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shewolfofvilnius · 2 months ago

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Making Ser Jory's kid Rook is the best OC I've ever made

(If you've seen me post relentlessly about her on bluesky or reddit no you haven't)

If you've EVER played Dragon Age: Origins, one of the most memorable moments takes place early in the game. Your character has just traveled to Ostagar, where you'll formally join the Grey Wardens. You meet two recruits, one is the rogueish cutpurse Daveth, while the other is the former knight Ser Jory, formerly of Redcliffe and now of Highever (remember that bit.)

Jory is responsible for the first major tone shift of the entire franchise, when the previously affable Duncan, billed in all six origins as an at least moderately heroic type, pulls out his blade and kills Ser Jory when the knight refuses to drink Darkspawn blood (seems sensible), having either been misinformed or otherwise woefully naive about what being a Warden means.

The entire thing is grim - and your player character can even tell Alistair and Duncan how fucked up that was after the fact. Most importantly for THIS story, however, is something that Jory mentions twice including right before he dies: He has a wife back in Highever, who is due to have a baby.

Highever. The same Highever that gets raided and sacked during the Human Noble origin by Arl Howe's forces. The same Highever that sees every family member of literally anyone even vaguely connected to Teyrn Cousland either killed or worse.

But presumably, there were at least some survivors, folks who were able to flee. Even in canon world states where they don't join the Wardens, both the younger Cousland sibling and their mother Eleanor cut a pretty wide swathe of damage through the castle before being overwhelmed. The carnage almost assuredly let people flee, we see it in the human noble origin!

Maybe, just maybe, one of those people...was Jory's wife Helena. Who winds up fleeing Highever aboard a cargo ship headed for Tevinter. A cargo ship that winds up getting run aground and attacked near the battlefields Ventus by the Qunari, right as Helena is due to give birth. Worth noting: Thie last part of that is not even fanciful headcanon, it's Shadow Dragon Rook's canonical biography. They mention it to Tarquin before the Act 1 Choice.

and by the time of game events, a certain Legatus Mercar is ready to talk with Maevaris, Dorian, and the Shadow Dragons and has begun expressing equalist sentiments, at least privately? How would they know what Legatus Mercar thinks privately? Well, in a Shadow Dragon run, for one thing because his child is standing right next to them.

Having Rook be Rory and Helena's kid, though, opens up so much storytelling potential. Like the time Rook refuses to go along with the commanding First Warden (also from Rivain like Duncan)'s orders and nearly draws her own weapon on him:

Seem familiar?

Now imagine a bit later, when Morrigan meets her and immediately realizes there's something haunting familiar about this woman leading the attack against the gods. She even reflexively questions Rook's intelligence for a moment.

Later still, at Weisshaupt, when Rook - in this case now already armed with the knowledge that there was a Warden at Ostagar who she looks uncannily like - finds the chalice, finds records from the Fifth Blight while they're escaping to the dragon trap through the library.

drama.

It's been such a fantastic story so far and I'm only at Act 2. There's even an inversion of Flemeth's "sadly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things" line with Morrigan as she reveals the Mythal fragment in the Crossroads. Framed with a shot of a building that has a vague resemblence to the Tower of Ishal in the background with more swamp-like elements in the Crossroads.

At the same time, growing up as a girl in Tevinter has meant multiple stark differences between her and her father. She's a Shadow Dragon, so clearly she's invested in the liberation of slaves and servants. She's interested in equality, and although human, has likely experienced at least two forms of prejudice herself (being a non-Mage in Tevinter, and yes, being a she from a Tevinter military family when we know the Tevinter military has a long history of excluding or diminishing women). While her biological father is noted for having rather...sheltered and inhibited beliefs on the capabilities and stations of elves, dwarves, and yes, women - there's none of that with her.

...to the point that in her world state, she's CLEARLY in love with an elf. And while Jory ran off to chase glory and danger with the Wardens leaving Helena behind, when trouble comes for Bellara, she squares up and stands to protect her - even when that trouble is Bellara's own brother (and the ancient elven wannabe-god manipulating him)

but ultimately, the apple didn't fall entirely away from the tree.

Listen to the thing about Helena that Jory says hooked him in:

and who is Rook smitten with?

You know good and damn well Rook melts into a puddle every single time Bellara looks at her. Her vallaslin is literally designed to accentuate her eyes. Rook might be Mercar's daughter, but in at least one specific way, she is definitely Jory's kid.

Anyway, I just think my OC's neat and felt like yapping about her on here.

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bobfloydsbabe · 1 year ago

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gold rush | eccentric professor!bob floyd x oc

SUMMARY: Everyone knows history professor Bob Floyd is a little eccentric. He only drinks tea steeped for exactly four minutes, his desk is pristine while the rest of his office looks like a bomb went off, he's distrustful of technology, and he definitely doesn't want or need a teaching assistant. Certainly not one who's as aggravating as she is pretty...

WARNINGS: academia au, enemies to lovers (if you squint), age gap (mid-to-late 20s/late 30s), bob being grumpy and rude. strictly 18+/minors dni.

WORD COUNT: ~0.5k

A/N: Eccentric Professor Bob Floyd has been on my mind constantly for the last week, so here we are with a moodboard and a short blurb. This AU will not be a full length series, but a collection of blurbs and drabbles. Special thanks to @ryebecca for raving with me about my new favorite grumpy man. Don't hesitate to send me questions and headcanons!

UPDATE: SERIES MASTERLIST

Bob stops dead in his tracks in the doorway to his office, hot tea spilling over the edges of the cup.

Inside, among piles of books and paper, stands a woman with her back turned none the wiser to his presence. She can’t be one of his students–they know not to come to his office unless they have an appointment.

“Who are you?” he asks, not bothered with pleasantries.

She turns around with a startled laugh. “Dr. Floyd, you scared me,” she says with a hand pressed to her heaving chest. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.”

“You’re in my office,” he points out, brushing past her as he walks to his desk in long strides, placing his cup on a coaster to protect the wood.

“Right,” she agrees.

He sits and pulls his books closer to continue preparing for his next lecture, but his eyes drifts back to the young woman. She appears to be in her mid, maybe late twenties. Dark hair falls in loose waves around her face, and she’s looking at him expectantly. “Did you need something?” he asks.

She cocks her head to the side, brows furrowed. “I’m waiting for you to put me to work.”

“Work?”

“Yes,” she answers, incredulous. “What did your old TA do?”

He stares at her, almost convinced he’s hallucinating. “I don’t have a teaching assistant.”

She smiles at him, wide and enthusiastic. “Well, you do now. Would you like me to clean up a bit? It’s a little messy in here.”

Bob suppresses a frustrated groan. Pushing back from his desk, he stands and rounds his desk, stopping in front of her. The scent of her perfume hits his nostrils, something spicy and vaguely floral, and this close, he can see all the colors in her eyes. “I don’t want a TA and I certainly don’t need one. Whoever hired you–”

“Dr. Kazansky,” she interjects. “–made an error. Now, please, leave.”

Walking back around his desk, he ignores the sound of her taking a deep breath and composing herself. She doesn’t speak until he’s fully sat and emerged in his books again.

“You may not want me here, Dr. Floyd,” she begins through clenched teeth, forcing him to look up. She holds his gaze, determination and a hint of defiance in those dark doe eyes. “But you’re stuck with me. So, I’ll be back tomorrow and we can start over. Have a good day.”

The door slams and Bob’s left in the silence of his office, staring at the spot where she stood mere moments ago. Of course, Dr. Kazansky went behind his back to hire a teaching assistant–he’s insisted that Bob needs one for years, but Bob’s always been able to avoid it. Until now, it seems. He wonders how long she’ll last before she realizes he’s too set in his ways to change. But as he imagines the way her nose will scrunch in annoyance, it occurs to him he never even got her name.

likes are nice, comments and reblogs are golden

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#robert bob floyd #bob floyd #robert floyd #bob floyd x oc #professor bob floyd #professor bob #professor au #dark academia au #top gun maverick #tgm #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd angst #madebyme #writtenbyme #mywriting #helena writes #lewis pullman

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arabellasleopardcoat · 5 months ago

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Lay me down (Helaena Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Helaena cannot sleep. You offer to keep her company, but find yourself addled by the same malady she has.

Warnings: None! Just the Princess and the Pea, and grief. Also, friends to lovers.

A/N: This one was hard. Little hope in regards to comments.

“Helaena. Helaena.” The dowager Queen says, voice harsh. “Helaena, are you even listening to me?”

And you do not mean to listen in. You really don’t. But her tone is so urgent, and you are only a few benches away from them, hands joined in prayer.

You had asked the dowager Queen if you could tag along with them today, promising to leave them pray privately. You had your own grief to keep you company, after all.

The news of your betrothed’s death reached you this morning. He had fallen during a battle near Duskendale, marching with the Royal Army under command of Ser Criston.

Your eyes were swollen from so much crying, your nose sore and raw. You had liked the man. Perhaps not as a lover, but he had been very cordial towards you, constantly writing and sending you trinkets. You had considered him a friend, and always found yourself excited to open his letters.

Now, your friend was gone, and your father had callously informed you that you were back in the marriage market. Not even an afternoon had you been allowed to grieve. The Sept was your sole respite from his constant nagging.

“Helaena. Please. Do try to pray.” The dowager Queen begs of her daughter, holding her hands. But the Queen only makes a sound of discomfort, trying to avoid her touch. “It will make you feel better.”

“I have not slept.” She weeps, face twisting in agony. Her whole body cringes away from Queen Alicent.

“It is only normal, after…” And you cannot bear it. Cannot bear to hear them discuss their loss, their own grief, when you are suffering through yours. You get up, choosing to move towards the altar.

You will light a candle and leave. The carriage will provide the same solitude you sought by coming here.

“That has nothing to do with it. Something is wrong. Wrong with my room. Can you stay with me tonight?” Queen Helaena untangles herself from Queen Alicent, who seems desperate to hold her.

“Helaena… I cannot… The lords and…” Her mother is clearly unwilling. A wave of pity for the Queen hits you. Your heart feels torn to shreds already from the loss of a friend, you cannot imagine what it would feel like to lose a son.

Were you her mother, you would hold her all night if she asked. Or even sit by her, if it helped her feel less alone. The Seven knew you would have liked your father to support you in your grief.

“I’ll do it.” You offer, bravely. A few tears have fallen down your cheeks. You barely realize, focused on her. This is something you can do. You can help her. Comfort her. “I’ll stay with the Queen tonight.”

“Were you listening to..?” The dowager Queen’s voice is harsh, grating in your ears. A tad embarrassed, you lower your eyes, but do not apologize nor take back your offer. You had been eavesdropping, of course. But they weren’t trying to be quiet either.

“Yes. She will.” Queen Helaena says, absently. And that is it.

That night, you find yourself in the Queen’s rooms. After her son was murdered, she moved into a more spacious and better guarded chamber.

There are no maids in sight, so you draw the curtains shut yourself and blow off some candles as the Queen changes into her nightclothes. When she comes out of the bathing chamber, she sits on the bed and offers you a hairbrush, in absolute silence.

You wonder if grief has taken her voice, as it has taken yours. You have not brought yourself to even name your betrothed aloud because a knot makes itself known in your throat each time you try.

Instead of trying to hold what will surely be an awkward conversation, you obey her. You are careful to touch her as little as possible when unpinning her long, blonde hair and brushing it until it shines. Then, she gets under the covers.

“Lay next to me.” She pleads, eyes closed. She pats the space next to her.

The bed is marvelous. You are warm and tired, the covers just the right weight for you to feel comforted under them, but not smothered.

You turn to face her. But the Queen has her back to you. You quietly say your nightly prayers and blow off the candle.

It is then that it starts.

Queen Helaena lets out a sigh, rolling on her side. You tense.

“Can't you feel it?” She asks you, face scrunched up in discomfort. “This bed is so uncomfortable.”

Buried under her blankets, warm and safe, you disagree. But you sit up regardless.

“Shall I get you another pillow?”

“Leave it.” She scoffs, throwing her pillow away.

Her tossing and turning doesn't stop the whole night. You understand why the Queen dowager didn't want to stay with her.

You continue to offer her to change her pillows, to fix the bedding, but she denies you every time. When sunrise approaches, you have resigned yourself to just laying there, watching her twitch restlessly. You had given up on sleep a long time ago.

But a night is enough to convince you. Something is wrong. Not with the bed, but with the Queen.

She requests your company again the next night. This time, you come prepared. Your fear of whatever is happening to her has turned into a dull sort of pity.

“I have brought you chamomile tea, but also Milk of the Poppy. Perhaps it might make you sleep.”

“I would like to try both.” She says, reaching for the vial of Milk of the Poppy without hesitation. She downs it fully, face strained. The lack of sleep has taken its toll on her. The dark circles under her eyes are darker than they had been yesterday, her cheeks a tad more sunken.

No one can go without sleep for long. This, you know.

The two of you lay down on the bed, and this time, she falls asleep. You allow yourself to drift off, knowing that the dose was big enough to have her rest the whole night.

Milk of the Poppy is addictive. It probably is why the Maester hasn’t given her any, but the Queen needs to sleep. A night of good, deep sleep will be enough to get her by a few days.

It feels like only a few minutes after when you jerk awake. Still in the clutches of sleep, you frown, wondering what is wrong. You can feel something is; otherwise you wouldn’t have woken.

You turn on your side and notice the space next to you is empty. Your eyes open. Had someone entered and taken the Queen? You would have thought it impossible once, considering the Red Keep the safest place on earth. But after the death of Prince Jaehaerys….

You sit up and find her on the rocking chair, eyes bright as those of a cat. Her gaze is vacant and she doesn’t reply when you call for her. Alarmed, you shake her shoulder. Has the Milk of the Poppy poisoned her somehow? By the Seven, what had you done?

“There is a beast… Oh. It’s you.” The Queen says, after a few minutes of you frantically trying to get her attention. Her voice is rough, as if waking from a deep sleep. Her hands cradle your face, as if committing your features to memory. “It’s you.”

You do not sleep after that. Neither does she. For some reason, you do not feel tiredness. You are glad to be awake. Queen Helaena’s eyes are all pupils, and she doesn’t look tired either. You need to keep an eye on her.

So you do. The both of you pace the room, sit on the bed, alternate places on the rocking chair. Neither of you sleep.

It is then you realize. There is something wrong with the bed.

The third night, the two of you ask the Maester for a concoction to help you sleep. A herbal tincture is delivered to Helaena’s rooms, and both of you each drink a cup.

Nothing happens at first. The two of you sit, side by side, on the bed. As you wait for sleep to come, tucked under the blankets like overly excited children, the Queen turns to look at you.

Her eyes are wide and unnerving. Tonight, her pupils are normal, and she smells of herbs. You find yourself feeling impossibly shy, her gaze too lucid, too attentive. It feels as if she sees you to your very soul.

“My name is Helaena.” She offers you, after a while. “I would like to use yours, if you allow it too.”

“Of course.” You mutter, softly. And as you look away from her, the strangest thing happens. You see yourself, sitting on the floor and playing with a silver haired boy. You sit up.

The image of yourself ripples. You are now laid on the carpet, and the Queen… Helaena cradles your head on her lap.

You see your mother, sitting on the rocking chair. There is the Queen dowager, kissing Ser Criston.

“What in the Seven..?”

“So you see it too, tonight.” Helaena says, voice dreamy. Her hands come to your shoulders, pressing you back down on the bed. “It is like this for me. Always.”

“What is happening?” You start to panic. You can tell the images around you aren’t real, but more like ghosts. It frightens you. Are they dead? But you just saw yourself. It can’t be that. “What is this?”

“Dreams. Futures. Some of them. Some shall never pass.” You get a glimpse of yourself again, cradling the boy. The Prince, you realize. Prince Jaehaerys. “They are my dreams, and yours too.”

“Oh.” Despite your frustration at not being able to sleep, you find them beautiful. You watch the little princess chase the boy, both playing with a ball. It's peaceful.

The two of you spend the night awake, surrounded by children’s laughter. And if you drift a little closer, no one’s the wiser.

It all seems so peaceful, it doesn’t occur to you of what consequences it might bring. You do not feel your creeping exhaustion, but you begin to look it. There are dark circles under your eyes, your cheeks grow more gaunt.

As you are having breakfast with the Queen dowager and the Queen, it occurs to you that you do not want to eat plain toast. You wish to ask one of them to pass you the small, yellow cube that is laying on top of a plate. Much to your horror, you cannot recall the word for it.

“Could you please pass me the..?” And you point because you cannot name it. It’s yellow, and you use it to spread over the toast, but you do not know its name.

“The…?” The Queen dowager asks.

“The…” You point to it. You spread it over the toast with a knife, you wish to say, but you can’t remember the word. It begins to upset you. A sudden urge to cry out of frustration hits you, making your eyes water.

“Oh, not you too.” The Queen dowager says, annoyed, as Helaena passes you the plate containing it. “What are the two of you doing? Playing a game?”

“What do you mean, my Queen?” You frown. What is she referring to?

“Helaena and you. Is that what you do at night, plan the tricks you will play on us?”

Her statement only serves to confuse you further. You frown.

“You should stop it. If you must, do it during the day, you both look too gaunt for my liking. Honestly, pretending not to know words…”

“Helaena…” The Queen dowager sends you a withering look, so you correct yourself. “The Queen is forgetting words too?”

“Honestly! I have had it with you two, girls. We are at war.” The Queen slams her hands on the table. “It is not the time to be playing tricks.”

She leaves the room, huffing. It is only when she is out of earshot that Helaena speaks:

“I have been missing words too. I think it’s from the lack of sleep.”

“Gods.” You say, cradling your head between your hands. You really need to sleep.

Helaena hums. The two of you start placing small notes on the objects in her room that very night.

“This is the hairbrush.” You read the next morning, flabbergasted. “It serves to brush your hair. Comb it through.”

“Pass it to me.” Helaena replies, taking it from you. “I think it is done like this.”

She passes it through your hair. You wonder how you could forget such a heavenly feeling.

The next and last night is nowhere near as heavenly. Helaena and you hug on the bed, terrified out of your minds. You had tried drinking another herbal concoction. Tonight, Helaena’s dreams weren’t so pleasant.

There were two dragons, one large and dark-colored, and a red one. They were shrieking at each other, and roaring. Spitting out flames. And the two of you could only watch as they set ablaze the room.

“Enough! Enough!” You suddenly jump up, and begin to try to drag a terrified Helaena out of her room. You manage to do so, and you lead her to your room. Both of you settle on the bed, cheeks still wet with tears.

You fall asleep still holding hands.

The next morning, a maid comes and changes the sheets on Helaena’s room. As she shakes the pillows and the mattress, a single pea rolls to the floor and hides underneath the dresser.

#helaena targaryen x you #helaena targaryen x reader #helaena x reader #helaena x you #helaena targaryen #helena targaryen x reader #helaena x oc #helaena the dreamer #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #hotd helaena #asoif/got #asoif fanfic #asoiaf fanfic #hotd fic #helaena fluff #queen helaena #hotd

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hesbuckcompton-baby · 17 days ago

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forgive me for this very last-minute entry to the @blind-dates-fest! allow me to introduce lucy 'luca' torrio to you all - my favourite partisan and jock mcdiarmid's deeply unhinged future wife

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communion

Music filled the midnight air as someone thumped out a tune on the piano the SAS had commandeered in Augusta. The clumsy playing almost entirely drowned out by the din of voices, the partisans belting out an old Italian song, its lyrics as familiar to her as the pages of a childhood book.

Luca liked to drink - she liked to sing - and neither activity was in short supply tonight. Yet there she was, sitting on the church steps and watching on in motionless silence.

In the hours since news of Mussolini's arrest had made its way over the radio waves, her comrades' celebration had been impossible to avoid. The alcohol stores had been swiftly depleted - much to the eventual chagrin of those not involved - and she didn't doubt that the Irishman would have some choice words about it come morning. But for now, things were good; many of the SAS men joined with the music where they could, emptying their cups just as swiftly as the Italians. McDiarmid's deep, Scottish tone rang clear as it cut through the song, warbling along off-key and without any knowledge of the words in a reckless merriment that made an involuntary smile tug at her lip.

Her glass had been empty for a while. Too long.

Her boot scuffed against the stone steps as Luca hauled herself to her feet, glass balanced between her fingertips, scraping a few stray strands of red hair away from her face. The night breeze was cool against alcohol-flushed cheeks as she turned towards the church door, the din from outside muffled the moment she stepped inside. Each footstep echoed against the arched ceiling, throwing each inch of her intrusion back at her, amplified. It had been a long time since Luca had felt God had any place in her life - a long time since she hadn't felt betrayed.

The communion wine perched high upon the altar, a glimmer of moonlight catching against the glass as it streamed in through one of the narrow windows, glittering silver in the dark. It looked good. Perhaps more importantly, it looked easy to take.

Luca ran a hand across her face, tugging slightly at the skin, fighting against exhaustion with what may have also been a subconscious effort at snapping herself out of what she was about to do. The wine sloshed slightly as it was decanted into the chalice, the red pool almost black in the dark. She stared at it; a moment's hesitation. She could hear her father's voice from the long-ago days of her childhood, chiding her for any tiny misbehaviour in such a holy place. How his face would run pale to see her now. And yet, the wine slid down her throat as smoothly as any other.

"What would God say?" A Scottish accent rang out from the far end of the aisle, Jock's voice growing steadily familiar to her as their days of proximity ticked by.

His arrival had startled her. She didn't let it reach her expression. "Well are you gonna tell him?" Luca glanced back over her shoulder, offering a smirk.

He chuckled, a slight grin parting his lips. "Not if you share." Letting out a snort, she held out the bottle to him, using her free hand to lift the chalice to her lips again.

A yawn escaped Luca between sips, raising a hand to cover her mouth as her eyes screwed tightly shut. Jock shot her a smile as he stepped up to the altar beside her, accepting the drink.

"Not celebrating?" He asked after a long swig.

"Not 'til he's dead."

"Atta girl," Jock grunted with a nod of approval as Luca rolled her eyes, unable to stop the hint of a smile breaking out across her expression.

She wouldn't tell him why the fire that burnt inside her was different - why it couldn't be dimmed by something as fragile as progress, why the inferno would never lose its heat until the object of her hate was dead and buried. She wouldn't be known by him. Not like that. Not even when he gave her that look and she felt her resolve weaken for a moment. Even when she wasn't looking, her gaze wandering across the dimly lit pews and the glint of moonlight through stained glass, she knew he was staring. He often was - Luca wasn't quite sure if he couldn't tell or if he just didn't care, heedlessness and over-confidence both equally characteristic.

"Yunno," He said. "Your friends don't like me, I reckon."

"Really?" Luca gasped sarcastically, leaning back on her elbows against the altar. He snorted at her tone, a bubble of honest laughter popping in her throat, the sound echoing against the arched ceiling above.

"They don't think you're serious," She shrugged.

"They might be onto somethin' there."

Luca dug a tooth into the inside of her lip. "You wanna know what I think of you?"

Jock's brow arched, beginning to grin. "Oh, aye - now I do."

"I think I could put any woman within a hundred-mile radius in front of you right now and you'd flirt with her. Because you don't care about who's attached to a nice pair of legs."

"Okay, that's…" He paused to think for a moment, taking a sip of wine. "That's not entirely untrue," Luca snorted at the confession, his grin widening. "-But! I resent the accusation that I only flirt with you for your legs. Haven't even seen 'em - your trousers are too baggy."

She laughed again. "So you admit you've been flirting with me."

"I think we're past denying that, love."

Sucking in a long, deep breath, Luca nodded slowly. Eyes fluttering shut, she tilted the chalice, the remainder of her wine sliding down her throat in a single gulp, metal cold against her bottom lip. When she reopened her eyes, Jock was staring. Again. More blatantly than ever.

"You have a real staring problem."

He shrugged. "Not a problem. I can stop."

Luca's brow arched in challenge. "You sure about that?"

"Aye," Jock nodded, smirking as he lifted the bottle to refill her cup. "Just don't wanna."

#luca torrio i love you so bad. writing her is so so fun #blind dates fest 2025 #helena writes #oc: luca torrio #jock mcdiarmid #sas rogue heroes #sas: rogue heroes #jock mcdiarmid x oc #sasrh oc

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kalolasfantasyworld · 7 months ago

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I'm not posting this on my art account, because it's more of a doodle but Olympics consumed me and I had to do this challenge.

#black clover #black clover fanart #black clover oc #fanart #nozel silva #helena drazel #nozel x helena #nebra silva #solid silva #olympics #twitter challenge #nozelena

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etherealperrie · 7 months ago

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The Chart (pt. 2)

"...she is not a mirror in which you reflect, she is of material substance..."

Shane Mccutcheon x OC (Original Character) | The L Word

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: explicit language, references to drinking/alcohol, and explicit sexual activity

...

There’s nothing worse than a hangover. Jules has handled dozens in her time, but all when she was much younger, more agile to bounce back. Nothing could’ve stopped her the morning after a night out in college – hell, she’d taken one of the most important finals of her life hungover and damn near aced it. But now, not even Tylenol is touching the pounding in her skull.

Sighing, she drops her head into the cradle of her hands, running her fingers through her hair. Her ‘free for the weekend’ motto hadn’t considered that her more productive self made an appointment in the library archives at seven the next morning. She mumbles some half-hearted words of encouragement to herself before shifting in her seat and taking a deep breath. On the exhale she swipes the hair from her neck up into a mangled mess away from her eyes. There’s no one else here – everyone else is home properly recovering, or, maybe waking up with that stranger from the night before in their bed.

Jules would much prefer that to this. On the circumstance that it might be Shane. She can’t quite shake the vision of her from her mind, having tossed and turned over her all night. Not to say Jules regrets leaving her at the bar, but she can’t stop imagining what it would have been like to stay. The heat of Shane’s fingerprints are burned into the skin around her hip, the taste of Marlboro reds somehow still on her lips.

“Juliana?” A voice interrupts her daydreams. “Did you want me to get the next box down for you?”

An older woman from the archives stands in front of Jules, her hands perched on the desk for support. Jules shakes her head, clearing her throat. Right, the research. The whole reason she’s here in the first place. The project that quite literally drove her to drinking over the weekend.

“Please.”

The woman nods and turns on her heel back down to the front of the room, her skirt swishing with each step. Jules looks back to the papers sprawled across her desk. There are a few photos scattered about, one catching her attention. Picking it up carefully – by the edges as she was instructed prior to entering the archives – she squints to make out the image.

There’s a blonde woman standing in front of what looks to be a whiteboard full of markings she can’t quite make out. The woman is smiling, obnoxiously big, her pixie cut sticking up in various directions. Jules chuckles, flipping the photo over, a caption scrawled in blue ink on the back.

Alice Piezecki showcasing ‘The Chart’. Color. 2004.

She can’t stop herself from wondering about the context of the photo. More importantly, how did something this recent make it into the archives so quickly? It’s less than five years old. And into the box she specifically requested, labeled, “A Queer History of Los Angeles County”?. Though, most importantly, how did she not recognize this woman or whatever this chart was? Jules taps her fingers against the desk. It’s maybe not surprising, though, one could study queer history all their lives and never fully experience all its aspects. And Jules’ life has, quite literally, been here – in the California University School of Arts library – since she started her program four years ago.

Jules flips the photo back over. She stares at the glossy paper, the unintelligible writing on the whiteboard coming to life. It’s a list of names. Well, not a list but a chart, all of the names connected to one another by lines of varying color. Some of the names are emphasized, bolded or circled, somehow noting their significance over others. Most of the names are unfamiliar to her, but Jules jots them all down in her notebook, underlining where appropriate. All of these women, tied together somehow.

She continues down the line, her handwriting devolving to scrawl, the list impossibly long. Francesca, Marina, Max, Jenny…

Shane.

Jules stops, her eyes lifting from the paper. A name she recognizes. A name both bolded, underlined, and circled. Her heart pounds in her chest although she’s sitting firmly in her chair. For a second she swears the library has transformed into the club, Shane’s dark eyes staring directly at her. The Chart. The women outside the bathroom.

“Tell Shane to fuck you in the men’s room next time.”

Jules laughs to herself. She was so drunk she thought those women were genuinely upset about her and Shane preventing their access to the bathroom. She turns her attention back to the chart, shaking her head with disbelief as she follows the myriad of lines connecting Shane’s name to what appeared to be hundreds of others. She may as well add her own now. She jots it down in her notebook.

Jules.

Part of her is angry, her face red with embarrassment. The other part of her can’t believe the discovery she’s just made. Something like this – the chart – would be integral to her dissertation. Before she’s able to make up her mind on her true feelings, the woman from the archives is calling her name from across the room, lifting the next box. Jules listens to the swooshing of her skirt as she approaches, breathing through her cacophony of emotions.

“Here you go, dear,” she says, setting the box down onto the desk with a thud. “Can I do anything else for ya?”

Jules smiles, lifting the photo up. “Yeah, could I get a copy of this?”

…

Sunday morning. Sun streams in through the window, bathing the bedroom in a wash of yellow light. Cars honk on the street outside as dozens of locals make their morning commutes. Shane wakes to the light, crossing an arm over her eyes as she yawns. It’s bright. Too bright. She flips over onto back, knocking into something – no, someone – in her bed as she adjusts to her surroundings.

The room is familiar, her own.

“Fuck,” she groans. She made a rule a few months ago to go anywhere but back to her own place. It made things easier, much less messy – figuratively and literally. Shane wouldn’t have to worry about women getting attached and she could disappear without consequence. She’s always been good at that.

“Well good morning,” the woman mumbles, turning to face Shane. She’s pretty, they always are. Her eyes are brown, doe-like, her chin-length red hair splayed out on the pillows, her bangs hanging just above her long, fluttering lashes.

Shane smiles briefly before pushing herself up and out of the bed. She can’t linger here with this woman even if she might want to. Anyway, she couldn’t really remember where they met – The Planet? No, that was Thursday night. The club, maybe? A memory washes over her, being left in the bathroom stall by that nameless blonde. She needed to get off, to soothe her bruised ego? Maybe, but Shane wouldn’t admit that to anyone out loud. Rejection is uncomfortable, it doesn’t happen to her often.

“Yeah, good morning,” Shane replies, crossing the room to slip on a t-shirt. She checks herself in the mirror, ruffling her hair until it settles in a way she likes. She turns back to the woman, whose name she couldn’t remember, who’s now sitting up in her bed, the covers slipping down her nude chest. God, Shane could easily give it all up and dive right back into those sheets. She bites the inside of her lip, holding herself to where she stands near the window. “I, uh, forgot I have a couple of clients to get to today.” It’s a lie. She plans on keeping the shop closed today, one of the perks to owning her own salon. In all honesty Shane doesn’t have any plans.

“Oh.” The woman sighs, nodding. She’s clearly disappointed. Shane looks away when she rolls out from under the covers, fully nude, quickly dressing in her outfit from last night. When she sees the ‘Kit Porter’ branded t-shirt, it all comes flooding back. The alluring eyes that met her as she left the bathroom, the beckoning finger she gave this woman, and the way she could barely make out the road on the drive home, what with this woman all over her. Shane was shameless, she’d have fucked this woman right in the middle of the club, but she’d already been turned down once. Which is how they ended up here, in Shane’s room.

“Do you need a ride?” Shane asks, raising an eyebrow.

The woman shakes her head. “No, I’m good. I just, uh, here –” she bends over to pick her bag up off the floor, pulling out a pen. She pulls the cap off and closes the space between her and Shane in a few small steps. Shane chuckles, shaking her head, women never cease to amaze her. She loves them, loves this game of push and pull. I want you, but I’m going to hope you chase me. But Shane doesn’t chase, she doesn’t need to.

She doesn’t object when the woman takes her hand and flips it over, writing a string of numbers on her palm. The woman smirks, rolling Shane’s hand into a fist and kissing it when she’s finished. “Call me, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane replies, swerving when the woman comes in for a kiss. The woman laughs and pulls away. Shane watches as she saunters out of the room and out the front door.

She wonders where she’ll go and if they’ll ever see each other again. Los Angeles, despite its size, is somehow incredibly small. She’d see her again, Shane knows it, and she hopes the woman won’t be upset when they run into one another months from now, when she realizes that Shane never called.

It’s not her fault, it’s just the way Shane’s wired.

She yawns, shrugging her shoulders, and swipes her phone from the dresser dialing a familiar number.

“I can’t believe it!” Alice laughs, tossing her head back.

Tina slides into the booth, her hands wrapped around a tall cappuccino. She raises an eyebrow, looking between Alice and Shane.

“Believe what?” she asks.

Helena leans in, reaching for an almond croissant sitting on the plate in the center of the table. The Planet is where the girls ‘break bread’, debriefing their nights and latest escapades. Though, sometimes, Shane would prefer to keep things a bit closer to her chest, especially the way they’ve blown up the incident of the night prior back at the club.

“Shane was left high and dry at SheBar last night,” Helena says between bites.

Tina laughs. “Losing your power, Shane?”

Shane shakes her head. “We were interrupted, she got spooked, no big deal.” She shrugs and sits back against the booth, sinking down into the leather seat.

“Just admit it, Shane,” Alice pokes. “This girl had a moment of clarity and didn’t want to fuck you!”

“What does it matter?” Bette interjects, lifting her arm from around Tina’s shoulders to interrupt. “It’s not like she went home alone.” A smile creeps onto Bette’s lips, feeling smug as she picks at the crumbs of a muffin.

Shane shoots her a look. She was certain no one saw her leave with her redhead accomplice. Shane should’ve known nothing gets past Bette. She’s always been hyper observant.

Alice scoffs, rolling her eyes in disbelief. “I’d say I’m surprised, but I should learn to expect nothing less from you, Shane.”

Max looks up from his computer for the first time since they all gathered at the table. “Fuck, Shane, I just finished updating the site.”

This elicits a confused look from the entire group, the taunts towards Shane finally ceasing.

“The site?” Shane asks, thankful for the attention off of her for a few seconds.

Alice and Max share a look.

“I’m having Max put the chart online, you know, make it more…interactive.”

“The chart?” Tina repeats. “The chart from your apartment?”

“Our Chart,” Max clarifies. He flips his laptop around to showcase the website to the table. There’s a spindling web of lines connecting various names together. Everyone at the table recognizes their own names, following their own little universes of connection. Max taps on his own name to demonstrate, his cosmo filled with two lines, one to Jenny and another to a name Shane didn’t recognize.

“Alice, this is ridiculous,” Bette says, directing Max back to the mainpage. “These are the intimate details of people’s sex lives.”

“And they love it!” Alice defends.

Shane leans back in her seat. It didn’t matter to her. She couldn’t really understand the obsession with the chart in the first place, when Alice first drafted it. She remembers being in her apartment the day Alice created it, snapping a photo of her. She remembers seeing her own name circled in red ink, her web taking up near half of the whiteboard. She didn’t care. Shane never makes it a point to keep track of her sexual conquests, she simply enjoys getting off when and where she can, with who she can. The human connection. The body of a woman – the way it feels, the way they taste, the warmth of skin against skin.

“Listen, all I know is that we’ve got just over a thousand hits and the site has only been up for a couple of days.”

“A thousand?” Helena echoes Max’s statement. He nods.

“Well shit, Al,” Shane chuckles, taking a sip of her coffee. “To Our Chart.” She raises her glass and Alice smiles proudly, knocking their mugs together.

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