. It would be her first, he was sure. Was it so wrong that he suddenly desired to bring her into womanhood? He added the virginity clause and payment into the contract after he saw her photograph. He was honest when he told her that it wasn’t something that belonged to him, and he wanted to compensate her for it. But just because her maidenhead didn’t belong to him didn’t mean that he did not want to take it. That it wasn’t meant for him. And he wondered if in exchange, he could make the girl with the sad doe eyes see some light and offer a measure of comfort and happiness. 

Azriel was a male prone to melancholy and didn’t love or care for most people in his life. He didn’t even love his wife, though he cared for her. Yet the prospect of spending more time with Elain Archeron, of making her his lover, of caring for her physically, of keeping her by his side filled him with a sense of joyful anticipation. Was he feeling excited? Intrigued? Thrilled? Yes to all. He could also be just a lonely man who wanted to be needed by someone, even if it was just for his money. It was possible that she’d come to care for him in some personal way eventually. She was so cute, declaring how she was not looking for love. It was wise of her and he appreciated her rationality and the fact that she knew that there would be no chance of a happy end for her, for them. But it didn’t mean that he couldn’t hope for a connection, for this to be less than just a transaction.

He didn’t even notice his hour-long walk by the time he arrived at his house. Unlike most of his compatriots, Azriel was a soldier, a military man, and though he was only twenty nine years old, he held the rank of a Captain in the army. Nowadays, he actually had a job…Which sort of made him smile, every time he thought about it. Men of his station did not have jobs. It kept him mostly in London, which is what he preferred–yes, he was a Lord, a peer, and held a position at the House of Lords, but he also headed the Intelligence Branch for the British War Office. It frustrated him that Britain was so far behind in its intelligence initiatives, than, for example Prussia, which had established its own branch of Intelligence services back in 1804. Now, almost 100 years later, he was actively working on establishing a new branch–the Doctorate of Military Operations–which would include intelligence gathering and spying. The world was changing around them, and so the needs of his country demanded that their operations moved with the progress. 

Azriel spent the rest of the day at his office at Westminster, and was grateful for the distraction because it allowed him the opportunity to not think about Elain Archeron. He couldn’t forget her even if he tried, even when he engaged in numerous conversations throughout the day, and read dozens of documents, and put his signature on reports and missives. He didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings when he finally left work and walked to his club. He always enjoyed walking, particularly when he was in the city and indeed to spend so much time indoors. The walk also allowed him the opportunity to obsessively ponder what Elain might be doing at that moment, and what she’s done during the day. Did she eat enough? He hoped that she had ordered food for herself, and ventured out of the inn and enjoyed the park and the shops. He knew that she wouldn���t spend any money on herself, even if she really wanted to, but he wondered if she’d found something that she enjoyed looking at, or touching. He ate dinner at the club, wishing for the day to be over.

In his head, he was creating a list of things that he wanted to do for Elain. A very hypothetical list, but it gave him something to do and occupied his mind for the evening.

Firstly, he wanted to make sure that she ate and got healthy. The kind of thinness that she sported wasn’t the fashionable type, where noble ladies ate like dodo birds, so they could maintain their tiny waists. No, her kind of thinness was caused by hunger, maybe even starvation. Her tiny arms were as thin as noodles and the collarbones protruded violently through her skin. 

So it would take a little time to get her to a place where she was feeling better physically, and hopefully, emotionally as well.

When he initially thought about this scheme, Azriel wasn’t looking for a ‘project’ to sink his time and effort into. He wanted to impregnate a woman, have her have the baby and leave. However, after only one meeting, he was already reconsidering his initial plans. And that allowed for a coil of dread to unfurl in his stomach. What he could not permit himself to do–ever–was to develop feelings for this woman. Any woman. 

Morrigan was his priority. He wasn’t going to exchange her for another woman. Yes, the physicians told him that there was no hope of recovery–not only was she paralysed from the waist down, the brain bleed rendered her completely incapacitated. She breathed, and she ate soft, pureed foods, but she needed total care, around the clock, and when he told her ‘for better or for worse, in sickness and in health’ Azriel meant it. Azriel valued loyalty above else, and just as he expected it from others, he also required it of himself. He might not be a faithful husband, but he would be loyal. 

However charming, beautiful and desirable Miss Archeron was, and he found her to be enticing in every way, Azriel knew that he had to remain clear headed. This liaison had a purpose, and that’s what he was going to stick to. In the end, she would be ruined. And notorious, if she was not smart about it. He wished to maintain as much decorum about the affair as possible, and of course there was the non-disclosure agreement by which they were obligated to abide. 

He’d treat her well, with kindness, he’d pay her the way he promised, but he was going to use her body because he needed to, and not because he wanted to. In the end, he knew how this was going to end–he was going to break Elain Archeron’s heart. He was going to be ruthless about it too. An innocent girl such as herself would undoubtedly find herself enamoured with him, especially because he was going to be her first in everything. And she was going to lead herself to believe that he was reciprocating her feelings. Alas, when all was said and done, the truth would be brutal–she would be left with money, but without her babe, and without love.

He only hoped that she’d be able to find happiness and a good man some time in her life.

And forgive him.

-

It was 10 am exactly when Azriel stood in front of the door to Elain Archeron’s room. It was utterly quiet on the other side of the door, but he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, as his blood rushed hotly through his veins. He wouldn’t be terribly surprised if she’d bolted. He was almost expecting it, though last night he was feeling hopeful. The morning light made things clearer, and with clarity came the realisation that this entire scheme was pathetic and at best absolutely ridiculous. It was never going to come to pass and he was deluding himself into thinking that he’d ever succeed. Regardless of how wealthy he was and what riches he offered to someone, no woman in her right mind would go through with this. Even if he wasn’t painful to look at, and was a gentleman, it was still an experience that no one wanted.

He knocked softly on the door.

If he was going to face rejection, he was going to face it like a man. 

He knew it was coming, and he’s been preparing for it the entire morning: while he was getting a shave and dressing, he was imagining how she would let him down. Would she be gentle and soft? Would she be curt and upfront? Or cowardly, and simply run away without seeing him ever again?

A better question was–why was he so obsessed with her? Why did he need her answer so badly and why did he want it to be a ‘yes’? Why was he feeling so strangely possessive about her? Her body? Her acceptance? Her acquiescence?

All of last night, he was trying to convince himself that this wasn’t for him, that she wasn’t for him and that he shouldn't be subjecting a reputable maiden to this foolishness. Nevertheless, here he stood, hopeful like a young lad at his first courting.

He knocked harder, when he didn’t get a response the first time.

Heart sinking, he needed to acknowledge to himself that she was gone. 

Was he going after her all the way to Dover, pursuing her like a madman? Or was he letting her go, acknowledging that she was an unfulfilled promise? 

For the first time in a long time, Azriel, a lord and a duke, a millionaire and a magnetically attractive male, felt terribly lonely.

When he knocked the third time, louder and more insistent, a vast, empty hole opened up in his chest, and when there was no answer, he hung his head low, accepting the inevitable truth. 

Elain was gone.

#elriel #elriel fanfic #my writing #the arrangement #chapter 2 #Azriel and Elain #Azriel #Elain Archeron #elain x azriel #elain #Elriel fanfic #acotar fanfic

[theflowerofthecommonwealth]

Desdemona: (To the rest of the Railroad members) “Don’t worry- we’ve got our best men on this covert operation. Rest assured, I am confident they will pull this off without a hitch.”

Dr Carrington: (Under his breath in the background) “We are doomed…”

[Somehwere in the Commonwealth]

Bouncer: (Guarding a door) “And what are you twos names?”

Deacon: (Deadpan) “The name is Benedict Dover. But everyone just calls me Ben for short.”

Jasmine: (Internally screaming as she gives a polite smile) “Oh my fucking god- he’s gonna blow it.”

Deacon: (Puts an arm around the teen girl) “And this is my sweet and gentle daughter that I am so proud of raising all on my own. Her name is pronounced Shy-theed.”

Person: (Steps aside to open the door and lead them inside) “Alright Mr Ben Dover and Shithead Dover, welcome to the club. Please follow me.”

Deacon: (Looks to Jas with a shit-eating grin)

Jasmine: (Murderous glare) “I am going to kill you later!”

#The rest of the night was filled with all of these little puns from Deacon. #Jazzy kept a straight face but she did stick a plunger on Deacons head later and yelled him down for compromising the mission #Deacon will mess around with Jasmine on these things because he know she won’t lose her cool on him until it’s over. #fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout #fallout4 #deacon fo4 #deacon fallout 4 #fallout oc #fallout original character

[askaceattorney]

Dear Anonymous,

Hard to answer when I don't know any of them personally.

I suppose I'd go for Issac Dover. I will never understand why anyone would turn their backs on anyone they'd consider a close friend. I hardly understand why Mr. Keyes did that to Mr. Knightley, but he at least HAD an excuse.

Even when I believed in only Guilty verdicts, I couldn't stand the thought of backstabbing Wright. I couldn't even Prosecute him for the murder of his mentor during the second half of Ms. Fey's trial with a straight face. I'd ask Mr. Payne to Prosecute any trial Wright is the defendant of.

- Miles Edgeworth

#Anonymous #Miles Edgeworth #Winston Payne #Isaac Dover #Maya Fey #Phoenix Wright #Simon Keyes #Horace Knightley #Ace Attorney

[nowimyurdaisy]

Backseat Rider Part 2

pairing: Jeremiah fisher x reader

warning(s): angst?

summary: a summer back in cousins, leads to confessions.

a/n: HERE is the part 2 to Backseat rider that y'all have been asking me to write. Wrote the last part on my phone, no judging 😂 Luv y'all 💗💗

part 1 part 2

~a year later~

It had been over a year since you had seen the Fishers, you didn't want to go back to Cousins, but your family had insisted on going this summer. I guess the whole never seeing Jeremiah or Belly again plan failed, since you couldn't really control going to Cousins or not. So, since you had to return, you would just avoid that WHOLE group & focus on making new friends?

Currently you were in your room packing for the trip, your playlist playing in the background, you began to hum to the song 🎵I hear your voice over and over, sitting on the beach of Dover, what is happening? Oh, dear, I keep wishing you were here, and I swear, I'm gonna lose it, if I keep playing your music🎵 You're dreading this summer but at the same time you can't help but smile, because you have this feeling in the pit of your stomach that this summer would be different than last.

~ flash forward to the first day in Cousins ~

Belly is right, the drive to Cousins is like coming home after you've been gone, it stays the same when you're away. You headed straight to the beach when you got there, changing into your new swimsuit, a bikini your best friend bought you, that you honestly aren't too sure about but hey! new summer.

~~

Eventually you got a job at the country club working at the snack shack unbeknownst to you, Steven AND Jeremiah were working at the club as well. When you got to the club, you saw that red jeep pull up, and sitting in that red jeep was one Mr. Jeremiah Fisher, Steven, and of course, one Belly Conklin. She was dressed in what looked like a summer dress with puffy sleeves & a fascinator. *It's deep red, my broken dream* That lyric danced in your head when you saw them step out of the car, and you ducked behind the counter.

Jeremiah & Belly walked straight into the club, while Steven headed straight your way, straight for the snack shack. You ducked behind the counter, then your manager asked "hey what are you doing!?"

"Nothing"you mumbled standing up. Then Steven saw you, he ran up to you to give you a hug.

"Y/NN! Is that you?" you nodded. "I can't believe you're really here! Wa-wait, wait 'till Jere and belly and-'' You cut him off before he could finish, "no, no, no, you can't tell anyone, not even susanah or ms. conklin ok?" you said before wriggling out of his grasp.

~~

Well, wishes don't always come true, huh; you can't ever completely control who you do & don't see, especially when working, Ducking behind counters and taking breaks every time he comes over won't last forever. It was a Saturday, one of the busiest days at the club, and you were facing the other way when he walked over, expecting to see Steven, not you. "Y/n?" Jeremiah asked, such shock in his voice.

You freeze, eyes wide with shock. Slowly you turned around, "hi" you said nervously, eyes still wide, like a deer caught in headlights, an awkward smile plastered on your face. The two of you stood there staring at each other for a few seconds, before one speaks up.

"I, I thought you weren't coming back this summer" Jeremiah chuckles nervously.

"I wasn't," you replied simply.

"What made you come here then?"

Ignoring his question, you asked him, "What can I get you, Jere Bear?" emphasis on the 'Jere Bear', a nickname you had come up with, oh so many years ago, that Belly stole from you.

"Oh" Jeremiah's face was blank from the sudden change in topic, "Nothin' just wanted to talk to Steven. I'll catch you later" he smiled, regaining more of his normally cheery self, as he whispered, "at least I hope so."

~a week later~

You wished you could say that you didn't love him anymore, that hearing his voice again didn't bring back memories, feelings of lost time. You were standing on the beach staring at the water, thinking how he used to be the first thing on your mind. You internally cringed at how every morning when you got up the first thing you did was check your phone for a text from Jere, and during the summer the first thing you did would be going over to the Fisher's to see him. You laughed, seeing Jere's reflection in the coastline, now you were going crazy, seeing things. Then the reflection said something and you turned around.

"I- wh-what are you doing here?" you asked Jere, realizing you weren't actually seeing things.

"I knew you'd be here" he chuckled, "it's your favorite spot."

"You got me" you responded, turning to walk away. But Jeremiah grabs your wrist to stop you.

"y/n, please don't, don't go" jere pleads with you. "There's so much I want to talk to you about, so many things left unsaid from last summer."

"Okay. Lets talk" you agreed, beginning to walk along the beach, Jere along your side. "Where do you want to start?" you asked.

"I, I read your letter." You nodded at his statement. "I'm sorry I had no idea, I wish you hadn't left so fast" you went to question him why, but he continued talking. "Yes belly & I love loved each other, but after you left. After a week of us dating. She left me, she left me for Conrad. I wasn't enough, and it killed me, but her ending our summer fling. Yes we dated most of the summer, in secret of course. But I realized," he stopped. Chuckling nervously.

"You what?" you asked slowly, carefully, like you were afraid he would run away. Carly Rae jepsen's lyrics ringing in your head 🎵But I still love you I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you🎵

"I realized, Belly is not the girl for me, I'll always love her but she'll never compare. She'll never compare to you, you y/n y/m/n y/l/n are the girl of my dreams" he finished.

"Me?"

"Yes you. I'm in love with you, and if you don't feel the same ever again, I understand"

"Jeremiah, you stupid idiot. I'm in love with you too!!" You responded, a teary smile on your face. You leaned in and kissed him. His hand on the back of your head, his other resting on your hip, pulling you closer. Your hands resided in his messy curls.

"I'll love you forever & always y/n" Jere spoke pulling away from your lips.

"Forever & always" you responded, giggling and reconnecting your lips. Standing on the beach of Cousins, your summer fairytale.

 -✧⬝✧⬝✧⬝✧⬝✧-

Taglist + moots: @bigassnocash @http-ily @http-ilysm @buckys2thicc @xtom-darling-x17

#Spotify #jere 🧸 #jeremiah fisher x you #jeremiah fisher x y/n #jeremiah fisher #jeremiah fisher x reader #belly x jeremiah #the summer i turned pretty #tsitp #fanfiction #baby queen #carly rae jepsen