#Is he okay? With that. Pug face and pug skull and all?

[bionicle-ramblings]

Just heard an exerpt from The Magnus Archives

And now I'm having an SCP AU thought:

Jaller: "Case file update. SCP-40581-2 has been cooperative with procedures. He and SCP-8601 have shown to have a level of companionship, which is really surprising because 8601 is usually the reclusive type, from what I can tell. He has been requested to-"

(Door opens)

Whenua: "Hey, sorry, did you see a dog?"

Jaller: "... What?"

Whenua: "A dog? Spaniel? Or a, uh... a Dachshund? No, those are the long ones. Not a pug, those things are fucked up now, can't even breathe because their faces were shived into their skulls."

Jaller: "Update: 8545 is interrupting me. Are you asking if I've seen one in heneral or...?"

Whenua: "No, right now. There's a dog in the facility."

Jaller: "... You let a dog inside the foundation!?"

Whenua: "Of course not! Matau did."

Jaller: "Mat-... SCP-8740 tried to breach containment? And brought in a dog instead? Why is there a DOG in the foundation if it itself is not an anomaly!?"

Whenua: "Okay. Relax. Someone was bringing in a new subject, I think, it was a pretty big box, and we had to hold the door open. And then the damn thing just slipped in, leash, harness, and all."

Jaller: "..."

Whenua: "You should've seen Vakama. I don't think he's SEEN a dog in a while. Everyone probably convinced him all dogs have rabies. Or he'll char it up. Or something to, you know, keep him around."

Jaller: "I'll handle 8601. Just make sure the dog is found and dealt with."

Whenua: "As in returned to the owner or turned into sausage because it's seen too much?"

Jaller: "..."

Whenua: "... Too much?"

Jaller: "Please. Find. The dog."

Takua(In the distance): "Aaaaaw, look at the puppy belly! Being a good pup's, not hurting anyone.

Nuju(Also in the distance): "Right, great, you saw the dog and you pet it, good job. Now move so I can get it outside."

Takua: "Are you flying, pups? Got your paws up, going, 'I'm flying!'"

Whenua: "Found the dog. Thanks, Jaller."

(Door closes)

Jaller: "... Request to staff: Arrange-"

(Ddor opens)

Whenua: "You forgot to hit record, by the way."

Jaller: "Get out!"

(Door closes)

Jaller: "(sigh) Request to staff: Arrange a day where SCPs 8545, 8740, 8604, 8544, and 8737 meet SCP-8601. The former 5 have been making repeated requests and are getting restless. 8740 in particular has utilized his abilities to slip past staff and agents in order to see 8601. Follow-up request: An investigation of 8545's claim of a new anomaly being brought in at the time of a dog coming into the foundation. And that the dog be returned to its owner unharmed. Recording end."

[insomniamamma]

Tessellation: Cee and Ezra

A/N: written for @oonajaeadira and @yearofcreation2023. Year of kisses. The prompt is kiss while sleeping. This one ended up being far more about Cee than Ezra. As Stephen King says "Memory is the basis for every journey."

Warnings: medical trauma, drug abuse, illness, angst, Damon is a terrible father but he wasn't always, death.

He looks small. This man who has upended her life. Ezra. She doesn't even know his family name or where he hails from or which ship he dropped down to the Green on. She's known him two hands of cycles, much of that as he is now. What's left of his right arm is buried in white bandages, strapped to his chest. Tubes snake beneath the nest of blankets, draining murky pink froth from his lungs into oddly prissy containers hanging below, dust infection measured out into fill lines, blood and puss and Kevva knows what. Tube stuffed down his throat and taped to his face. His left arm turned palm up like a gesture of supplication, large-bore IV line spiked into the crook of his elbow, pulsoxometer clipped to his index finger.

He looks small. And deathly sick. His skin has a grayish cast she doesn't care for at all, the dark stubble on his cheeks screaming out like exclamation points. Cee's seen this before. Seen her dad pale and sallow-grey, breath slow, tucked some stim gum between his parted lips and smacked at his arm until he reflexively started chewing.

"I was sleeping, Cee." "but--" "Do NOT do that again. We've got a big drop coming up. We need to be sharp." "but--" "Just hang with me. This job pans out the way it should and we'll be out of the shit for good. Back to Central. But you've got to trust me. You've got to trust me and do what I say, clear?" "but, Dad--" "Are. We. Clear?" "Yeah. clear."

That familiar knot coils itself in her belly. The long greyed out days in between drops ending with her dad doped up to the gills, I need it to sleep, Cee. You'll understand when you're older, nodding off to leave her with his soupy snores and the endlessly shifting light through the pod's tiny rounded windows, little nights and dawns as the freighter spins. She'd copy out what she remembered of The Streamer Girl and listen until she felt confident that he wasn't going to die in his sleep.

"Can he hear me?" She'd asked the medic when they finally allowed her to see him. "Hard to say. We had to put him down pretty deep. He's got a lot of fight in him." "That's a good thing, right?" "Look. Your dad's real sick. He got pretty well dusted. If we can get him to the Pug he's got a shot. But that's a long haul from now. Clear?" "Clear."

She doesn't bother to correct the medic. Maybe things will play better for them if people take them as kin.

Ezra wasn't waking up. But he wasn't dying either. He just stayed stone still, swaddled in white, his stump buried in med-gel and bandages. His eyes flicked back and forth, caught in some endless looping dream. Cee takes his hand sometimes, careful not to dislodge the monitor clipped to his finger, always surprised at his warmth. She tells him about the endless days, doing whatever odd jobs need doing on the freighter, which she understands as charity disguised as work, a way to square their room and board until they hit the Pug. "--channel rat crawled up into the aft intake and died it was just bones and dust, I wanted to keep the skull but Leroy said it was bad luck so it just went in with the rest of the swill--"

Ezra starts twitching, small choking sounds around the tube down his throat.

"Easy," says Cee, "you're okay." And lays her hand on his forehead, smooths the taught skin there, presses the furrows down with her thumb, "You're okay."

"Did I tell you about when your mom used to hypnotize you?"

Cee slides her music player off. She knows by his tone that he is going to have his say. This has become something familiar. He puts the drops in his eyes and then talks. Sometimes it's names and places that she doesn't know and sometimes it involves her. If she doesn't at least make a show of listening he'll yell sometimes, his slurred out voice why don't you ever listen? So it's best to keep her ears half-cocked until sleep claims him.

"Mom used to hypnotize me?" "Mmmh-hmmm. You used to cry so much. You were colicky. We used to have to rub your belly to get you to fart--" "Ewww. Dad--" "They were baby farts! They didn't--they didn't smell--" "But mom?" "Yeah, she'd do this thing--" Damon sits up and lurches towards her and she flinches back a little, and even in his fuzzed out state she registers the hurt in his eyes. Damon smooths the pad of his thumb up and down between her eyebrows "She'd do that?" Cee can't help smiling a little. Damon rarely shows affection these days, and the feel of calloused thumb on her forehead is nice, makes her think of better times, makes her think of being small and Damon picking her up under her arms and covering her face and head with loud smacking kisses while she shrieked in delight, three of them instead of two, a job on some soft, barely remembered world a place of gentle grav and cool breezes, a hand held in each of hers and they'd swing her high, almost flying in the low grav-- "See? I hypnotized you." Cee breaks out of her reverie. "Did not." Damon lays back on his cot. "I freaked out. I told her don't you hypnotize that baby and she laughed and laughed--she--you--miss her…I miss.." and then he's gone. Drawn down into whatever relief the drugs give him, an ill rhythm of slow snores. And Cee waits, waits for the short term sedation of the drops to wane, for his breathing to even out into something more normal.

She remembers being sick. Got bit by a drill worm, Damon told her later, spiked a fever. Like touching a hot engine skirt. She remembers her mother's voice singing low and soft, can't remember the words, she was too small for that, but remembers the cool washcloth on her forehead, removed and re-wetted, Mom kissing her there, right between her eyebrows, where the pad of her thumb once passed.

Ezra sleeps swaddled and small and pinned by machinery, her hand folded around his, careful, fingers tracing the lines of his calloused palm. For now he is still, soothed by her touch. "Ezra? You need to wake up. I don't know what's going to happen when we get to the Pug."

Cee leans over and kisses him, presses her lips against that little space between his eyebrows.

"You need to wake up."

[lionblaze03-2]

okay. Okay I love dead end paranormal park and it’s a fantastic show it’s interesting and captivating and fun and has amazing representation. AND, I love pugsley, as a character!! He is a good boy!! But I don’t want anyone here to forget that in real life pugs are essentially in constant suffering and can barely even breathe and we shouldn’t like. Get any from breeders. Really nobody should even be breeding them anymore.

Obviously fiction is fiction, so I can just say in this universe pugs magically don’t have breathing issues and many other health problems. BUT I know sometimes people see something cute on tv and then decide to get one of their own and I just wanna say. Don’t. Unless you happen to find one at a shelter in which save that boy, as long as you’re prepared for the care

[rosesmusicandaloeveraplants]

the golden ring of oracles

he found a motley crew who knows of magic, headed by a golem of diamonds

reunites with a childhood friend, a beaver possessing the gift of oracles

together they develops his magic over the span of years, finding missing tomes and practicing magic

his wings shone with iridescence again, light as air

until the kingdom raided their cottage on the kingdom's borders, and left more dead bodies in their wake

the beaver's dying breath, told him that it was foreseen that with his return, the beaver will die soon but is content, and asks him to fly away to protect the dragon borne

posted on ao3 or read below :D

TapL's wings carried him far far away from where he left. He journeyed through the night, until reaching the forested border of the kingdom. He perched on a tree to rest.

He skimmed through his satchel, to try and grab food, but realized as he left in a rush, he had very few rations. Instead he went through his mind's own inventory, a pocket dimension of sorts, and grabbed a baked potato he had stored. His eyes felt swollen, and his wings weary, so he cast a masking spell around him and fell asleep, hugging himself with his wings.

---

TapL woke up after hearing loud cheers. He became alert, but didn't move, as he surveyed his surroundings. A group of seven, cheering and laughing at one of their member's jokes. The auras of each were unique, a golem, a demon, a rosebush, a shapeshifter, a pug, an elk, and a beaver. They each have a bit of magic, the demon with powers of the abandoned realm, but something about the beaver felt peculiarly familiar to TapL. TapL saw the beaver raise his right hand to motion around while he speaks and then he notices the golden rings on his hand. Recognition struck:

Spifey would always wear many rings on his hands. He wore golden ones on his right, silver, purple, and black ones on his left, similar to how TapL's right eye was gold and left eye was purple when he uses magic. Spifey told TapL, a summer night a lifetime ago, that these were family heirlooms, and helped with guiding his magic.

TapL fell off the tree in shock, and hadn't retracted his wings yet. He winced in pain as he felt the group surround him.

"You okay there?" the demon asked. TapL nodded, dazed.

"You look like you took quite the fall there, you sure you're alright?" Spifey asked.

"Spifey, is that you?" TapL asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

"TapL? Oh my universe it is you!" his eyes shone with recognition. The others stood confused.

Spifey added, "this is one of the few other magic wielders I knew from childhood, TapL, who I believe I've mentioned before." The others nodded slowly.

"So you're a universe blessed eh?" The shapeshifter asked, "hope you don't mind us asking questions about magic?"

"Hope you guys don't mind me asking you about magic, I need to brush up on my own," he joked. The group laughed in good nature.

"Let's get back to the cabin, I'm sure we have space!" the golem exclaimed.

"We barely have enough space to stop Vurb from getting our toes Skeppy!" the elk whined.

"I'm sure we can just, you know, magic up space, like reasonable people do," the rosebush suggested, "or people can learn to share a room while we figure out something."

They bickered on what to do as they headed back to their homely cottage, where TapL would call home for the next few years.

---

TapL got to know each of the members of this group, and how Skeppy was the one who founded the group, dubbed the IDots. He learned of Hannah's garden of roses and the delicate petals, Finn's seemingly infinite closet fitting their every whim and look, the story of how Bad and Skeppy met while wandering the universe and their frequent yet affectionate bicker, Zelk's silent care despite his nonchalant attitude, and Vurb's (hopefully joking) obsession with toes.

He learned of Spifey's sudden departure years ago having to do with a vision the beaver saw, but wouldn't share.

They spent the time practicing and teaching each other magic, reading and finding tomes in structures long abandoned, pranking each other, doing anything they can think of. They held a talent show, Hannah failed to bake, TapL cloned a parrot, and Skeppy and Zelk performed the worst possible iteration of Romeo and Juliet. They went to a beach through teleportation on a whim. They temporarily made the floor crafting benches for a week.

TapL felt like he found a family again, a close knit group that supported and built each other up, while still being silly enough to feel at ease. He examines his wings in the mirror, as they were no longer the tainted, rusted color of the past, as they start to regain their iridescence, feel lighter on his back.

Through the tomes he learned a way to listen to the universe, to potentially speak with his family, his brother, but he was too afraid. Would they support him despite his failure in his sacred duties? Would they still love him despite how much he failed? Would they still remember? Would they still be there with him?

He set the tome away, leaving that specific spell for another day.

---

The Kingdom found them, and brought all of their troops.

They looted and destroyed another home, took away his family again.

"All in the name of the King," the soldiers shout, "Magic shall not live!"

One by one, the group fell, until TapL was alone again. The troops retreated.

"TapL," Spifey exhaled, while gently caressing his largest wounds. He didn't try to heal them, there was no point. The curse of the black skull had already infected the wound.

TapL felt tears streaking down his face again. No, not again, he thought, I can't lose my family again. "The effect..."

"It's too late." He smiled weakly. "I know you felt the deaths of the others too. I'm sorry you had to feel that."

TapL gripped lightly at Spifey's hand. He can see the curse slowly flowing through Spifey's veins, crawling up his hands.

"I told you I left all those years ago, because of a vision I had."

TapL nodded.

"Well, I'm going to tell you what the vision told me. It told me, that when we see each other again, I will die in the near future."

TapL's breath hitched. His eyes widen in disbelief.

"I had already come to terms with it long ago, there's no need to feel sorry for me. You have come so far TapL, and together we've done so much. Don't let it be in vain. Find your living brother, the son of the ruler of the sacred realm, find Illumina, and protect him. I know you can do it, I believe in you. I'm sorry for leaving so suddenly those years ago, and I'm sorry for leaving you now. You were always like a brother to me. Stay safe."

Spifey's body, like the rest of the IDots, faded into the universe. TapL kneeled there, numb, and started to sob.

He left, wings heavy again but cloaked in invisibility, casting a barrier preserving the current state of the cottage's remains, and creating a plaque for another family he lost.

[wollymalfoy]

Hogwarts is my home... (pt9)

Masterlist

Tags: @samnblack @idontknowwhatthisisfam @mrspadfoot4 @glitteremopotatoeanimebutch

Writers note: this is very sad I’m sowy. I also didn’t want Draco to be such a bad guy but that’s where I ended up :/ enjoy

The summer came and went, faster than ever before. Although the summer was full of love and fun you couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad would happen. And it did. During the quidditch World Cup death eaters had tore up the camp, even now that it was December you could still hear the terrified screams of those around you. The scene of you running hand in hand with George replayed every night. In the moment all you could focus on was his hand against yours, the world around was a blur. You never told anyone how much this affected you, you thought you were the only one that felt this way.

The news about the Yule ball however made you feel a little happier. Even though it was only one night it could take your mind off the whole World Cup incident for the night. Of course you’d be going with Draco but he’d yet to ask you, and for some reason he’d be awfully distant.

‘Where do you keep going?’ You said suspiciously, ‘we hardly spend time together anymore...’

‘I’ve just been busy with work is all’ he said kissing your head and turning to leave the common room. You sighed letting your body fall to the side, laying down on the couch.

‘Still hasn’t asked you?’ You heard a raspy voice say from behind.

You turned around to see Blaise, a book in his hand, walking towards you.

‘No...’ you said biting at the dry skin on your lips.

‘Strange’ he said sadly, ‘I don’t get what’s up with him...’

‘Me neither’, you sighed.

-

Unbeknownst to you George was having the same conversation in the library.

‘Why is Malfoy being so off lately? He’s still not asked her to the ball’ He said in disgust, ‘I can see how much it’s affecting her, not to mention the millions of times she’s brought it up.’

‘I don’t know Georgie, but if he hurts her he’s dead meat’ Fred said slamming a book shut, ‘I recon you ask her to spite him.’

George laughed and carried on looking for a book that would help with their latest products. As always their business was always a secret until it was finished. The twins liked surprising you, George especially. George huffed as he closed another book that wasn’t helpful, he saw a familiar blonde head of locks in the corner of his eye. Draco Malfoy had walked in with Pansy Parkinson, who looked a little too happy for George’s liking.

‘What’s he doing with pug face’ Fred said having seen the pair too.

‘I don’t know but it doesn’t look good’ George replied.

They watched for a moment, looking for anything suspicious they could report to you. And they did find something. Draco reached up to move a piece of hair out of Pansy’s face, his hand then resting against her cheek as she beamed at him with puppy dog eyes. The same eyes the twins had seen you make at the boy time and time again.

‘HEY!’ George said storming over. How dare someone as revolting as Malfoy hurt Y/N. ‘What are you doing!’ He said still shouting.

Madame Pince hushed them but George was too angry to take notice of the old librarian. Draco stared at the boys like a deer caught in headlights.

‘How dare you!’ Fred said pulling Draco out of his seat by his robes. Madame Pince sped over and began to scold them, advising them to leave.

‘I guess we’ll have to take this elsewhere’ Fred said coldly. Both of the red headed twins dragged Draco from the library and down the corridors.

‘What goes through your thick skull Malfoy!’ George shouted not letting go of the boy like his brother had done.

‘I hardly did anything’ Draco said breathlessly.

‘Are you serious?’ He scoffed. George prayed that Draco was joking, that this was just a dream and Y/N wouldn’t have to hear that her boyfriend had been flirting with other girls.

‘It’s not like I kissed her or something’ Draco shouted pushing George away finally.

‘Was you planning to?’ Fred said softly, not wanting to look at the boys face in the fear that he might bop him in the nose.

‘Of course not! I love Y/N I’d never do anything to hurt her’

‘Well you’ve got a funny way of showing it!’ George screamed, ‘being distant, sneaking around with other girls, following your death eater parents around the World Cup!’

‘Don’t you dare talk about my parents!’ Draco said takin a step towards George.

‘Do you know how long I’ve loved Y/N!’ He said not caring about the consequences of what he is about to reveal, ‘since I met her, Draco and yOu’ve got a chance with her and you can’t fucking treat her right!’ Tears pricked his eyes as he said this.

Draco stared unable to speak as the blood boiled in his body.

‘And you’ve nothing to say!’ George laughed, ‘you will ruin her Draco!’

‘What is going on!’ Professor McGonagall said from behind them.

‘Nothing Professor’ Draco said coldly, ‘I was just leaving.’

-

Draco stormed into the common room, knocking a 1st year onto the floor as he marched over to you.

‘What’s got your wand in a knot?’ You laughed but Draco didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile.

‘Did you know?’ He asked, ‘DID YOU KNOW!’

‘Know wha-‘

‘That George likes you!’ He shouted making your fellow slytherins state, ‘maybe even loves you I don’t fucking know!’

‘I-‘

‘Just answer the question!’

‘Yes...’

He scoffed and fell to the floor. His hands grabbing at his face in anger.

‘Why did you continue to hang with him if you knew. You spent all summer with him Y/N’ he said softly.

‘They’re my friends... I just- I thought I’d just ignore the crush he had’

‘How do I know nothing happened!’ He said raising his voice.

‘I promise you nothing did, Draco. I’d never do anything that could destroy our relationship!’ You said wrapping your arms around him.

He was quiet for a moment before he spoke.

‘I can’t watch you hang with him if I know this information’ he said looking at you with tears falling from his eyes.

‘What are you saying’ your voice trembling as you said this. You had an idea what he was talking about but you hoped it wouldn’t leave his mouth.

‘You can’t be friends with him Y/N’

‘Draco-‘

‘Please Y/N, I- I just need to know that there won’t be a possibility of me loosing you to him’

Tears streamed down your face. You had to make a choice in this moment, a choice you never wanted to make.

‘Okay...’ you whispered, eyes at the floor.

‘Promise me’

‘I promise’

Thanks for reading!

[camillemontespan]

i see you [AU. drake walker] [part twelve: spoil of war]

Part Eleven if you want to catch up.

I know I wrote the last chapter yesterday but there’s been demand for an update asap (ha, cliffhanger right?) so I’ve had a quiet morning and typed this. 

There will be one more part after this and the series is finished. Might need your help with what to do about Kiara. I have ideas on how to end it but not entirely sure..

@jovialyouthmusic @sirbeepsalot @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore @moonlightgem7 @pug-bitch @emceesynonymroll @burnsoslow @ibldw-main @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @emichelle @dcbbw  @drakesensworld @star-spangled-eyes @iplaydrake @drakewalkerisreal @drakeswalkers @notoriouscs  @mskaneko @furryperfectionlover @pedudley @addictedtodrakefanfic @stopforamoment @rainbowsinthestorm @gardeningourmet

      ********************************************************************************

Drake insisted on being in the ambulance with Camille as it raced to the hospital. As the paramedics worked around her unconscious body, reading out her vitals, Drake could only hold onto her hands with tears running down his face as he prayed she would be okay. 

Her forehead had a deep gash which at first, seemed to be the only problem. But Drake had found that when he cupped the back of her head, his hand came away covered in blood. 

‘Baby, please be okay..’ he whispered. ‘Please be okay.’ 

Maxwell, Hana and Olivia were in Maxwell’s car following behind the ambulance. Despite Olivia being initially a bitch to Camille, she insisted on coming to the hospital with them. 

‘Do you think she’ll be okay?’ Hana asked. 

‘She has to be,’ Maxwell muttered, his eyes gripping the steering wheel as he drove.  

                   **************************************************

The paramedics guided Camille on a stretcher into the hospital, shouting out instructions. 

‘Female, 26 years old, head injury from falling down stairs. Major wound in the back of the skull, possible fracture,’ one of them said loudly. Drake flinched at the robotic way these paramedics spoke. 

‘She needs urgent attention,’ another instructed. 

Drake went to follow but was stopped by a nurse. ‘I’m sorry sir, but you can’t go into the operating room-’

‘She’s my fiancee!’ Drake protested. ‘I need to be there with her-’

‘Sir, you can’t,’ the nurse interrupted, pressing her hand on his chest. ‘The doctors need to work without distractions. Please go to the waiting room and sit down.’ 

Drake clenched his fists but stepped back. He could only watch as Camille was taken away into the operating room before the doors shut on her. He felt helpless. He needed her to be okay. He couldn’t imagine life without her; especially now that his life had only just started. 

        ******************************************************************

The others found Drake sat in the waiting room with a paper cup of coffee in his hand. He looked exhausted and his shoulders were set as if he had the weight of the world on top of them.  He stood up when he saw them enter. 

‘Drake, how is she?’ Hana asked, rushing in to give him a hug.  

‘She’s in the operating room,’ he croaked. ‘Major wound in the back of the skull, possible fracture,’ quoting the paramedics. Hana paled. 

‘Who wants snacks from the vending machine?’ Maxwell asked. ‘I think we all need a sugar boost.’

‘Ugh, carbs,’ Olivia muttered, rolling her eyes. Drake stared at her in disbelief. 

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

Olivia’s eyes narrowed at his bluntness. ‘Such a warm welcome.’

‘You hate Camille,’ Drake spat. ‘You hate me. You sent her the picture of Kiara kissing me and you revelled in it. Are you just tagging along for drama?’ 

Olivia was about to speak but was interrupted by Maxwell and Hana who came back armed with chocolate. 

      ***********************************************************************

Hana was tapping her foot on the floor repeatedly. Out of nervousness or spiked sugar levels, she couldn’t tell. Something didn’t add up. Camille wasn’t accident prone. Maybe she had tripped on her heels but Hana couldn’t help but feel that something darker was going on, especially given recent events.

As Maxwell would say, her Hana senses were tingling. 

A doctor came through to the waiting room. ‘Drake Walker?’ he announced.

Drake stood up quickly, his face white as he prepared himself for news. The doctor smiled. ‘She’s stable.’ 

They all breathed a sigh of relief- including Olivia. ‘You can come in and see her, Mr Walker,’ the doctor continued. ‘Only you, however. She’s asleep but you can just sit in and watch over her if you like.’

Drake smiled gratefully. ‘Room 406, fourth floor,’ the doctor told him. 

As Drake spoke to the others to tell them he would see them when he knew Camille was absolutely okay, he didn’t spot the one person he should have. Kiara was at the threshold of the waiting room. Having overheard the doctor, she turned on her heel and strode with purpose to the elevator to Room 406.

        ****************************************************************************

All Kiara did was stand at the window which looked into Camille’s hospital room. She stared at her, her eyes roaming the sleeping woman. Her forehead was bandaged up and she seemed to be sleeping peacefully. She looked quite pretty, despite the blood and bruises.

She was thinking. 

Do you think I enjoy seeing the way he looks at you? Or how he holds your hand, as if he’s afraid you’ll let him go. Do you think I appreciate how he smiles at you, that warm smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, the one that he gave me once that made me feel like the only person in the room? That smile should be for me.

Kiara was knocked out of her reverie by the sound of pounding footsteps. Looking around, she saw Drake running down the corridor. 

If he wondered why she was there, if he wondered if he should give her a piece of his mind, he let it go. He had bigger things to deal with. He would deal with Kiara later about the photograph. 

Instead, he cried, ‘Kiara, is she in there?’ 

Kiara nodded. ‘Yes, Drake.’ 

He rushed through the door into the hospital room, the door shutting behind him. Kiara watched through the window as he moved quickly to the bed and scooped Camille up into his arms, holding her close, tightly, as if he never wanted to let her go. 

     ****************************************************************************

Drake let out a sob he had been holding for the past three hours. He could hear her breathing and relief flooded him as he thanked the universe for keeping her alive. 

‘Drake?’

Drake looked down to see Camille looking up at him, her eyes blinking as she adjusted to the light in the room.  

‘Oh god, oh god,’ he murmured, kissing her repeatedly on the mouth. ‘You’re okay, I got you. You’re okay.’ 

     ******************************************************************************

Kiara turned to leave the corridor but stopped when she saw Olivia striding towards her. She wore a serious look on her face and the disdain she cast at Kiara made her step back. 

‘Olivia-’

Olivia pushed her into the wall, wrapping her hand around her throat. She wasn’t giving pressure but the action itself made Kiara cry out. 

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing pushing people down stairs and leaving them? She could have died!’ Olivia hissed. 

Kiara struggled against Olivia’s iron grip. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about-’

‘I saw you running away,’ Olivia interrupted, her voice laced with venom. ‘I saw you get into your car. Why did you do it?’

‘Why do you care?’ Kiara asked, her eyes darting. ‘You don’t even like her-’

‘True, but I also know when I have gone too far,’ Olivia bit back. ‘You’ve really crossed the line, Kiki.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Kiara ground out. 

‘I sent Camille that photo of you and Drake kissing because I’m a bitch,’ Olivia explained. ‘I do things because I can. But I know when to stop. I know when I’ve pushed it. When I saw you running away, leaving her unconscious, I felt so much disgust for you. You’re a coward, Kiara.’ 

‘I’m not-’

‘Which is why I’m going in there right now to tell Drake exactly what you did,’ Olivia spat, ‘if Camille doesn’t tell him first. Either way, she has backup.’

Olivia let Kiara go and stalked over to the hospital room door and knocked. Kiara felt her vision blur as she watched Olivia enter to Drake and Camille’s surprise. Her feet were planted to the floor and she couldn’t move. She wanted to get away from this hospital, away from accusations and consequences, but she couldn’t. She was frozen with fear.

       ***********************************************************************

‘What are you doing in here, Olivia?’ Drake asked, his voice weary. ‘If you’re here to deliver a sarky comment, please just say it and leave-’

‘Kiara is the one who pushed Camille down the stairs,’ Olivia interrupted, her voice sharp. ‘She is currently standing outside this very room watching us.’ 

Drake’s eyes widened as he looked down at Camille then to the window where Kiara was indeed watching through, her eyes bulging with fear as she was exposed. 

All Camille did was hold onto Drake and scream. 

    ****************************************************************************

Kiara ran. She ran down the corridor, trying her best in her high heels, but the floor surface was slippery and she couldn’t get far. All she was aware of was the sound of pounding feet running behind her and then someone grab hold of her arm, turning her around roughly. 

Drake held onto her, his grip tight on her skin. His eyes were furious. Kiara shrank back at his fire. ‘Drake-’

‘You are a fucking psychopath,’ he spat. 

Tears filled her eyes and her voice wobbled as she tried to speak. ‘Drake, I didn’t-’

‘Didn’t mean it? Didn’t mean to push her down the stairs and leave her there? Didn’t mean to take a photo of Camille being harrassed by Tariq? Didn’t mean to take said photo while hanging in a fucking tree? Didn’t mean to kiss me? Really, Kiara?’

Kiara trembled as she saw every good thing Drake saw in her crumble. ‘I just.. I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I love you-’

‘I don’t give a flying fuck that you love me,’ he interrupted, his voice rising. ‘What you have done - everything that you have done - is insane. You drove my fiancee out court. You made her terrified and now you push her down the stairs where she’s ended up in hospital with a fucking head injury! Do you feel any remorse at all? Do you have limits?’ 

Kiara tried to escape his grip. She managed to wrench her arm away but he grabbed her hand tightly, pulling her into him. His eyes looked down at her hand  and Kiara swallowed when she saw the pure hatred etched across his face as he stared at her. 

‘You took her engagement ring?’ he whispered. He pulled the topaz ring off her finger harshly and Kiara gasped at the pain. 

‘Drake..’

‘This is my grandmother’s ring,’ Drake murmured, looking down at it. ‘Camille was wearing it at the Bash... but you have it now. Did you.. did you push her down the stairs and then take this ring as a sort of spoil of war? Seriously?!’ 

A tear slid down Kiara’s cheek. She had lost him. 

‘Don’t you dare have the audacity to cry, Kiara,’ Drake told her. ‘Don’t you dare. You could have ruined everything. You could have killed Camille.  I swear to God, as soon as Camille is discharged from the hospital, I am taking her away from Cordonia and away from you. We are going to go far away and never come back. I’ll be damned if we spend one more second near you.’ 

Drake shoved Kiara away and stormed back into the hospital room. 

A sob escaped Kiara’s throat and she held her ringless hand to her mouth. Shaking, she slid down the wall of the corridor and sat on the floor, pulling her legs up to her chest as she rocked her body, crying floods of tears as she realised she had lost him. 

You walked into court in a cloud of Chanel perfume, coconut shampoo and bright smiles and you stole his heart.

I will never forgive you for that.

So now, you understand why I had to do it. Don’t you?

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Tuesday Teaser - FTH 2019

Half an age ago, I put my writing on the auction block for @fandomtrumpshate. (Not really it was like six months ago lol). I was quite frankly, astonished and humbled by the results and the amount of the final bid. $130 to the Young Center for Immigrant Children’s Rights. The generous winner was the lovely @justajjfan who it turns out, actually wanted to gift the fic she won to her friend @sunsetsrmydreams. Ladies, it’s still rough and nowhere near ready for posting, but here is a small teaser to let you know that I haven’t forgotten you, and there should be something ready for you in the next month. So without further ado...

Fickle Games (Coming Soon)

The crickets haven’t started singing yet. It’s still too early in spring for that. A chill still clings to the air, condensation beads at the base of the windshield. Her fingers are numb. The leather gloves should have kept her warm except the nitrile ones beneath are too tight and have squeezed the circulation from her fingers. They’re turning numb and no amount of blowing warm air on them has helped.

Katniss reaches for the keys to turn on the engine, and the man beside her smacks her hand away.

“Shit how dumb are you?”

“It’s cold. I’m cold.”

“Whatever. Five more minutes and then we move in.”

“Your guy isn’t here,” she says and he scoffs. He sounds worried. Katniss would give him shit, since he’s done nothing but give her shit since she picked him up at the gas station an hour ago, except she needs this job and she has know idea if this prick next to her is a loose cannon or a psychopath.

She needs the money, so she keeps her silence as much as she can. Gale assured her it’d pay well and immediately.

“As soon as the job is done. Just a little driving, a package delivery,” Gale had said.

“What sort of package?” Katniss had asked, to which Gale had told her he didn’t know. This wasn’t the kind of job where you asked questions. You just did it, and got paid. Simple as that.

Katniss shifts in her seat and stares out her window at the house they parked next to, a massive mansion, like all the ones on this street. The light from a phone screen reflects off the window. She can see the shadows as he removes his gloves to check the message.

“Fuck.”

“What is it?” she asks, turning to him with a scowl he can’t see behind her mask. She can’t see his either, that was the deal. No names and no faces. He’s yanking his loves back on and then taking something from his pocket. A folded piece of paper.

“Our third got pulled over by a cop. He’s spooked now and not coming.”

“So we do this another night?”

“No we go now.”

“What?”

“You’re paid to drive. Follow the plan.”

“Okay,” Katniss says and starts the car, driving down the block and around to the back of the mansion. She leans out the window and waves the card given to her as part of her gear. There’s a buzz and a click, the wrought iron gates swinging open. She feels her heart pounding as she drives through. Brings the van to a stop at the back door.

“Get out.”

“That’s not--”

“Get out!” he hisses at her. “I need three to pull this off but I don’t have three. I have you. So get your ass out of the car. Take this.”

He shoves the paper at her and hurls himself out his door, opens the back doors, leaving Katniss in a whirlwind of thought. The driver door wrenches open and he’s standing there, a hulking brute who could probably crush her skull in his bare hands, if he wanted to.

“I don’t see how I’ll be much help,” she mutters, but flings her leather gloves onto the dashboard and follows him inside. Through darkened back halls, the sounds of a TV or something leading them upstairs, to their quarry.

Sweat beads on her upper lip, her brow. She’s breathing like a pug, loud and almost snorting pants, but her companion doesn’t seem to notice. Her eyes scan across the plush carpets and expensive antiques, the paintings on the walls.

“Bet he’s jerking off to kiddie porn,” her companion sneers as they reach the upper floor, the sounds and lights spilling from the room into the pitch black corridor their beacon. She sees a shadow move across the door, a trick of lighting, she thinks.

They creep towards it and she grabs hold of the jacket in front of her. What is she doing? She blinks the perspiration from her eyes and opens her mouth to bail, warn the person in the room, but then she has no choice.

He slinks into the room, his jacket torn from her grasp. She stumbles forward into the doorway and sees it all. The body reposed on the bed, one arm tucked under his head as he sleeps, the other over his chest. He’s dressed in jeans and a long sleeve tee, ankles crossed. It’s not porn on the TV but a news station.

She watches the cloth placed over mouth, the startle awake, wide confused eyes for just a second. Then the spring up as he fights. Hand knocking aside sedative as he lurches at his attacker. Something shatters. Someone yells. The light shifts and flickers as they knock over a lamp. Katniss stands, transfixed and frozen. 

“Get the cloth, you stupid bitch!”

She scoops it up and her partner spins, their quarry caught in a headlock. He’s still struggling and kicks at her, but she jumps back then gets it over his mouth and nose. Holds it tight. Tight. Her pulse thuds and she thinks she can see his in his temples. Then her eyes meet his as he stares at her, makes a strange choking coughing sound in his throat.

Blue. Betrayal and blue and confusion and then his eyes roll back, closing as his head lolls to the side. His body sags, dragging both men down to the floor.

“Fuck! We gotta go. Now.” A limp form is rolled off to the side and her companion stands. He struggles for a second, finally getting their package over his shoulders. “Come on!”

She shakes herself and hurries towards the door, but as she does, she spots a coat and a pair of leather shoes by the desk. Expensive. Warm. He’s wearing nothing but socks. He’ll freeze to death. So she sets the paper down, grabs the shoes and coat, gathers up the orange scarf that trails out of it, and follows the cursing and stumbling back out to the van.

************

The rating for this fic is undetermined yet. It will at least be M for language, violence, kidnapping, disturbing themes, discussions of abuse, and some mind games. We’re gonna try to avoid Stockholm Syndrome here, although we will be venturing into Lima Syndrome just a tiny bit. We’ll see how that goes. For the curious...the inspiration for this story is from the Amber Run songs I Found and Pilot, along with their accompanying videos.

[wafflewarriors]

The Not-So-French Mistake

Chapter 10: Seize the Moment… Literally

Sydney’s eyes flickered open, having been shut as images channeled across her vision. The voices within the memory hindered any means of hearing her surroundings, so when it abruptly unmuted, she flinched fiercely at the new stimulation.

“―ney? You okay? Woah, Sydney? Syd!” 

She grunted irritably as two calloused hands patted her cheeks. Her head had settled onto the unforgiving tile, where she woozily sat up, leaning against the wall as a brace. A phantom cramp lingered in her skull, throbbing when she opened her eyes. She’d never had a migraine before, yet she was certain this was comparable.  

Stressed, viridescent pupils hovered above her owlishly as Dean supported her by the shoulders, and she realized that her knees had given out. She huffed a weak laugh.

He blinked, utterly bewildered,  “What?”

“That’s… that’s the first time you’ve said my name. You always use nicknames.”

“No, I don’t,” he grunted, concentrating on her debilitated state. “Here.” He boosted her upward by the shoulders, straightening her spine and supporting the greater part of her weight as she regained her strength.

“Yes, you do,” she reasoned. “Like, pipsqueak, sweetcheeks, cupcake, sparky, tootsie, cheeseball, princess, sweetheart… even pug-face―”

“Okay, okay, Hot-shot. I get it.” He was too distracted to care.

“See!” she said, gesturing to express her triumph.

Dean countered it with a gentle nudge against her flailing hands, urging her to just relax. He was concerned, and she wanted to rave about the pet names he’d given her on the occasion. “Shut up,” he proposed, so she did, allowing him to fuss. He finally demanded, “Now what did I just watch?”

“I panicked when I saw the room, okay? That’s it.” It wasn’t a total lie, but she wasn’t going to yap about her problems. Not to Dean Winchester, even though he’d proven to be a very skilled psychiatrist during difficult cases. Some people just needed to work through their crap. However, she did not.

“Panicked?” he said, “You seized for a whole three minutes! I was the one panicking!”

She sobered her easygoing behavior at the chilling news. Crap, she reflected, I had a seizure? She knew it wasn’t her fault, but guilt pooled in her gut nonetheless. Dean must have went berserk.

Dean ran his fingers through his dark-blond hair, a slight tremble in the motion. “Let’s just get out of here, okay? I have the note. Let’s go. We don’t want this thing to crumble while we’re in it.” 

The dingy hotel room now beared two equally horrible memories. He was itching to burn the hotel until the basement was brimming with ashes, but the town had suffered enough heat, so just leaving altogether would be enough

There was a cumberous silence that weighed on her like a blanket woven into bulky, lead chains. Her tongue was anchored to her teeth, the words having died on her lips. Why was silence often linked with peace? Peace was hardly the word for the deafening chains that even darting thoughts could not break.

Her mind wandered, and after mentally pondering several scenarios, she built up the courage to ask what dug at her mind. She assumed this was a safe question. “What’s with the nicknames, anyway?” Her tone was delicate and hesitant as she spoke, afraid of a harsh yell in retort.

Dean sighed, realizing this wouldn’t drop until he addressed her. “It’s you. You… you and Sammy are like the exact same person, I swear. It’s why the nicknames just… roll into my conversations with you. And, when you get hurt… I just… Sammy calls it ‘big-brother-mode’, but that’s my form of a panic attack, I guess. I ain’t sniveling, but I get so…” A shiver forced its way to the surface, carrying a shudder with it, goosebumps rising along his forearms. He grew increasingly self-conscious over his response to her seizure. “Sorry, I know it’s weird. We literally met yesterday.”

“No… it’s…” she began, searching for the right word, “sweet.”

“Sweet?” he asked, skeptical, eyebrows climbing.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s sweet.” She nodded thoughtfully. “A hardened hunter panicking when family is hurt is… sweet, in your own way.” She blushed, moved by her own words. It was one thing watching a character on the screen and admitting his weakness was his strength, but doing so face to face was absolutely nerve wracking. “You know, the show depicts you as a bad-boy who uses sarcasm to avoid talking about his emotions, but I’m starting to see your soft side, too. You’re actually a teddy bear, aren’t you?”

A mischievous glimmer shone in his eyes at her comment. He gave an encouraging waggle of his eyebrows, successfully lightening the mood.

Sydney rolled her eyes. “It also implied you were immature, as well. Guess they were right about that.” 

He shrugged childishly, “Who would I be without it?” However, his genuine behavior drained away as he pondered his rhetorical question, and a solid, weighty truth settled on his shoulders as an answer: without his humor, Dean would be a broken man. A very, very broken man.

The new thought brought daylight onto the reality of the conversation, and the manipulation Sydney was actually driving here. Dean had begun the discussion straightforwardly centered upon Sydney’s spontaneous seizure, and she had still managed to punch his figurative, magic buttons into talking about himself.

“Kiddo?” he asked lightly, “You know, it’s alright to talk about yourself, here. You’re safe with me.”

Sydney paused, taken off-guard by the sudden granted permission. He’d bypassed her subtle guidance of a topic change and twisted it right back around―right where they had started. A situation such as this had never occured in… in her lifetime, really. She was lost with what to say.

For Sydney’s entire life, she saw self-reflection to be undesirable, so she deflected and redirected the theme of a conversation from herself and back onto the spectator neglectfully. For most, it was mindlessly accepted, a simple bait reliably taken. 

However, Dean was not of the vast majority. He consistently saw through her veil like it was translucent.. He saw because it’s all he could see. Dean recognized her act because he wore the mask himself daily. 

She frowned. “Dean, um… admittedly, my friend forced me to watch this show, but, uh… you’re like, one of my childhood heroes.” To describe this was like assembling a fresh puzzle; she wasn’t sure where to start. “Let me give you an example, let’s say there’s this really loyal Marvel fan that ends up meeting the real Batman. The real deal. While they would prefer meeting Ironman or Captain America, meeting Batman is still like meeting a celebrity, no matter how you see it. You’re Dean Winchester, and it doesn’t help that you’re wearing the celebrity actor’s face from my world. It’s like, double the famous.” She inhaled at the gravity of her life right now: having met Dean Winchester, the exact doppelganger of Jensen Ackles. “I don’t just go admitting my weaknesses to celebrities. It’s terrifying… so, just give me a moment to compose myself.”

Dean paused, dubious. “I’m comparable to Batman? C'mon, nuh uh.” He paused, considering it, “Seriously?”

She snorted. “Believe me, you’ve got a whole fandom in my world willing to sell their souls for you. You’re lucky my world doesn’t have the supernatural. Fourteen seasons and all- well, I’m technically in like, the eighth right here, I guess. I’m basing it roughly off of Sam’s haircut.”

Even though Dean was slightly amused that Sam’s hair could tell a fan what year it was, one comment especially jolted him. “Fourteen seasons? You mean we’re only about halfway there?” He sucked in a breath. “It gets worse doesn’t it?”

She hesitated. “Uh, yeah. Supernatural loves to build the suspense. So, yeah, let’s just say things get a lot crazier. I may not have obsessed over you, but I pay attention to my shows. You… you had it easy during the apocalypse.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

She winced. “Not quite.”

Dean frowned, monitoring her expression. Suddenly his frown turned grave. “Don’t tell me. It’s God, isn’t it?” He said it bitterly.

“Actually, God’s sister… and then… yeah, uh, God does come into play.” She began to clam up, realizing she’d let a major plot slip. “Yeah… uh… just forget what I said,” she stammered, realizing the massive impact this could deal out. She doesn’t want his future doomed because she told him a chunk of his future.

A worryingly blank look washed over Dean’s face and then he’s chuckling proudly to himself. “Can’t believe I’m comparable to Batman. Oh, man, wait til’ I tell Sam.”

Sydney giggled, though a bit miffed by the sudden change of topic. “Yeah, add that to your ‘I killed Hitler’ list.”

“I kill Hitler?!” Dean lit up. “Sweet!” He paused contemplating over something, “Fandom, huh? You much of a Dean-girl?” He smirked devilishly.

Sydney considered it. “I guess I was more of a Castiel or Gabriel kind of girl. Definitely more of a Dean-girl than a Sam-girl, but…” She reddened, crimson dusting her ears. “Ew, wait. You guys are like, forty. Why am I even saying this?” Embarrassment fluttered in her chest like a cage of startled bats.

“No harm done, honey,” he drawled. He nodded, judging her preferences. His lips quirked. “…Gabriel?”

Her stance grew defensive, crossing her arms. “What can I say? He becomes an interesting character. I like to review my choices,” she said. “But… no. They’d be more like… family. Brother-sister relationship. I don’t know why. Just feels right.“

Silence threatened to swallow the light mood, signalling the end of the topic. Dean decided to transition back to the other tickle in his forethoughts. “So, tell me, what’s crazier than the apocalypse?” 

“You… what? We just…” said that… she trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. She froze, tilting her head.

“I just what?” He did that concerned eyebrow thing, his face scrunching up like some kind of protective bear.

She stared at him in horrified awe and stumbled back, legs trembling upon the crushing realization. She had done something to him. “I just… you…” she stammered. “I just told you to forget something and you did!” Fear, disgust, and absolute terror bubbled and threatened to overflow within her abdominal region. What was she? A freak?

 “Last time I wanted to be normal. This time I know I’m a freak.” ~Sam Winchester

A garbled cry left her lips as her head catapulted another hammering blow at the frail wall barricading locked memories. These weren’t her memories, though! She recognized them enough, but the perspective was in the eyes of a man. These spontaneous not-flashbacks were becoming alarming. What do these mean?! She cried within the barriers of her mind. What do you want from me?!

Calm yourself, kiddo, her mind supplied gently.

In her delirium, she was unsure if she was responding to her own thoughts, or if she was actually receiving answers. She began sobbing into the heels of her hands as a pain akin to having a nail jammed into the base of her skull splintered across the base of her forehead.

Dean was quick to react to her unplanned breakdown. Their conversation had went from lighthearted to massively distressing. “Hey, hey, hey! Kid? What’s up? Sydney?” Dean urged her to answer as she literally bawled into his shoulders, fists grabbing at his jacket in misery.

The pain dispersed, drawing back as if it’d been spooked by her reaction to its presence. The drilling agony blended into a distant ache, like the itch of an old scar. Suddenly, she could breathe again.

“What was with the waterworks, kid? What’s up with you?” Dean didn’t mean to be accusatory, but he was becoming antsy. His eyes were dark as he watched her, and he rubbed at his ears like there was water in them. Why would there be water in his ears?

She wheezed, “They're… I’ve been getting these… they’re memories.” She grimaced. “But they aren’t mine.”

He squinted at her, judgement clearly displayed along his face, though his eyes were hooded. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

She sucked a breath in, prying herself from Dean as if her joints were wooden. “I hoped it would stop.”

Dean sent her a pensive frown.

“Dean, when I was… experiencing that… I asked a question. Uh… in my head.” 

A wary eyebrow sprung toward his hairline, and Dean watched her suspiciously. “A question?”

She admitted, “Yeah… I… I asked what it wanted because it felt like someone. And I didn’t want just anyone inviting themselves into my mind like it’s a public bathroom or something. And it was like… not like I was possessed, but like…” she strained for the right word. “Like telepathy, Dean.”

He watched her patiently, searching for hidden expressions, but she was open and trusting.

She licked her lips, preparing to share her last bit of news. “And I… when I asked…”

“It answered.”

Tags:

@queen-bubble​ , @rosaren2498

[clarketomylexa]

that’s what best friends do, chapter two

“Boys suck,” she decides.

Lexa blinks at her, blank faced.

“I’m gay,” she says, just like that. It’s as simple as if boiled down to a definition, poetic as Gatsby’s ending and Clarke opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. She doesn’t know what she is supposed to say other than what they are told in health class but all of that seems too wrong when faced with Lexa looking at her like this.

“Okay,” she says, because there’s really nothing more than that.

Lexa has always been hers.

read on ao3

At Clarke’s behest, Lexa details her in all the things she forgot to tell her about camp; the color war, ‘swim the lake’ which Lexa finished in record time in the seventh week of her session after training every day with a group of twenty other girls, and Costia who lives in Connecticut and writes Lexa every week of the school term, hoping she will come back to camp next summer.

She reads one of the letters aloud one day after school as they sit on Clarke’s bed. Clarke is cross-legged with the back end of her pen in her mouth as she noodles through a workbook and Lexa hangs halfway off the narrow mattress with her wet hair in a drooping top knot, laughing at sentences Clarke thinks must be inside jokes. She has taken up swimming three days a week this year and Clarke won’t admit it but she loves going to the pool on Saturday mornings to watch her train.

A picture printed on glossy photo paper falls out of the bottom of the envelope when she looks. It’s of Lexa in a tie-dyed tee and tiny denim shorts, clinging to the back of a wiry redhead with the bandana Lexa now keeps pinned to her bedroom wall, tied around her head. Both girls are soaked and covered in what looks like colourful powder, set against the backdrop of a picturesque lake complete with an intricate dock system and sailboats anchored at the bank, the girls around them armed with plastic water pistols.

Clarke tries not to be too happy when Lexa announces one day in late May that she won’t be going back to camp this summer. She comes to the lake instead but wears her camp tee instead of her piñata socks and because of swimming, when they go to put on their usual life vests to go boating, Lexa’s doesn’t close properly and Jake teases her about ‘bulking up for the season’. She goes bright red and apologises profusely but Jake laughs it off, hanging it back on the hook and Clarke is antsy the entire way into town to buy a new one.

She blames it on the syrupy heat and the fact that on their second day they still haven’t gotten onto the water.

It’s neither of those things.

When Clarke is fifteen their double-bed shrinks.

It doesn’t literally shrink of course; Clarke is fully aware she is the one doing the growing. Aware of it too much maybe because the growth spurt may have been the start of it, it certainly wasn’t all that puberty had to offer and ending Freshman year in a C-cup was an uncomfortable experience to say the least.

Lexa has grown too—even more than she had when she returned home from camp two summers ago with the beginnings of abs beneath the skin of her midriff—as Abby prophesied she has well and truly grown into her lankiness and the extra inch or so she has on Clarke when they stand side-by-side.

The discovery that she doesn’t have to make a conscious effort to be touching Lexa when they sleep isn’t exactly an unpleasant one, but neither of them wear novelty pyjamas now or pug socks. It’s all Clarke’s middle school track t-shirt and foraged sleep shorts and sometimes Lexa doesn’t even wear pants at all, lamenting that the heat is stifling and sliding into bed in her camp tee and Calvin's that forces Clarke to banish blush-worthy thoughts from her head. In fact, she almost hates herself for thinking them in the first place.

Having both started at the same high school at the beginning of the last school year, it became easier and easier for Clarke to shove the unbidden feelings into the back of the proverbial closet and shut the door tight as they settled into the routine of pop quizzes and high school hierarchy. Lexa had swimming, Clarke had lacrosse. They tried to find each other in the cafeteria but with different lunch hours any sort of midday reunions had been hard to find. Other than Mr. Ramon’s fifth period math class, it was almost as if they were still at schools half a county away.

Summer had come as a breathless reprieve.

She lies next to Lexa in a bed that seems to be growing narrower by the day—wincing at the way Lexa’s toes brush the bottom of the mattress—and hates the way the world is encroaching on their little Eden.

They have a bonfire down at the lakefront, three houses down where the bank gives way to a patch of grainy sand. Abby has begrudgingly decided that at fifteen they are old enough and by the time Clarke and Lexa wander down after dinner

The flames are four feet tall and paint what they can see of the lake in the dusk in a hazy purple that looks syrupy and thick.

Clarke raided both of their suitcases to find an outfit, landing on a skimpy jean skirt that made Jake’s eyes bulge and Lexa’s ACDC t-shirt to make up for it—she takes a handful of the fabric and ties it into a knot above her belly button as soon as they get out of eyeshot of the house and she catches Lexa eyeing her fingers as she does it but doesn’t say anything. Lexa on the other hand is wearing her jean shorts and a baggy striped long-sleeve that she has tucked into her waist band. She is altogether different from the Lexa that Clarke met that Sunday morning but the string friendship bracelet that Clarke gave her after spending the better half of a month weaving it out of thread from Abby’s sewing kit sits faded and worn against the tan of her wrist like a reminder of how much they have grown.

When they arrive a bottle of cheap wine has already been cracked open and is being passed around, and open cans of beer sit wedged in the sand. Couples sit clinched together, lazy and drunk on one another in the way that the couples at school seem to be as they pin each other to the metal of the lockers or duck into empty classrooms when they think they are being inconspicuous and music is being wired in from somewhere, the generic kind from the radio that will leave Clarke humming for days.

They are greeted where they stand, fingers locked on the lip of the bank, by the flannel-wearing junior and Lexa drops her hand so quickly, it’s as if she has been scalded. Clarke shoots her a frown but doesn’t manage to catch her downcast eyes and tries not to let the sinking feeling that she has been plagued with for a while now pull her under.

Whenever she brings the sense of impending doom Abby assures her that people change as they grow but Clarke is never satisfied with that answer. Lexa isn’t supposed to change. They’re supposed to live next door to each other, and have summers together and visit each other at college and buy houses in the same town and still be here come July twenty-second when they are eighty years old and their children’s children have grown up, it’s a truth that has kept Clarke afloat since the moment she met her best friend. The sudden realisation that her mom is right is not one she signed up for at seven-years-old, but she can’t stop the thought that maybe it’s true.

Because, try as she might, she can’t seem to fathom living out the plans that they have made like they planned them anymore.

They sit side-by-side on the sand as the wine bottle is drained to play spin the bottle—Lexa passes diligently on her sip but when it reaches her, Clarke grasps the bottle by the neck and takes a swig of what tastes like a cheap version of what she had at her cousin’s twenty-first and backwash and winces.

“Don’t let Abby see you,” Lexa nudges her with an elbow, “you’ll get a lecture on liver health.”

Clarke laughs but can’t bring herself to reply.

The bottle is laid down and a junior with dirty-blonde hair and hard, angular features leans forwards to spin it—she has a scuffed leather jacket on over a tight-fitting tank that makes Clarke irrationally angry because in the heat of summer, there is no way she has put it on because of the cold.

The jacket is a calculated move.

She lets the bottle go with an inelegant flick of her wrist, shucking her sleeves up to where they hang against her forearms and Clarke watches it spin—the bottle-green blur like a harbinger of certain doom, panic flashing white hot down her spine as it lands on Lexa where she sits cross legged in the sand, leaning back onto her hands so that she exudes an aura of confidence Clarke knows it an act. She can read Lexa better than anyone. Even despite the way she has refused to look at Clarke almost since they sat down, Clarke can see the tension in the cords of her neck.

A boy lets out a low whistle and Lexa’s cheek go red. Leather-jacket grins cockily and crawls across the awkward circle they have made, planting her hands on either side of Lexa’s thighs so that she hovers over her, brow piqued as if to dare Lexa to say no.

When they kiss, Clarke looks away. Something ugly knocks on the underside of her skull and she has to pretend to find interest in the knotted hem of her shirt to stop herself from acting on it until a sharp cheer goes up and leather-jacket is pulling away to retreat back to her seat, wiping a thumb over her mouth as she does and Clarke tries not to think of the fact that her lip gloss now shines in the dip above Lexa’s top lip where the line of her scar sits.

When Clarke gets banished to a game of seven minutes in heaven an hour later, as immature as it is she has all the intentions of asking to sit it out. The boy she has been paired with is in her grade, with hair just on this side of too long and an oil-stained flannel on over dark wash jeans. He rubs his hand over the nape of his neck in what Clarke thinks must be a nervous tick and she is sure if she asked he would say yes without question but a desperate, restless thing grips her as they round a thatch of trees so that they are out of sight of the bonfire and when he does ask what she wants to do she pulls him by the collar of his flannel in a move that is supposed to be somewhat sexy but just ends up clumsy and awfully amateur. His eyebrows shoot to his hairline in what she hopes is pleasant surprise.

She’s kissed two boys before. The first, Octavia argues, hardly counts because in the sixth grade Miller went around kissing every girl in their class on a bet after Murphy started spreading the rumour that he saw him and Nate kissing in the boys bathroom. It’s a thought that seizes so terribly in her chest every time she thinks of it and she refuses think that it’s for any other reason than Miller is her friend and he took so much shit for those rumours that he didn’t come to advisory for a week. But it  puts Clarke on par with Octavia though so she includes the rushed half-peck in her tally whenever asked.

This, however, is altogether different.

She lets him prop her against the nearest tree, his hands sure on her waist as she sighs into the hesitant brush of lips on lips, their noses bumping as Clarke flushes, head spinning at the taste of what she thinks is cheap beer on his lips and she plants her hands atop of his to ground herself. He asks her if she’s ‘okay to do this’ and she nods eagerly and leans in again. She loves the way his steady frame feels beneath her hands when she curls her finger into the shoulders of his flannel. His hair comes untucked from around his ears and they tickle her forehead where their shallow breaths rally it between them. Every so often they stop to breathe, laughing softly into the stagnant night air—tinged with a cool wind off the lake and flushed cheeks from the heat of the fire—and Clarke lets the simplicity of it soothe away the confusion she feels when she thinks about Lexa. She doesn’t know this boy. She doesn’t know his name or where he lives. There aren’t any expectations that will come out of a stupid game of seven minutes in heaven other than maybe a smile at the end of the night and she feels exhilarated.

It’s easy.

She likes easy.

By the time they make it back to the bonfire it has been decidedly longer than seven minutes but Clarke feels ascended nonetheless. She ducks her head against the raised brows they receive as she eases herself back onto the sand—next to Lexa who keeps her eyes on the tips of her shoes like Clarke knows she does when something is bothering her—but at this stage in the night, couples have mostly paired off anyway so she takes their knowing looks with a grain of salt.  

Across the circle, leather-jacket smiles lazily at Lexa and on impulse, Clarke grabs flannel-shirt’s hand.

The rest of the bonfire is passed in restless silence on both of their behalves and when Abby texts to warn them of their curfew drawing ever near, flannel-shirt puts his number in Clarke’s phone under ‘Finn’ with the flame emoji next to it. She laughs at it when he does and waggles her eyebrows, but Finn insists that it’s nothing more than to remind her he is the boy she met at the bonfire so she takes his word for it because she’s sure he’s too sweet to think of it any other way.

He texts her a short ‘hi’ when they are halfway back to the house and, hands tucked into her armpits, Lexa scoffs at the burgeoning smile that tugs at her lips.

“What?” Clarke snaps, face turning stony. Aside from the gentle lap-lap of the lake on the bank, the cicadas and the occasional bird call, the lakefront is silent as they traverse the lengths of the two or three properties that lie between them and the Griffin’s house. The night air is thick with the heavy scent of smoke and all the way around the lake, lights sit in the windows of houses like tiny flames. She plants her feet into the grass and watches Lexa’s face contort into a horribly unaffected pout that is contrived at best, genuine at worst.

She can’t decide which is better.

She thinks the answer might be neither of them.

Lexa swallows hard. “Nothing,” she grumbles, finding a dip in the soil with the toe of her sneaker and digging into it. The rubber connects with something hard, making a low thunk every time she hits it. The sound grates on Clarke.

“It’s not—will you stop that!” Annoyed, she grabs Lexa by the forearm. Lexa blinks in shock, yanking her arm away and tucking it back into herself as they stare at each other hard, chests heaving. “It’s not nothing,” Clarke repeats, softer this time. “You haven’t looked at me all night.”

“Good that Finn couldn’t take his eyes off you then,” Lexa fires back.

Clarke frowns, willing the hot, rattling thing in her chest to stay where it is. “Is that what this is about? You’re mad because I kissed him?” When Lexa won’t answer, she takes it as a confirmation. “It’s not like you were such a saint either,” she retorts hotly, “you kissed that seventeen-year-old no problem!”

“Kissed, Clarke!” Lexa all but yells. “I kissed her! I didn’t suck face with her for half an hour!”

“Why do you care, Lexa!”

For a moment it looks like Lexa is going to yell again and Clarke braces herself for an impact that never comes. Instead, Lexa leans forwards and presses her lips to her and Clarke feels herself burning over and over again until she is sure there is nothing left to her, to the lake or the house or the town beyond it, other than ash. She can taste the syrupy-sweet strawberry lip gloss and roasted marshmallows and Lexa’s lips tremble when Clarke stills enough to feel it.

It’s over as quickly as it started and Lexa is staring at her—eyes red and bottom lip trapped between her teeth, fists wound so tightly in the hem of her shirt her knuckles are white like it will keep her from doing it again. She looks at Clarke like she’s imploring her to understand but Clarke is dizzy and she thinks the wine and cheap beer has gone to her head. She tries so hard her eyes water and her throat burns but all that she can see is the minute quiver of Lexa’s lip and the haze of the lake and it builds up in her chest until she’s gasping for breath and looking away.

When she looks up, Lexa has shoved her hands into the depths of the pockets of her jean-shorts and is retreating, leaving Clarke oddly on edge, like she’s riding a rollercoaster and waiting for the stomach-flipping drop that isn’t coming.

It’s off putting and a little bit nauseating and Clarke thinks she may just explode, or implode—she can’t remember the difference. She’s sure that if she were to ask, Lexa would give her the textbook definition and then some, but as they enter the house through the open French doors, Abby asks them if they had a good night and Clarke can’t bring herself to reply so she doesn’t. Instead she lets Lexa shower first and stands under the hot stream when it’s her turn determined to scrub the scent of burnt-wood and Finn’s cologne off of her.

She lays next to Lexa in painful silence, toes tucked into the end of the bed, hating the thought that they are outgrowing themselves.

It rains the next day and Clarke can’t explain the inherent restlessness that she feels.

It’s all encompassing, leaving an awful, sickly film on her tongue and she wishes so badly she can reclaim the things she said to Lexa and shove them back into the depths of her chest where she keeps her other ugly feelings but it’s too late now.

She feels like all of her dirty laundry has been aired out to dry and it’s in bright neon orange so that it’s impossible people haven’t seen it.

Abby tuts at the weather over serving them waffles pried out of the iron and sliding the syrup across the counter and Jake emerges from the bunk room with a stack of board games in tow. He doesn’t see the way Clarke’s stomach positively flips at the sight. She wants to spring away from the breakfast nook and burrow into her bed until she suffocates herself but Lexa is staring at her and something about it screws her to her stool.

They play monopoly until Clarke’s brain bleeds. She’s so eager to do something that she drowns herself in properties and in turn, debts that she can’t pay off and bankrupts herself almost immediately and they listen to the old CD’s Jake fishes out from the dusty bookcase in the hall until she is sure the thing growing inside her will crawl up her throat and spray itself across the walls. She stands up from where she sits on the wooden floors, staring dumbly at her Clue cards like—the knife, the ballroom, the reverend—like they could be a tarot deck, legs screaming in protest. Her parents stare at her, a collective frown hidden beneath obvious concern, but Lexa just cocks her head and peers at her from the ground.

The rain beats at the windows, hard and sharp and with no intention of stopping considering the thickness of the heavy clouds that hem in the lake and the syrupy heat clogs up her lungs until she can’t breathe. She crosses the room with sure-footed intent, flinging open the doors, all trembling hands and pent up anger until she can feel the cold needles of rain on her face and her tee sags, waterlogged under the weight of it.  

Lexa’s fingers find the hem of her shirt, begging her back inside but she garbles something childish like ‘last one in’s the loser’ and takes off, across the deck, down the stairs and over the grass at terrifying speed, rain in her eyes and mud underfoot. Her hair is soaked and it hangs thickly off her lashes and somewhere beyond the loud thump-thump of her heart in her ears she thinks she can hear Lexa behind her, heavy big breathes and screaming at her to stop.

The hard wooden planks of the jetty come as a shock and they jar something loose in her chest. All of the terrible feelings come spilling out and she can barely see past the opaque sheets of rain but she launches herself off the end and this time, the ice-cold impact of the water does come.

She sinks like a stone fully clothed, water roaring in her ears and when her bare feet brush the silt at the bottom of the lake, she kicks off and surfaces a second later, blinking water out of her eyes to find Lexa standing at the edge of the jetty staring at her.

Suddenly, the memory of being in this exact position eight years ago hits her hard enough to knock the breath out of her—Lexa’s striped swimsuit, the tire-swing and the high-on-life feeling of elation when she surfaced to see Lexa cheering for her.

“Come on!” Clarke hollers over the rain, shielding her eyes with her hand as her legs fight to keep her afloat.

Lexa scoffs and shakes her head but unlike last night, Clarke thinks it’s a smile hiding beneath the curve of her lip. “You’re crazy!” she laughs in disbelief but she has this look—this lopsided, word-splitting look—on her face and Clarke knows she has her.

When she jumps in, the world somehow rights itself and Clarke is sure that the sun will come out again with the sheer force of Lexa’s smile.    

They go from Juniors to Seniors and, despite Clarke’s valiant effort to make it fit, they grow out of their double bed.

Jake offers to make up the bunk room but Lexa respectfully declines, electing to sleep in their usual room on the trundle bed and Clarke is not-so-silently grateful. She laments mournfully that Lexa needs to stop growing, poking her in all the soft places that make her squirm as they lie upside down on the too-small bed, as if wishful thinking will make them seven-years-old again.

Lexa is already thinking about college—she has her sights set on UPenn or even Harvard and while Clarke knows without a doubt she will get in, the thought of Lexa being hours away makes her chest uncomfortably tight.

“I won’t be any more than a couple of hours away,” Lexa hums, catching Clarke’s offending fingers in her hot hands. “Even if I get in to Berkeley it’s only a five hour flight.”

Clarke peers at her in faux-concern. Berkeley was a late comer on Lexa’s college radar but when the guidance counsellor suggested it might be a good idea to apply on the West Coast, she had taken it on board. Clarke is thinking more liberal like NYU or BU. She hasn’t told Lexa yet that her mom has a contact at CalArts and that—after surveying the portfolio she put together for an school exhibition—they said she was a shoe in for early admissions. If Lexa doesn’t get into Berkeley she isn’t sure she could make the five hour journey and leave her best friend a whole country away.

“You and I have a very different idea of what ‘only five hours’ means,” she groans, laying back on her back and tucking her head into her best friends shoulder. They still have senior year left to decide. Her mom tells her that that’s what it’s for but Clarke can hardly stand all of this not knowing and ‘end of an era’ bullshit that their principal had starting spouting in the last week of Junior year. As if they needed a reminder that next year might as well be the most important of their life. The opposite of invigorating her for her future, all it has done is make the hot ache inside her chest grow stronger; it’s almost over and Clarke can’t help but feel like she has less than nothing figured out.

“Will it really be that bad?”

It seems Lexa has a bad memory.

“Do you remember summer camp?” Clarke asks pointedly and when Lexa nods, she grins, “case and point. And college is longer than an eight-week summer session.” She settles when Lexa taps at her own shoulder again with her pointer finger; a wordless invitation that Clarke takes up eagerly. They haven’t talked about the kiss since the bonfire two years ago.

In fact they haven’t talked about it hard enough—almost made a point not to bring it up—that Clarke has managed to convince herself it didn’t happen.  

She plays with the soft hem of Lexa’s tee and closes her eyes against the smell of washing detergent and summer and roots far enough into Lexa’s shoulder that she is sure she can stay that way. Lexa laughs and she can feet the vibrations against her cheek, then even stronger when Lexa, in the midst of a soft chuckle says, “I love you.”

Clarke cocks her head at the odd cadence of her voice. “I love you too, dork,” she says because ‘that’s what best friends do’, “even if you are leaving me for a better climate.”

Lexa grumbles absently that ‘nothing is set in stone’ and ‘applications haven’t even come out yet’ but settles beneath Clarke regardless. They eke as much as they can out of the evening before Lexa has to retreat to her trundle bed and Clarke turns the light out, feeling aloof and untethered without the warm mass of Lexa’s body next to her.

Usually she longs for the quiet moments—the nights she spends with Lexa in their Eden of floral sheets and patterned wallpaper but instead, she finds herself restless and searching for something she isn’t quite sure how to find.

She wants to go to into senior year on solid ground, not feeling like she is wading through molasses but the truth is, as the summer wanes on, she isn’t any closer to finding her feet. They swim and sunbathe and eat sticky marshmallow straight from their sticks—Lexa gets it stuck above her lip and Clarke leans over to wipe it off with her thumb.

Jake takes them out on the boat and Abby comes with them into the dinky little eatery in town that has outdoor picnic tables and Lexa spams her phone with pictures of Clarke in a summer dress and a straw hat, hair in a single, twisted braid. It’s all wonderful and quintessentially summer but it isn’t what she wants.

While Lexa spreads herself out on a blue and white blanket with next year’s reading—it’s not like she didn’t read ‘The Great Gatsby’ in the eighth grade on a whim because Clarke liked the cover art depicting the ‘eyes of God’—Clarke finds Finn. They stand in the woods, not far from where they kissed the first night at the bonfire, with fervent hands on each other and weird energy rattling in her chest. Her heart isn’t in it when he places hot mouthed kisses along the column of her neck and she lets him ruck her shirt up over her chest just because he looks so earnest when he asks her. She knows it’s not at all a good reason to—as mortifying as it was her mom had been thorough when she sat Clarke down at the beginning of sophomore year to give her the talk and although it was more clinical than touchy feely she did make sure to instil a sense of its importance in her. It wasn’t that she shouldn’t be in charge of her own body, it was just that she should be careful who she is in charge of it with.

But all that feels so utterly faraway right now, like a picture just out of focus.

He smells like Axe body spray and even though she’s sure neither of them are wearing it, the sticky scent of sunscreen hangs in the air. She wrinkles her nose against it as he sucks down her collarbones and frowns at the hard, scrape of teeth, tugging him away by the hair at the nape of his neck with a sharp hiss.

“Ow,” she breathes.

“Sorry,” he huffs, flashing her a brilliant smile. He roots his hands back under her shirt. “I almost ignored your text when I got it this morning,” he hums against her, “I nearly deleted your number after the bonfire. Atom said you were too good for me and that you’d never text me back.” He raises his brows as if to say ‘let’s show him’ and Clarke is immediately repulsed.

“Finn,” she whines, high pitched and breathless as she tries to pull his hands off her. His fingers catch on her belt loop and she unhooks his thumb before giving his chest a light shove. “I need to go.”

He frowns. “But—”

“I have to get back,” she shakes her head decisively. “Bye Finn.”

There’s no other way to describe what she feels as she hikes back up the back to the house than ‘icky’. She has enough sense in her head to know for sure that she is anything but a summer conquest and, she thinks, if Finn wants to impress Atom so badly maybe he should feel him up instead.

Lexa is where she left her in her short-sleeved linen shirt and denim shorts, hair in its topknot and glasses perched on her head as she skims Gatsby’s tragic death and laments over Daisy’s poor character choices. She quells the itchy dizziness within Clarke immediately and as soon as she makes it over, she collapses down on the grass, rolling easily onto her back and landing her hands on her stomach with a heavy sigh.

“Boys suck,” she decides.

Lexa blinks at her, blank faced.

“I’m gay,” she says, just like that. It’s as simple as if boiled down to a definition, poetic as Gatsby’s ending and Clarke opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. She doesn’t know what she is supposed to say other than what they are told in health class but all of that seems too wrong when faced with Lexa looking at her like this.

“Okay,” she says, because there’s really nothing more than that.

Lexa has always been hers. A three letter word isn’t going to change that—she hopes against hope that Lexa didn’t believe it would—but there are tears clinging to Lexa’s lashes like dew on the spiderwebs they used to find under the picnic table when they were seven and the sight sticks in Clarke’s chest, so painfully it’s all she can do to pull her into a hug. She hooks her arm over Lexa’s shoulder and pulls her into her chest, letting Lexa root into her shoulder until she thinks nothing could separate them. “Oh, Lex,” she coos, “you’re okay,” and more than that, “we’re okay.”

When Lexa pulls back she’s trembling. The breeze is hot today but Lexa looks as if she is in the middle of a tundra in a swimsuit because her shoulders shake and her chin quivers and is it bad of her to think that right now she is the prettiest that Clarke has ever seen her?

“Thank you for telling me,” she whispers.

Lexa nods, her chin wobbles.

“How long have you known?”

Clarke doesn’t know why she asks other than that it seems of the utmost importance. It’s awfully dramatic but she feels like her entire life will rest on this moment, like she will look back at it through the lense of experience to either wallow or regret or point to it as the thing that changed everything. She only hopes it’s the latter. Lexa’s eyes are seven different colours through the prism of the tears held captive at her lash line and it’s all Clarke can do not to let it take her breath away.

“Two years.”

Clarke feels the air evacuate her chest. She feels like she is on fire, her body tingles and she is relatively sure she isn’t a whole person—not yet at least, not with Lexa looking at her the way she is—but half of one, made of nothing but open nerve endings and raw want. It all knots inside of her and swells until it is impossible to ignore.

Clarke kisses her.

She grasps Lexa by the shoulder, the linen of her shirt crushed against the heat of her palm, and leans in with her mouth open and a fervent kind of desperation she hasn’t kissed anyone with in her life. It’s heavy and bold and oh so desperate. Lexa’s brows shoot to her hairline before coming back down as her fingers find the hem of Clarke’s tee and fist in it like she needs something to keep her from inevitably floating off into space.

Clarke knows the feeling.

It feels like every single moment of her life has led to this point, and now that she’s here, she is sure she isn’t. Her hand comes up to rest on Lexa’s jaw and she takes stock of what she knows: the colour of Lexa’s eyes; the shape of the scar above her lip; how she scrunches her eyes when she is happy and throws her head back when she laughs, and when she is troubled by something, she gets a look on her face that is both devastating and beautiful.

It’s there now, caught in the place between her eyebrows.

It makes Clarke nervous.

She feels clumsy and inelegant but Lexa tangles their fingers together. She tastes like summer and everything good, Clarke feels drunk on it.

“I love you,” she whispers because that’s not what best friends do.

“I love you,” Lexa says.

The entire world feels encapsulated into a heartbeat Clarke thinks it might just be her last.

Maybe she doesn’t like easy after all.

[irwintry]

Like Candy

Warnings: swearing

Author’s Note: stomp on the ground (sea bears take it as a challenge) i kinda wish i could rewrite this part but at the same time i dont wanna 

Word Count: 1.9k

part one

Ashton's life felt like clockwork. Everything fit together just perfectly, and he had it all planned to a t. He knew exactly what kind of life he wanted to live during and after fame. Of course, there were a few roadblocks here and there, but his life remained steadily consistent.

You played a big part in that. He was used to you, even though he was the biggest pest of your life. That he knew. He loved seeing you flustered, and a part of him wanted it to be because of other reasons. Except, Ashton couldn't have that. His plan didn't involve you like that, so he scrapped whatever pieces included seeing you. That meant no Scotty's, no sunny-side-up eggs, and no you.

He stopped holding parties, too. He feared you would show up announced so you could talk to him. If he was honest – which he really, really wanted to be, he would let you talk to him. He would stop the entire world to see you one more time. But, he couldn't convince himself to even drive by that diner that had every jam in the world but orange marmalade. It was okay because he didn't like orange marmalade.

"You're depressing," a friend of his pointed out one night. They were four beers in, and Ashton felt nothing.

"Don't say that," he told his friend (whose name did not matter). Ashton felt it was his duty to defend himself at every given moment. He wouldn't allow himself to feel vulnerable, even when he wanted to crumble. He wanted to admit he was weak. He wasn't the Ashton that you grew to hate at the diner.

One morning, he drove by Scotty's. The windows were gone, and the glass doors had painted red x's down the front. He accidentally honked out of frustration, which caused a parade of honks to echo down the boulevard. The diner had been cut out of his life for two months now, but it destroyed him to see it go before he could say goodbye. This also meant he had no idea how to find you.

He only knew your first name and that you had a pug named Horace. By this point, the only way of seeing you again was if you decided to knock on his front door. You wouldn't; he made it clear he didn't want to see you again after never going back to Scotty's. He could tell you weren't the type to chase after things, especially when they weren't even yours in the first place. But in a way, he hoped he was wrong.

That kind of made Ashton hate himself. Why couldn't he just be nice to you? He wanted to show you exactly how he felt, but he couldn't. He had become the definition of a stupid schoolboy being a meanie because he had a crush on a girl. The pure idea made it hard for him to live with himself. He wanted to take it all back. Ashton didn't like to apologize, but for you, he wanted to spend the rest of his life making sure you knew how sorry he was.

Maybe that was why he drove by Scotty's in the first place. He had to start somewhere.

Sometimes, he drove by that gas station off of La Cienega to see if he could spot you pumping gas. He would even stop there a few times to buy him a little more time... just in case.

Ashton felt really pathetic. To him, you were sweet like candy (you reminded him of a Hershey's kiss), but not a fucked-up Warhead like himself. If you kept him in your cheek, it would only burn a little less. Too much of him would be unbearable.

What he didn't know was that you wouldn't believe any of that. You saw right through his sour shell. You also felt bad for him, but you'd never admit that to the poor soul. After knowing him for as long as you had, you figured out why he built a wall around his feelings. His "likings" towards you were hidden behind cold glares and deep, unkind laughter. You wanted to forgive him for that, which is why it took you two months to shake off the complex emotions rattling around in your brain.

You were pounding on his front door at eleven o'clock at night– you were too tired of feeling this way. You were too tired of this open-ended story he wrote for the two of you, even if it meant rejection.

Ashton had been fresh out of the shower, his eyes droopy and exhausted from a long day of writing and brainstorming. A stained gray shirt adorned his chest, the heathered material tucked tight into sweatpants of a darker shade. He was just about to make himself a bowl of black raspberry frozen yogurt when he heard your rhythmic knocking.

Neither of you said anything as he opened the door with a tired smile – a smile that fell right as his eyes landed on your sad ones. He took you in, forcing himself to keep the damn door open because he needed to face his feelings. It was a miracle you were here; he wouldn't have found you if you hadn't shown up.

"I– "

"'m not gonna be mean," he said, his voice sleepy.

Already, things were off to a different start than you had thought. You figured he'd slam the door in your face with a roll of his eyes. You would knock again, and he'd shout something rude from the inside. Or, he'd let you in and fuck you over once again.

You nodded.

Ashton felt a bit of bile rise up in his throat, so he opened the door for you and swallowed it down while you walked by him. It was his body's way of pushing away any temptations to be as cruel and sour as he had been months ago.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked softly. He couldn't even believe he had enough strength to vocalize coherent words. "Water? Toast with jam?"

You chuckled to yourself. "'m good," you said. "I just– uh, I should've stayed home." You scratched your arm through the waffled material of your sweatshirt.

Ashton looked at you with wide eyes, and he let you continue.

"I thought it would be smart of me to come here and tell you everything that's been on my mind," you continued. "I thought I would waltz in and easily explain how you've made me feel. I mean, fuck, Ashton you played me. You told me you liked me, fucked me, and then left me there. I shouldn't have come because clearly you don't care, and you never cared." You started towards the door, proud that you had said all of that without shedding a single tear. When you reached for the door handle, Ashton stepped in between you and the metal.

"'s not fair," he whispered, it was quite wimpy at that. "Not fair what I did to you. I'd take it back if I could."

"Then why– " You took a deep breath. "Why did you do it in the first place?"

He sighed and instinctively reached for one of your hands; it shocked him that you didn't pull away. "A little messed up in here," he said as he used his other hand to motion toward his head. There was a light laugh that escaped from his lips, but it wasn't genuine. Seeing you and holding this conversation gave him the worst anxiety he had felt since his first stage performance.

You nodded but said nothing. You were waiting for him to prove himself.

It was like a bomb went off in Ashton's head. He gripped his hair, attempting to force the truth out of his mouth while every muscle in his face tensed as time passed. He had never been this awful at feelings, especially when the risk of you never believing him was so strong. Not only that, but he had no excuse to act the way he did around you. You knew he liked you. What he never told you was that he was absolutely head over heels in love with you and the idea of you. Most likely, it was the latter that drove him insane. He didn't know you, not enough to be in love with you.

"But you know me better than anyone else," he said out of the blue. He waited to see your expression change, yet it didn't. Maybe you agreed. "Y'know, I really don't expect you to understand anything 'm gonna say."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why? Because you don't think I'm smart, or something?"

"No!" Ashton had fucked up already. "Fu– no, that's not– I didn't mean to say it like that. You, like, really fucked my mind up. You know I like you, you know I– "

"Do I?"

He frowned. "I like you way more than I let out. I mean, it's fucking crazy how much I like you. You and Scotty's were my escape, and once I started going there for you and you only, I didn't know how to be nice. You were bringing out the worst in me, and to this day, I don't know why. I'm giving you no reasons to trust me or believe me. Literally no reasons. You have every right to be mad or confused, or to just fuckin' slap me if you– "

It was like a brick hit his face. He hadn't actually expected you to slap him, but he was glad you did. It stopped the word vomit from ensuing moments later, and it released whatever tensions you were holding back.

He breathed out, shutting his eyes momentarily so he could steady his emotions. "I wanted you more than I've wanted anyone in my life, and I didn't know what to do. I want you." He couldn't open his eyes. "I played you. I fucked you over. And I'll forever hate myself for treating you the way I did. I wanna make it up to you– I'd spend my whole life doing it, but I'd never blame you for walking away."

When he opened his eyes, he noticed your rosy cheeks. You appeared to have relaxed a little bit– even though your arms were crossed, and your shoulders were hunched over. You weren't looking at him.

"'m just confused," you whispered. You looked so small, and he wanted to do was wrap you up in his arms. "I've never met anyone who will confess their feelings to someone and then drop them out of their life like one of their hook-ups. I actually had feelings for you, too. Dunno how. You were fuckin’ cruel."

Ashton's face crumbled. He could hear his heart in his ears as he took a step back against the door. Had you ever told him how you felt before? He couldn't remember; like always, he had focused on himself.

After that, he didn't know what to say. The silence was burning into his skull after every passing moment and looking into your eyes was too overwhelming for him to focus on another thought. The situation he had put himself in created this. And yet, he no longer felt nervous. He felt every bit comfortable being this vulnerable in front of you– something that he never thought he would ever, ever feel.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed out, almost a little too hushed for anyone to hear.

But you had. You just nodded.

"It's late," he said. "Stay tonight."

"Ash– "

"Please."

You didn't react right away. This was the longest time the two of you had maintained solid eye contact, and it was too overwhelming to look elsewhere. You wanted to see those hazel eyes until colors failed you.

"Okay," you mumbled.

Ashton felt his heart skip. The universe was giving him another chance    

[asknightqueendany]

Political Jon is NOT character assassination. Jon has manipulated people before. He manipulated Ygritte. Calling people who believe in Political Jon “fake Jon Snow fans” is silly. Many Jonsa stans actually like Jon more than Sansa. But from my experience it looks like these Jon*rys stans are really just hardcore Danyfans who want D*ny to have everything.

Alright. I don’t know how many times, or in how many different ways I’ve already said this, but I will say it again because you all are obviously thick in the head and/or just lack reading comprehension:

JON SNOW DID NOT SEXUALLY MANIPULATE YGRITTE.

YGRITTE SEXUALLY MANIPULATED JON SNOW.

As I already stated HERE, Jon’s mission with the wildlings as dictated to him by Qhorin Halfhand was simple: infiltrate the wildlings, spy on them. THAT’S IT.

Jon was told TO WATCH. His goal was to gather information that he could then bring back to Castle Black and let the men there know what Mance Rayder had planned. Jon was not told to manipulate anyone, nor did he.

He wasn’t told to get chummy with Mance, befriend him, earn his trust to try to convince Mance of a different path or plan, he wasn’t told to try to change Mance’s plans, he wasn’t told get close to any of the other wildlings to try to make them see reason, he wasn’t told to get emotionally/sexually involved with any of the wildlings to try to bring them over to his side and become members of the Night’s Watch. None of that. His job was TO OBSERVE.

Jon tries to put off Ygritte for as long as possible when it comes to sex. He knows she wants him. He knows everyone else in the wildling camp knows she wants him. But he doesn’t want to do it.

Jon II, ASOS

“Now as to you … is it true they cut your members off when they take you for the Wall?” “No,” Jon said, affronted. “I think it must be true. Else why refuse Ygritte? She’d hardly give you any fight at all, seems to me. The girl wants you in her, that’s plain enough to see.” Too bloody plain, thought Jon, and it seems that half the column has seen it. He studied the falling snow so Tormund might not see him redden. I am a man of the Night’s Watch, he reminded himself.

Every night when they made camp, Ygritte threw her sleeping skins down beside his own, no matter if he was near the fire or well away from it. Once he woke to find her nestled against him, her arm across his chest. He lay listening to her breathe for a long time, trying to ignore the tension in his groin. Rangers often shared skins for warmth, but warmth was not all Ygritte wanted, he suspected. After that he had taken to using Ghost to keep her away. Old Nan used to tell stories about knights and their ladies who would sleep in a single bed with a blade between them for honor’s sake, but he thought this must be the first time where a direwolf took the place of the sword.

“Do you mislike the girl?” Tormund asked him as they passed another twenty mammoths, these bearing wildlings in tall wooden towers instead of giants. “No, but I …” What can I say that he will believe? “I am still too young to wed.” “Wed?” Tormund laughed. “Who spoke of wedding? In the south, must a man wed every girl he beds?” Jon could feel himself turning red again. “She spoke for me when Rattleshirt would have killed me. I would not dishonor her.” “You are a free man now, and Ygritte is a free woman. What dishonor if you lay together?” “I might get her with child.” “Aye, I’d hope so. A strong son or a lively laughing girl kissed by fire, and where’s the harm in that?” Words failed him for a moment. “The boy … the child would be a bastard.” “Are bastards weaker than other children? More sickly, more like to fail?” “No, but—” “You’re bastard-born yourself. And if Ygritte does not want a child, she will go to some woods witch and drink a cup o’ moon tea. You do not come into it, once the seed is planted.” “I will not father a bastard.”

Jon goes so far as to make Ghost sleep between him and Ygritte so that she doesn’t try anything. He doesn’t want to sleep with her even though he knows that if he did, it would make his life much easier because it’s one more thing that distances him from being a man of the Night’s Watch and his vows in the eyes of the wildlings.

But Jon tells Tormund flat out: I will not father a bastard. This is Jon’s truest self, not wanting to father a bastard and yet he reveals it to Tormund, the enemy, because he doesn’t want to sleep with Ygritte that badly.

Jon isn’t flirting with Ygritte, he’s not doing things to earn her affections and her trust, he’s trying to distance himself from her. Jon is trying to avoid sleeping with Ygritte at all costs because it would go against everything Jon believes. It would be breaking his vows to the Night’s Watch, it would possibly lead to Jon father a bastard. That’s not who Jon is. He’s a man of the Night’s Watch. He can’t sleep with Ygritte, even as he’s trying to make all the wildlings believe he’s one of them. He wants/needs to keep this part of himself or else he’ll actually feel like a traitor instead of just posing as one.

But when it comes down to life or death, continue spying for the Night’s Watch or have Mance kill him and have it all be in vane, Jon can’t avoid Ygritte anymore:

“You best not be lying, girl,” Rattleshirt said to Ygritte, his eyes shiny behind the giant’s skull. Jon drew Longsclaw. “Get away from us, unless you want what Qhorin got.” “You got no wolf to help you here, boy.” Rattleshirt reached for his own sword. “Sure o’ that, are you?” Ygritte laughed. Atop the stones of the ringwall, Ghost hunched with white fur bristling. He made no sound, but his dark red eyes spoke blood. The Lord of Bones moved his hand slowly away from his sword, backed off a step, and left them with a curse. Ghost padded beside their garrons as Jon and Ygritte descended the Fist. It was not until they were halfway across the Milkwater that Jon felt safe enough to say, “I never asked you to lie for me.” “I never did,” she said. “I left out part, is all.” “You said—” “—that we fuck beneath your cloak many a night. I never said when we started, though.” The smile she gave him was almost shy. “Find another place for Ghost to sleep tonight, Jon Snow. It’s like Mance said. Deeds is truer than words.”

So hmm, forcing a man to have sex with her or else she’ll reveal him to be a double agent and still a man of the Night’s Watch...? That certainly sounds like someone’s being sexually manipulated...but it sure as shit isn’t Ygritte.

With Jon and Daenerys, it’s completely different:

In 7x04 we can see that Jon and Daenerys are attracted to each other. Hell, Kit Harington says in THIS interview with Entertainment Weekly that Jon was attracted to Dany when he first sets eyes on her in 7x03: “He walks into the room and doesn’t expect to see such a beautiful young woman of similar age to him. Any young man’s reaction is going to be, ‘Okay…’ but he puts that aside, because he has to.” 

To reiterate this message in 7x04, Davos tells Jon he’s noticed him staring at Dany and D&D follow this up by also pointing out their attraction to each other in the commentary on that episode.

So Jon’s immediately attracted to Dany, a stark contrast to how he felt about Ygritte’s appearance:

At a lord’s court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart.

Ygritte is unattractive, plain and simple. Only when Jon gets to know her, sees her smile, and of course, learns she wants in his pants, does he begin to think of her as a little more than that.

But again, Jon considers himself a man of the Night’s Watch first and foremost here. Just as when he goes to Dragonstone, Jon would consider himself, first and foremost, a Northman with a duty to his people. Falling prey to the Dragon Queen’s charms is likely at the top of his list of Things to Watch Out For upon his arrival at Dragonstone because he knows what happened with Ygritte. He fell in love with her against his better judgement and it ate at him long after her death.

So don’t you think Jon would do everything possible to try to resist his attraction to Daenerys for fear of the same thing happening again?

But no, you all are arguing that Jon - who is admittedly already attracted to Daenerys - is going to plow ahead anyway with this hairbrained plan to get close to her, make her fall in love with him, just so he can have access to her armies and dragons.

Something which, as pointed out above, Jon has NEVER done before. He’s never used a woman to get her to do something he wants. He only acquiesced to sleeping with Ygritte so his cover wouldn’t be blown.

Jon has always been a person to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Even when he is a spy within the wildling camp, the true Jon is never far from the surface - telling Tormund he doesn’t want to father a bastard, avoiding sleeping with Ygritte, being reluctant to tell Mance the truth about the Night’s Watch movements, etc.

Even IF Jon did have some odd plan to try to make the formidable and wildly beautiful Dragon Queen fall in love with him, the true Jon wouldn’t be far away. And his apparent attraction to Daenerys and his affection for her wouldn’t be faked - because Jon’s not great at faking things like that. It’s real. 

And since we were never told Jon was going to try to manipulate Daenerys like we were told about his spying on the wildlings by Qhorin Halfhand, it stands to reason that it’s ALL REAL and that there was never a plot to make Dany think he loved her so she would fall in love with him.

So yes, I DO consider it character assassination claiming that a character who never EVER sexually manipulated a woman before - didn’t even like LYING to anyone before - would go so far as to do both just to get access to things he was already GIVEN FREELY. Unless I missed the scenes where Dany told him: Oh, you want this Dragonglass? You’ll have to tap my dragonass. Oh you want me to fly North and fight for you? You’ll have to go south on me.

And your claim that “many” Jonsas like Jon better than Sansa...WHERE?? Please show me these people. Show me these diehard Jon Snow fans who don’t have post after post dedicated to Sansa being their true “Queen in the North” etc. etc.

Yes a lot of Jonerys fans are Dany fans but are you really arguing there are more Jon Snow fans who are Jonsa shippers than there are Jon Snow fans who are Jonerys shippers? Really??? Or were you arguing there are more Jon Snow fans who ship Jonsa than there are Sansa stans who ship Jonsa? That’s ridiculous and from what I’ve seen of Sansa stans and Jonsa stans, it’s just not true.

Of course Dany fans want Dany to be happy...but have you seen how many Jonerys shippers actually just want Jon and Dany to retire or go into hiding and not end up ruling at the end of the series?

And how does Jonerys take away from Sansa’s happiness in anyway? As in, Dany would have “everything” and Sansa would have nothing?

I’ve said before, I’ll say again, Jonerys doesn’t harm Sansa in any way, shape, or form. Because we don’t think Sansa is in love with Jon. Whereas any version of Jonsa, Daenerys would be hurt.

Dany stans don’t want her to have “everything.” We just want her to be happy. And most Jonerys shippers want Sansa to be happy as well, which Jonsa stans can’t absolutely not say the same thing of Daenerys.

And anyway, what fan would want their favorite character to suddenly turn into a woman-using scheming dirtbag like PoliticalJon would make him to be?

If Dany were suddenly revealed to be using Jon just to get him to bend the knee and in S8 revealed that she was never in love with him and broke his heart, I would be so disappointed in her! Seeing the way Jon looks at her and says she “has a good heart” and the way he puts all his trust in her, believing she’s their best hope to escape the army of the dead beyond the wall, looking at her in the Dragonpit as one of the people who’s opinion matters most to him...for her to be using him and manipulating him like that...? UGH! That would make me sick! Then I really would think that Dany had gone full villain. She’s used men for sex before - Daario - but she never did it to get his allegiance, he offered that to her almost upon meeting her, and she didn’t ever pretend she loved him.  But if she pulled a stunt like PoliticalJon - PoliticalDany...I would cease to stan her, even though I am more of a Dany fan than a Jon fan. If she did that, I’d hate her.

So why do all these Jon Snow “fans” want him to become that? It’s disgusting. And you all are NOT Jon Snow fans. You’re fakes who ship a crackship.

Dandelions OUT.

[lady-bertrams-pug]

"You love me and you know it" and ererijean? :)

Oh man this took me so long I’m sorry oTLMy only excuse is I got more than a little carried away :D

Read under the cut or on AO3

A vacation to bumfuck nowhere in the middle of New Hampshire was about the last thing Levi ever would have expected of Eren to suggest.

Miami, yes. New Orleans. Anywhere that was queer and loud, where you could chill at the pool and go sightseeing, buy cheesy souvenirs and party all night.

But not  - what was it again? - Lake Winnipesaukee. Which, frankly, sounded like mosquitos the size of your hand, bears in your yard and eerie forests to get lost in (Levi was a person who had a deep and profound distrust in anything that had a population under a hundred thousand and “rural”, to him, meant bear, cougar and raccoon infested.).

But then, when Eren, Jean and Levi all had managed the rarity of all getting vacation at the same time, Eren had mentioned his father’s cabin somewhere in the woods of New Hampshire, and Jean surprisingly had seconded it.

So now here they were, three city slickers with all the survival skills of a three legged pug.

To Levi’s immense relief, the cabin proved to have electricity and water, in addition to a beautiful view from the large windows, and an open fireplace.

It wasn’t warm enough to go swimming in the lake, but they had a canoe and managed to only sink it twice before they got the hang of it. They went hiking and neither got lost nor eaten by wolves, and even the mosquitos had average size.

There was a small town / village / hamlet (they couldn’t agree on the term) nearby with a gas station, a store and a bar & grill. That bar was where they bent their steps every night. The cabin had neither internet nor television, and although they were content to spend the evenings reading, playing with the large variety of boardgames or huddling up on the porch with hot cocoa, a telescope and a glow-in-the-dark star atlas, the siren song of good food and draft beers at reasonable prices was irresistible.

Tonight, however, Levi recoiled as he saw a new board placed on the sidewalk. ‘KARAOKE 2NITE!’ it boasted, and he groaned. All his plans for a relaxed evening over a mushroom burger and Stoneface beer, then a refreshing walk home and maybe some fireplace snuggling dissolved in the chilly evening air.

He turned on his heel when strong hands gripped his arms from both sides. “Oh no. No, no, no, no.”

“Levi. It’s only karaoke.” Eren managed to sound amused and mildly chiding.

“Look, if you guys want to have your brains dripping out the bottom of your skulls from butchered versions of ‘I will survive’ and ‘can’t stop falling in love’ and then ‘I will survive’ again, that’s your choice. I’ll go home and just eat a granola bar and an apple.”

“It can’t be that bad. And if you don’t like it, we’ll just quickly eat our grub and be on our merry way home, okay?” Jean, always the solicitor.

Eren rounded him so there was no escaping his puppy eyes. “Please? It will be so much more fun if you are there to poke fun at the locals.”

Jean placed a soft kiss behind his ear. “And we would be worried if you didn’t get to eat a decent meal.”

Oh, screw him. The two menaces that he named his boyfriends knew exactly how to pull his levers.

“Okay,” Levi grudged. “But one note of ‘Okie from Muskogee’ and I’m outta that door quicker than you can say ‘me and Bobby McGee’.”

The bar was more crowded than usual, but they were still early enough that they could be seated, and even got their by now customary booth with a view over the woods.

Sure enough, the small stage that had always been dark during their earlier visits was lit now, and a disco ball let specks of red, green and purple flitter silently through the room.

Christa, the tiny blond waitress, came to take their orders with swaying hips and a smile that was as genuine as ever but more heavily enhanced by bubblegum pink lipstick. Her customary careless ponytail had been replaced by a carefully wrapped bun.

Jean, hopeless bi that he was, was smitten. In an attempt to keep her as long at the table as possible he asked for the specials, played indecisive about the choice of beverages and finally inquired after the karaoke night. Eren and Levi rolled their eyes and bit their knuckles - Can you believe we both fell for him? Me neither - and snickered when Jean finally became aware of the death glare he received across the room from a tall brunet waitress.

“Dude, what’s her deal with me? Always giving me the stinkeye when we’re here,” Jean muttered to his companions after Christa left with their orders.

Eren shook in helpless laughter, but Levi took mery in Jean. “Don’t tell me you never noticed that she and blondie wear matching necklaces? With half a heart each?”

Eyes whipping from Christa to the intimidating girl and back again, Jean made a choked little sound that set Eren off again. When their drinks arrived, he couldn’t meet Christa’s eyes and buried his face in his root beer.

“No wonder you’re so terrible with women,” Levi remarked. “You always try to hit on the ones that have ‘gay’ written over their heads in mile high neon letters.”

Jean pouted, but Eren tapped his hand with a smile.

“Hey. But it’s good, isn’t it? Otherwise we wouldn’t have met. If you hadn’t tried to chat up my sister…”

“Oh God, don’t remind me.” The night he and Levi had met Eren was one simultaneously one of the best and worst nights of Jean’s life. Eren had stopped Mikasa from ripping him a new one and steered him back into Levi’s arms. He would have been angry at being bossed through the club by a guy who was nearly a head shorter than him, but fuck those eyes had been a goddamn distraction. Levi had, in impeccable manners, apologised for his douchebag boyfriend being such a nuisance, and neither of couple had missed how Eren’s face had sagged at the mention of boyfriend.

Still, for whatever self loathing reason that he kept to himself even to this day, Eren had swapped phone numbers with them, and after weeks of probing and pondering over the concept of polyamory, and exploring his feelings, cautiously asked to date them. Asked them, totally unaware that they were near tearing their own hair out over wanting him so much in their lives.

It warmed Levi’s heart to see him so much more at ease now with them, most doubts and fears about butting in on an established couple or of being a third wheel long drowned in the secure knowledge of being loved and cherished, of being an equal. Sometimes, Eren’s insecurities still flared up, and his boyfriends did their best to ease him through it with all the understanding and loving attention they could muster. Levi understood it wasn’t easy to come into an already existing relationship that had its own character and history, and it wasn’t like he or Jean hadn’t been plagued by insecurity or occasional stabs of jealousy too.

Relationships meant work, and poly relationships even more so, but when Levi thought of the happiness he found he would retrace every step, bear any ache again. He chewed his - delicious - burger with a smile, only paying partial attention to Jean’s and Eren’s playful banter.

A couple of people had performed a song by now, and he had to admit it really wasn’t as bad as anticipated. For the most part he could blend it out, although the version of ‘wrecking ball’ by a bespectacled brunette with gratuitous leering and lewd gestures was mildly scarring.

A lull in orders allowed Christa to climb the stage, and as she started singing ‘Royals’ she was accompanied by her girlfriend and another waitress, a pretty girl with a chestnut ponytail and a bright smile. They were good, really good, and the way Christa performed the chorus lines was no less than captivating. The first real applause of the evening was theirs. The ponytail girl took it in stride, the brunette looked indifferent, but Christa changed back from the stage act to her more timid self, smiling nervously and blushing at the praise and good-natured whistles.

She tucked a strand behind her ear, took a deep breath and rushed to remove the dishes from their table with a muttered apology. “Would you like another round of drinks?” she asked, and Levi opened his mouth to decline and ask for the tab, but Eren was quicker.

“Yes, please!” He beamed, and when he had smiled her to the bar and turned back to face his boyfriends he chose to ignore Levi’s glare. A kick in the shin effectively got his attention.

“Ow! What?”

“Didn’t we say we’d leave right after dinner?”

“But we always get a second drink,” Jean interjected. “And besides, I noticed you tapping your foot. Why not hang out a little more?” He placed a discreet hand on Levi’s knee and squeezed lightly.

Their insistence should have made him wonder, but he let it pass with a huff. The patrons were remarkably well behaved, and no truly cringeworthy acts had been performed, and if it meant so much for Jean and Eren… Lord knew they always put up with his antisocial tendencies without much complaint, and he couldn’t honestly expect them to be as content over evenings of Scrabble and Backgammon as him.

He settled back and sipped his second beer, smiling as they softly sang along with the next songs, the atmosphere in the bar slowly becoming more boisterous. Then someone started singing ‘Say a little prayer’ and okay - this was maybe his cue to take a leak because the whole bar chanting reminded him too much of a damn movie scene.

When he returned, Eren was gone.

Or rather, he was consulting with the guy at the karaoke machine. Apparently he was given  a positive answer to his request, for he grinned like an idiot and grabbed the microphone. Levi sat down at their table and shot Jean a quizzical look, but only got a helpless shrug and a quietly panicked expression in return.

“I don’t know what he’s up to,” Jean stage whispered. “He shot over to the stage as soon as you were gone and I couldn’t stop him.”

A couple of soft guitar chords, then the lyrics started.

You know just what to sayShit, that scares me, I should just walk awayBut I can’t move my feet…

Eren sang softly, obviously nervous, eyes glued to the screen. There was a couple of murmurs and giggles among the audience, and Jean and Levi glared daggers.

With the chorus, Eren finally gained his confidence, his voice came out stronger, and he started to move. The giggles gave way to cheers and whistles as he swung his hips and looked up through his eyelashes.

I didn’t know that I was starving till I tasted youDon’t need no butterflies when you give me the whole damn zooBy the way, by the way, you do things to my bodyI didn’t know that I was starving till I tasted you…

Encouraged by the reactions, Eren danced more sensually, ran a hand over his neck, down his torso and thigh only to let it travel back up the same way. Levi’s and Jean’s breath caught when long fingers danced inches away from his crotch, hitched the t-shirt up ever so slightly, teasingly revealing a sliver of skin. By now Eren was really into it, moved his lithe, graceful body in ways that were simply heartstopping. Sang the lyrics with a voice that shifted from playfully flirtatious to seductive and promising.

Levi swore he could feel his soul leaving his body, and next to him, Jean let out a ragged whine. Warmth spread in his lower belly, and he desperately tried to conjure up unpaid bills, tax declarations, the broken lawnmower, but every thought flew right out the window at the sight of Eren circling his butt and shooting a sly smile over his shoulder.

Jean clawed at his thigh. “Make him stop,” he whimpered. “I’m popping a fucking boner here, Jesus, this is so embarrassing.”

“Too late,” Levi hissed back, nodding down at the tent in his own pants.

Finally, the song ended, and Eren bowed and smiled at the applause before sauntering over to their table and slipping into the booth. Jean had his head on the table and refused to look up.

“Christ, Eren, were you attempting to kill us? Because you fucking nearly succeeded.” Levi was hyper aware of the heat blossoming on his cheeks.

“So, did you like it?” Eren asked with a filthy grin.

“Yeah well, we both can’t get up right now, which is frankly a little mortifying, and as soon as I can I’m going to strangle you.”

“Nonsense.” Eren looked far too pleased with himself. “You love me and you know it.”

Jean finally raised his head to join in on the conversation, and caressed Eren’s fingers lightly, treacherously gently. “Oh no, we are doing something much more fun than strangling him,” he purred. “We can’t have him starving, can we? Gotta feed him all our love. Feed him good.”

[soiwatchthestars]

😂 found the adopt don’t shop supporter who never checks facts and thinks every dog comes from a puppy mill

yes, you’ve found the adopt don’t shop supporter. yes, i do check facts, even if you don’t agree with them. and no, i don’t at all believe that every dog comes from a puppy mill. i am not arguing, i just want a discussion - with actual facts, and not just opinions.i used to enjoy crufts as a kid, and i understand wanting to continue to enjoy it bc the dogs are cute. but when i actually researched the truth behind it, i decided that i can no longer support it. am i saying every single dog comes from a puppy mill, an abusive home, or bad breeders? no.but i am saying that the whole concept of crufts is contributing to unhealthy breeding that focuses on a dogs appearance instead of their health, thus causing overpopulation and dogs that are suffering.

No, I do not think that the dogs who attend Crufts come from puppy mills. but i do think a vast majority of them come from irresponsible dog breeders.a lot of modern breeds and their genetic problems arose due to the popularity of dog shows over the past two centuries, where breeders selectively bred dogs to have specific physical features and conform to breed standards. (x)When a male dog wins a lot of dog shows and championships, he is very likely to be bred widely (known as popular sire syndrome)and will thus spread his genes through the gene pool, which will 1) significantly increase the presence of detrimental genes, which may establish new breed specific genetic disorders, and 2) as there are only a certain amount of female dogs bred each year, the overuse of one specific sire will greatly narrow the diversity of the gene pool. A popular sire may also be replaced  with sons/grandsons, which will further narrow the variety of genes available.(x)  

Lets take a look at previous Best In Show crufts winner, Danny the pekingese. Danny had breathing issues, needed surgery to clear his airways, and had to sit on ice packs to prevent overheating. A vet from the University of Glasgow confirmed that danny had classic symptoms of BOAS (Brachycephalic Obstructive Airway Syndrome), a very common problem for breeds that have flat or shortened faces. Danny ended up siring 19 litters. Danny’s grandson, Eric, went on to win in 2016, and has already sired 59 puppies. It is disturbing that unhealthy dogs can go on to not only win these titles, but to sire more puppies who will go on to win and continue to sire yet more dogs. This is disturbing.

This is so so common in show rings.  In order to conform to the breed standards, specific harmful features are encouraged because they are deemed more attractive. At dog shows, like crufts, these exaggerated features are rewarded and normalized. King Charles spaniels suffer from an absolutely heartbreaking and disturbing neurological condition in which their brain is too small for their skulls. Pugs, bulldogs, Shih-tzus, and pekingese, dogs that are bred specifically to have short noses have obstructed airways from their compacted skeletons, and dermatological issues as they have normal amounts of skin for their malformed bodies (some needing face lifts to allow them to see and surgery to help them breathe) (x)   86% of English Bulldogs are born by caesarean as they cannot safely give birth on their own (Evans and Adams 2010) (x), specifically due to humans breeding for disproportionately large heads and shoulders (x).

German shepherds are are prone to musculoskeletal disorders, osteoarthiritus, obeisity and behavioural problems as breeders have focused on cosmetics rather than health and functionality- especially those who appear in show rings. Research has shown that german shepards are most likely to die  from musculoskeletal disoders (13.6%) of cases and inability to stand in 14.6%. x Nearly 1 in 2 are put down because they are unable to walk. Just take a look at another one of last years best in breed winners:

It is because of dog shows and breed standards that people believe a sloped back is okay, and unfortunately this is a common spinal malformation. (x) it is because of dog shows and breed standards that this, like many exaggerated features and genetic faults, is considered fashionable for show dogs.

I’m a dog lover, and as a kid I loved crufts. But as a dog lover, who has researched and looked into these dog shows, I can’t possibly in good conscience think crufts is okay.  Crufts normalizes deformities, prioritizes the appearance of dogs over their health and welfare, encourages the breeding of purebred puppies when there is already overpopulation and so many dogs that are homeless and being put down (x)

also yes. adopt, don’t shop. adopt, don’t encourage irresponsible breeders while we already have an overpopulation problem- whether they are puppy mills or backyard breeders or pedigrees. here’s some facts for ya; in the uk alone, 125,000 stray dogs are collected each year, an average of 345 stray dogs are found a day, and around 20 dogs are put to sleep each day. Dogs are put down if they can’t be re-homed in a reasonable time or if a dog needs extra training or care; so you can probably add at least another 10,000 dogs that are put to sleep each year.

this is very long and i’m not sorry. i love dogs with every fibre of my being and i am so passionate about their welfare. i hope this was somewhat coherent and i have many more links/research if you would like it. again, i do not want to argue on the internet; i check my facts, i do my research, and i will always open to a civil discussion if you would like, as long as you can provide actual facts, and not just opinions.

[excerptsfromunfinishednovels]

Excerpts From Unfinished Novels #1: Even As The World Comes Crashing Down Roundup

First off, thank you to everyone who started following this writing project here on tumblr, I hope that you’re enjoying it so far. If you are, I would really appreciate it if you could like and reblog the posts. I’m also posting this series on Wattpad so if you’re on there please subscribe.

Every Sunday I will be posting a roundup of all the bonus material plus the excerpt itself. Along with that I will be answering any asks that are sent in during the week, so if you have any questions please send them in! :)

So here’s the roundup for excerpt number 1: 

Mini-Playlist:

‘Spoilin’ For A Fight’ - ACDC

‘Oh, It Is Love’ - Hellogoodbye

‘We’re All In This Together’ – High School Musical

Excerpt is from the start of the novel.

“Okay, okay, breathe, kiddo. It’s not the end of the world – okay, I mean, technically it is, but you can handle this.”

“You are really not helping,” Moira huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And don’t call me kiddo; we’re the same age.”

She could feel a headache coming on, creeping up the back of her neck and settling in her skull. She groaned and curled up tighter, rocking slightly, ignoring the dampness seeping through her jeans and how the mud beneath her shifted slightly with her movements.

“I’m three months older than you,” Niamh replied with a dismissive wave of their hand. “Have you tried praying to Saint Anthony?”

“Saint Anthony is for lost objects; a dog is not an object,” Moira replied tiredly.

“Saint Francis then?”

Moira groaned loudly, a drawn-out sound that started as a deep growl and ended as a high-pitched whine, as she buried her face in her knees and pulled futilely at the short strands of her pixie cut. Niamh squatted beside her and rubbed her back soothingly.

“Okay, clearly having a meltdown in the middle of the park is not faring so well,” they said carefully. “So what do we need to do?”

“I don’t know,” Moira whined, slumping sideways against her best friend. “How am I going to explain to Charlotte that I lost her dog? More specifically, how am I going to explain to her that I lost her dog to zombies?! I mean, what the hell was I thinking? What the hell was she thinking? Who hires a dog-walker in the middle of the apocalypse? Why did I agree to do it?”

“Because you think Charlotte Farrell is the hottest person on the face of the planet,” Niamh stated with a wry grin. “And because everyone needs to keep busy to avoid going bat-shit crazy over the fact that there are now zombies living amongst us, so you decided to keep up your weekend job.”

“I should have done something else; I could have taken up knitting, or, or, read all those books of yours,” Moira said angrily.

“You suck at knitting, and you fall asleep every time you try to read.”

Moira sighed. “That is true.”

She uncurled her legs, wincing as blood started circulating through them properly. She stared at the ground, absent-mindedly tracing shapes in the mud, while mulling over her options. Eventually she sighed and squared her shoulders.

“Okay, we need to go looking for Steve. And pray to whatever Saint is responsible for lost animals that he isn’t dead.”

“I’ve never heard of zombies eating dogs; maybe they just wanted to play with him?”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Moira scoffed, eyes narrowing.

Niamh gasped, placing a hand over their chest dramatically as they stood up. “You wound me! Tell you what, if they’re playing with Steve, you owe me dinner and a High School Musical marathon.”

“Fine, but if they’ve eaten him then you owe me dinner and a Studio Ghibli marathon.”

“Deal.” Niamh grinned, their dark eyes twinkling, and held a hand out to Moira. Moira took it and Niamh hauled her up before they shook hands solemnly. “Let’s get some hurls from the flat just in case.”

The two friends set off towards their shared flat, Moira’s face gloomy as she pondered Steve’s fate; Charlotte would never forgive her if he died, or turned into a zombie dog (was that even possible?), and Moira would never have the chance to ask her out. That is, if she ever worked up the gumption to do it.

“You look irritated and melancholic,” Niamh observed. “Normally you’re one or the other, it’s a bit strange seeing both expressions on your face.”

“I really want Steve to be alive, but on the other hand, High School Musical…ugh,” Moira said, wincing at her feeble attempt at a joke.

Niamh simple stared at her calmly as they left the park and walked along the road towards their flat. Moira tried her best to ignore them, she really did, but Niamh had this knack of looking at her that made her want to tell them all her deep dark secrets. Like the time she “accidentally” burned the chǎo má shi, because while Moira loved everything else about her Chinese heritage, she couldn’t stomach the food, much to her parents disappointment. Thinking about that lead to thoughts about all the other things that disappointed her parents… Moira quickly shrugged it off and focused instead on trying, and failing, to avoid Niamh’s gaze.

Her resolve crumbled far too quickly in the face of her friend’s look. “And I was also thinking about how I’ll never get a chance to ask out Charlotte if her dog dies,” she mumbled, feeling her face heat up.

“You’ve had chances to ask her out for ten years now,” Niamh pointed out, rolling their eyes. “When are you actually going to do it?”

“I’m waiting for the right moment,” Moira said defensively.

“There will never be a right moment,” Niamh argued. “First it was because she was new to the school, then it was because you were just getting to know each other and you really wanted to be friends first, then it was because she came out as trans and started transitioning and she needed friendship and support instead of a girlfriend, then it was because you were both going to different universities, then it was because you were getting to know each other all over again and you didn’t want to rush it, then it was because of the apocalypse, and now…well now I have no idea what’s holding you back.”

“Right now, the impending death of her dog is what’s holding me back,” Moira snapped irritably.

“What about before today? What about after? When you bring Steve back to her, whole and alive because all the zombies wanted to do was play with him. Will you ask her out then, or will you have another excuse?” Niamh asked as they entered the apartment complex and walked up the stairs to the first floor.

“We’re in the middle of the apocalypse.” Moira unlocked the door and they entered the flat, both going to their respective rooms to get their hurls.

“Ah, to be fair, it’s a fairly uneventful apocalypse,” Niamh argued, their voice muffled by the walls. “Sure, there was a bit of panic when the zombies first showed up, but they’re grand. Like obviously you need to give them a bit of a clatter round the head if they get too close, but all in all, they’re not that much of a nuisance. Nowhere near as bloodthirsty or brain-hungry as the films made them out to be.”

The two friends re-entered the sitting room, armed with their hurls. Niamh had tied their dreadlocks up with a colourful bandana and was grinning excitedly, while Moira tried to quell the nausea in her gut as she gripped her hurl tightly.

“Right; let’s find this dog,” she said, turning to leave the flat.

*

“If I were a zombie and I’d kidnapped a dog to play with, where would I be?” Niamh mused aloud, tapping their hurl against their lip.

“Well they don’t move fast so they can’t have gotten far,” Moira said, scanning the park around them.

“Which way did they go when they took Steve?”

“Uh…I don’t remember,” Moira admitted. “I was so shocked when they appeared, and then I realised I’d forgotten to bring any weapons out with me, and then Steve just ran at them, barking and wagging his tail like they were his best friends because he is clearly an idiot. By the time I realised what was going on they’d already left while I was just standing there like a total eejit.”

Niamh slowly shook their head, giving Moira a thoroughly disappointed look.

“Okay then. Let’s start where they took him and spread out from there.”

Moira nodded and followed Niamh through the park to the place where Steve had disappeared. They spread out and made their way slowly through the park in a tense silence. Occasionally Niamh would call over to Moira, pointing out a pine cone shaped like a person, or a cute squirrel, but Moira was lost in her own thoughts, panicking over what would happen if she couldn’t find Charlotte’s dog.

They were three quarters of the way through the park and Moira was now in full panic mode; thoughts racing through her head imagining all the horrific things that might have happened to Steve; how she would have to bring his poor lifeless, bloodied and torn body back to Charlotte, how the other woman would scream and curse her very existence. The guilt was eating away at her gut, her chest felt constricted with every breath, the world was starting to sway around her…

“Psssst!”

Moira snapped out of her panic and looked over at Niamh who was crouched behind some bushes. She frowned and mouthed ‘What is it now?’ at her friend, who pointed frantically at the bushes. Moira crossed her arms and shook her head in frustration.

“I don’t care how cute the squirrel is; we need to focus,” she said exasperatedly.

“Get over here!” Niamh hissed, continuing to gesture frantically at the bushes.

Moira huffed in annoyance and stomped over, mentally berating Niamh for wasting her time but the thoughts vanished when she peered through the bushes and saw Steve.

The little pug was barking happily as he ran between two zombies who were throwing a ball for him to fetch, his lead flapping behind him as he moved. The zombies’ mouths were gaping in a gut-curdling approximation of a smile, and they grunted in encouragement every time Steve brought the ball back to them and then ran in circles, waiting for them to throw it again.

Moira gaped at the scene before her and turned to Niamh to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Their giant shit-eating grin told her that she definitely wasn’t, and she immediately scowled as Niamh started humming ‘Get Your Head In The Game.’

“Don’t,” she stated in a warning tone. “We need to get him away from them. Any ideas?”

“Did Charlotte give you any dog treats? Food is the way to a dog’s heart after all.”

“No,” Moira said glumly, and then quickly brightened as she said, “But I do have a chocolate bar,” pulling it from her coat pocket.

“You can’t give chocolate to a dog!”

“I won’t actually let him eat it, I’ll just lure him to us with it.”

Niamh stared at her sceptically, before sighing and waving their hand in a ‘go ahead’ gesture. Moira crawled forward through the bushes until she was in plain sight of Steve and the zombies, then knelt and opened the chocolate bar.

“Steeeevvveeeee,” she cooed, waving the chocolate bar in front of her. “I’ve got some nommy chocolate for yoouuuuu.”

Steve’s ears perked up at the sound of his name, and he turned away from the zombies, barking in recognition when he spotted Moira.

“That’s right, it’s me your favourite dog-walker Moira. And you’re my favourite boy who’s going to come over to me and away from those zombies.”

Steve took a few steps towards her, paused, looked back at the zombies who were waiting, ball in hand, looked at Moira, and then turned and trotted back to the zombies, who grunted and threw the ball, their mouths gaping even further. Moira shuffled forward some more, stretching the chocolate bar out towards him.

“Come on Steve, please,” she said desperately, but Steve was too busy with his game to pay attention to her anymore.

“Stupid feckin dog,” Moira cursed angrily, shoving the bar back in her pocket.

She picked up her hurl and stood up. “Time for plan B,” she announced, and Niamh immediately emerged from the bushes with an enthusiastic, “Hellyeah!”

“You distract the zombies, I’ll grab Steve,” Moira told them as she squared her shoulders and walked forward, the hurl dangling from her right hand.

Niamh nodded, hefted their hurl upright with both their hands and then moved forwards. “Hey you!” they yelled as they approached the nearest zombie.

The zombie had barely turned its head towards them when it snapped to the side as Niamh’s hurl connected to the side of its skull with a sickening crunch. It crumpled to the ground and the second zombie lumbered towards Niamh with an enraged snarl. Niamh cackled and danced around it, jabbing at it lightly with their hurl whenever it got too close. Meanwhile Moira was sneaking behind them, trying to grab Steve without either of the zombies noticing. The pug was not making it easy, as he’d decided to get involved, dancing around Niamh and the zombie barking excitedly.

“It’s not a game you gobshite,” Moira growled, squatting down and reaching out to try and grab his lead.

She almost had it when Niamh suddenly cried out in pain, and Moira looked up in shock to see them stumbling away from the zombies, clutching their arm. Blood was oozing from a gash, bright red against the chocolate brown of their skin.

“Were you bitten?” Moira screamed hysterically.

“No, just scratched,” Niamh replied through gritted teeth.

They took a few deep breaths, and then raised the hurl with their uninjured arm, their eyes glinting dangerously. Both zombies turned towards them, their faces twisted menacingly, and Moira took advantage of their distraction to make a dive for Steve’s lead. She was successful, and the small dog let out a pitiful squeal as he was yanked backwards into her arms.

Niamh cracked both zombies across the face with one swing, advancing on them as they fell back. “Take that, you goddamn motherfu-”

“RUN!” Moira bellowed, as she stumbled away from the zombies with Steve in her arms.

Niamh took off after her without hesitation, and the two friends fled through the park, laughing in exhilaration while Steve barked and struggled to get out of Moira’s arms. They didn’t stop until they were well clear of the park, and finally ground to a halt a few streets away from Charlotte’s house.

“Oh my God,” Moira wheezed, still laughing. “I can’t believe that worked! I can’t believe we found him! I can’t believe you’re alive!” she exclaimed happily, holding Steve up in front of her. Steve whined in reply and Moira put him down with a laugh, holding the end of his lead in a death grip, wrapping it around her hand twice for good measure.

Her laughter started to subside, but her body continued to shake and her breaths wouldn’t steady, and it wasn’t until Niamh was hugging her that she realised she was sobbing loudly.

“I’m sorry!” she blubbered. “I shouldn’t have let you come with me, you could have been turned or killed! I’m the worst friend ever!”

“Ssshhhh,” Niamh said soothingly, rubbing her back. “I was coming with you whether you liked it or not, and I was the one who got carried away trying to beat up those zombies. We’re both alive and safe, and Charlotte is not going to hate you forever. It’s a win all around!” they said cheerfully, giving Moira one last squeeze before stepping back.

Moira sniffed and wiped her face roughly. “Thanks,” she said, her voice still thick with tears. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

Moira grinned at Niamh’s “humble” tone and following wink, and then looked down at Steve. “Come on buddy, let’s get you home.”

She and Niamh turned and walked to Charlotte’s house, their shoulders bumping occasionally. As they rounded the corner on to the street where Charlotte lived, Moira paused and put a hand on Niamh’s shoulder.

“Please don’t tell Charlotte about this,” she said. “She’ll never trust me with Steve again…I mean she probably shouldn’t, but I’m not going to let this happen again.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Niamh replied, miming zipping their lips shut.

Moira smiled gratefully, squeezed Niamh’s shoulder and continued on to Charlotte’s house. Charlotte opened the door, smiling widely when she saw them, and Moira felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of the other woman, looking rumpled, a little worn and tired around the edges, and a little sad around her eyes. Her skin was paler than normal, her auburn hair was piled on top of her hair in a messy bun, and there were dark circles around her sad green eyes. Moira’s heart ached at how gorgeous she was, and she itched to take the other woman in her arms and sooth her sadness away.

“Hi guys, how was the walk?” Charlotte asked as she squatted down and opened her arms out to Steve who bounded into them with an excited bark, his tail wagging furiously.

“Uneventful,” Niamh said casually.

“We played fetch,” Moira added.

“That’s great,” Charlotte said.

She stood up, cradling Steve in her arms, and Moira untangled the lead from her hand and handed it over. Charlotte smiled at her in thanks and Moira’s stomach swooped in response. She wanted to say something, ask Charlotte if she wanted to have dinner, or go out for a walk or drinks or anything. Just say anything that would mean staying here a little while longer.

“Do you guys have any other plans for today?”

“Moira’s promised me a High School Musical marathon.” Niamh grinned and Moira internally cursed them for saying she was anything other than free.

“Sounds like fun.”

“You’re welcome to join us if you’d like,” Niamh offered, and Charlotte shook her head and replied, “Maybe some other time.”

There was an awkward paused as the three looked between themselves, before Niamh stepped away with a laugh and a, “Well, see you.”

“See you,” Charlotte said, and then turned to Moira. “Same time next week?”

“Yeah sure,” Moira said.

Charlotte nodded, put Steven down on the floor, and turned to close the door.

“Do you want to go out with me?” Moira blurted.

Charlotte’s head whipped towards her, her expression shocked and her cheeks quickly turning a dreamy shade of red, and Moira quickly added, “When I walk Steve next time, I mean, do you want to come with us?”

Charlotte’s expression was both wistful and full of regret as she shook her head.

“Is everything okay?” Moira asked softly, leaning towards her, her heart pounding in her chest.

Charlotte opened her mouth, closed it, sighed and then said, “I’m…I’m running out of hormones.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. I stocked up when the whole apocalypse thing happened, but it’ll be gone in less than two months. I contacted the health department about it, and they told me that hormones and contraceptives are classed as ‘non-essential’ while they get everything back up and running. And I know that they’re not essential when compared to say antibiotics and vaccines and things like that but…it still hurts to know that even when the “world ends,” things don’t ever really change. So I’m just feeling pretty shitty right now, and I can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen to my body when my hormones run out and it sucks because I was in such a good place you know?”

“I get it,” Moira said sympathetically, quickly adding, “I mean, I don’t GET it get it because I don’t have any personal experience or anything, but I get that it’s important to you.”

“Thanks.”

Moira bit her lip, desperately wishing there was something she could do to help, when a thought came to her.

“You know, there’s a sexual health clinic near me that’s still shut and miraculously wasn’t broken into during the riots. I bet we could find birth control pills there; I know it’s not the same, but it’s a source of oestrogen so it might help? We could go together, or I could go on my own or-”

Moira’s words were cut off as Charlotte pulled her into a hug as she said, “Oh my God yes that sounds great!” She turned her head, and kissed Moira several times on the cheek before hugging her tightly again, saying, “Thank you!”

Moira hugged her back just as tightly, her heart galloping and her entire body flushing with happiness and pleasure. “Just doing what I can to help.”

Charlotte eventually pulled away, and Moira’s stomach swooped when she saw that the sad look had disappeared from her eyes.

“Can we go tomorrow?” Charlotte asked eagerly.

“Sure.”

“And afterwards…” Charlotte said coyly, taking Moira’s hand and gently interlacing their fingers, “would you like to have dinner with me?”

Moira felt her heart stop for a moment before exploding with happiness. She squeezed Charlotte’s hand, beamed and nodded, not trusting her mouth to form a coherent response.

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Charlotte lifted Moira’s hand, kissed her knuckles softly and then let it go before stepping away and closing the door, her eyes never leaving Moira’s. Moira stared at the door for a few moments before she turned and walked in a daze towards Niamh.

“Did that actually just happen?”

“Yes it did,” Niamh chuckled, punching her lightly on the arm.

They walked back to their flat, Niamh nudging her continuously as they waggled their eyebrows, their lips permanently stretched in their trademark shit-eating grin. Moira laughed and nudged them back, her laughter continuing as Niamh jumped on her back for a piggyback, triumphantly singing the ‘We’re All In This Together.’

[starjunky-blog]

Ink

He stared intently at the black smudge coating his left palm and his fingertips. It looked like tar, almost like a liquid sat anchored to his skin. He rubbed his thumb over the inked skin, hoping it'd rub off in the fruitless attempt.       Everyone had a black mark like this somewhere on their bodies; where their soul mate would touch him or her for he first time. Rumor was that when you did find your partner, the smudge would light up in hues of purples, blues, pinks, reds, and greens.       Rob stared at the mark a little longer. His anxiety creeping up on him, crawling up his spine, seeping into his shoulders like a bad chill. He stood quickly, clenching his marked fist as he quickly scooped up his backpack. He'd be late for the first day of Freshman year.   *Wonderful.* By the time sixth period rolled around, Rob was tired, and annoyed. It'd been a rough day and it was only the first of many. *This is going to be a shit show* he thought to himself as he shuffled unwillingly into his sixth period classroom; health of all things.       He gazed around, his eyes settling on a girl with choppy reddish hair, and an expression that said she did *not* want to be there. He, haltingly, walked over and pulled the chair out next to her. She quickly sat up, and moved her things over in almost a hurried, anxious state. Scooting her chair over to the side more possibly to...avoid him? Give him more room? She was small enough. He stared at the table as his bag slid off his shoulder and to the floor. He looked at her, finding the slightest smirk on her face that screamed, *Honey, you don't know what you're getting into. Pick another seat before you regret this.* He made no such move.       His eyes caught the same smudge of black around her right wrist. Hand-print shaped. He was curious about that. Still, she didn't say anything, just tapped a pen against the desk as a paper was shoved in front of her.       Rob tuned the teacher out as he carefully examined her in short glances. God, her eyes were so beautiful. Like dirt set against gold-flecked amber. There was some yellow in them if you looked hard enough. She had freckles, a lot of them. Some were darker than others, some hardly visible. Her hair was wavy, and a little static-y to be honest. Reddish, and brownish at the same time. Was it dyed or natural?      She looked over, catching his eyes. She looked like she was about to say something but he looked away quickly, cutting her off.       "Uh..." She started, clearing her throat awkwardly.       "Got any pets...?" She wouldn't look up at him. She stared at his paper, and tapped her finger on the table.       "I-I have an Albino Leopard Gecko, and a cat" She added, the words struggling from her mouth like they couldn't get enough air. He blinked,       "Oh! Uh, yeah...Pugs." He let a small smile creep onto his lips, fading as he watched her write this down. Was he supposed to do that? Shit!       "Any, uh, other stuff...?" She mumbled, flipping her pen between her fingers.       "Depression..." He chuckled, going off on this tangent about death and anxiety. By the end of it, she just looked worried, and forced a nervous chuckle out.       "Okay..."       He felt like an idiot sitting there next to some confusing girl who didn't give off much of what went on in her head, whereas he basically just told her his life story. The words he was begging with himself not to say were creeping up his throat. Finally, they seeped out of his teeth and drooled out onto the table.       "Do have a boyfriend...?"      She chuckled, a motion that made her tiny body shake with glee. This was stopped short,       "No...Bad break-up over the summer though." She smiled painfully at him, glancing at the clock. He wanted her to confide in him, to bleat out every ache that troubled her but he simply nodded and swallowed down the thoughts beating against his skull. Why? She probably wasn't even his...       "What's your name?" She asked, her eyes finally meeting his. He sat back,       "Robert." He looked back at her,       "Yours?"       "Cesalie." He grinned. Gorgeous name too. She was smiling to herself, fidgeting with the pen and the Totoro bag on the floor undoubtedly full of books. She shuffled over a little more, sighing softly.        "Cool." She hummed, and drew little robots in the margins of her paper. He watched, being sure to make it look nonchalant. Subconsciously he scribbled on his own paper, not doing much.       His growing interest in the black mark around her wrist was growing. He should touch it. Just to make absolute sure he wasn't supposed to be hers and vice-versa.     He reached out to touch, his finger tips almost there.      He wanted her all to himself.

[excerptsfromunfinishednovels]

Excerpts From Unfinished Novels #1: Even As The World Comes Crashing Down

“Okay, okay, breathe, kiddo. It’s not the end of the world – okay, I mean, technically it is, but you can handle this.”

“You are really not helping,” Moira huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And don’t call me kiddo; we’re the same age.”

She could feel a headache coming on, creeping up the back of her neck and settling in her skull. She groaned and curled up tighter, rocking slightly, ignoring the dampness seeping through her jeans and how the mud beneath her shifted slightly with her movements.

“I’m three months older than you,” Niamh replied with a dismissive wave of their hand. “Have you tried praying to Saint Anthony?”

“Saint Anthony is for lost objects; a dog is not an object,” Moira replied tiredly.

“Saint Francis then?”

Moira groaned loudly, a drawn-out sound that started as a deep growl and ended as a high-pitched whine, as she buried her face in her knees and pulled futilely at the short strands of her pixie cut. Niamh squatted beside her and rubbed her back soothingly.

“Okay, clearly having a meltdown in the middle of the park is not faring so well,” they said carefully. “So what do we need to do?”

“I don’t know,” Moira whined, slumping sideways against her best friend. “How am I going to explain to Charlotte that I lost her dog? More specifically, how am I going to explain to her that I lost her dog to zombies?! I mean, what the hell was I thinking? What the hell was she thinking? Who hires a dog-walker in the middle of the apocalypse? Why did I agree to do it?”

“Because you think Charlotte Farrell is the hottest person on the face of the planet,” Niamh stated with a wry grin. “And because everyone needs to keep busy to avoid going bat-shit crazy over the fact that there are now zombies living amongst us, so you decided to keep up your weekend job.”

“I should have done something else; I could have taken up knitting, or, or, read all those books of yours,” Moira said angrily.

“You suck at knitting, and you fall asleep every time you try to read.”

Moira sighed. “That is true.”

She uncurled her legs, wincing as blood started circulating through them properly. She stared at the ground, absent-mindedly tracing shapes in the mud, while mulling over her options. Eventually she sighed and squared her shoulders.

“Okay, we need to go looking for Steve. And pray to whatever Saint is responsible for lost animals that he isn’t dead.”

“I’ve never heard of zombies eating dogs; maybe they just wanted to play with him?”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Moira scoffed, eyes narrowing.

Niamh gasped, placing a hand over their chest dramatically as they stood up. “You wound me! Tell you what, if they’re playing with Steve, you owe me dinner and a High School Musical marathon.”

“Fine, but if they’ve eaten him then you owe me dinner and a Studio Ghibli marathon.”

“Deal.” Niamh grinned, their dark eyes twinkling, and held a hand out to Moira. Moira took it and Niamh hauled her up before they shook hands solemnly. “Let’s get some hurls from the flat just in case.”

The two friends set off towards their shared flat, Moira’s face gloomy as she pondered Steve’s fate; Charlotte would never forgive her if he died, or turned into a zombie dog (was that even possible?), and Moira would never have the chance to ask her out. That is, if she ever worked up the gumption to do it.

“You look irritated and melancholic,” Niamh observed. “Normally you’re one or the other, it’s a bit strange seeing both expressions on your face.”

“I really want Steve to be alive, but on the other hand, High School Musical…ugh,” Moira said, wincing at her feeble attempt at a joke.

Niamh simple stared at her calmly as they left the park and walked along the road towards their flat. Moira tried her best to ignore them, she really did, but Niamh had this knack of looking at her that made her want to tell them all her deep dark secrets. Like the time she “accidentally” burned the chǎo má shi, because while Moira loved everything else about her Chinese heritage, she couldn’t stomach the food, much to her parents disappointment. Thinking about that lead to thoughts about all the other things that disappointed her parents… Moira quickly shrugged it off and focused instead on trying, and failing, to avoid Niamh’s gaze.

Her resolve crumbled far too quickly in the face of her friend’s look. “And I was also thinking about how I’ll never get a chance to ask out Charlotte if her dog dies,” she mumbled, feeling her face heat up.

“You’ve had chances to ask her out for ten years now,” Niamh pointed out, rolling their eyes. “When are you actually going to do it?”

“I’m waiting for the right moment,” Moira said defensively.

“There will never be a right moment,” Niamh argued. “First it was because she was new to the school, then it was because you were just getting to know each other and you really wanted to be friends first, then it was because she came out as trans and started transitioning and she needed friendship and support instead of a girlfriend, then it was because you were both going to different universities, then it was because you were getting to know each other all over again and you didn’t want to rush it, then it was because of the apocalypse, and now…well now I have no idea what’s holding you back.”

“Right now, the impending death of her dog is what’s holding me back,” Moira snapped irritably.

“What about before today? What about after? When you bring Steve back to her, whole and alive because all the zombies wanted to do was play with him. Will you ask her out then, or will you have another excuse?” Niamh asked as they entered the apartment complex and walked up the stairs to the first floor.

“We’re in the middle of the apocalypse.” Moira unlocked the door and they entered the flat, both going to their respective rooms to get their hurls.

“Ah, to be fair, it’s a fairly uneventful apocalypse,” Niamh argued, their voice muffled by the walls. “Sure, there was a bit of panic when the zombies first showed up, but they’re grand. Like obviously you need to give them a bit of a clatter round the head if they get too close, but all in all, they’re not that much of a nuisance. Nowhere near as bloodthirsty or brain-hungry as the films made them out to be.”

The two friends re-entered the sitting room, armed with their hurls. Niamh had tied their dreadlocks up with a colourful bandana and was grinning excitedly, while Moira tried to quell the nausea in her gut as she gripped her hurl tightly.

“Right; let’s find this dog,” she said, turning to leave the flat.

*

“If I were a zombie and I’d kidnapped a dog to play with, where would I be?” Niamh mused aloud, tapping their hurl against their lip.

“Well they don’t move fast so they can’t have gotten far,” Moira said, scanning the park around them.

“Which way did they go when they took Steve?”

“Uh…I don’t remember,” Moira admitted. “I was so shocked when they appeared, and then I realised I’d forgotten to bring any weapons out with me, and then Steve just ran at them, barking and wagging his tail like they were his best friends because he is clearly an idiot. By the time I realised what was going on they’d already left while I was just standing there like a total eejit.”

Niamh slowly shook their head, giving Moira a thoroughly disappointed look.

“Okay then. Let’s start where they took him and spread out from there.”

Moira nodded and followed Niamh through the park to the place where Steve had disappeared. They spread out and made their way slowly through the park in a tense silence. Occasionally Niamh would call over to Moira, pointing out a pine cone shaped like a person, or a cute squirrel, but Moira was lost in her own thoughts, panicking over what would happen if she couldn’t find Charlotte’s dog.

They were three quarters of the way through the park and Moira was now in full panic mode; thoughts racing through her head imagining all the horrific things that might have happened to Steve; how she would have to bring his poor lifeless, bloodied and torn body back to Charlotte, how the other woman would scream and curse her very existence. The guilt was eating away at her gut, her chest felt constricted with every breath, the world was starting to sway around her…

“Psssst!”

Moira snapped out of her panic and looked over at Niamh who was crouched behind some bushes. She frowned and mouthed ‘What is it now?’ at her friend, who pointed frantically at the bushes. Moira crossed her arms and shook her head in frustration.

“I don’t care how cute the squirrel is; we need to focus,” she said exasperatedly.

“Get over here!” Niamh hissed, continuing to gesture frantically at the bushes.

Moira huffed in annoyance and stomped over, mentally berating Niamh for wasting her time but the thoughts vanished when she peered through the bushes and saw Steve.

The little pug was barking happily as he ran between two zombies who were throwing a ball for him to fetch, his lead flapping behind him as he moved. The zombies’ mouths were gaping in a gut-curdling approximation of a smile, and they grunted in encouragement every time Steve brought the ball back to them and then ran in circles, waiting for them to throw it again.

Moira gaped at the scene before her and turned to Niamh to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. Their giant shit-eating grin told her that she definitely wasn’t, and she immediately scowled as Niamh started humming ‘Get Your Head In The Game.’

“Don’t,” she stated in a warning tone. “We need to get him away from them. Any ideas?”

“Did Charlotte give you any dog treats? Food is the way to a dog’s heart after all.”

“No,” Moira said glumly, and then quickly brightened as she said, “But I do have a chocolate bar,” pulling it from her coat pocket.

“You can’t give chocolate to a dog!”

“I won’t actually let him eat it, I’ll just lure him to us with it.”

Niamh stared at her sceptically, before sighing and waving their hand in a ‘go ahead’ gesture. Moira crawled forward through the bushes until she was in plain sight of Steve and the zombies, then knelt and opened the chocolate bar.

“Steeeevvveeeee,” she cooed, waving the chocolate bar in front of her. “I’ve got some nommy chocolate for yoouuuuu.”

Steve’s ears perked up at the sound of his name, and he turned away from the zombies, barking in recognition when he spotted Moira.

“That’s right, it’s me your favourite dog-walker Moira. And you’re my favourite boy who’s going to come over to me and away from those zombies.”

Steve took a few steps towards her, paused, looked back at the zombies who were waiting, ball in hand, looked at Moira, and then turned and trotted back to the zombies, who grunted and threw the ball, their mouths gaping even further. Moira shuffled forward some more, stretching the chocolate bar out towards him.

“Come on Steve, please,” she said desperately, but Steve was too busy with his game to pay attention to her anymore.

“Stupid feckin dog,” Moira cursed angrily, shoving the bar back in her pocket.

She picked up her hurl and stood up. “Time for plan B,” she announced, and Niamh immediately emerged from the bushes with an enthusiastic, “Hellyeah!”

“You distract the zombies, I’ll grab Steve,” Moira told them as she squared her shoulders and walked forward, the hurl dangling from her right hand.

Niamh nodded, hefted their hurl upright with both their hands and then moved forwards. “Hey you!” they yelled as they approached the nearest zombie.

The zombie had barely turned its head towards them when it snapped to the side as Niamh’s hurl connected to the side of its skull with a sickening crunch. It crumpled to the ground and the second zombie lumbered towards Niamh with an enraged snarl. Niamh cackled and danced around it, jabbing at it lightly with their hurl whenever it got too close. Meanwhile Moira was sneaking behind them, trying to grab Steve without either of the zombies noticing. The pug was not making it easy, as he’d decided to get involved, dancing around Niamh and the zombie barking excitedly.

“It’s not a game you gobshite,” Moira growled, squatting down and reaching out to try and grab his lead.

She almost had it when Niamh suddenly cried out in pain, and Moira looked up in shock to see them stumbling away from the zombies, clutching their arm. Blood was oozing from a gash, bright red against the chocolate brown of their skin.

“Were you bitten?” Moira screamed hysterically.

“No, just scratched,” Niamh replied through gritted teeth.

They took a few deep breaths, and then raised the hurl with their uninjured arm, their eyes glinting dangerously. Both zombies turned towards them, their faces twisted menacingly, and Moira took advantage of their distraction to make a dive for Steve’s lead. She was successful, and the small dog let out a pitiful squeal as he was yanked backwards into her arms.

Niamh cracked both zombies across the face with one swing, advancing on them as they fell back. “Take that, you goddamn motherfu-”

“RUN!” Moira bellowed, as she stumbled away from the zombies with Steve in her arms.

Niamh took off after her without hesitation, and the two friends fled through the park, laughing in exhilaration while Steve barked and struggled to get out of Moira’s arms. They didn’t stop until they were well clear of the park, and finally ground to a halt a few streets away from Charlotte’s house.

“Oh my God,” Moira wheezed, still laughing. “I can’t believe that worked! I can’t believe we found him! I can’t believe you’re alive!” she exclaimed happily, holding Steve up in front of her. Steve whined in reply and Moira put him down with a laugh, holding the end of his lead in a death grip, wrapping it around her hand twice for good measure.

Her laughter started to subside, but her body continued to shake and her breaths wouldn’t steady, and it wasn’t until Niamh was hugging her that she realised she was sobbing loudly.

“I’m sorry!” she blubbered. “I shouldn’t have let you come with me, you could have been turned or killed! I’m the worst friend ever!”

“Ssshhhh,” Niamh said soothingly, rubbing her back. “I was coming with you whether you liked it or not, and I was the one who got carried away trying to beat up those zombies. We’re both alive and safe, and Charlotte is not going to hate you forever. It’s a win all around!” they said cheerfully, giving Moira one last squeeze before stepping back.

Moira sniffed and wiped her face roughly. “Thanks,” she said, her voice still thick with tears. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

Moira grinned at Niamh’s “humble” tone and following wink, and then looked down at Steve. “Come on buddy, let’s get you home.”

She and Niamh turned and walked to Charlotte’s house, their shoulders bumping occasionally. As they rounded the corner on to the street where Charlotte lived, Moira paused and put a hand on Niamh’s shoulder.

“Please don’t tell Charlotte about this,” she said. “She’ll never trust me with Steve again…I mean she probably shouldn’t, but I’m not going to let this happen again.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Niamh replied, miming zipping their lips shut.

Moira smiled gratefully, squeezed Niamh’s shoulder and continued on to Charlotte’s house. Charlotte opened the door, smiling widely when she saw them, and Moira felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of the other woman, looking rumpled, a little worn and tired around the edges, and a little sad around her eyes. Her skin was paler than normal, her auburn hair was piled on top of her hair in a messy bun, and there were dark circles around her sad green eyes. Moira’s heart ached at how gorgeous she was, and she itched to take the other woman in her arms and sooth her sadness away.

“Hi guys, how was the walk?” Charlotte asked as she squatted down and opened her arms out to Steve who bounded into them with an excited bark, his tail wagging furiously.

“Uneventful,” Niamh said casually.

“We played fetch,” Moira added.

“That’s great,” Charlotte said.

She stood up, cradling Steve in her arms, and Moira untangled the lead from her hand and handed it over. Charlotte smiled at her in thanks and Moira’s stomach swooped in response. She wanted to say something, ask Charlotte if she wanted to have dinner, or go out for a walk or drinks or anything. Just say anything that would mean staying here a little while longer.

“Do you guys have any other plans for today?”

“Moira’s promised me a High School Musical marathon.” Niamh grinned and Moira internally cursed them for saying she was anything other than free.

“Sounds like fun.”

“You’re welcome to join us if you’d like,” Niamh offered, and Charlotte shook her head and replied, “Maybe some other time.”

There was an awkward paused as the three looked between themselves, before Niamh stepped away with a laugh and a, “Well, see you.”

“See you,” Charlotte said, and then turned to Moira. “Same time next week?”

“Yeah sure,” Moira said.

Charlotte nodded, put Steven down on the floor, and turned to close the door.

“Do you want to go out with me?” Moira blurted.

Charlotte’s head whipped towards her, her expression shocked and her cheeks quickly turning a dreamy shade of red, and Moira quickly added, “When I walk Steve next time, I mean, do you want to come with us?”

Charlotte’s expression was both wistful and full of regret as she shook her head.

“Is everything okay?” Moira asked softly, leaning towards her, her heart pounding in her chest.

Charlotte opened her mouth, closed it, sighed and then said, “I’m…I’m running out of hormones.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah. I stocked up when the whole apocalypse thing happened, but it’ll be gone in less than two months. I contacted the health department about it, and they told me that hormones and contraceptives are classed as ‘non-essential’ while they get everything back up and running. And I know that they’re not essential when compared to say antibiotics and vaccines and things like that but…it still hurts to know that even when the “world ends,” things don’t ever really change. So I’m just feeling pretty shitty right now, and I can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen to my body when my hormones run out and it sucks because I was in such a good place you know?”

“I get it,” Moira said sympathetically, quickly adding, “I mean, I don’t GET it get it because I don’t have any personal experience or anything, but I get that it’s important to you.”

“Thanks.”

Moira bit her lip, desperately wishing there was something she could do to help, when a thought came to her.

“You know, there’s a sexual health clinic near me that’s still shut and miraculously wasn’t broken into during the riots. I bet we could find birth control pills there; I know it’s not the same, but it’s a source of oestrogen so it might help? We could go together, or I could go on my own or-”

Moira’s words were cut off as Charlotte pulled her into a hug as she said, “Oh my God yes that sounds great!” She turned her head, and kissed Moira several times on the cheek before hugging her tightly again, saying, “Thank you!”

Moira hugged her back just as tightly, her heart galloping and her entire body flushing with happiness and pleasure. “Just doing what I can to help.”

Charlotte eventually pulled away, and Moira’s stomach swooped when she saw that the sad look had disappeared from her eyes.

“Can we go tomorrow?” Charlotte asked eagerly.

“Sure.”

“And afterwards…” Charlotte said coyly, taking Moira’s hand and gently interlacing their fingers, “would you like to have dinner with me?”

Moira felt her heart stop for a moment before exploding with happiness. She squeezed Charlotte’s hand, beamed and nodded, not trusting her mouth to form a coherent response.

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Charlotte lifted Moira’s hand, kissed her knuckles softly and then let it go before stepping away and closing the door, her eyes never leaving Moira’s. Moira stared at the door for a few moments before she turned and walked in a daze towards Niamh.

“Did that actually just happen?”

“Yes it did,” Niamh chuckled, punching her lightly on the arm.

They walked back to their flat, Niamh nudging her continuously as they waggled their eyebrows, their lips permanently stretched in their trademark shit-eating grin. Moira laughed and nudged them back, her laughter continuing as Niamh jumped on her back for a piggyback, triumphantly singing the ‘We’re All In This Together.’