#fingers crossed this post becomes outdated in a year ..!

[19871997]

of the players to do a art ross/hart/ted lindsay sweep in one year multiple times, connor mcdavid is tied in amount of sweeps (3) with mario lemieux, both second to gretzky (5). guy lafleur and sidney crosby have completed the sweep twice. while all five of these players have also been awarded the conn smythe in their careers, only mcdavid has never won the sta

[pearl-buttons]

Aerouant

Originally posted on AO3 in two parts.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 9.8k

Summary: Draco Malfoy is no saint, but cannot fathom what sins he's committed in this life to deserve the punishment of Hermione Granger sweeping into his broom shop.

Draco was, admittedly, not a saint. Certainly he’d been a veritable prick in childhood. And—all right, yes—he’d very nearly murdered his headmaster as a teenager. Over all, his formative years were spent honing a level of arseholery befitting such a proud name as Malfoy. He had, without a doubt, deserved the rather public shunning of his family and the slog of returning the name back to Halfway Decent (though a Rita Skeeter article his mother knew absolutely nothing about that painted Draco in particular as rather tragic tipped him over the edge into War Hero. A horrid few months were spent avoiding Nosey Nellies wanting to hear the nitty gritty of becoming an Agonised Adolescent Deatheater)…  But what in the name of Merlin had he done in his life to deserve this particular punishment? 

The charm above the shop door had chimed out the arrival of a patron, pulling Draco’s attention from his workbench. It was the cloud of curls he noticed first; how could he not? Less frizzy now than when they were younger, but still wild, almost floating around her head like a bronze halo. He watched warily as the witch’s eyes flitted about the shop floor, observing, absorbing, cataloguing: small model brooms zipping about, bits of sawdust that floated through the slanting panes of sunlight like Sylphs, finished brooms parcelled up and leant near the door to be delivered tomorrow, and finally—

She started when their eyes met, and Draco held his breath, watching her fingers for a twitch for her wand he’d noticed holstered in her jumper sleeve. To her credit, she recovered quickly: wiping the surprise from her face, and taking a step toward him. “Malfoy.” 

Her features were schooled into something resembling polite friendliness, though pinched and insincere. He briefly wondered if that’s the sort of face she pulled for journalists or over-friendly strangers. Better than the pity she’d had written all over her face the last time he’d seen her over a decade ago.

Walking out of his mother’s court proceedings after she’d testified in Narcissa’s favour, she’d hesitated before silently putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He’d not been able to choke out more than “good of you”, a war between childhood animosity and newfound adult rationality sealing his throat tight, before she walked away.

He cleared his throat now, and wiped his hands down the front of his apron. “Granger,” he replied smoothly. “How can I help you?” 

“I didn’t realise you were - that is, I’d been told that -” Her hands waved enthusiastically as she spoke, and she shifted restlessly from foot to foot. 

“I’ll admit, I’m surprised to see you myself,” he reassured her. Merlin, he sounded much more collected than he felt. “Trying out for the Harpies, are we?”

Granger choked out what Draco would very generously call a laugh instead of (more accurately) the  sound of an owl regurgitating a pellet. “I’d sooner gag on a troll.” 

Draco snorted at her choice of words and her cheeks immediately coloured. 

“I’m sorry—I.” She took a deep breath, eyes closed, and straightened her shoulders. “Christmas is coming up, and Harry’s been riding about on an outdated Firebolt for ages. Can’t fault the man for his sentimentality, but it’s costing their team games at this point, and Ron’s rather cross about it and—“

Her curls were somehow enlarging with every speedy syllable. Draco could practically envision one of the miniature brooms getting stuck in one like it would a tornado, lost to the world forevermore. Best to interrupt now. 

He held his hand up and shhed. She halted, eyes widening in surprise and no small amount of irritation at being shushed, so. 

“Nothing but the best for Saint Potter,” he said, sardonically. Thirteen years passing was all well and good, but schoolboy rivalry was forever. He continued with a self-assured grin and smoothed his hair back in a gesture that was either charming or nauseating depending on his audience. Granger, he reasoned, was the latter sort. “So here you are. Unfortunately, I am rather in-demand at the moment, and don’t find myself with the time to take on another project.” He turned, as if to go back to the broom he’d been working on, glancing over his shoulder at the witch who was looking more-and-more put out with each word. “Especially with only five weeks until Christmas.”

He did have the time, and he could get it done, but the thought of being under Hermione Granger’s employ rankled more than it should have. 

Curious how easy it was to step into the shoes of his younger self. He’d grown like a weed once the stress of war had ended, but old habits die hard, and Pureblood pride a hundred times more over—and, in truth, he really was the best. 

He hadn’t studied under Master Broom-makers, nor spent ages agonising over every last hand carved detail to simply be adequate. The years spent perfecting his charms, puzzling over more intricate, original spellwork, and experimenting with materials had given way to opening his own shop nestled in a quiet corner of Diagon Alley. 

His work spoke for itself, though he had had to market himself in those first few months. Mass-produced brooms were more readily accessible; after all, why wait weeks-to-months for a broom when one could nip into Quality Quidditch Supplies and walk out with broom in-hand within minutes? It wasn’t until he’d supplied Augustus Mulch, Seeker for Puddlemere United, with a custom broom that the orders had come flooding in. These days he could afford to be choosey about his projects, and Draco Malfoy was nothing if not picky.

Granger’s glare was withering. Apparently, he was not the only one who could so easily backslide into their long-forgotten dance. He wondered if she would slap him. Something about the possibility sent a thrill down his spine. As she crossed her arms across her chest, the thrill morphed to pure giddiness, and he straightened fully behind the counter, more aware now of the weight of his wand holstered at his thigh. 

Granger’s mouth was set in a stiff, disapproving line that would have made Lucius proud, eyebrow quirked. Expectant. Irritated. He started to count the seconds. 

One. 

Two. 

Her silence was ironclad. It was beginning to make Draco antsy. 

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” He knew he’d as good as surrendered by speaking first, but at least he had the upper hand in this.

“Is there anything that might change your mind?” She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “If it’s a matter of money, I've got galleons to spare. I’ll pay double your rate for the inconvenience.” 

It was not about the money. He was flush with cash: swimming in it. Work was not a necessity but a convenient and enjoyable way to pass the time. To build something that was entirely his. 

He waved her away. “Your galleons are no good here, Granger.”

This was, as it turned out, the entirely wrong thing to say. 

Her brown eyes flashed dangerously, and Draco’s stomach dropped to the floor. 

“No, no. It’s not about…that.” He hadn’t used the slur in over a decade, but felt the shame burn through him as if he’d time-travelled to Second Year. “If—and that’s a large ‘if’—I were to craft a broom for you, I couldn’t accept your money.” He cleared his throat and looked away from the understanding that was starting to brim in Granger’s eyes. “Not after what you did for my mother, my family—me.” 

“There’s really no need for that,” she said. 

Draco dared to glance at her again, and saw that she had her mouth set in a thoughtful frown, eyes distractedly following a miniature broom in its orbit around the shop ceiling, but blessedly empty of the beginnings of pity. Her reverie broke suddenly, and she took a step back, clasping her hands together. 

“Well! I guess that’s it, then. Thank you very much for your time, Malfoy.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left the store, leaving Draco feeling rather like he’d lost a battle but perhaps won a war.

❣

The request arrived by owl: one of the brown barn owls the Ministry supplied its employees for convenience. The parchment detailed a broom for a woman’s nephew, a promising Slytherin Seeker in his last year at Hogwarts, was signed by one Thelma Puddle, and included a post script that promised she would be in to the shop later that afternoon to discuss payment and any details that she may have missed in this initial letter. 

Ms. Puddle was a round witch, as wide as she was tall, with greying hair swept into a severe bun that pulled her wrinkling face surprisingly taut. She toddled into Draco’s workshop at precisely a quarter past three in the afternoon, just as her letter had said, and made a beeline to the counter, her face all business. 

“I hope my letter found you well,” she said, pushing round glasses up the wide bridge of her nose clumsily. “Dear Simon has big dreams, and I thought to myself, I did, I thought: what better way to help a young boy achieve his dreams than to give him the tools to make it so?” Thelma pursed her lips and nodded. “I did, I did, and then I thought: now where shall I find the best broom in England? My assistant, Reggie—lovely boy, if a bit daft but you know how the young people are these days, heads in the clouds—anyway, my Reggie insisted, insisted! that I come to you, Mr. Malfoy. That you make the very best brooms galleons can buy and—”  

She began to pat her skirts and plunged a plump hand into an unseen pocket and pulled out a bulging purse that she promptly spilled all over Draco’s countertop. Golden galleons rolled and skittered, some diving off the counter and disappearing under his workbench.

“Of course, I’ve got galleons, as you can see. And he—Simon, of course, not Reggie—is such a good boy, and anyhow I’d very much appreciate it if you would at least consider taking the job.” 

Draco sighed, his scalp beginning to pulse with the beginning of a headache. He opened the purse wide with one hand and scooped all the coins he could back inside with the other. 

“Your initial request was sparse on details, and I’ll need you to come back with more if you’ve not got them in another pocket.” 

Thelma looked as if she was going to burst into tears. “Oh, Mr. Malfoy, you can’t even begin to understand how happy I am you’ve accepted! I thought to myself, I did, I thought: that young man has such a kind face, and I was right. You’ve proved me right.” 

“Would you like a cup of tea, Ms. Puddle?” Draco offered, stepping around the counter. “We can discuss in more detail what it is Stephen needs from a broom.”

“Oh, dear, I couldn’t put you out, but very kind of you to offer. And it’s Simon. Easy mistake, of course. S-names and all that.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Draco leaned back against the counter and quirked an eyebrow. “No, I believe that the Seeker for Slytherin is named Stephen Kaur. Brilliant flyer, his parents purchased a broom here just last year for his seventeenth birthday.” 

Thelma Puddle looked rather ill, all the colour blanched from her cheeks. 

“O-oh,” she stuttered. “I must have mucked up his position on the team.” She rapped her knuckles lightly against her temple. “Not what it used to be, you see.” 

“No, I don’t think you did, Granger,” Draco grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “And honestly, I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t do more research.”

He slipped his wand from the holster at his thigh and cast Revelio, but the disguise remained intact. 

“Polyjuice, then. Impressive. Happen to have that just lying about? Often steal the hairs of unsuspecting old witches?”

Granger-Puddle straightened and placed her hands on her hips, chin jutting defiantly. “It was willingly given, if you must know.”

“Oh, that makes it alright then.” He raked his gaze over her, head to toe. “How much longer are you stuck like this?”

She checked a delicate gold watch and grimaced. “Three quarters of an hour.”

Draco holstered his wand, and pushed off the counter, heading towards his backroom. When Granger remained still he gestured to her to follow, impatiently. 

“Come along, Granger. We may as well discuss the broom over tea.” A glance over his shoulder showed him she was about to burst into a happy exclamation, and he held his hand up quickly. “If you’d go to these lengths, the least I can do is listen to your proposal.” 

They walked together into the backroom which functioned as a temporary apartment on particularly late nights. A bed was stuffed into a corner beside a wardrobe he’d transfigured to the size of a bedside table. The kitchenette consisted of a sink and several shelves of his favourite sweets and the odd bag of crisps.

A bit of wandless magic put the kettle on while he retrieved two mugs from a cupboard and set them on the small table he had positioned at the window. Another rummage about, and he was soon spooning tea leaves into the teapot. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable, prickly feeling of Granger’s eyes watching his every move. 

“You live here?” she asked. 

Draco could tell that she was doing her best to sound casual, but the astonishment in her voice was not well-hidden. 

“I do not,” he replied, emptying the kettle into the teapot and covering it with the small click of china on china. 

She stayed expectantly quiet for a beat for him to elaborate, but he would not. He returned to the table with the tea pot and a small plate of biscuits, thoughtfully sent by his mother via house elf daily. With the table set, he drew back a seat for Granger.

She regarded him with open scrutiny as she sat, not that he could blame her. Taking tea with Hermione Granger was not on the list of things he thought remotely likely to happen. But then, he also did not expect her—perhaps others; he truly did stellar work—to go to such great lengths for the sake of a broom made by his hands. Wonders never cease. 

She was the one to break the silence after he poured the tea: “What do you need from me?”

“For starters, an idea of what you’re bloody well looking for,” he grumbled, spooning a sugar cube into his cup. “Is Potter still playing Seeker?” 

“He is,” she nodded, “in a Ministry league.” She murmured a quiet thank you when he poured a bit of milk for her.

Draco hmmmed, thinking. “What, would you say, is the biggest issue he’s having with his current broom? I imagine you’d like that addressed with this one.” 

Granger’s brows knit together, as she considered. “Shall I list them for you alphabetically?” 

She braved a sip of the steaming tea, put it down quickly. 

He shook his head, tutting playfully, and cast a silent cooling charm on her cup. “You’ll not fool me with your bravado, Ms. Granger.” She stiffened with the familiar weight her name had found on his lips, like it made her as uncomfortable to hear him rib her like they were old friends as he was to play act it. “I’m assigning you homework. Find me three concrete issues that need to be addressed with the broom—and not just that it’s old—and come back.” 

She hummed thoughtfully into her tea, her fingers curling around the warm mug, tucking it in close to her chest when she finished like it was a comfort. “So you’ll do it, then?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” He set his mug down on the table silently, saucer or not muscle memory prevailed. “You do know there are other, cheaper, more easily gotten down the way?”

She set her mug down as well—silently, he noted with a small amount of surprise—and levelled an even stare at him. “Do I strike you as the type of witch to settle once I’ve got my mind set on something?”

Draco was certain she had settled at least once. A certain ginger wizard came to mind. He decided it would be wiser to keep that thought to himself. “I haven’t the slightest idea what sort of witch you are,” he answered instead, honestly. 

She opened her mouth, paused, and he thought for a moment that she was going to ask if he’d like to know. He was spared the indignity of having to think of an answer for that when she said: “No, I don’t suppose you do.” 

Granger smiled, and it was genuine and pleasant and Draco thought her lips looked rather nice like that. This was  so unexpected a thought he only nodded while she rose from the table, thanked him for the tea, his time, and asked if tomorrow afternoon was convenient for her to stop in again.

❣

The workshop was tucked neatly on a far end of Diagon Alley between a dress robes boutique and someplace called Cooke’s Curiosities. Hanging proudly from the facade was the shop sign: a broom dangling from burnished copper chains. 

Hermione had noticed it during her first visit, of course, but had failed to notice the small dragon coiling protectively around the broom’s handle. What she’d initially recognized as the twigs of a broom tail was actually flames pouring from the dragon’s maw. Hidden within the flames in ornate script was a single word: Aerouant. 

Dragon. 

She shook her head and stifled a laugh as she entered. Malfoy sat at his bench, back to her, and only raised a hand in greeting. She quietly set the parchment she carried on the counter and waited.

Draco was quieter than she remembered. He hadn’t been noisy in their school days, but something about his presence had always been loud in a way that commanded attention. Hermione supposed it had something to do with his breeding: that Pureblood pride stiffening his spine with the assurance that he was The Best In The Room. 

But then Sixth Year had happened, and his steel vertebrae had softened. He’d slunk rather than glided, the quiet confidence of assurance giving way to doubt and a tiredness that no sleep would remedy. That’s how she’d remembered him: anxious, and afraid, and bearing the weight of his father’s sins and his own misdeeds like Atlas at the edge of the world. He’d looked lost, burdened, when she’d seen him in the halls outside the Wizengamot courts. 

Now, as he leaned over the counter, head bent over the parchment with not three, but seven specifications for Harry’s new broom, she saw that while he was still flush with Malfoy Arrogance the edges of it had blunted with time, perhaps even maturity. It wasn’t the puffed up posturing of a spoiled child but the quiet confidence of a man in his element. 

Hermione watched him, silently, taking in this New Malfoy. His hands were rough now, lean muscle carved by his work as surely as the finished brooms leaning by the door. His lips moved as he pored over the words she’d written, not reading quietly to himself, but puzzling over what charms and spells best suited the project at hand. 

When she spoke again, he jumped a bit, like he'd forgotten she was still there. A charming blush coloured the tips of his ears and the high points of his aristocratic cheekbones. 

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if those would do.”

His brows furrowed as he glanced back down at the parchment. “For intricacies, yes. Do you know what wood he’d like it carved from?”

During her research into what would make a good Seeker’s broom, she’d seen that some broom makers chose lumber on a per-project basis. She’d not included this detail on the parchment, in case he was not that sort. Given his reputation—she had also done research into Malfoy and was almost ashamed to admit she was surprised by the amount of praise he’d been receiving in recent years—she supposed she should have expected him to be. 

“I considered cherry and fir,” she said, and watched with some satisfaction as Malfoy’s eyebrows arched towards his hairline, “for achievement and resilience respectively, but thought to ask your opinion, as you’re the expert.”

“Good, standard picks,” he replied with an approving nod. “I’ve got a cherry myself, but it can be finicky. It requires will. Ambition.” He smirked at her, and his grey eyes took on the same playful glint that had lit them when he’d assigned her homework. “Slytherin traits.” 

He took a step back and gestured to the broom behind him. “It’s not just about the magical proclivities of the wood. Aesthetics are as good a rationale.” 

Hermione’s focus shifted to the half-finished broom taking shape on the workbench, and her focus shifted to pure wonderment. She stepped up to the counter until her hips pressed against the polished top, then leaned further, her hands supporting her. 

Her eyes traced the gleam of magic he’d been spelling into the dark wood, the light like an aura around the parts yet to be carved. The body of the broom was just beginning to take shape. Runes swirled around the handle in an intricate pattern, the magic shining through them. 

“Kamagong,” Malfoy explained as she looked. “Especially imported from the Philippines at the request of Japan’s premiere Beater. His bat is made of the same wood.” The glow of unfinished spellwork cast a warm light across Malfoy’s face, making his grey eyes bright like silver.

Odd. Hermione blinked. Once. Twice. When had she become a woman that noticed something so soppy as that—about Draco bloody Malfoy no less?

“It’s lovely,” she said, as he shifted his gaze to hers. Storm clouds. Lightning. Magic. “Is there a reason you spell it before carving?”

“Raw material begs to be shaped,” he shrugged and leaned against his workbench, letting her make of that what she may. 

She nodded  and pushed back from the counter, letting her eyes wander back to the broom. “The runes act as a catalyst?”

Malfoy’s head tilted, and the weight of his gaze on her made her stomach flip. She held his stare, and the corner of his mouth ticked up, just for a second. 

“Of a sort, though I prefer to think of it as a binding,” he answered. “You have done your research today, haven’t you?” 

The amusement and approval that coloured his voice forced a flush to her cheeks, but she battled it back. She had not been flustered by men since she was a teenager. She would not start again today. 

“Use the Slytherin wood,” she said. “You’ll find we Gryffindors can be surprising.”

Hermione moved to make a grand exit, to have the last word. She wasn’t sure if she imagined the quiet so I’m learning as she swept out the door. 

❣

Draco hesitated, envelope in hand, as he strode across the shop to Hermes. The eagle owl cocked its head, clicked its beak impatiently. Hermes had taken three notes to Granger just today, with similarly numerous excursions as frequently as every other day over the past three weeks. On the one hand, he was simply being thorough, but he’d never communicated with another client as often as he did this infuriating, fascinating witch. 

Their correspondence had been started by her. That same barn owl had swooped into the shop and dropped a small note on his head as he’d carved stability spells into the seat. Inside, she asked follow up questions about the taper, length, and finish of the tail, and whether he would be using copper for the belt and binding given its conductive properties. By the time she asked which cushioning charms he’d be using, Draco swore to himself that he would never take on another project from Hermione Granger as long as he lived.

Draco sighed, and considered scrapping this note that let Hermione know that yes, he was sure that the bipod he’d affixed to the broom would be plenty wide enough unless Harry had suddenly discovered giant heritage. He knew that if he didn’t send this fourth note she would almost certainly pop into the shop, hence the hesitation. 

As loath as he was to admit it, he didn’t particularly mind the give and take once she arrived. At some point between discussing spell work and the usefulness of arithmancy in broom-making (none, thank you very much) the irritation had evolved into resignation into something that was nearly enjoyment. To date, very few people had taken an interest in his work to the degree that she had. She asked informed, but general, questions, hummed and hawed politely as he explained, then fired off a nuanced follow-up question that set him to explaining again. He nearly felt like an apprentice again, defending his work as he would a thesis against an unlikely expert in the field. 

One afternoon he’d mentioned offhandedly that while copper was an excellent conductor, and gold was serviceable and even lent some aerodynamicity given its affinity to air magicks, silver would be the wisest choice, for its greater conductivity and propinquity with cherry wood. 

She’d been so taken with this comment he’d spent several moments browsing the archives of his memory for another delectable morsel to offer her. He’d come up empty and cross with himself for doing so in the first place. He had slept in the shop apartment that night after forging ahead stubbornly, refusing to give himself space to consider why he’d wanted to entertain her so anyhow.

This final letter was to inform Granger that the broom was finished, and she could retrieve it at her convenience otherwise he could post it to her via owl the very next day. Hermes snatched up the letter from Draco’s fingers before he’d truly decided to send it, and flapped off through the window. He returned less than an hour later with a short reply: I’ll be round at 5 this evening. 

❣

At 4:57 that evening, Draco heard the pop of Graonger’s  apparition just outside his workshop. He saw her take a moment to smooth her jumper and ensure that no curls had come loose of the heavy braid down her back through the window.. Tucking her wand back into her wrist holster, she tugged open the heavy shop door.

Draco had the broom suspended just above the counter. Its handle shone like satin with fresh oil (bergamot for balance, basil for protection, lemon for clarity he’d told her) and the band and bipod was freshly polished. 

Her heels clicked on the stone floor as she strode to the counter, fingers twitching with the need to run over the smooth wood. The broom was warm to the touch, and her eyes shot to Malfoy’s, startled, when she felt the broom hum. 

“It’s got personality,” he said, smirking. “It wants to fly.” 

He waved his wand and drawers began to open, paper and twine floating over to parcel the broom up. Before he could blink she had her hand on his arm, and was shaking her head. Out of nowhere, he rather felt like flying.

“I don’t...” she frowned, as if she wasn’t sure why she was protesting. “Not yet.” 

Shrugging, Draco carefully extricated himself from her touch and settled the supplies on his workbench. With his back turned, he heard as she drew out her purse and laid it on the counter, snapping open the clasps. 

“Granger,” Malfoy warned. “I’ve already told you that I wouldn’t accept your money.”

She began to stack coins on the countertop, neat towers of galleons ten tall. 

“I’ve done my research, Malfoy,” she said, beginning a new row. “I refuse to take that as an answer.” 

“And I refuse to take your galleons,” he replied, simply, and scooped up a handful. As quickly as she would stack the coins, he returned them to her purse. 

“Draco!” she yelled, exasperated, and at the use of his first name he stopped, galleons still clutched tight in his fist. 

“Hermione,” he mimicked, and dropped the coins into the purse with a satisfying clatter. 

“Are you quite done?” 

“Ah, almost.” Draco swept up the remaining galleons into her purse and snapped it shut. “There you are. Now I’m done.” 

“Has anyone ever called you infuriating?” 

“Never, I’m afraid. Most people find me to be a delight.” 

The corner of her mouth tugged upward, and Draco felt as if he’d supplied another broom-making fun-fact. “Quite.”

A not-uncomfortable silence settled over them, and it was both too long and not long enough before Hermione said: “Right, well.” A lithe hand was thrust out to him, and he stared at it. “I suppose this is it, then. Thanks very much for all that you’ve done, Malfoy, really. I’m aware I was perhaps more… involved than a typical client, so I appreciate your indulging me.” 

She slipped her purse back into her satchel and smiled properly, the edges of it touched with a bit of the melancholy Draco was inexplicably feeling. 

“I’ve thought of a way you could repay me,” he blurted, catching hold of a fleeting thought and grasping it for dear life. “There’s a pub that’s just opened up the street, and they boast a wine with a vintage I’ve been curious to sample.” 

Hermione’s lips twisted pleasantly, part confused, part amused and Draco’s insides mirrored them. “I’m not sure a bottle of wine is equivalent to a master-made broom.”

Draco retrieved his coat from a hook in the corner, and opened the door for her. “Oh, Granger, you would be surprised.” 

❣

The pub in question was a short five minute walk up the alley and was stuffed to the gills with witches and wizards making merry. Draco guided her through the throng with a hand pressed lightly in the centre of her back to what appeared to be the only empty seats at the bar top. He drew her seat back for her as he had when they’d had tea, taking her coat and hanging it on her chair back before doing the same at his own seat. The service was quick, and he quickly ordered them the wine. 

Granger gaped at the barkeep when he told her the price for just a glass of Superior Red.

 “How in Merlin’s name does a wine garner that sort of price?” she sputtered as the pleasant wizard poured each of them a glass, leaving the bottle uncorked beside them. 

The man nodded his dark head towards him. “Ask your companion, love. Something about purity and a thousand years.” 

She whirled in her seat and Draco couldn’t help looking rather pleased with himself, raising the glass to sniff. “This is your wine?” 

He shrugged, looking annoyingly smug. “I suppose you could say that, though I’ve no hand in the process.” He swirled the wine around his glass before taking a sip. “This batch has been ageing for generations. My 38th-great-grandfather considered it his magnum opus. Obviously he’d never get to see the results for himself, I’ll have to let him know how it turned out once I’ve gotten home.”

Granger regarded him coldly over the lip of her wine glass, but couldn’t maintain the glare once the wine passed her lips. Draco knew it flowed smoothly over her tongue, earthy and grounded, the tannins soft rather than sharp. It was, in short, heavenly. 

“Good, then?” Malfoy preened. He sipped his wine, savoured it. “Rumour has it Armand would save what he considered to be the premiere clusters and have a cuvée made for only the family.” The corners of his mouth tilted upward, thoughtful. “Selfish bastard.” He raised his glass in toast. “To Armand Malfoy, a credit to his family, and a bloody good vigneron.” 

Hermione raised her glass, and sipped again. “Is the rumour true?”

“Family secret, Granger. Afraid I can’t say.” 

They shared a smile, Hermione’s splitting into an honest grin, and Draco was struck by how well happiness suited her. It was transformational, really. In a moment she was changed from the know-it-all from his childhood and only recently tolerable client to a beautiful witch with whom he was sharing a bottle of his family’s finest wines. The realisation required more alcohol. Quickly. 

Throwing manners to the wind, Draco downed the rest of his glass and poured himself a second. Beside him, Granger’s smile faltered and her fingers curled self consciously around the stem of her glass. Blast. This wasn’t a her problem, it was very much a him problem. 

With the warmth of the wine slipping over his ribs, he pasted on a brave face and asked after her work. She answered, politely, and told him of the work she did in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. She’d been coordinating with the Department of Magical Games and Sports and similar international departments to plan the upcoming Quidditch World Cup—the inspiration for Harry’s Christmas gift, she explained. 

They spent a pleasant hour discussing the intricacies and eccentricities of the ICWQC, and just how many professional players were riding about on Malfoy-Made brooms. The wine flowed freely, mostly into Draco’s glass, and the bottle was soon empty. His skull, however, was pleasantly stuffed full of cotton and Hermione’s hair had gotten positively blurry. 

He barely comprehended Hermione setting her galleon towers on the bartop, and helping him back into his coat. She was surprisingly strong, and towed him through the tavern with altogether too much steadiness than a witch who’d had as much to drink should have. They stumbled together back to the shop, giggling like school children about the hiccoughs Granger had developed. 

With unsteady hands, Draco unlocked the shop and they shoved inside. Hermione’s lips parted with a breathy groan at the warmth and he stared unabashedly at her mouth, wondering if there was another way he could get her to make that noise again. 

Hermione noticed his attention, and the red in her cheeks deepened. She looked around the room, refusing to meet his admittedly intense gaze, until her eyes alighted back on Harry’s broom. 

She shuffled forward, the steadiness she’d had in the pub now gone without necessity propping it up, and her hand closed around the handle. Her mouth made a small ‘O’, and Draco could do nothing but watch as she took the broom from the counter and mounted it. 

The broom rocketed forward and up, and she shrieked as it gained speed. It was a Seeker’s broom after all, and Draco had thoroughly spelled it as such. Curls tore free of her braid and streamed behind her like a comet trail as she zoomed about the room, her delighted, wild laughter echoing amongst the rafters  and Draco’s ribs. His chest swelled uncomfortably tight, and he pressed a hand over his heart, wondering just what was in that wine for him to be feeling this way. Hermione chose that moment to look down, and let go of the broom with both hands, waving down at him excitedly. 

Disasters were meant to happen in slow motion, but Draco found they seemed to happen in double-speed instead. Certainly the broom had been charmed to be exceedingly stable for any sort of manoeuvres Harry could have dreamt up, but that magic had taken into account two decades worth of experience and skill. There was little anyone could have done as Hermione Granger and her drunken balance tipped off the broom and began to fall to the ground. 

The broom changed course immediately, safety charms demanding it try to break her fall. Draco lurched forward, wand drawn, and cast a slowing charm as her hands grabbed at empty air. He aimed true, and she slowed, drifting to the ground, her entire body trembling.  

Draco dropped to his knees beside her, pushed her curls away from her face, and was appalled to find that she was shaking with laughter. Relief washed over him like a wave and he was soon likewise sprawled on the ground, the two of them cackling like madmen. 

When they finally caught their breath, Hermione turned to face him, propping herself on her elbows just above him, curls now unruly and falling across her face. With her warm gaze drinking him in as greedily as he felt, Draco suddenly felt more sober than he had in his entire life. 

Before he could lose his nerve, he reached up and took a curl and tucked it behind her ear. It sprang free immediately. 

“Have you ever wished to change the past?” he asked in a whisper, twisting the curl around his fingers. 

She shook her head, and his ribs felt crushed. Of course Saint Granger had no regrets. She didn’t have the stain on her hands as he did. He shifted, tried to rise, but froze when her cool fingers brushed his own hair from his brow. 

“We cannot go back and change beginnings, Draco,” she said softly. “All that we can do is start now to change the ending.” 

Later, he would insist it was her that started the kiss because she simply could not resist his charm any longer, but in truth neither of them knew who had. All that mattered in the moment was that her lips were pressed to his and she was making those breathy groans against them and it was perfect. 

A quick tug, and he’d rolled her underneath himself, and he couldn’t help but stop and admire her curls fanned around her, the wine-glow in her cheeks, the way she looked at him with an open hunger that made him ravenous. 

He dipped his head and ran his tongue up the side of her throat, relishing the way she gasped and buried her hands in his hair, tugging, guiding him down to her collarbone. He pressed sucking kisses just under the ridge there, drunk now on the scent of her perfume and the way his name sounded on her tongue. 

“We’re drunk,” he mumbled into her shoulder, biting just hard enough to make her gasp again. 

“I find freefalling from a broom has a way of sobering one up,” she laughed, and drew his lips back to hers. 

“I didn’t fall,” he answered, sweeping his tongue along her bottom lip. 

She pulled back. “Draco Malfoy, are you suggesting that I am taking advantage of you?”

He shrugged, grinning down at her. “I was the one underneath you a minute ago.” 

“Shut up” was her clever retort, and he was all too happy to when she traced the line of his jaw with her lips up to his ear. She pushed his coat from his shoulders and he tossed it somewhere across the room. Her fingers began to deftly undo the buttons at his throat and he very helpfully untucked his shirt from his trousers.

Discarding his shirt, he allowed her to hook a leg around his hips and roll them once more. Lit by nothing but the lamps outside, Draco felt certain that the witch above him was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in his life. She alternated kisses and small bites down his torso, paying special attention to the taper of muscle disappearing under his waistband. When her hands found the button there, he stopped her. 

“You are not disproving the taking advantage theory, Granger.” 

She rolled her eyes and removed her own coat, then lifted her jumper up and over her head. With a sure hand, she grabbed Draco’s callused one and slipped it around her back to the clasp of her bra. 

“Better?” she asked, and shrugged out of the undergarment. She took his answering groan as a ‘yes’. 

Satisfied, she returned to work on his trouser stays but he stopped her again.

 “For Merlin’s sake, Draco. If I didn’t know better,” she rocked pointedly against his erection pressed against her, “I’d think you didn’t want me to.” 

Draco grunted and placed his hands on her hips, shifting her up as he shuffled down. “I am a man of exceptional breeding,” he told her, fiddling with the button and zipper of her jeans. “Put simply:” He shoved them down her thighs, just past her knees, and slipped his hands under her knickers, grabbing a handful of her cheeks and squeezing. “Ladies first.” 

He pressed his tongue to her cunt through the cotton of her knickers and the muffled taste of her had his cock straining against his zipper. He groaned into her, hooking a finger in the fabric and moving it aside so he could taste her properly. Hermione’s hands found his hair again, and she fisted it tightly, nearly tugging him closer. He was, of course, a gentleman and so obliged, burying his tongue in her sweet pussy, his nose nuzzling her clit. Her arousal ran down his cheeks and chin as he lapped at her, using her moans as a guide. 

His fingers slid through her wetness, teased her entrance. “You’re dripping, Hermione,” he said, pride colouring his voice. 

“Please,” she answered, rocking her hips. 

With a hum of ascent, he slipped a single finger inside her wet heat and circled her clit with his tongue. He kept a slow, steady pace, enjoying the way her cunt fluttered around his finger. 

“Look at me,” Hermione begged from above him, and he obliged, locking eyes with her. 

Her breasts bounced with each greedy grind against his mouth, and her honey eyes were warm and hazy with pleasure. He felt as if he may spend in his trousers as she ran a hand up her stomach to her nipples. She pinched and rolled the stiffened bud, then palmed herself, squeezing. She whispered his name and he twitched a rope of arousal at the sound.

Draco slipped a second finger inside and she clenched around him, muttering expletives. He allowed her to take charge of her own needs, fucking herself on his fingers and tongue until she came with a shudder and soft cry. He withdrew his fingers, but laved his tongue from her pussy to her clit, up and down, until her knees no longer trembled on either side of his face. Pressing wet kisses on the inside of either thigh, Draco gently lifted Hermione and laid her on his chest. 

Her hands began to wander down his torso, but he stopped them, intertwining their fingers and pressing them to his lips. 

“What about you?” He could hear the frown in her voice. 

“I’m rather happy with that ending,” he answered, truthfully. “Perhaps we’ll try a different one another time.” 

She sighed and nuzzled more snugly into him. Her curls tickled. As he felt her body soften and melt into him, her breathing growing slow and steady, Draco traced the line of her spine with his fingers and silently raised an imaginary toast. 

Not to new beginnings, but better endings.

❣

Draco did not hear from Hermione the day following their tryst, nor the day after that. On the third day, he wondered if he was meant to owl her himself, or if he ought to follow her lead in this. 

He couldn’t blame her, of course, for not wanting to face him. She’d slipped out of the shop before Draco woke that morning, the only trace of her remaining a few stray curls on the lapel of his coat and the scent of her arousal still fresh in his memory. He figured that if he were Hermione Granger he wouldn’t care to run the risk of being caught naked on a broomshop floor with himself either. 

Popping home in the weak light of dawn, he’d chased the high of watching her come undone above him with an imaginary encore wherein he didn’t stop her wandering hands. He’d come so hard he saw stars, forehead hot against the cool shower walls: the only witnesses to the way he’d groaned her name reverently as the hot ropes splashed against the tile . Now, he distractedly carved runes into the handle of a broom ordered by some wizard or another, unable to decide if an invitation to dinner with him was completely inappropriate or the expected, correct thing to do. 

Draco dropped his gouge, knowing he was not giving the broom the attention it deserved and retrieved a scrap of parchment from a drawer. 

Dear Granger, he wrote, I thoroughly enjoyed our evening together. If you find yourself craving—

He crumpled the parchment and tossed it over his shoulder. Stupid. He began again.

Granger—

No. He had had his tongue in her fucking pussy for Merlin’s sake. He could—should—use her first name. 

Hermione, I’ve just remembered a final element I had intended to enchant into the broom. Please return at your earliest—

And when she arrived and asked what he’d forgotten? What then? Honesty, he supposed, would be best. 

Hermione, I cannot stop thinking about the way your tits blush when you come. If you’d care to demonstrate again, I am at your disposal. 

Binned. Obviously. 

Draco vanished the failed attempts and scrubbed his palms over his eyes. Asking women to dinner was never difficult. Draco would go so far as to say that he was rather good at it. It was just this particular witch that seemed to drive him absolutely mad. 

He withdrew one last piece of parchment, sighing, and dipped his quill again. 

The shop bell chimed and he jolted, spraying ink across the parchment and the front of his jumper. His misdirected fury ran a scorching line down his arm to fingertips, itching to hex the hell out of whomever had strolled into his shop. Exasperated, he attempted to vanish the black blotches from the knit, failed, and spun to face the intruder, a sharp ‘what?’ on his tongue. 

The word died in his throat, as they were wont to do where Granger was concerned, apparently. Her brown eyes went wide when she took in the right mess Draco had made of himself, and she immediately drew her wand. Fumbling behind himself with one hand to be sure that the final letter hadn’t popped back into existence just to further his humiliation, Draco found his voice. 

“Granger.”

She frowned at him. “Back to that, are we?” 

“You disappeared without so much as a goodbye. I didn’t expect you back.” The words came out more harshly than he’d meant them to, but there it was, plain as the nose on his face: the hurt at waking without her, the confusion of where they stood. 

Granger’s eyebrows unknitted, and she regarded Draco with a softness that made his scalp prickle. The urge to fall back on old habits, to sneer and mask the uncomfortability with some snide remark about her hair or how her own jumper was obviously older and pilling, reared its ugly head and he fought it back with what he felt was an admirable amount of effort. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me here in the morning,” she admitted, holding his gaze steadily. Her voice shook just a bit, like being this vulnerable was as agonising for her as it was for him. 

“Let me make myself abundantly clear, Hermione,” he said, and savoured the way her cheeks flushed at the use of her given name. “If that were to ever happen again, I want to wake up with you here.” 

Her blush deepened, and her voice was tantalisingly husky, but her eyes remained steadfastly trained on his. “And will it? Happen again?” 

Draco allowed himself to indulge in a smirk. “If you ask nicely, it may.” 

When she spun and strode back towards the door, Draco’s stomach bottomed out. He’d pushed too far, and now she was leaving. No stupidly-worded letter would convince her to step foot in his shop again. Word would get round that he was sexually harassing his customers—after all, it was her word against his and who would believe a former Death Eater over Hermione fucking Granger?—and he would be forced out of business and into persona non grata standing once more. 

He sighed and looked down at the counter, resigned to it. He’d clawed his way out once, and one more round of it wouldn’t kill him. Perhaps he’d take a week to wallow, though. Drown his sorrow in a cask of Armand’s Superior Red.

The lock on the shop door clicked, and his eyes snapped back up to Hermione. She strode confidently, dare he say, sultrily behind the counter and sank to her knees in front of him. His cock twitched behind his zipper at the way she looked on her knees before him, her hands already going to his button. 

“What are you doing?” he half-groaned when she eased his trouser zipper down. 

The innocent look she offered from beneath her lashes could’ve been his undoing. “I’m asking nicely, Draco.” Her lithe hand slipped into the fly of his boxer briefs and he choked back a moan when she stroked his stiffening cock once from root to tip before drawing it out. She leaned forward; he could feel her warm breath fanning over the head and he had to fist his hands to keep himself from burying them in those curls. “Is that okay?” Her lips barely brushed his skin, but it made his balls shift restlessly. 

“Fuck yes,” he all but moaned. 

Hermione smiled then, and licked a slow line from seam to dripping tip that had Draco panting. He’d envisioned this in the shower, yes, more than once at this point, but nothing compared to having her soft lips actually pressing indulgent kisses along the underside of his shaft. When she drew the head of his cock into her mouth, her clever tongue swirling, he couldn’t help himself. His hand shot forward, tangling in her hair, and she hummed appreciatively at the touch, leaning into his palm. 

She teased him, slowly pressing further down his cock in what felt like millimetre increments before drawing back to tease and suck the tip. Her fingers were wrapped snug at his root, and when she stroked it up to meet her lips Draco had to grip the counter to steady himself. 

“You look so fucking pretty on your knees for me,” he groaned, slipping his fingers through to the ends of her curls before finding his grip again. 

She hummed, then pressed forward, her hot mouth following her fist all the way down to his root. Draco gasped as he hit the back of her throat, and she gagged. Her eyes shot to his, and whatever she saw written there had her nuzzling forward, nudging Draco’s cock further into her tight throat. Hermione Granger—Saint Granger, as he’d thought of her just three days earlier—had his cock all the way down her snug little throat and it was heaven.

Convinced he would come if she spent a single second longer on her knees, Draco tugged her off himself by her hair, groaning at the slick pop when her lips left him, and lifted her to her feet just to draw her mouth up to his in a bruising, claiming kiss. She pulled back from him, breathless, and had the audacity to grin. 

“Is that a yes to again, then?” she asked. 

He couldn’t help his laugh, and took her hand, ignoring some primal urge in the back of his head to toss her over his shoulder, and led her to the backroom. They barely made it past the threshold before his lips were on hers again, his fingers twisting into the curls at the nape of her neck, turning her head so he could kiss down her pulse to her shoulder. 

His free hand wrapped around her hips, pressing her flush against him, and her fingers found the hem of his jumper. They slipped underneath and her fingernails raked down his stomach just as his tongue swept across her collarbone. Draco shuddered, a fizzle not unlike magic running from the base of his skull all the way down his spine, and led them to collapse on his bed with her underneath him. 

Hermione’s wandering hands soon had his sweater tossed aside, and hers soon followed. Her nipples were stiff under the sheer cups of her bra, and Draco brought his lips to them through the fabric. She arched into his touch, and he looked up at her as he grazed the edge of his teeth lightly over her. Her eyes fluttered, and the way she whispered his name made his cock jump urgently, spurring him to peel her jeans from her legs, taking her knickers with them. 

Draco sat back on his knees and absorbed the sight of the witch before him, gloriously naked in his sheets. Hermione smiled, propping herself up on her elbows and ran her hand slowly between her breasts and down her stomach to her sex. He watched, mouth watering, when she dipped a single finger and drew her arousal up to her clit to circle, allowing her head to fall back exposing the lovely column of her neck. 

Running his hands up her legs, Draco marvelled at the smoothness of her skin. His nose skimmed a path up the inside of her thigh, followed by his tongue. Hermione’s breath caught as he drew closer to her centre, her knees parting further for him. He settled on his stomach there, his hands wandering higher to her hips, and he pulled her gently towards him until his mouth hovered over her cunt. 

He paused there, teasing her as she had him, and waited, eyes locked on hers. There was a string of tension between them, pulled taut with neither of them willing to give in to the other. It wasn’t unpleasant, this silent tug of war with Draco’s tongue mere centimetres from her pussy. The view was, in a word, incredible. In the end, it was Draco who broke first by burying his tongue in her cunt and groaning at the taste of her. 

“Oh thank Merlin,” Hermione groaned when he did, her hands finding his hair. “I was nearly going to beg.” 

Draco circled her clit with his tongue at the pace he’d seen her set for herself, then sucked. Her hips bucked. “I wouldn’t mind if you did, anyway,” he confided, squeezing her hips. 

“Well there’s no need now, is there?” 

Draco halted his ministrations immediately, just as her hips rocked to meet his mouth. “I could change that.” 

“You wouldn’t.”

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “I am.” 

Her hands in his hair tugged, but he offered her nothing but his breath. She pouted, just a bit, and it was oddly charming, but Draco stood steadfast until she finally acquiesced with a breathy “Please, Draco.”

He’d meant to make her beg more, but his cock ached underneath him, and his mouth watered for more of her taste. He licked a languid line from her entrance to her clit and back again, a single finger dipping inside her. Hermione rolled her hips greedily as he suckled on her clit, pumping his finger slowly, curling it just-so. Her breaths came faster, the underside of her tits turning rosy as she climbed higher with each stroke. 

When she came it was with Draco’s name on her lips and his hair in her hands. As she came down, Draco tossed his pants and came to hover just above her, pressing kisses across her shoulders and up her neck. Her hands slid up his back and down his arms, squeezing when Draco slotted the head of his cock to her entrance. Hermione gasped when he pressed inside, her fingernails digging into his muscle.

He kissed her pulse. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured against her ear, then traced the shell with his tongue. “Divine. I’d worship you, if you’d let me.”

Her hands found his arse and pulled him closer, and he groaned into her neck as her body made room for him. He drew back, and looked down between them at where they were joined. It was obscene and possibly the most incredible thing he’d had the pleasure of witnessing. He stared as her pussy swallowed him, squeezed around his girth. 

Wrapping his arms around her back, Draco shifted them until she was sitting in his lap, her cunt wet against him, his cock buried to the root. Her head lolled at the angle, and he pulled it further back by her curls, swiping his tongue up her throat. 

“‘M carving you out,” he grunted, thrusting up into her heat. “Making you mine.” She gasped, and pulled his mouth to hers. “Mine,” he reiterated, and thrust again, bottoming out inside her. 

“Yours,” she agreed, and swept her tongue along his bottom lip. She matched him stroke for stroke, bouncing prettily on his cock, those lovely nipples pressed to his chest until she was clenching around him, impossibly tighter. 

“That’s it,” he encouraged, barely holding back his own orgasm, needing to feel how she came on his cock before he did. He wedged his hand between them, his thumb finding her clit. “Take it for me, just like that. You’re doing so well.” Draco’s lips found her breast and he bit her nipple lightly, laving his tongue over to soothe the sting. His hips jerked when her nails raked down his back, her pussy spasming around his cock, once, twice, three times with her orgasm, milking his out of him as well. 

They collapsed backwards onto the mattress, Hermione over him, with his cock still inside her. She teased him with small kisses along his jaw, her hips making small circles above him until he had to lift her off himself to maintain his sanity. 

Hermione settled beside him, moulded to his body, almost, head heavy on his shoulder. Her finger drew unpredictable, swirling patterns over his chest; her leg was draped over his hips. 

“Would you like to go to sleep so that you can wake up and find me still here?” she joked, smiling up at him. 

Draco pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Maybe next time.”

Her smile widened to a grin, and Draco felt his chest expand with it, his ribs stretching to make room for some warm, incandescent feeling nestling around his heart. “I like the sound of that,” she said, kissing his chest. “Full of possibility. Loads of potential.”

He hummed his agreement, twisting a curl around his finger. “Give me a few minutes, and we can discuss another load, eh?”

Hermione pushed his shoulder playfully, miming disgust, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked content. Sated. He’d done that. Pride joined the group of emotions setting up house behind his ribs. 

They did discuss another load, at great length and a slower pace, and when they fell back into the sheets Draco did slip off into sleep, content in the knowledge Hermione would still be there when he woke. 

[lin-nin]

Tribulation & Tenderness - Chapter 9

Ship: Main Technoblade x Reader, some Dream x Reader

Plot:  You're a princess in a Kingdom suffering a years long famine. In a   desperate attempt to help your people, you accept one simple offer:   Marriage to the crown prince of a neighboring kingdom. Anything to help your people survive. Surely it can't be too bad, can it?

Chapter List: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 Disclaimer:   Cross-posted on Wattpad (discontinued) and Ao3. This is based off of everyone's CHARACTERS. I do not write fanfic based off the actual people.

--

Chapter 9: Tours

< | Previous Chapter

The castle was nothing short if huge, as well as breathtaking. It, truly, made the castle in your own kingdom feel small. Then again, your kingdom was never exactly huge to begin with. Techno's felt as if it would sprawl on for ages. You had no idea how you'd get through this place on your own. Honestly, if it weren't for Techno’s hand gingerly placed upon your back, you would probably have already gotten lost.

You hardly noticed the hand most of the time, only absently aware of the warmth of it. He led you down the hall Wilbur had gone down, first, taking a turn to the right when the hallway branched off. Various paintings lined the walls, some catching your attention long enough to peer at. Whenever you did, Techno would stop and tell you what he knew of the paintings, whether they be portraits of his father following some conquest or battle, or of the sun setting over a ridge that lay somewhere in the kingdom. You couldn’t help but lament how pretty some of the places were. Each time you did, Techno would assure you you would likely get to see each place at some point.

You were eventually led to the kitchens, which were bustling with servants and chefs. That’s where Wilbur had gone to, you found out. The blonde woman beside him must have been the Nihachu he spoke of. You don’t know what you had expected, but it wasn’t exactly a chef. She was talking animatedly, a soft grin on her flour-splattered face. Wilbur had turned to glance at the door way, offering a faint smile your way. Nihachu’s gaze followed and she only dipped her head in a form of bow, hands busy with the ball of dough in front of her.

“Nihachu, she’s our head chef and an old friend of Wilbur’s. You’ll get to properly meet her tomorrow,” Techno informed from beside you. You simply nodded at that, letting him steer you away from the kitchen. The area the both of you were currently in consisted largely of servants quarters and storage rooms of the sorts. Nothing too exciting for you to see, though. That was fine, so long as it made the tour short. 

At the end of the west wing was a door leading outside, into a large courtyard. This one seemed to have been turned into a bit of a training grounds. Curiosity lit up your eyes as you looked at the flattened area of grass with training dummies littering the edge. Techno laughed at the way you stared at it, patting your back a couple of times. “Wilbur, Tommy, and I train there. You’ll be able to soon.” You nodded, fingers running along the hilt of your dagger.

The courtyard opened up into a garden, which you only really glanced at. Your heart ached briefly, thoughts of George flooding your thoughts. You didn’t know when you would be able to walk through the gardens again. Not without thinking of him. The two of you had always gotten into such trouble in the gardens. They felt empty without his laughter ringing through the air, even if it wasn’t the gardens you had grown up in.

Techno led you through to the opposite side of the courtyard, away from the garden. A veranda greeted you, and you stepped up onto it. Of course Techno insisted on holding your hand to help you up, but you were becoming quite used to that. It was a little strange, but not entirely unwelcome. It was sweet.

“This is the ballroom. Where we hold our big celebrations, birthdays and the like. We’ll wind up holding the wedding here as well.” Techno pushed open one of the doors on the veranda, leading the pair of you into a large circular room. It was impressive. Not that you expected less. You wondered what the wedding would be like, briefly. It was hard to imagine it as your own. Everytime you did, your stomach flipped.

"Is there anywhere in here that isn't pretty?" You wondered, awestruck, aloud. It seemed unlikely. Techno laughed again, an occurrence that was becoming more common. Good. The way his laugh differed so vastly from his voice was nice. It made it pleasant.

"Maybe not in appearance, but I assure you that there's unsavory things here." His hand abandoned yours again, a feeling you didn't like still. At the very least he was once more guiding you along with a hand to your back. The exit from the ballroom took the pair of you back to the main room from earlier, emerging from between the stairs. Which presumably meant that all that remained on the main floor was the east wing. Which was exactly where Techno was leading you next.

"This wing is mainly official rooms- the throne room is here, as well as our dining hall. The library sits at the end of the wing," Techno explained as the pair of you walked. You nodded as he did, looking at everything you pass. Some doors he didn’t open, saying they were someone's office or another. There were a few rooms, the ones with mostly closed doors, that he did let you wander in.

When you had arrived at the dining hall, you took in every painting gracing the walls. These seemed more personal. All of them were portraits. You were attracted to one of the larger ones, scrutinizing it in your curiosity.

It depicted the royal family. The current one, at that. Even if the portrait was outdated. The King was sat in his throne, with a woman you could only assume was the Queen beside him. She was pretty, brown hair braided neatly, though you could see a few curls escaping it. That must be where they got the curls from, then. She had the same eyes Wilbur and Techno did. Warm, and kind. They were that brown that was comforting in a way you adored.

In front of the king stood who could only be Wilbur, looking very sullen. It was strange, compared to the warmth he seemed to radiate now. Tommy was in front of him, looking gangly but with a grin on his face that didn't seem to fit that of a royal family portrait. A bandage covered his cheek, a green bandana curled around his neck. He looked carefree, though that wasn't too different from the impression he gave off earlier.

Which meant the last figure, standing in front of the Queen, had to be Techno. It wasn't exactly what you would have expected, though. Instead of the long pink hair he sported now, it was cropped fairly short and blonde. He looked just as sullen as his older brother, but you had a feeling you knew why. His face was marked with a red scar, angling towards his eye. The one he mentioned getting from Wilbur.

"I'd been named crown prince about three days before this picture, this was about five years ago,"  Techno muttered from behind you. You turned back to him, glancing at him, then back to the painting. It was hard to connect that that was him.

"I never pictured you as a blonde." Those were the initial words out of your mouth, out of everything you had thought about. You commented on his hair.

He huffed softly in laughter at that, head shaking. "Did you think my hair was naturally pink? I have an image to uphold as crown prince." Him and his image that he was so obsessed with. You couldn't help the soft giggle that escaped you as you shook your head.

"I wasn't sure what I pictured, but it wasn't blonde. Your mother- The Queen- I haven't met her. Is there a reason?" You finally broached one question that stuck out to you in your mind. She hadn't shown to your kingdom, and you had yet to see her around.

Techno's amused face slowly faded, a frown replacing the smile he had worn. His brows furrowed for a few moments before he sighed. Should you have not asked that? "She'd been sick for a while. She died about half a year after that portrait. We still don't know what it was, it only affected her." He sounded distant as he spoke of his mother, and now you really felt guilty. Especially as he gazed at the painting with a forlorn look.

Without much else thought, you reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. To force his attention back towards you. "Show me more of the castle," You murmured. Trying hard to distract him from what you were sure was an unpleasant memory. He looked down at you for a few moments, before nodding and leading you from the dining hall and the numerous portraits that filled the walls.

He took you through the rest of the east wing, telling you about certain things when he deemed necessary. After the east wing, it was time to go upstairs. This is where several bedrooms were, heading down each wing. Some were for the royal family, others for guests. Some just existed simply as spares, which you noted were the ones Tubbo would possibly be granted.

"This is the room I stay in," Techno broke you from your reverie as he knocked on the wood of the door. Something in your stomach flipped at that. Would you be expected to stay with him? You knew the two of you were getting married, but the nerves always got you. Heat rose to your cheeks at the meer thought. You heard that huff of his as he led you a little further down the hall. It made the heat spread to your ears.

"This one is your room, to stay in and decorate as you please." He leaned around you, pushing the door open carefully. The room was large, a four poster bed settled near a window. The blanket from your mother was folded neatly on it, and you were truly relieved for it. To one side was a fireplace with a couple of chairs in front of it, a door a few feet away. The other side of the room had another door. You assumed one held your clothes, while the other held bathing chambers. Good, you had everything you would need here.

"Thank you," you sighed in relief, smiling up at him. He returned the smile, motioning you into the room.

"It's courtesy. If you need me at any point, you can check my room. If I'm not there, just ask around." You nodded at his words. Good, you could deal with that. Maybe this entire arrangement wouldn’t be all too bad. Next Chapter | >

[flecks-of-stardust]

Our Fav Pillbug Quirrel: Dreamless AU

! Heavily Outdated! New post will be uploaded soon. !

Quirrel was born into the height of Hallownest, to a proud but frail pair of parents who quickly realized they were unequipped for taking care of their son. They wanted the best for him, something their meager savings and his mother’s fragile health could not provide. His father carried him, bundled up tightly as he slept, to Monomon the Teacher’s archives, and begged for her to take him in. She agreed after some hesitation; they both swore to protect him that day.

He grew up under Monomon’s somewhat careless, but always loving gaze, with his birth family visiting frequently over the years. As far as Quirrel was concerned, he had three parents: his father, his mother, and Monomon. Never quite realizing how his life was different from that of other bugs, his childhood was a happy and fruitful one, spent in near unwavering bliss between Monomon’s care and his parents’ doting. He sat in on Monomon’s lectures often, and grew to love them, finding a joy in learning about the world and exploring it.

When he was old enough to decide his own way, he chose to stay in the archives, becoming one of Monomon’s students. Always the avid learner, he devoured information about the world at an almost alarming rate, surpassing many of his peers and some of his seniors. He loved it all, loved the work and the process of learning, and he took great pride in his academic prowess. His parents and Monomon echoed it.

His proximity to Monomon, and his eventual promotion to her assistant, gave him ample opportunity to see the White Palace, exploring its glimmering interior with amazement and curiosity. A few times, he met the pale rulers, and he was forever in awe of their power, their love for their people, and their ability to just create. They were wonder personified, able to make miracles happen at the snap of their fingers, and it was an honor to be in their presence at all. He relished every opportunity he had to visit the palace, and recounted it to his parents and sister whenever he could.

When news of the errant god trying to slaughter the populace reached him, Quirrel wasn’t worried. The pale rulers would figure out a way to handle it. And with Monomon’s mind, they may as well be invincible. He did notice that as time wore on, Monomon seemed to get more and more angry about it all, but he shrugged it off; anyone would be angry at the senseless murder of innocent bugs. He gladly helped where he could, eagerly taking on whatever Monomon delegated to him, and cherished the extra time he spent in the palace. The Pale King was brilliant, bright splendor unlimited; the White Lady was beautiful, the picture of elegance and grace. And he was so lucky to be part of Hallownest.

He knew about the sealing, that Monomon was going to dream forever. That he’d never talk to her, never hug her, never see her smile ever again. He knew it was for the greater good, and he was proud. He wore her mask with his head held high, honored to have her utmost trust and that she would choose him to be her additional source of protection. He bowed to his rulers once all was done, and returned to his chambers, Monomon’s last request to him.

There was a bandana, Monomon’s bandana, on his bed. There was a letter next to it, with instructions to put the bandana on scrawled across the top in Monomon’s hasty handwriting. He put it on, and felt the spell break.

There was no wonder. There was no savior. There were only lies, a populace blinded to the pale rulers’ atrocities, and pointless sacrifice. Pointless, bitter sacrifice, and he was never going to see Monomon again. Angry tears spilled forth as he read her letter, her pleas for him to leave and go somewhere that was not tainted by pale beings. To leave everything behind, because there was nothing left here for him. They were all too far gone.

So leave he did, crossing the borders of Hallownest and striking out across the wastelands. Nail in hand—another gift from Monomon, another souvenir of her existence—he made his way across the land, his heart heavy with grief. His parents had barely recognized him when he had tried to talk to them, tried to convince them to come with him. They’d all but chased him out, calling the guards on him. He didn’t know how he hadn’t seen this sooner.

As he pushed forth, his reasons for leaving his homeland and exploring became fuzzy. He was Quirrel, explorer of the land and avid lover of learning. His bandana had been gifted to him by someone whose name continually eluded him, and he had a strange letter that made little sense in his belongings that he felt compelled to keep. He wandered from civilization to civilization with the ever present sense that he was forgetting something, but it wasn’t important. If he didn’t remember it, surely it wasn’t important.

Years pass in his wandering. A strange urge leads him to a kingdom with a crumbled entry way and deep, buried secrets. It is glorious, beautiful, mysterious in its halting ruin. He explores it, marveling at the architecture and the people who all seem just a little off. But there is still that niggling sense that he’s forgetting something. Something important.

He’ll find it eventually, he figures. For now, he’ll keep exploring this kingdom.

(line breaker)

its a little weird to describe what exactly quirrel’s life has been because a lot of it has been twisted by something else (which i cant say yet). so i had to do a little bit of semi unreliable narration? i dont know how well i pulled that off lol. im also writing this while im fairly sleepy so f

ive always loved the monomom headcanons, but i also really love that quirrel canonically calls monomon ‘madam’ and i wanted to keep that. this was my solution sdkjkghkjs quirrel’s bio parents helped raise him too, they just didnt have the resources they really needed to give him the life they wanted him to have and a lot of bugs respect monomon.

anyway yeah. i did say that quirrel’s backstory is somewhat less angst heavy but ;;;;;; he forgot them,,,,,,,,,,,,,

[welllpthisishappening]

Hello there, I see you're back on blue-line drabbles! I love them, I am obsessed with this universe. I don't know if I ever came back to say hi after I read all your big fics, but somehow I liked each even better than the last! I don't know how that's possible! But anyway, I think one of the best signs of a good writer/good story is when you're not ready to leave the world once you've finished, and Blue Line is one of the few fanfics I've read where even well after I've finished it, (cont)

(cont) I want to keep living in it and I end up writing my own fic of it in my head (strange, I know). Anyway, for whatever reason, I got really invested in Roland and Lizzie's relationship. Like, how did they end up dating after knowing each other for literally Lizzie's entire life? How did the adults react? Do you have any Lizzie/Roland stories up your sleeve? They would not go unread :)

————

Hello, yes, listen, this ask has lived rent free™ in my head since I first got it and I cannot properly convey how absolutely, goddamn wonderful it is. I am a broken record of outdated references , but it continues and will always amaze me that people are not only interested in Blue Line (more than three years!!! after I originally started posting) but are also interested in other characters in the story who are, for all intents and purposes, original characters at this point. Like the overall size my heart becomes when reading something like that could potentially cause a serious medical condition.

But, like, in a nice way.

So thank you, thank you, thank you. It genuinely warms the cockles of my entire soul. And, like, if you wanna share those fic ideas of the fic, you’ll never hear me say no. Just like I will never turn down the opportunity to write more stuff. Which is what’s under the cut. This stuff includes:

Roland and Lizzie’s first kiss, what I hope is some legitimate banter, more kissing, obvious flirting, and Roland being something of a sap.

Also, uh, it’s entirely possible that I have also already written: Roland and Lizzie’s first “I love you,” their wedding and some other stuff where their kid is involved. Seriously, guys, I am always down to write other relationships in this ‘verse.

————

It was, she figured, something almost passably close to, sort of resembling, definitely inching somewhere nearer to—

Assured. 

Unavoidable. 

Inexorable

Inevitable. 

That was a bad word. That last word. The third one was pretty impressive, honestly. Vocabulary, wise. She’d have to remember that one later. The last one, though. Made teeth Lizzie wasn’t even aware she possessed ache as she ground them together, a pronounced tension in her jaw that was likely affecting her shoulders as well. That word. An awful word. Boasted less-than-positive connotations, letters practically dripping with lack of self-control and overtly aggressive infatuation, but if the world expected her not to be a little in love with Roland Locksley by the time she turned fourteen and noticed that slight indentation in his right cheek every time he smiled, well, then the world had another thing coming. 

Dimple, that was the appropriate description. Another word. More words. Too many words. All of them bouncing off the slope of her skull and scratching at the back of her brain, nearly distracting her from what should have been the very pleasant buzz lingering beneath whatever biological thing made up her top and bottom lips. 

Which were parted in an emotion very similar to overwhelming surprise. 

That was stupid. 

The whole thing was stupid. God, maybe she was stupid. No, that wasn’t true. She’d made Dean’s List last semester. Stupid was—

A stupid word, really. Despite the blush rising in her cheeks and the wide eyes practically boring into her soul, bated breath that didn’t make any noise because that was what bated entailed, and no one else glanced in their direction. Not once. No one else noticed. 

That the whole world had flipped upside down.

Or right-side-up, maybe. Depending on how the next five minutes or so went. 

Because the last two minutes and twelve seconds, give or take, had seen Roland Locksley tilt his head and let his eyes flutter closed before his mouth found hers for the very first time — at midnight for God’s sake. On New Year’s Eve. Or New Year’s Day, she supposed. His parents were standing on the other side of the room.

Suggesting that Lizzie had ever been just a little in love with Roland was a rather monumental lie. 

As far as those things went. 

“So, uh—” she started, only to find blood in her mouth. From her teeth. Wayward and unpredictable, as they were. Biting down on the side of her tongue and Lizzie hated going to the dentist. Doing irreparable damage to her teeth on what was now legitimately New Year’s Day, in the middle of an annual party, was not on her schedule. 

Metaphorical as it might have been. 

She liked schedules. Had plans. Focus, even. People always said that about her — how focused she was, liked to throw around the word drive with startling regularity, as if they were amazed she wasn’t simply willing to rest on her laurels or the pair of last names she proudly toted around with her. As if Lizzie expected doors to swing open on a glance. 

Rather than consistently preparing herself to knock them down. 

She liked the challenge of it all. Appreciated the way disbelief always spiked something in her blood, and that was likely equal parts genetic predisposition and a product of her childhood, but right now, Lizzie was simply prepared to fight for the schedule she’d never allowed herself to mention to anyone else before and it wasn’t like they weren’t friends. 

Talked outside the group chat, even. 

That meant something. Definitely meant something. Had to mean something. Her lips felt like they’d been doused in liquid nitrogen. 

She didn’t know all the scientific properties of liquid nitrogen, but it always made that rather impressive cloud of steam-type stuff on cooking shows. So, it seemed very likely that it did something similar to cause whatever was happening in the region directly surrounding her mouth. Buzzing and tingling, and whatnot. 

When had Roland last blinked? Lizzie couldn’t remember. That would have been impressive in any other situation. Right now, it was sort, kind of, totally— Pissing her off. 

Color dotted his cheeks, no sign of the goddamn dimple because he wasn’t smiling, presumably couldn’t do that when it was clear he was so intent on pulling his lips into his mouth, and that felt a little insulting. Her tongue had just been in that mouth. 

Lizzie was fairly confident in the abilities of her tongue, so she wasn’t all that pleased to be replaced by a pair of lips that could have been doing much better work against the side of her neck. 

“If you sit here right now and tell me that you are,” Lizzie lifted a finger, “one, sorry,” another finger, “two, anything even remotely resembling regretful,” another finger, wiggling close enough to Roland’s nose to make him just a bit cross-eyed, “or, three, too old for me, I will throw my heel at that bruise I know exists on the back of your left calf.”

His lips twitched. 

He really had impossible eyelashes. Seemingly made so he could glance up from underneath them, to meet Lizzie’s steely expression with what she refused to believe could be cautious hope. Passable optimism, maybe. She’d have to look up what liquid nitrogen did, later. 

“I’m standing.” “I hate you.”

“You wanna go in order, or how do you want to work this?” “Where else are you bruised?” Roland laughed softly, a shift of his shoulders and tiny burst of air between barely parted lips. Feeling that tiny burst meant they were standing very close to each other. How they were standing remained another mystery. 

One of those great ones, Lizzie figured. The kind referenced when people talked about the sweeping potential of life and love and— Ah, fuck. 

“Please don’t threaten to attack me anywhere else,” he muttered, before quickly adding, “you gotta know this was not my end game, Liza.” Narrowing her eyes did nothing to temper the…tempest. Swirling in her gut. Threatening the back of her throat. Eating away at vocal cords and vocal boxes and the structural integrity of her entire goddamn larynx. Possibly her tongue, too, just to be especially efficient. 

“Really? Might’a been mine, actually.”

She’d always liked his eyes. 

How they could widen, and it wasn’t like...a normal brown. Nothing about the way he looked was ever dull. Drifted toward regularly excited, and the sparkles were probably a figment of her over-active teenage imagination, but Lizzie liked to think sometimes the sparkle came from her. Because of her, even. When she’d call because he always wanted to hear about her latest lecture and he’d call because sometimes Western swings were exhausting and loneliness-inducing and—

She knew. 

He knew. 

They knew each other.   

Grand scheme, the sparkle-prone eyes still weren’t particularly close to the dimple. On the list of things Lizzie liked. What left butterflies fluttering in her stomach and her heart hammering against her chest. Sparkle was probably a solid fourth. Behind the precise way his curls fell toward his eyebrows when he didn’t have time to get his hair cut. Which rarely happened during the season. Right now, it was happening right now. Well-defined strands that Lizzie knew felt even smoother than she’d ever theorized between her fingers, and she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with that information. 

Obsess over it, probably. 

For at least the next week, or so. 

Still. Eyes. Eyelashes. Too long and too bright, and that was the wrong description order and she was starting to teeter. On the edge of a rather dramatic free-fall. Into feelings and possibility, and this was way too dramatic. For both of them. 

“Don’t do that,” she mumbled, a scrunch of her nose that apparently demanded his thumb. Brushing against the bridge, and there wasn’t any caution there. No obvious fear or concern. For the way it left Lizzie’s lungs pinched, and there must have been a limit. 

To everything her internal organs could cope with in a limited span of time. 

“What was the last one on the list?” She swallowed. “Too old.” “Yuh-huh.” “Pretty flimsy as far as excuses go. You realize I’m not asking you to marry me right now, right?” He choked. On what, she wasn’t entirely sure. Only that it made her stomach heave and her teeth dig into her lower lip, and that was— “Because I know I said, end game,” Lizzie continued, giving in to the need to fill empty space with the sound of her own voice, “but that sounds like several pop culture references all at once, and you know how much I—”

“Hate to come across as disingenuous.” “Mattie’s the pop culture reference machine, anyway.” “Please don’t talk about Matt when I keep thinking about how much I want to kiss you again.” Her eyes, that time. Widened. Bugged. Did something unnatural. “Yeah?” “You’re kidding me, right?” “You’re not an old man.” Rolling his eyes, Roland’s tongue dragged across the front of his teeth. To torture her, apparently. “I was in college when you were a freshman in high school.” “Yuh-huh.” “Liza.” “Nah, nah,” Lizzie shook her head. Crossed her arms. Tried to stand up to her full height, but even the heels didn’t do much to add to the overall intimidation factor. Roland was doing an awful job of fighting off his smile. “Pulling out ancient nicknames is not—” “—It’s not a nickname; it’s literally letters in your name.” “Nick,” she leaned forward, “name. All personal-like.”

Making mistakes was not something she enjoyed very much. It was that Jones competitive streak. Plus, the Vankald stubborn streak. Created a monster of determination, who knew what she wanted, and feeling Roland’s fingers graze her cheek as a strand of hair hung limply in the minimal space between them was the result of Lizzie’s mistaken movement. 

Even as much as she might have wanted it. 

Goosebumps prickled her arms. Stole whatever oxygen she’d managed to get in the last forty-six seconds, or so. Her eyes fluttered. Head tilted. Towards the touch and the warmth, and for someone who spent so much time on the ice, he really was impossibly warm. 

“This is your fault.”

He didn’t move his fingers. Cupped her cheek, instead. “You were doing that eyebrow thing.” “Expand on that for me.” “Lifting ‘em. Happens sometimes. When you’re listening intently. Like you’re a little amazed by new information. They’re these stupid little arches on your face. Drives me nuts.” “The compliment was in there somewhere, I’m sure of it.” “I am so much older than you, Liza.” “Shouldn’t’a played out a bunch of teenage daydreams at once, then.” She was legitimately worried about the state of his tongue. Barely biting back her laugh, Lizzie let her eyes lift. To find Roland gaping at her, drooped shoulders and puppy-dog eyes. And that goddamn dimple. “C’mon, this isn’t...do you think I haven’t made out with people before?” “Wouldn’t classify what we just did as a makeout.” “No?” His eyes darkened. Shivering was probably not a good move, right? Right. Definitely. She wasn’t shivering. It was just...January. And inside. With dozens of people around them. “I would not, no,” Roland said, and the drop in overall volume was some sort of trick. Or, something. 

“How many people do you think you’ve made out with? Ballpark it for me.” “No.” “Is the issue a lack of appropriate numbers to tally that mark, or—” She bit her tongue, again. At the flash of amused frustration sweeping his face and polluting the molecules of whatever air was hovering between them. Permeating was a better word. Lizzie really needed to work on all of that. Words. Being slightly less jealous of potential make outs that didn’t have anything to do with her and definitely happened because there had to be other people out there in the world who simply could not cope with the existence of that dimple. 

“How many people have you made out with, then?” “Scores,” Lizzie snarled, only to get immediately scoffed at. “I’m really, incredibly popular.” “Oh, I’ve got no doubt.” “Boatloads of guys. Lining up to,” she pointed an imperious finger at her mouth, “make out with this.” “Your well-defined chin?” “I’m going to take my shoe off.” “Draw attention with a move like that.” Whatever fight she had didn’t immediately die. It just, sort of, fell. At her feet, threatening all the bones there and there were too many. All of them far too fragile. For whatever metaphor she was running with at the moment. “And we’re not trying to do that, huh? Draw attention.” “Shouldn’t you be out sowing wild oats?” “Really know how to charm a girl,” she grumbled, and that got her a smile. No scoff. Not even the hint of a smile. The whiplash was hurting her neck. “Trust me, the oats have appropriately sowed. If I was ever particularly inclined to farm work.” “I’m starting to be vaguely embarrassed by all of this.” “Good.” Wasn’t quite a scoff. Was more like a half-hearted laugh, and a tinge of desire and that was better than the other emotions, but the decreasing level of Roland’s eyebrows gave her pause. “What about the status of your oats?”

“Well sowed, rookie season,” Roland said. 

“You’re going to change the name on your jersey.” “Not sure that particular fact has a lot to do with anything else. Seven years, Liza.” “I’m perfectly capable of doing math, you know I took that stats class once.” “Because I double checked everything you turned in.” “Makes you slightly less of an idiot than the vibe you're giving off right now.” “A freeway or compliments.” Pulling in a deep inhale through her nose, Lizzie didn’t miss the way Roland’s gaze fell. To the neckline of her dress, lingering on the jut of her collarbones for a few seconds longer than a strictly platonic friendship should allow, and they were friends. Still. She knew that as well as she knew that he believed she thought he was simply being clever with nicknames. 

And not making vaguely incorrect My Fair Lady references. 

Because he’d always been a little annoyed that Eliza had gone back to Henry Higgins. Instead of Freddie.

It was really impossible not to be a little in love with him at all times. 

“You’re really going to hyphenate?” Roland nodded. “Think of all the new jerseys they’ll sell.” “By the box-load, and Gina’s gonna buy the entire stock. She’s—that’s really nice, you know.” “Just a fact. Little late, but—” He shrugged. Lizzie’s smile threatened to split her face. In that same nice way, she’d been talking about. Her lips were still buzzing. She might have been buzzing. With adrenaline. Happiness. The near-desperate desire to find some type of closet and get her fingers back in Roland’s questionably long hair. 

“Of naming conventions.” She couldn’t begin to guess what the record was for shoulder shifts in an emotionally charged conversation between two people who were simultaneously ignoring the point of the conversation, but Lizzie also knew her eyebrows had been halfway up her face as he’d detailed the reasons for making his jersey say Mills-Locksley. From here on out. 

Maybe that was the top of the list, actually. 

He was a good guy. 

Had always been a good guy. The best guy, really. 

Falling into that chasm wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Lizzie expected it to be. 

“Why’d you do it?” Roland’s lips disappeared. His tongue moved, again. She was staring at the area around his tongue. So, like, his mouth. Directly at his mouth. “Because, I uh—have wanted to?” “Oh, don’t phrase that like a question.” “Wanted to,” he repeated, a statement of fact with a certain amount of conviction. Enough to make Lizzie’s pulse sputter. “Which is kind of freaking me out.” “Come back with more compliments.” “Your dress nearly made me fall over.” “Better, actually,” she laughed. 

He ran his fingers through his hair. “Made sense at the time.” “Be more specific.” “Kissing you,” Roland said, enough emphasis that he leaned forward half an inch as well. It was a miracle their noses didn’t collide. Not the most impressive miracle, but—counted. “If I tell you that you might be my best friend does that make the lamest professional hockey player alive?” “Yes, absolutely.” “Matt might challenge you to a duel if he hears me talking like this, you know.” “God, Locksley, didn’t we just talk about the Mattie rules? Also, that made it sound like Mattie wants to kiss you too, so...”

He chuckled. Fingers still tugging on the back of his hair, like he was trying to ground himself in the pull and the self-inflicted tension, Roland looked up. Back at her. And Lizzie didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Held her position and prepared herself to defend the schedule she’d only ever allowed herself to hope for in the silence of that one corner in her brain. 

Filled, as it was, with memories. Of conversations that didn’t have anything to do with hockey. Others that did. Arguing over blue line placement in the brownstone and college rankings. Of movies watched on two different laptops in different corners of the country, bad jokes, and consistent updates, that deep-rooted understanding that came from a life full of expectations and the exact opposite. No overt pressure, but the need to prove yourself anyway, if only because of the name on the back of the jersey, and Lizzie was going to have to buy a new jersey. 

“You like me? Yes, or no?” Roland smiled. Wide and honest, the kind that ensured the dimple was on prominent display. “Yes.” “I am a grown adult? Yes, or no?” Crinkles appeared around his eyes. From the smile. 

“Yes.” “Meaning I get to make my own choices. Romantically, or otherwise. Yes, or no?” “Obviously.” “Wasn’t one of the options.” “Yes,” Roland corrected, fingers trailing over the bend of her elbow. Lizzie hadn’t uncrossed her arms. Or remembered when she’d crossed them in the first place. 

“Ok, good. Same page, then.” “Liza.” “Locksley.” Lifting her eyebrows wasn’t a challenge, per se. Was closer to instinct, really. Specifics didn’t matter, honestly. She did that thing with her eyebrows, and he did that thing with his mouth, the same one she was staring at and hoping would move closer to her, and then—

Well, it did. 

Hands found Lizzie’s hips, pulling her forward sharply enough that she let out a soft grunt. From the feel of hips bumping against hers, and she honestly wasn’t sure who hissed in their next inhale, only that it did something to the flutter-like state of her pulse and the erratic nature of her heart, and it was slow and fast and good and great and not a single person noticed. 

Miracles were arriving en masse, apparently. 

Pushing her fingers into Roland’s hair got Lizzie another hum of approval, the first brush of his tongue making her lips part and her head fall to the side, but then his hand was wrapped around the back of her neck, and she could not be expected to pay attention to anything except the semi-consistent swipe of his thumb against her skin. It left more goosebumps. Caused another chuckle, the kind that rumbled through her and resonated around her, a tiny bubble of that same cautious optimism from before. 

Like a spark. 

Fanning flames and threatening to burn everything because if this didn’t work, then Lizzie wasn’t sure what would, and that was scary and overwhelming and terrifying was a synonym, but she really was working with very limited word-based resources when Roland’s thumb kept moving. Tracing her. Committing the feel to memory, and she wasn’t sure when they’d established the rocking pattern they were moving in, but something deep in the center of her trusted it. 

Someone who regularly strapped knives to his feet and raced around at top speed knew how to stay balanced. And she was a stubborn idiot. Who got what she wanted. 

“Is part of liking me because I told you I didn’t think it was embarrassing that you still got a little emotional about Miracle on 34th Street?” Laughter pushed past her lips. Took root in the pit of her stomach and the spaces between her ribs. Laced through her heart. In the kind of way that cemented itself. Right in the middle of Lizzie. Right in the middle of this. Them. 

There was a them, now. 

“Was definitely a factor, yeah,” Roland said, not bothering to pull away. “You, uh—you snuck up on me a little, Liza.” “Peak romance.” “Want me to talk about your dress some more?” She shook her head. “Unnecessary. And you didn’t.” “That might be part of the problem.” “Nursing old crushes, you mean?” Her hair hit her cheek. And his hand. He couldn’t seem to let go of her. “Nah, this wasn’t like...there was no torch, not really. I—I wasn’t hanging posters of you on my wall if that’s the picture you’ve painted for yourself.” “Kinda disappointing, admittedly.” “Pick a lane, babe.” No sparkle, that time. Just flash and want and the very thin line Lizzie’s lips had become. “Be more specific,” Roland repeated softly. “You’re not standing on a pedestal. Just you, Rol, as is.” He waited. That was fair. There should have been more. Should have been a detailed list of all the reasons the grown-up version of her liked so many parts of the grown-up version of him, but that all felt a little extraneous when she was still thinking about closet-type possibilities and that stubborn streak was a mile wide, anyway. 

Roland nodded once. “Good.”

Both of them jumped. At the pop of another champagne bottle and Lizzie never understood how Regina managed to order so much champagne every year, but she felt a bit like she was floating on the bubbles, and they didn’t decide. Explicitly. To keep the whole thing—

Secret. 

Another bad word. With bad connotations and shadows that clung to the definition, but this was them and only them and, for right now, that was enough. And if no one noticed the way Roland’s hand drifted over the small of Lizzie’s back during David’s speech, then that was a miracle she was willing to accept. 

[rae-is-typing]

‘Cause You Had a Bad day...

Notes: This little piece was inspired by the dumpster fire of a day I had a week ago. It’s self-indulgent as f u c k, as most of my fics are. Enjoy :)

Description: You’re having a terrible day. Your friends at the Avengers tower help you out a little bit.

Characters: reader, Sam Wilson, Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, a rude receptionist named Lisa, unnamed security guard, Peter Parker is mentioned

Warnings: swearing, fractured limbs, squabbling between friends, x-rays

Disclaimers: Civil war probably didn't happen because everyone likes each other and gets along. Kind of.

Word count: 2.4k

Rain pounds on the cement, thunder rolls in the distance and it’s as if a dark cloud is looming over New York. You keep your head down with your hood up. The one day you forgot your umbrella is the one day that it rains like a motherfucker. Your entire body shivers and shakes, and the gusts of wind is only making it worse. You desperately wanted to call for help or a ride, but your phone has been dead all day because you forgot to charge last night. And to top off the shit sundae, you got locked out of your apartment and your parents are gone for the weekend. So you have to walk all the way to the tower from school with no phone, no wallet and no umbrella.

Nothing is going your way at all. You just want to get to the tower, take a nice hot shower, and crawl in a hole and die. 

It’s only when the tower is in sight that you can relax and perk up a little and the pep comes back to your step. But without any warning, you fall forward. A figure runs past you at full speed with a purse in his hand. The contents of your bag spills out in front of you. You put out your hands and try to catch yourself, only to land hard on your wrist.

A cry falls from your lips as pain shoots up your arm. Tears immediately come to your eyes, not only from pain, but from your own righteous indignation. 

“Fuck,” You cry weakly, pushing yourself up with your good hand. You had superhealing like Peter, but it’s not instantaneous and you’re definitely feeling this one. 

You manage to gather your stuff with one hand and shove it back in your bag unceremoniously. You stumble to your feet, cradling your wrist to your chest. Walking the rest of the length to the tower, you desperately trying not to cry.

Someone was kind enough to hold the door for you when you finished walking the steps. After a quiet ‘thank you’, you stepped into the larger lobby. 

“Excuse me, miss. I need some ID.” The snotty voice of the receptionist rang throughout the wide area.

“I’m here almost everyday, Lisa. Can you let it go one time?” You snap, pausing before the elevator. 

“No, unfortunately not. It’s S.I. policy that we ID every visitor that enters the lobby.” Her voice bursts with fake sympathy.

“That is bullshit and you know it,” You voice hardens.

“I’m sorry ma’am. Please let me see your ID.”

You take a deep breath, trying not to go off on the bitchy receptionist. “Lisa, there are a ton of other people in here and neither you nor your co-workers have ID’d one of them. Now if you’ll excuse me,” You huff and walk towards the elevator, ready to press the button when someone puts a hand on your shoulder. You look behind you to see a security guard dressed in all black with a hard expression dressing his face.

“Can I help you?” You snap.

“I need you to come with me.” His voice is rough and low. His shoulders are squared, with arm gripping you, the other is placed on the weapon at his side.

“No.” More anger bubbles in your chest and your hands begin to shake. Your abilities begin to make themselves known through the surge of power you feel in your veins. Heat comes to your hands and your skin begins to warm up considerably. He grabs you by your upper arm, keeping a tight grip on it as he begins to drag you back to the entrance. 

“What the fuck, let me go!”

Anxiety replaces your frustration. Knowing that using your abilities for anything other than pure self defense would definitely land you a weekend in jail and a ban from most career choices, you’re desperate to keep your powers at bay. You struggle in his grip, his hands squeezing your upper arm likely to the point of bruising. He had you at the entrance when the elevator opens. You don’t see it, but Tony, Bruce, Steve and Sam walked out into the lobby. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Tony’s voice reverberates throughout the lobby with vigor. The bustling lobby goes silent; everything seems to stop. Your head snaps back to see Tony and Steve march up to the security guard. Steve pushes him off of you, and Tony begins to interrogate him.

“Why were your hands on my kid?” 

“I-w was-” 

“I don’t want to hear it. Get out of here and don’t come back.” 

The security guard’s face changes form hard to confused and back to hard as he exits the building with slightly slumped shoulders. 

“Mr. Stark, sir,” Lisa rushes out from behind her desk and in front of Tony. He glares down at her. “He was doing what I told him to, you don’t need to terminate him.” 

“Why was my kid being dragged out against her will? And why is she holding her wrist like that?”

“She didn’t give me an ID. It’s industry policy that we ID each visitor-”

“She’s been coming here almost everyday for over a year. She is not a visitor.”

“All I did was-”

“Save it. Go home and don’t come in tomorrow.”

“But, Mr. Stark-”

Tony doesn’t listen. Instead, he turns to where Bruce is gently holding your wrist in his hands, examining the sprain. You skin has cooled down, but you’re still shaking and breathing hard. Steve and Sam stand near you. Sam’s arms are crossed over his chest, his eyes ablaze with anger. Steve had draped his coat over your shaking body, warming you up without the help of your abilities. The anger had left your body when Tony and the others began handling the situation. It was replaced with defeat and exhaustion.

“Jesus kid, you’re soaked. Did you walk all the way here or something?” Tony’s voice went from brutal to concerned in a heartbeat. He ushers everyone to the elevator to avoid the prying eyes of those in the lobby.

“Yeah,” You say softly, wincing when Bruce pressed two fingers to your wrist. 

“Why didn’t you call one of us?” Steve asks. 

“My phone died.”

“Where’s your umbrella, honey?”

“In my apartment.”

“Why didn’t you get it before coming here?”

“I got locked out.”

“What happened to your wrist?”

“Someone ran into me and I fell on it.” 

“You couldn’t catch a break today, could you?”

You shake your head, sniffling. 

“You need to get changed before you catch a cold,” Steve says.

“That’s not how it works,” Tony chimes, glancing at Steve. “The common cold is a virus, the weather has almost nothing to do with it.”

“Really? She’s in pain and soaking wet and you’re chastising me for not wanting her to get sick?”

“I just thought you should know how viruses work. Your information is a little outdated. What’s it been? Seventy-three years?”

“You know what, Stark? You can-”

“Stop fighting.” Bruce says, a hint of a growl coming through his normal voice. The two men stop squabbling for a moment to turn their attention back to you. 

“Super-healing not working yet?”

“I think so, it just really hurts,” Your voice cracks as you hold back tears. You aren’t one to cry over most things, but the stress coupled with your feelings of defeat and indignation and finally getting a break become too much for you. 

“Oh kid, you don’t need to cry.” Tony speaks, voice turning slight with discomfort at the sight of a couple tears trailing your cheeks. “Seriously, you don’t.”

“Sorry,” You choke out, trying to wipe your eyes with your good hand. 

“Don’t apologize, Y/N. A release of emotion is healthy. Stark’s a robot, so he doesn’t understand that.” Steve says, wrapping an arm around you, and letting you rest your head on his shoulder. He throws a pointed look at Tony. “Cry if you need to.”

You nod as the elevator begins to rise. Steve keeps an arm wrapped around you, and you keep your head on his shoulder. You’re crying, but not outright sobbing and occasionally wiping your eyes. The sharp pain in your wrist has dulled to a simple throb, and your hair is slowly drying. The elevator is silent until Bruce speaks up.

“I’ll take a closer look with the live x-ray in the med bay. Right now it looks like a simple fracture that your body should be able to handle within the next couple hours,”

You only nod, eyes fixed on the elevator door. It opens to the med bay. It’s clean, medical instruments on carts and scales in other places. It takes up an entire floor for post-mission operations and other check ups. There are a few doctors on call for emergencies, however you and the other Avengers were most comfortable with Bruce or occasionally Dr. Strange checking in on you if you can help it. 

“Come over here,” Bruce says, leading you to a large table with a few slots built into it and a monitor on top of it. “I need you to take off the jacket and roll up your sleeve.”

You follow the instructions, and take off your bag and set it on the floor. Then you take off Steve’s jacket, hand it back to him, take of your soaking wet hoodie which Steve also takes and roll up the sleeve to your equally soaked shirt. 

“Put your arm through here,” Bruce says, gesturing to the slot in the table. It’s glass on both sides and emits a brilliant blue light. You sit in a chair near the table and out your injured arm through the slot. He gently grabs your hand and guides it to the right position. You fold your legs criss-cross-applesauce on the chair.

It takes a while for the image of your wrist on the monitor. Bruce studies it for a couple moments and you stare blankly at the image of your bones. There’s a small break on the radius of your forearm near your hand. 

“It’s a green-stick fracture, it uh looks like your healing factor has already begun to take care of it. Does it hurt?” You nod. “Alright, I can give you some of the painkillers that we give Peter when he’s hurt.” Bruce turns off the x-ray and lets you take your arm out before he gets up and rummages through a random cart. 

You look up when someone places their hand on your shoulder. Steve smiles down at you. “We’re ordering food, what do you want?”

You shrug, staring back at the now blank monitor. “Something warm,”

“Alright, Shawarma it is.” Tony declares.

“We are not eating Shawarma again. Let's get something more palatable,”

“Shawarma is palatable.”

“Not three nights in a row,”

“JARVIS, place the usual order the Chinese place downtown.” Sam says, rolling his eyes at their squabbling. 

“Done,” JARVIS’s automated voice rang out.

Bruce comes back over holding a small white pill in a small cup, a glass of water and what looks like a brace. You took it from him, easily swallowing the pill and water down. 

“Put this on with it. It’ll keep your arm in the right position,” 

“Thanks,” You say,slipping the brace on, tightening it and resting your injured arm on the table. 

“They’ll begin to take effect in a few minutes. You should be able to shower and get dressed after that.”

You nod, looking back down at your lap. Soon enough, your wrist stopped hurting. You get up without a word and take yourself to the floor you and Peter stay on when you’re staying overnight. Peter is running errands with May, so he won’t be in until later. 

You get to your room and push open the door. Tossing your bag and the brace on your bed, you plug in your phone and go to the bathroom. You turn on the shower to mildly scalding and peel of the wet clothes. 

You take a nice long shower, taking your time in warming up, and crying a little more. The hot water washed away the rest of your tears, your frustration and the anxiety that you’ve been lugging around all day. 

“Miss Y/N, the food has arrived. I recommend you get out soon before it is all gone.” JARVIS speaks. You sigh, turning off the water. You dry yourself off quickly enough and put on a soft crewneck sweater and a pair of large sweats and slip the brace back on.

You put on a pair of slippers and make your way to the communal floor to  see Steve making himself a plate. He smiles when he sees you.

“Feeling any better, sweetie?”

“Kinda,” You shrug. “I’m really tired,”

“It’s been a long day, doll. Get some food, Sam’s putting on a movie,”

You nod, grabbing a plate from the stack near the food. You fill it up with what you want and go to sit in the living room. Tony lounges on the largest chair in the living room, Sam sits with his legs up on the love seat, and Bruce is curled up on the smaller of the chairs in the living room. 

“Welcome back, kid.” Tony breathes out, stretching out lazily. He changed too, now donning a band shirt and some joggers. 

“Hey,” you greet him, sitting on the sofa that’s next to the love seat.

“We’re watching Easy A once Steve gets his ass in here!” Sam begins with an even tone before throwing his head over his shoulder and yelling the last part. 

“I’m coming, be patient.” He grumbles, taking a seat next to you and placing his food on the coffee table.

“Took you long enough, Capsicle. Start the movie, J.”

“Yes, sir.”

The lights in the living room dim, the surround sound starts and the movie begins to play. You sink in the couch, the comfortable plush calming you even more. With the help of the drugs and the brace, your wrist feels as good as knew. Gratitude warms you chest as you catch Tony’s eye. You smile at him. 

‘Thank you’ you mouth. He only nods with an equally warm smile gracing his lips before turning back to the movie playing on the screen.

[boldly-ho]

Another Life - Chapter 2

Pairing: Vladislav x Reader

Fandom: What We Do in the Shadows

Word Count: 1318

Chapter Summary: You move in.

A/N: This is a short one, sorry. It doesn’t really fit in the next chapter, though, so I figured I’d post it as it’s own chapter. Cross-posted to AO3 under the same name.

You kicked the door shut behind you, grimacing as it slammed audibly. Whoops. Hopefully you hadn’t woken any of the guys. Too late to stress about it, now. You carried your last box up to your room, simultaneously relieved that they were finally all in there and disappointed that you now had to unpack them. It wasn’t as if you had an excess of possessions. In fact, you didn’t have that much; you couldn’t. Most of the places you’d lived weren’t blessed with an abundance of space. Still, though, you imagined it would take you a few hours to unpack. You debated for a moment only taking out the essentials, before stamping that disastrous idea down. If you didn’t unpack everything tonight, you wouldn’t do it for months.

Unpacking, of course, was a nightmare. It seemed even more tedious given that most of your boxes had only been packed this morning. The largest obstacle was probably the closet space, or lack thereof, more accurately. There was no closet at all, something you failed to notice on your tour of the house. Instead, there was a wardrobe against the wall. It was like the world’s most infuriating game of Tetris, ending with a pile of clothes and shoes guaranteed to fall on you when you next opened that door.

“Knock knock!” The words were accompanied by an actual knock on your door frame. Viago poked his head in.

You pulled open the door for him. “Hi, Viago. I didn’t wake you did I?”

“Not at all. I get up at six.”

“Is it already six?” You looked behind you at the window, only now realizing the sun had set. “I spent that whole time organizing the wardrobe. That’s disheartening.”

“Do you need some help?” he offered.

“That’s sweet, but no. I’m just complaining.”

“If you’re sure. Petyr is probably going to sleep in tonight, but Vladislav, Deacon, and I are going into town. Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m just going to power through the rest of these boxes and head to bed.”

“Alright then. We might not see you until tomorrow evening. We usually get home pretty late. We’ll keep the noise down.”

“Thanks.”

Viago left, and you heard the three talking downstairs as they made their way out the door.

You wondered if this was going to be the norm here. A handful of roommates you never saw. There were certainly worse living situations. You and Dawn had become close, but that was merely coincidence. You had never been the type of person who had to be best friends with her flatmates. Being the only diurnal person in the house had its perks. You’d only share five or six waking hours with your flatmates. It would be almost like having the house to yourself. You enjoyed your privacy. This might actually be nice.

~

All pictures saved to your phone in the last year were pretty generic. A few mirror selfies. Mostly at clubs. A few celebrity photos saved from the internet. Quite a few inanimate objects. Delicious looking meals. Trees and flowers at the park. The photo of the moon you had on your lockscreen. But there were no pictures of anyone else. There were no pictures of you with anyone else. And there were no pictures taken in the place you had been living. You had thousands of photos in your camera roll. But for some reason, you had only saved 46 pictures over the last year.

Furthermore, there were no new contacts in your phone. You’d gone through each number one by one. You had known all of these people a year ago.

You’d scoured social media. You hadn’t posted much this past year, and what you had posted did nothing to inform you of what you’d actually been up to. A thorough search online revealed that you had no friends named Vlad or Vladimir or anything similar. None of your friends had friends with that name.

What the hell?

~

God, you were an idiot.

You had severely underestimated how long it would take to finish unpacking. It was now almost two in the morning. You were parched. The last time you had anything to drink was before you left Dawn’s. You dragged yourself down the stairs and into the kitchen, rummaging through three cabinets before finding the glasses. The glass was filled three times from the tap before your thirst was sated. No longer feeling quite so dehydrated, you were able to focus on your ravenous stomach. Maybe you could steal a bit of food from your flatmates ? Just one time.

The refrigerator had quite a few decades on you. The moment you opened it, however, the outside of it seemed comparatively flawless. Not only was there no food, although, really, how could four grown men not have any food between them? But, the smell that came from the empty fridge was sickening. Almost like rotten meat. Though, it wasn���t entirely empty, you noticed. There was a single decanter of what looked liked red wine on the top shelf. You sighed and closed the door, making a mental note to buy a box of baking soda for the fridge when you went grocery shopping.

You rummaged through the cabinets, still intent on thievery, but found nothing aside from assorted china. You sighed in exasperation. Men. Of course they only ate takeout.

Well, when in Rome.

You took out your phone, looking up the nearest pizza joint open at this ungodly hour and ordering your go to. Estimated delivery in 45 minutes. Maybe you’d end up being as nocturnal as your flatmates after all. The burning behind your eyes and heaviness of your lids suggested otherwise.

You sat at the kitchen table, scrolling on your phone, waiting for your food to arrive…

“Did you order a pizza?”

You woke suddenly, whipping your head up, your forehead sore from where it had been resting against the table. “What?”

“There is a pizza. From on the doorstep.” The man standing in the kitchen spoke in a European accent. He had messy brown hair and was wearing clothes that seemed fairly outdated, including a black and red military jacket that had seen better days.

“Oh. Yeah, sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Good thing I tipped online, huh?” you offered jokingly.

He didn’t react. “The pizza is cold.” He set the box on the table in front of you.

“Yeah. I must’ve been asleep for a while.” You wiped your eyes, mildly embarrassed by the makeup that transferred to your fingers. “I’m Y/N. You must be, uh…” You felt dumb for beginning the sentence that way. You had no clue which flatmate he was supposed to be.

“I am Deacon.” Again, no smile. You were beginning to think this guy didn’t much care for you.

“Deacon. Hi. Nice to meet you.”

He nodded in response. That was something at least.

You opened the box and took a bite of the cool pizza. “Would you like some?” you asked, mouth full.

Deacon grimaced. “Uh, no, thank you.”

Whether he wasn’t a fan of the pizza or of your poor manners, you couldn’t tell. Possibly both. You shrugged, taking another bite. “So are the other guys back, too?”

“Yes. They are in bed. It’s almost sunrise.”

Oh, crap. You’d been asleep for a while then. You decided to migrate up to bed and try to salvage a few hours of restful shut eye. You shut the pizza box, shoving the entire thing into the smelly fridge.

“Thanks for bringing in the pizza for me,” you called to Deacon as he exited the kitchen.

He didn’t acknowledge your thanks, but did tersely remind you to remain quiet during the day.

Whelp. 25% of your new flatmates didn’t care for you, 25% were friendly towards you, and 50% may or may not actually exist. Not horrible statistics, all given.

[thatsparrow]

(alan grant/ellie sattler • post-fallen kingdom • read on ao3)

"Goddamn Hammond," Alan says when he sees the push alert from the New York Times. Then, "Ellie, wake up." It's somewhere near 2 A.M. but Nublar and Sorna had turned him into a light sleeper and that particular nervous habit has proved harder to kill than a genetically engineered raptor. His glasses are still sitting on the nightstand and so he has to squint a little at the screen to read it properly—Ellie and the kids gave him hell for weeks when he finally caved and increased the font size—but his eyes aren't so bad that he can't recognize the earth-shaking magnitude of the situation spelled out by the headline.  

LIVE: Seven different species of dinosaurs have been spotted in and around the Northern California town of Mendocino. They are believed to have originated from the closed Costa Rican theme park, Jurassic World.

"Alan?" Ellie asks, half asleep and eyes blinking shut against the light off the screen. "What is it?" He offers the phone in lieu of an answer, waits as her vision adjusts enough for her to read it, knows she's finished when her whole body goes fossil-still.

"Goddamn Hammond," Alan says again, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "I don't care that he's dead. Damn him for his recklessness, damn him for the parks, and damn him for every act of foolishness that's followed." He lets out a slow sigh, rubs at his eyes. "I'd never admit it to the bastard, but Ian was right. It was only a matter of time until something like this happened."

Ellie has the full article open now, but it's no more than a short paragraph, this story is developing at the bottom. "We don't know what this is, yet. Maybe it's just another San Diego."

"A half-dozen people dead plus some kid's labrador?"

"Short term," Ellie says. "Containable. It sounds like whatever species have been seen so far are all herbivorous."

"You trust the people of Mendocino to know the difference?"

"I trust them to recognize sharp teeth." She sighs, pulls her thumb across the screen to refresh the article even though it's been no more than a minute. "What a mess. What an absolute mess." She hands the phone back to him, lets out a tired exhale. "What I wouldn't give to put Hammond's genie back in the bottle."

"What should we do?"

"Sell any remaining stock in InGen?" He raises an eyebrow at her and she smiles a little, but there's no humor in it. "That was a joke. I don't know, Alan—what can we do? We're academics, not dinosaur hunters. Our only relevant experience here is not having died twenty-five years ago. We could offer ourselves up in an advisory capacity, I guess, but even then, there are plenty of people out there who have done hands-on work with them. Whatever insight we may have had is outdated by over a decade at this point. Comparatively, we're like—"

"Dinosaurs?"

"Exactly."

Alan exhales, considering. "You're right, I know that, but I just—" he breaks off, turning over the phone in his hand. There's a video embedded in the article, a grainy thumbnail of what looks like the back of a Stegosaurus. The way the image is frozen, it looks like the Stego's tail is in mid-motion, suspended on an arc that would take it through the wall of a garden shed. With any luck, Ellie is right, and all the theropods were killed by the eruption on Nublar. Then again, if luck was playing any role here, Hammond's experiments should have failed at the start. "It feels like we should be doing something, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"What if we drove up there?"

"To Mendocino?" Ellie asks, and he nods. "Tonight?"

"I was thinking first thing in the morning, maybe. Wait until more reports come in. Who knows—maybe this will all have been cleared up by then, anyway."

"You think?"

"No, but I've never tried being an optimist before."

Alan refreshes the article again and sees a new paragraph of text, bare bones information that mentions three additional species—including a suspected Allosaurus—have been spotted near I-20 heading east. Life finding a way. Goddamn Malcolm. Goddamn Hammond. Goddamn it all.

—

The next day does bring more news, and none of it good. The current theory is that Hammond's former partner, Benjamin Lockwood, funded some sort of rescue operation to Nublar, retrieved an unknown number of species that were brought to his Northern California estate for a black market auction, and at some point during this process—predictably, Alan thinks—the dinosaurs escaped and bedlam ensued. Further details include: Lockwood's body in an upstairs bedroom, his death attributed (surprisingly) to natural causes; correspondence between Lockwood's assistant, Eli Mills, and an auctioneer, both of whom are still missing, though suspected dead (and, Alan presumes, suspected eaten); and an unknown theropod body in Lockwood's front hall, impaled on the horns of an Agujaceratops skull. Most of the servers in the lab below the estate were blown skyward, but of the data that's been recovered, it seems to be another genetic experiment, a cross-breeding of the Indominus with a Velociraptor.

("They never fucking learn," Alan says when he gets to that section of the report, hands white-knuckled around his coffee cup. "This has Wu's fingerprints all over it. Not enough to put raptor and rex DNA in a blender with whatever else they could get their hands on—no, he had to scale it down and make it twice as clever. If this wasn't intended for military application, I'll eat my hat, then buy another one and eat that, too.")

Though the article leaves a good number of questions unanswered, it does make clear that Hammond's follies have again found their way to the mainland, and with a sense of permanency this time. New sightings are reported with alarming frequency as the morning goes on, increasing in both the number of different species and the distance they've traveled from Lockwood's estate. Tracking efforts have been mobilized, but it's all too little, too late—not to mention the public debate that sparks up again over the question of recapturing or killing.

"Okay," Ellie says once they've read through the reports, putting her phone face-down on the kitchen table and burying her face in her hands. "It's a mess. Officially. This makes what happened in San Diego look like an incident at a petting zoo. We've got at least twenty species running loose—including, so far, a T. rex, a Baryonyx, and an Allosaurus—that are all spreading further apart by the moment, and as of now, the best method of tracking them is to wait for someone standing by to post about it to Twitter."  

"I hate Twitter," Alan says, reflexive.

"I know you do." Ellie smiles at him a little, then lets out a slow breath. "So what should we do? We know more than we did last night, but really it's just enough to tell us that this situation is worse than we could have imagined. I'm ready to jump in the car and start driving if you are, but at this point, I'm not sure what good that would do."

"Might feel better than just sitting here," Alan says, lacing his hands behind his neck to keep them from reaching for his phone again. "But no, you're right, I'm not sure what it would actually accomplish."

Ellie's quiet for a moment, fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the table. They weren't exactly young when Hammond first brought them to Nublar, but looking now at the ridged veins on the back of her hands—thinking of the new wrinkles across his own forehead and his hair that's gone grey-white in recent years—it strikes Alan how much older they've both become. Maybe too old to be playing games like this.

"Can I ask you something?" Ellie says.

"Always."

"Imagine that we did have a plan, and we knew exactly what was needed to make a difference here—what side of the debate would we be on?"

"What do you mean?"

Her hands are still restless, index finger tapping lightly against the wood. "Half the world seems to think they should be shot down as they're spotted, and the other wants to see them safely rounded up and brought to some sort of preserve. We never talked about it much when it was a question of the eruption on Nublar, but now I'm curious"

Alan frowns a little, brows pulling together. "They're dangerous, Ellie. That's more true than ever with no fences or open ocean between them and the rest of the world."

"The sauropods aren't."

"They're megafauna that belong to a different age. They can still do damage on a scale that society isn't ready for." He looks at Ellie, a little surprised. "You think they should be kept alive? After everything that's happened?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'll be the first to agree that everyone would be better off if all of the raptors had died before they'd hatched, but—" she breaks off, smiling at him a little helplessly. "I don't know, Alan. I think back to when Hammond first drove us around in that Jeep and you turned my head to look out the window and it—it was all of my childhood dreams come to life. Nothing could compare to seeing the bones that I'd spent my life studying brought to life in front of me and standing sixty feet tall, and I know you felt that, too. Look, say what you will about Hammond—and God knows that I have—but whatever may have been the end result, you can't deny that there was something noble in his intentions."

"I seem to remember another saying that has to do with 'good intentions'."

"Alan—"

"They're not real, Ellie. You know that. They are, at best, distantly removed cousins of the dinosaurs that really lived, and probably more closely resemble whatever amphibian DNA that Wu mixed into the fossilized blood. Whatever you felt—whatever we felt—on Nublar after seeing them for the first time, it was just a fantasy."

Ellie's smile turns a little sad. "It was a pretty spectacular fantasy." She pauses, then reaches out to take one of Alan's hands, both of them weathered and older, palms still a little callused from years spent in the field. Ellie's thumb runs a gentle pattern over his skin. "I'm going to ask you for a favor now, alright? For me, and for the sake of your younger self, I want you to imagine a world where it's not all or nothing. Where kids can grow up learning that raptors actually had feathers, and where they can visit a preserve and see the drawings from their picture books come to life. You don't have to remind me of all the bad that's come from the parks and Hammond's efforts, but you can't lie to me and pretend that there wasn't some good in there, too."

Alan makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat—which is as close as he's willing to get to a yes—but then he does let his mouth twitch towards a smile, lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to her knuckles. As if he could ever say no to anything she asked of him.

Ellie gets up and moves to take their emptied mugs to the sink, and as she starts to run the water, Alan does as she's requested, allowing himself to remember the bright moments among the bad. Weighs the terror he'd felt at seeing the T. rex chewing through the Jeep's roof towards Lex and Tim against the moment of resting his palm against the gentle curve of the Brachiosaur's nose. Watching the Spino's hungry jaws carve through the hull of the Kirbys' chartered plane with all the ease of crushing a soda can. Leaning his body on the belly of the Triceratops and feeling its breath thrumming all the way through his chest.

No, Ellie's not wrong—for all his flaws and his arrogance, Hammond had managed to build something beautiful. Still, it's just as much a lie to pretend that the near-death experiences shouldn't weigh heavier than the rest. Were those brief moments of splendor really worth Muldoon or Arnold or any of the others who'd lost their lives for the sake of Hammond's hubris? Not to mention whatever poor civilians might now stumble into the path of the wandering Allosaurus or Baryonyx or any other not-yet-identified theropods who have found their way to the mainland. It's too much cost with not enough reward. Would it be worth it if the carnivores were gone? You can't play that game when the technology is already there; someone is always going to get ambitious and want something with more teeth.

It's a question that keeps him up at night, even after he and Ellie have decided that there's nothing for them to do at the moment—other than keep an eye on their phones and wait for a call from the government or InGen. So they wait, and Alan wonders, and meanwhile news reports still surface with regular frequency of sightings. It's a disaster with no obvious answer, and he's no closer to coming up with any sort of solution—but at least if there's a decision to be made, it won't be coming from him.

And then the presumed-dead Claire Dearing calls Ellie about a potential rescue mission for the last remaining Velociraptor and the whole question suddenly stops being so theoretical.

Goddamn it.

[indigodawns]

46. A lingering kiss before a long trip apart

fuck, I accidentally deleted my response and with it your ask so here we go @ashes-and-dust; our favourite niche pairing and 46. A lingering kiss before a long trip apart (post with prompts here)

--

‘You’re kidding me,’ Owen says, staring at Norton, who is currently spread languidly across a queen-size bed in their – yes, their – hostel room. ‘Where the fuck is the other bed?’

Norton blinks in that slow, infuriating way of his that Owen has become tragically familiar with during his month-long stay in the 1950s. A month of spending too much time with Norton Folgate as they tried to figure out how to get Owen back to his own time. Owen hadn’t attempted to shake him off and find Diane instead. Really, he hadn’t. 

(He had. The 1950s had proven awfully difficult when it came to tracing people, as had Norton, who had somehow seemed to know about his plans and made sure to cross them at every possible opportunity.)

‘Even you can’t be that dense, darling,’ Norton drawls, unmoved. ‘This was the only room they had left.’ His eyes flit over Owen’s frame. ‘Just one more night and we might never see each other again. Let’s at least make it memorable.’

Owen rolls his eyes. ‘In your dreams, Folgate.’ Definitely not in his. That weird dream from last week doesn’t count, it’s been over two months without getting laid, so sue him. Anyways, tomorrow he’ll be back in his own time, free to pick up anyone who was wanting. If that someone didn’t have impeccable composure and eyes a colour Owen never did figure out, well, he would be all the better for it. 

It’s just that Owen loves pushing people until they show their cracks, bleeding through it bit by bit and granting him the upper hand. This way people either begin to trust him – mistaking their own eagerness to be heard for a genuine connection – or grow wary of him, desperate to keep him at bay, like Jack. 

It’s just that Owen has the unsettling feeling that Norton understands this, somehow, and is beating him at his own game.

--

Otherwise naked, Owen steps into one of the ugly striped pyjama pants he’s been borrowing from Norton this month, ignoring the man’s presence in the bed at the other side of the tiny room. Despite the February chill that creeps into the old (new?) buildings here, he’s refused to wear any of the shirts as well. Who the hell wears a preppy full-body suit to bed? Except Norton Folgate, of course. Owen himself wouldn’t want to be found dead in it. He doesn’t let himself linger on how viable that would be, knowing his luck and, well, Torchwood. Maybe those two went hand in hand. Either way, this Alejandro or whatever of Norton’s has terrible taste. 

As Owen slips under the covers, Norton turns to look at him. His normally immaculate hairdo has been slightly ruffled by the pillow already, a strand of it teasing at the corner of his eye.

‘I am sorry you didn’t get to find Diane.’

The statement hangs heavily in the few inches between their faces. 

Owen looks away, scoffs. ‘Right, even though you were so bloody helpful.’ He doesn’t have to look to see Norton raising an eyebrow. Again, tragically familiar by now.

‘We both know that if she’d been the kind of woman to stay, you wouldn’t have wanted her.’

Something uncoils inside Owen at that, rears its dark and ugly head. ‘You don’t know shit, Norton,’ he snaps. 

‘Charming attitude, Doctor Harper, that’ll do the job nicely.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ 

‘Yes, that. I mean the snappishness, darling. That whole uncaring, roguish thing you’ve got going on. Perfect for keeping people at a distance, isn’t it?’

He can feel Norton’s eyes boring into his back. ‘Isn’t the whole Freud thing a bit outdated, even for you?’

Norton hums. ‘Far from it, I’m afraid.’

Owen waits for the biting remark that’ll surely follow, but it never comes. Instead, a hush falls over the room. He hates how loud it makes the pounding of his heart sound. It makes his skin crawl, restlessness itching its way through his body. 

He turns around to face Norton again, suddenly desperate for a reaction. He’s not prepared for the thoughtful look he finds in Norton’s eyes.

‘I understand.’ 

The admission is quiet, and it’s as if a sort of veil Owen hadn’t noticed before it disappeared has fallen away from Norton’s face, leaving him rawer, exposed almost. If he didn’t know the man any better, Owen would say he looked vulnerable. 

He rolls over to his other side.

‘Good night, Folgate.’

The reply doesn’t come right away, and Owen thinks maybe he’s broken something again without wanting to. But then, quietly, composed again:

‘Good night, Owen.’

--

The portal is fizzling, sparks flying off it every now and then, and Owen wonders not for the first time how the hell he ended up in a shitty old sci-fi movie. 

‘It may not look it,’ Norton is saying, voice echoing off the walls of the abandoned warehouse, ‘but they promised it’s completely safe – well, they said it shouldn’t kill you. Immediately.’

‘Right,’ Owen mutters, ‘that’s incredibly reassuring, thanks.’ He doesn’t trust Norton for a second, but what choice does he have at this point? He has to get back to his own time. Still, something other than distrust holds him back, has him hesitating to return. He tries to reason it away: he hasn’t managed to find Diane in a month – who’s to say he would’ve in a year? That is, if she ever made it back at all. 

His eyes catch Norton’s, and he hates the haughty, knowing look he finds there. The restlessness that has been lingering under his skin is suddenly back tenfold, pushing at him, making him close some of the distance between him and Norton. Anything to stop this, to stop the way he can feel everything he’s locked away trying to rise up through his insides like bile.

Norton’s breath rushes over his face, those unreadable eyes still trained on Owen’s. Neither of them moves. 

Something snaps in Owen.

His lips are on Norton’s before he can think better of it, desperate and demanding. He doesn’t know what he expected – hesitation perhaps – but Norton doesn’t waste a second before responding in kind, lacing his fingers in his hair and dragging him closer, teeth dragging over his lips. It stirs something low in Owen’s belly, pushes against the hollow feeling that’s settled there. He lets himself cup Norton’s jaw, slips his tongue past the other’s lips for just a moment, tasting. Then he steps back.

Breathing hard, he makes his way to the portal. It’s only when he turns around that he catches the light flush on Norton’s cheeks, the slightest tremor in his composure. 

‘Doctor Harper,’ Norton says, inclining his head, voice smooth and steady as ever. ‘It’s been a, ah, pleasure.’ The smile curling his lips is almost genuine, and just a little bit dangerous.

‘I’ll see you around, Norton.’

Not looking back, he steps through the portal, back into his own time.

[xmxisxforxmaybe]

Inconsequentials

Moodboard Credit: @alottanothing​

Summary: You’ve lived in New York City for a few years and were one of Angela’s roommates in college. You bump into Elliot on the night of Angela’s birthday party, and you and Elliot connect. Smut’s at the end.

Warnings: Smut

* * * * *

The noise of the bar is too much; it isn’t the competition between the music and the televisions, or the cacophony of alerts on cellphones that people couldn’t bother to silence for one night.

It is the loud conversation, or rather, attempts at conversation. The too-loud small talk with people You only vaguely knows and honestly doesn’t care to know. The endless cycle of too-loud questions: “Hey! Good to see you! What have you been up to?” and “Are you seeing anyone?” and “How are you?” and “What’s new?”

Unable to bear another hour, you make your goodbye to your old roommate, citing an early morning meeting as an excuse, and then quickly exit through the door of the bar, hoping to slink unaccosted by anyone else into the city’s quiet nighttime.

  However, the solid body you collide into as you round off the stoop makes your quick exit come to a pretty damn obvious halt. 

  “Shit! I’m so sor—"

  Your words escape you as your eyes lock onto the most ethereal eyes you’ve ever seen. You think, for an instant, that if you got close enough to them it would be like that final scene in one of the Men in Black movies where doors keep opening and opening and opening just to show us how insignificant our understanding of the universe really is. 

  You realize that you’re standing there, open-mouthed, like an idiot and quickly take a step back before beginning your apology again.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Jesus. Fuck me up and drive me crazy. Even his voice is otherworldly.

  “I must say, though, that’s not the safest place to stand considering the endless parade of just too much to drink that walks out of this place.”

  The man looks at you and you can feel his mind working, feel his tenseness over whether or not to talk. You almost begin to apologize, again, when he speaks. 

  “I’m supposed to be in there. It’s my friend’s birthday.” 

  “You know Angela?”

  His eyes widen, although it seems impossible that they could get any larger.

  “You know Angela?” He echoes and you can’t help but chuckle. 

  “I do believe I asked you first,” you say through a grin. 

  He smiles, just a quick blink and you’ll miss it quirk of the lips, but you definitely categorize it as a smile. 

  “We’ve been friends since we were kids. And we work together now.” 

  “You’re Elliot,” you state with a finality that surprises him. “I went to college with Angela and we shared an apartment with two other girls, Jess and Annamarie—actually, both of them are still inside, and you know how it is. Late night talks. Shared childhood stories. I have an odd affinity for remembering inconsequential details. Not that you as a person are inconsequential!” 

  Fuck. You’re babbling like an idiot, and sort of shocked that this almost-stranger could make you so school-girl nervous.  

  Elliot did that almost smile thing again and seemed sort of surprised at his own response. 

  “Aren’t we all inconsequential, though? Swallowed up by the people we answer to? Or by society’s expectations and our inability to meet them?”

  As soon as the words leave his mouth, he seems paralyzed, like he can’t believe he said them out loud. 

  “Shit. I didn’t mean to say—"

  “Sure you did. But I suppose it has something to do with you not wanting to go in there? Maybe worried that you’ll feel weird because you don’t know anyone other than her?”

  Elliot watches as you tilt your head to the side just a bit and finish simply by saying, “Or maybe you just hate people?”

  Elliot turns to look inside giving you an opportunity to look at him properly. He’s head to toe in black, a worn hoodie clinging to his thin frame. His shoes are scuffed, also worn, but you can’t help but to let your eyes wander up his denim clad legs and to his ass, outlined nicely enough in the tight pants. 

  And that face. You could look at that face forever, like a piece of art that has layers and layers of depth. How many times do you meet a person in real life with a face like that? 

  Elliot sighs and turns back to you, your eyes snapping up to his. 

  “You’re not missing anything. Unless you enjoy watching Angela’s latest terrible choice in men cling to her like she’s a life preserver and he’s drowning.”

  Your comment earns a snort of derision from Elliot. 

  Emboldened by his response and the fact that he has made no move to go inside the bar, you ask, “Instead of going in there, do you want to maybe go somewhere else? Engage in some horrific small talk until we get to the good stuff?”

  “Okay.”

  One definitely awkward, mostly silent ten-minute train ride and an equally awkward and mostly silent block and a half of walking later, you are at your favorite dive bar. It is in an old building that should’ve been torn down a decade ago but escaped the clutches of modernization. Stale cigarette smoke still clung to the walls even though smoking was banned inside years ago. Despite the aged odors and decor, it was clean and quiet, full of regulars who also wanted to hold onto the past, desperate to have a place to just watch the outdated TV above the bar and talk with people like themselves, desperate for a time before Snapchat and Facebook and the stale conversations of the superficial, of people who only pretend to know you because they only really know your profile and your posts.  

  No one pays any attention to you and Elliot as they walk in and head to one of the booths in the back. You slide in and shuck off your coat as Elliot pulls back his hood, his hands running through his hair quickly. 

  You wet your lips at the sight of his face without any barrier and at the practiced way his hands fix his hair.

  He’s beautiful.

  And what an idiot you feel like as you think it, but wow. You make a mental note that despite the worn hoodie and boots, he must know he looks decently good if he visits a barber regularly enough to get a high maintenance haircut like that. Elliot was shaping up to be a true enigma. 

  “What do you want to drink? My treat,” you say through a quick smile. 

  “I’ll have whatever you have.”

  You slip out of the booth, and when you place the order, you make sure to lean just a bit into the bar as you wait in order to show off your ass. 

  When the bartender returns, you ask, “Sammy—is he looking? Did he check out my ass?” 

  Sammy chuckles and leans in to whisper, “Oh, yeah. Didn’t even try to do it discreetly.” 

  “Interesting,” you reply. “I’m not quite sure what to make of him, but that helps a bit.” 

  “I’ll keep an eye on you, babe.” 

  You chuckle, pay, and say your thanks. 

  “Coors Light. Bottled. I’m pretty much as basic as they come.”

  Elliot sort-of smiles, lifts his bottle to his mouth and takes a long drink. 

  “So, back to the whole idea of the inconsequentialness of humanity—what makes you believe that? 

  Elliot shakes his head and starts to backpedal, but you push him. 

  “Don’t tell me you blurt out dark truths about humanity but don’t mean them. Don’t be that guy.”

  “Most people don’t want to hear the things that I keep in my head. I’m not sure you really understand what you’re asking.”

  You raise an eyebrow, a little annoyed at his reluctance.

  “I assure you . . . I can handle it. I taught high school for a few years before I got my current gig in the city. If anyone can understand cynicism, it’s a teacher.” 

  Elliot leans forward, his fingers lightly tapping against the sweating bottle.

  “Why’d you stop? Teaching, I mean. Isn’t it supposed to be . . . rewarding?” 

  You genuinely laugh and it is loud enough and strong enough to make Elliot blink in surprise. 

  “Christ. Those moments are so few and far between the chaos of putting out everyday fires that after a while, it just isn’t enough. The bad outweighs the good. And I knew I didn’t belong in front of those kids once I felt like that. Now, I work for a mid-size company writing and editing technical manuals and working on grants to get more funding so they can expand. I’m just an inconsequential buried in work by the people who are hoping to become people rich enough to run the world.” 

  Elliot is quiet for a minute or so, most likely processing everything you unloaded.

  After another drink, he says, “I work at Allsafe. It’s…it’s a cybersecurity firm. We protect companies from cyber attacks. We protect those big companies that are actually rich enough to run the world.”

  You roll your eyes and nod in agreement. “It seems like the more I read, the more depressed I get because those companies just eat up everything. Consumerism, I guess? As long as there is something they can convince people to buy, they will continue to take people’s money and they will continue to be richer than god.”

  Elliot studies you as he finishes off his beer.

  “My turn,” he mumbles as he grabs your empty bottle and heads to the bar.

  Conversation becomes easier; while you definitely are the one talking the most, Elliot does relax and stops looking so shocked every time he shares something with you.

  At the end of the night, and after you’ve both developed a good buzz, you slide out of the booth. You give Sammy a smile and a wave to let him know you think the man in black is alright after all and the two of you head back toward the subway. As you walk, your shoulder brushes Elliot’s, ever so slightly.

  “I’m really glad I quite literally ran into you,” you say, sneaking a sideways glance as the two of you jog down the stairs.

  Elliot’s hands are buried in his hoodie pockets and you can just make out the small smile that crosses his lips.

  “Me, too.”

  “Text me sometime?” you ask as you hand Elliot your phone.

  You watch as he enters his number, his fingers moving almost faster than your eyes can register, especially due to your tipsiness. He hands your phone back and you let out a huff of a laugh as you see he’s already texted himself. A simple, “Hi.”

  Your train arrives at that moment and you give Elliot a small wave as he watches you step through the doors. You take a seat and turn to look out of the window, meeting his eyes once again. As soon as the train pulls away, your phone vibrates and you grin.

  It’s stupid, really, to feel so happy. All he’s sent is a simple message: Goodnight : )

  * * * * * * *

  Over the next three weeks, you and Elliot text a lot, meet up for coffee twice, and then decide to go for drinks at your bar again. The night progresses in a similar fashion to their first night together, but this time, when Elliot walks you to your train, you ask him if he wants to come over.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for the night to end this time,” you confess as you look up at Elliot, running your hand through your hair and biting your bottom lip.

  “Okay,” he says in more of a rumble than an actual word.

  The train ride seems to take twice as long as usual. You sit close together but not quite touching; you’re just close enough to feel the presence of him, to feel the heat of him, and to breathe him in. You desperately want to lean into him, to rest your hand on his thigh, but you know that touching is something of a struggle for him. It’s going to be up to Elliot to cross that line.

  It is a short walk from the subway to your apartment. You live in a decent enough neighborhood where people mind their own business but are still friendly enough to hold a door open for one another.

  As soon as you’re inside, Elliot busies himself by moving around your space, his eyes searching everything and nothing at the same time. It is a small studio apartment so it’s pretty easy to take everything in. You were lucky enough to find a studio with a loft, so the bedroom isn’t currently staring obscenely at the two of them, reminding you of the line that you so desperately want Elliot to cross.

  You take off your jacket and your shoes, happy to finally be barefoot. You go to the fridge and grab a bottle of water for lack of anything else to do while Elliot finishes his inventory of your stuff. Seemingly satisfied, he takes a seat at the barstool on the other side of your kitchen counter, which doubles as a table. He still has his hands stuffed in his hoodie and the hood is up. You’re eyes inadvertently flick to the hood, and he reaches up to take it down, mussing through his hair in that same way that makes your lick your lips every damn time. God, how you want to be the one who fixes his hair when he takes that fucking hood down.  

  “I really like you. These past few weeks have been nice—having someone to talk to,” you say as you twirl your water between your fingers.

  “I’m not very good at this,” Elliot says in a too-loud blunt voice as he looks away, a slight blush coloring his cheeks.

  You laugh softly but stop the instant you see Elliot’s hands twitch up, as if he’s about to pull on his hoodie again.

  You move quickly around the counter and reach out, your hand barely resting on his covered arm.

  “I mean, who is if they really like someone? It’s always weird when you’re deciding whether or not to cross that line.”

  Elliot turns those eyes on you, large and dark in the dim lighting of your apartment, and full of vulnerability. He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath. You’re pretty sure you can hear his heart beating, but then again, maybe it’s yours?

  He turns his body toward you and skims his fingers, light as feathers over your arm before grasping just above your elbow. Your eyes are locked on Elliot’s as you step between his legs, closing the last bit of distance. He looks up at you and uses his other hand to grasp your chin and pull you toward his mouth.

  Your first kiss is soft, hesitant. Your lips ghost against his as you slowly open your mouth more and more until he is the one to slide his tongue past your lips. You don’t mean to, but you let out the tiniest groan of pleasure as you open your mouth wider to his explorations and begin to return the kiss. The heat between the two of you is such a mixture of chemical wantonness and desperate urgency not be alone that it’s amazing neither of you combust.

  Elliot’s hand slides from your chin to your hair and you’re gripping his thigh so tightly as you lean into him that you’re sure it hurts. But if anything, he’s opening up for you, sensing in you the same feelings of loneliness he has buried within himself.

  You move your hand from Elliot’s thigh and from the back of the barstool to place both in his hair. You’ve been desperate to touch that black mess since the first night you saw him remove his hood and fix it himself. His hair is thicker than you expect, but so soft and when you dig your fingers into his scalp and move impossibly close to his body, he moans.

   You pull his head back to angle his gorgeous jaw to your lips. You kiss his chin, moving your lips slowly and softly along his jawline, peppering it with sweet kisses until you reach his earlobe. You close your teeth over it before kissing just underneath his ear.

  Elliot’s hands have moved to your hips and he’s gripping them almost as ferociously as you gripped his thigh.

  You pull back and look at each other, searching each other’s faces for any sign of leftover hesitation. He looks so sexy with his lips just a little raw from kissing, shining with saliva and still slightly parted.

  “Upstairs?”

  Elliot nods and takes your hand as you extend it to him, trailing just behind you as you walk up to the loft.

  “Are you looking at my ass?”

  Elliot laughs, a sweet, short burst of noise that you want to memorize in case it never happens again.

  “That’s how I knew you liked me that first night,” you explains as you reach the top of the stairs and turn to face him. “I asked Sammy if you looked.”

  Elliot smiles as he answers, “You have a great ass.”

  You laugh at his frank reply, and he pulls you into him. He kisses you until you need to pull away to breath and that’s when you knows it’s good—that he’s crossing the line and that it’s a good, good thing.

  He reaches around to grip your ass through your jeans and you grasp his shoulders. He pushes your hips into his and you can feel how hard he is already.

  “Way too many clothes,” you mumble into his neck.

  He steps back and unzips his hoodie, shrugging out of it, the clang of the zipper hitting the floor making the reality of what’s about to happen all the more intense. You pull your top over your head and let it fall from your fingertips. His eyes are taking you in and you enjoy the heat his gaze brings to your core. You reach up and unhook your bra, Elliot’s eyes watching the front clasp spring apart. He steps forward and slides the straps from your shoulders. He reaches out to cup your breasts, his thumbs sliding over your hard nipples. He pulls gently at them, watching your face instead of your body. Your eyes slide shut and you groan at the motion, and he does it again before he trails his knuckles over your stomach and grasps the front of your jeans. He pulls you into his body, encapsulating your lips in a heated kiss as his hands travel over your back, into your hair, and back to grip your ass again.

  You need to feel his skin against yours, so you reach down to pull his t-shirt over his head. You immediately move to kiss the smattering of freckles across his shoulders, your mouth leaving hot kisses from shoulder to shoulder, stopping in the middle to lick at the base of his neck. His body is hot and tight and your fingers are in love with the feel of him.

  You trail kisses down his chest, tweaking his nipples in a motion that mirrored how he had touched yours. Elliot groans and his head drops back as his eyes close. Once you’re on your knees, you pop the button on his jeans and his head snaps back to attention, watching you with those goddamn eyes. You look up as you palm his hard cock through his jeans and he moves your hands out of the way so he can unzip and open his pants, inviting you to touch him.

  You pull his jeans down and off, tugging off his black socks as well. You know you shouldn’t, but you chuckle, low in your throat.

  “My god, you really are the man in black.”

  Elliot shrugs his shoulders in response and you smile as you pull his boxer briefs over his erection and down his legs. He steps out of them and you look up and raise your brow.

  “Impressive.”

  Elliot doesn’t have time to debate with himself on a reply because your mouth is surrounding that impressive length, your tongue cradling his cock as you take in the taste of him. You suck, hollowing your cheeks as you grip his hips to keep him steady. You alternate between slow, torturing licks and engulfing him in the heat of your mouth until his hands grip yours, signaling you to stop. You give a final lick to the tip, enjoying the saltiness of his precum.

  He holds his hands out to help your stand back up, and as soon as you have your footing, Elliot’s pushing you toward the bed. You lie back stretching, teasing him as he looks at your body. He reaches down to open the button on your jeans and unzips them, tugging them off of your legs. Elliot traces his fingers up your legs, pushing them apart. He runs his thumb over your still-under-wear-clad center. He presses on your clit, gently testing your arousal.

  You moan and push yourself into his touch. You don’t care if you sound needy.

  You continue to watch Elliot as he lightly fingers over everything but your clit, and you’re just about to beg as he slides his finger into your underwear and lightly grazes your core. He brings that finger to his lips and slides it into his mouth, closing his eyes at the taste.

  “Jesus Christ, El. You’re killing me,” you pant.

  He smirks, just a quick twitch of his lips.

  “I like when you call me that,” he begins as he reaches up to slide your underwear off.

  “But I think I want to hear you scream it,” he finishes as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks.

  “Fuck! Elliot, El, oh, fuck!”

  Your body is trembling with its need to orgasm and you’re pretty sure that Elliot’s lips are built for the sole purpose of making your come, but you want the first time you come with him to be while he’s inside of you.

  You wiggle away from his face, and he looks up, his lips glistening, his brows furrowing until he sees what you grabbed out of the nightstand’s drawer.

  “I want you in me when I come,” you say, tearing the foil packet open, probably looking a little more like an animal than a seductress but so desperate to feel his cock inside of you that you don’t even fucking care.

  However you looked, it worked for Elliot. His eyes are blown wide and so dark with arousal. He shudders as you push the condom over him, not even giving him time to process the sensation as you pull him by the base of his cock toward you.

  He doesn’t hesitate to slide into your soaking center, both of you moaning at the feeling of him finally inside of you. You tighten your thighs around him and hold him still, relishing in this sensation that only happens once in every relationship; the first time he sinks into you, the first time you experience what it’s like to be sated by this person you’ve allowed to cross the line is a true moment of intimacy that is only ever experienced once in every relationship. Each subsequent time just attempts to chase the high of that very first time.

  You eventually loosen your grip, allowing your body to respond naturally to his. Elliot is slow, methodical, at first. Beads of sweat are forming at his temples and he looks so lost in the feeling of your body, lost, but at peace, like everything in his head is finally quiet.

  He fucks you at that excruciatingly slow pace until you beg him to go faster, harder.

  “Please, El. Need you. Need you so much.”

  Elliot’s hips begin to rock into you, your hips rising to meet his until you create a perfect rhythm. You can tell he’s getting close from the red blush that creeps across his chest and the slight faltering in his pace. He changes his angle so he can watch you as he rubs your still swollen clit, your hands reaching up to grip the headboard as he slams into you.

  “Oh, god Elliot!”

  You cry out as your orgasm finally shocks its way through your body leaving you a trembling mess as Elliot stills himself in you and comes with a groan that sounds a whole lot like your name. 

  He falls half on top of you, careful not to crush you, but you can feel his heart pounding, echoing your own heart’s strong beats. His breathing is deep, but slowly returns to a steady pace. You have your arm flung across your eyes, still steadying your own breathing as you feel his weight shift as he gets out of bed.

  Elliot hisses just a bit as he pulls the condom off. The silence is long and awkward enough for you to remove your arm and look over at him, standing adorably in a state of confusion as his eyes dart around the room. You giggle as you realizes he’s looking for the trash can.

  “Shit—sorry!” You slide over and open the front panel of your nightstand to reveal a trashcan inside.

  He tosses it in the bin and quirks his head at you stating, “You’re very. . . clean. I mean, like, organized.”

  “One of my idiosyncrasies. Why? Are you a slob?”

  “Uhhh. . .”

  “Alright. So, next time, we go to your place and maybe we clean instead of doing this?”

  “Was I really that bad?”

  You laugh and hold the sheet up, inviting him back into bed.

  Elliot slides in and lays his body half over yours. You slide your hands up his smooth back and he dips down to kiss you.

  “You know that was amazing,” you say softly.

And you think to yourself that you could get really used to the feeling of Elliot’s lips quirking into a smile as he kisses your neck.

* * * * *

Note: I’ve wanted to write Elliot for a while, but I’ve never been confident with my characterization of him. I guess I just want happy Elliot too much, so sorry if I’ve mucked it up.

Also, the line, “Fuck me up and drive me crazy” is stolen from the Lil Peep song, “I’ve Been Waiting.”

[curiosity-killed]

almost like memory

@bbtree first off: thank you so much <3 and also thank you for accidentally giving me an excuse to wander off into a Shallura genre I don’t normally touch (ngl I had to make myself stop bc otherwise I was never going to get it posted - so fingers crossed, there may be more to come!)

————

His colors are wrong. Under the fluorescent lights, everyone becomes washed out and green-tinged, like they're half-human, half-hologram. The group leader had apologized for it at their first session, explaining that the church didn't have the money to upgrade to the new system that illuminates most the city. Attendance has dropped off over the years, and now more people enter for these support groups than for Sunday services. If she had to guess, it's only the state funding for these groups that's even keeping the flickering lights on.

The lights aren't the problem with him. It's something deeper, bigger: his hair's too dark or there's something missing in his face or his green t-shirt is the wrong shade. He should be in black. She brushes the thoughts away with a shake of her head. This is the first time she's ever seen the man, and they haven't even met yet. Just another delusion, mixing streams. The doctors have assured her that it’s normal, that though she can’t remember it, she still has a past locked away inside her, and occasionally her subconscious might let a little slip through and muddle her new reality. He introduces himself as Ryou Kurogane, and it’s wrong wrong wrong. The intensity of her conviction is stomach-churning, nearly nauseating. She can’t get it to shut up. He smiles at her when it’s her turn to introduce herself, and she smiles back reflexively before she remembers to duck her head, let her hair fall in a dark curtain between them.

Words don’t come easily to her. She doesn’t know if that’s new or if it’s always been that way. The doctors weren’t much help; they don’t like to talk about her past at all, even if they know it. They say it isn’t conducive to healthy recovery, to establishing her new identity. 

After the session, Ryou – not Ryou, wrong wrong wr— stays to help the group leader fold up and stack the chairs along the side. She finds herself lingering, reluctant to leave. She doesn’t know why, exactly, just that there’s something drawing her to stay. To keep close to him. She’s fussing with the water cups, flimsy little biodegradable things, when she hears him step up close. “Hi,” he says. She startles at how close his voice is, and when she turns, he raises his hands in apology. There’s something not quite right about them. They’re too similar, identical creases in his palms. She shakes it off. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “You’re Romelle, right?” Somehow, the name the doctors gave her sounds even more wrong in his voice. Her lips twitch up in what’s meant to be a smile but comes out closer to a grimace. “And you’re Ryou,” she says. It doesn’t sound better in her voice either. “That’s me,” he says, pushing his hands back into his pockets. His shoulders curve in with the motion, as if he’s trying to narrow himself, bend himself into a smaller space. He’s taller than her. She’s not sure why it surprises her, except that she thinks he wasn’t always. Isn’t always. That makes no sense at all. It’s not like their heights could change. “Sorry, you just – you seem really familiar,” Ryou-not-Ryou says. “I – uh wanted to say hi.” “Oh,” she says. Surprise ripples through her – and relief. It’s a foreign thing, distant, as if from someone else. “I uh – I’m – I’m sorry, I was in an accident a few months ago and don’t remember – much.” The words stumble out of her mouth, tripping and falling over each other all out of order. She winces when they land, regret rushing through her before she can shut herself up. “Oh!” Ryou says. “I – I know how you feel.” She stares, waiting for the second half of whatever joke this must be. “I was in an accident, too. Amnesia, everything before is just – blank,” he explains. It seems almost too perfect to be true. How could they wind up with the same story? But there’s nothing but sincerity in his voice and gaze, and something deep in her chest says he wouldn’t lie. Not about this. Not to her. “Oh. That’s – I’m sorry,” she says. He gives a little shrug with his left shoulder as if to brush off the apology. The smile he offers her doesn’t reach his eyes, just pulls up one side of his lips. “Sounds like we’re in the same ship anyway,” he says. A funny way of saying it, but she manages a smile in response. There’s something worming up her chest, words half-formed in her throat. “Do you wanna get a bite?” He looks almost surprised by his own words, as if he hadn’t meant to let them escape. She feels the same when she answers without a conscious decision. “Yes.” They wind up in a little diner half a block down from the church, a quiet little Akubari place that uses an outdated waitstaff model, the kind that would have been popular when Allura was young. It’s all blank, but she spent hours researching them one night, watching videos of their jerky movement and listening to recordings of their little trills and beeps, in case someone brought up nostalgia for them around her. They haven’t yet, but when they do, she’s ready. She’s prepared with a whole set of pretend memories so she’ll have a chance to connect with this future stranger, a chance to imagine a shared experience. He orders tea and grilbeck with mango and she settles on water and a thick yellow soup. Learning – relearning – her own tastes over the last few months has largely been too daunting a task to expend much effort towards; she's grown used to the food that's cheap and easy, sandwiches and pre-packaged dinners. She's not sure she likes them exactly, but figuring out how to live without a past, without an identity or network or any kind of supporting structure, is exhausting enough that sometimes she just wants something to be easy. Food is a simple enough opportunity for that. “I don’t think I’ve ever tried Akubari,” she remarks. At least not in the last three months. Maybe the other her, the past her, had. “One of my neighbors is from Akubara, actually,” he says. “They kinda got me hooked on it.” There’s a sheepish tone to his voice, as if he’s almost embarrassed by the admission. It makes her smile, her nerves inanely assuaged by the description. She doesn’t really have neighbors – or, well, there are people who live in the apartments beside and above and below hers, but they don’t talk. She’s seen maybe two of them out and about in the building all told. “I’ve heard their food culture incorporates a great deal of sharing,” she says. “Yeah! Drufbila just showed up at my door one day and ushered me in to the dinner table like I was their cousin or something,” he laughs. “Their mom kept fussing over whether I was eating enough, of course.” She breathes out a laugh at that, struck by the image of the great tentacled Akubari prodding him to take just a little more of each dish. Next to their towering, amorphous forms, his lean frame probably would seem underfed. It warms her to know someone, at least, is looking out for him. Weird. She shakes the thought away, disguises it as amusement. “What about your neighbors? Any nosey grandmas there?” he asks, leaning his cheek on his hand. The motion curves his body towards her, shoulders and waist twisted as if to block out the few diners sitting in the rest of the restaurant. His attention is a gentle thing, like sunlight or — Ridiculous. The sun hasn’t been seen through the smog here in decades. She’d have to have been off-planet to have an idea of what sunlight felt like, and surely, then, someone would have been there after her accident. No one traveled alone, not that far. If she ever had, there would have been someone to notice her missing, someone to seek her out. “Oh, no,” she says. “I’m afraid my building mostly keeps to ourselves.” “That’s a shame,” he says, a sympathetic twist to his lips. “Can’t help with–” He flicks his hand up in a little gesture towards his head, and she shrugs. “It can be a little lonely,” she concedes. Before he can ask more, their food arrives on the creaking arm of their servant and is slid onto their table in three jerky pushes. Her soup nearly slops over the lip of the blue bowl with the motion, and she has to steady it with her hands. Finished, the robot gives a happy little beep, and he reaches out to pat its head. “Thanks, bud,” he says. The robot rolls away with a contented little three-note trill. He turns back to her with a little smile and lifts his fork. “Bon appetite,” he says. “Buen provecho,” she answers, from somewhere she doesn’t quite recognize. He grins, still, and she can’t bring herself to question it when that smile is so unmuddied, so clear and easy. “You wanna try some?” he offers, gesturing to his plate with the fork. Orange glaze covers the blue of the grilbeck meat, turning it almost green, and mango slivers stick out of the flesh like oddly colored spines. It’s pretty, in its own way, even in the yellowish light of the diner. “Sure,” she agrees. “Want some of mine?” They wind up with the dishes in the middle of the table, snagging a bite from each plate with equal frequency. It feels…familiar. Comfortable. Like this isn’t the first time they’ve done this. She recognizes something in his expression when he takes the first spoonful from her soup and cants his head, considering. She’s seen that look before, seen the thoughtful way he savors the bite before swallowing and giving a thumbs up. Partway into their meal, conversation resumes once more, and comes back to them as easily as sharing. “Yeah, I have Doctor Honerva, too! That’s so weird,” he says. “How have we not bumped into each other at her office?” She shakes her head and licks a bit of mango glaze off her bottom lip. His gaze drops to follow the motion, just briefly, before flitting back to meet hers. A flush starts, warm pleasure rising in her cheeks. “It’s quite a coincidence,” she agrees. Maybe that’s where she remembers him from – maybe she’s seen him in passing and those memories have become conflated with those locked away from her. “Maybe we’ll see each other now that we’ve met.” “I’d like that,” he says. There’s a warmth to his gaze, a steady sincerity in his tone, that makes her duck her head. This is the longest she’s spent with anyone aside from her doctors since waking to a cold white room three months ago. It’s getting to her head, surely. She’s not sure she minds. “Me, too,” she agrees, meeting his gaze. The moment stretches between them, soft and welcome. She could make a home in this moment, in the gentle way he looks at her, in the pleasure in the soft curve of his lips. For the first time in months, she feels warm. Safe. A four-note beep announces the robot’s return, breaking apart their quiet. They split the check and head to the door. It’s started raining, the drizzly kind that leaves the whole city stinking of wet concrete. For once, it doesn’t bother her. It’s barely a footnote next to the chapter that this evening has become. He pauses outside the door, hands back in his pockets, shoulders bowed inward. “I’m down that way,” he says, nodding in the opposite direction of her apartment. “I’m afraid I’m the opposite way,” she says. Do his shoulders slump? Maybe she’s just looking for signs now. “I – I’d really like to see you again. If you want,” he says. He bites down on the inside of his bottom lip, watching her intently. Warmth flushes through her, up to the tips of her ears. She smiles and only barely keeps it from beaming. “I’d quite like that, too,” she admits. “Here, why don’t we trade numbers?” At that, he seems to light up from within. He straightens out, broad shoulders squaring back into their full breadth, and he pulls his phone from his pocket immediately. Surprised delight radiates through his entire being as he unlocks it and flips through to the right screen. Watching him through her lashes as she does the same, she can’t suppress the feeling that this, for once, is right. This is what is meant to be. Somehow, impossibly. They trade numbers and say farewell with smiles, and when she glances back over her shoulder as she walks away, she catches him looking back as well. They both laugh, as if at themselves, and give a little wave before continuing on their way. When she gets home, she’s greeted by a grave-like apartment and her treatment unit sitting ready on her end table. She stands in her doorway, considering the machine. It’s simple, easy to use. Back at the hospital, there’s a much larger version, but this one was specifically designed for home treatment. She’s supposed to use it every night, to help her brain heal. It always leaves her feeling numb, grey. Like it strips the color from her day and replaces it with a fresh coat of waiting-room-off-white. Normally, that isn’t much of a problem. Her routine is simple and largely emotionless. Painting over it is like laying a layer of grey over ninety other layers of nearly the same shade. Today, though – she wants to keep today. She wants the gentle gold of his attention, the soft grey of his eyes. The colors aren’t quite right – but at least there are colors this time. There are shades and hues she doesn’t know she’s ever seen or felt. It’s not what the doctors told her to do, but she doesn’t want to sacrifice them this time. She doesn’t want to cover up the silver flecks in his eyes with matte. The unit is tucked neatly in her bathroom cabinet, and she settles into her blankets with a strange feeling of satisfaction. That night, she dreams impossible things. She dreams of space, unfurling in feathery nebulae with tendrils curling purple and red around newborn stars. She dreams of machines, great ships and weapons that soar through the edges of the universe. She dreams — of him. His warm eyes, his fierce dedication. His hands, one flesh and one metal, cradling her jaw like something precious, like something to be adored. His lips are soft when they press against hers, his heart beats steady and strong against her palm. His voice aches when he speaks, a single word that is a prayer, a plea, a promise – “Allura,” he says. “Allura, Allura, Allura.”

[mr-entj]

Can you talk about the quality(ies) or trait(s) that contributed most to your success? I read about your adversity and I want to know what is your personal mindset of getting through those challenges.

Combined with the following asks:

Hello, Mr. ENTJ. Have you ever been depressed? How did you manage to come out of the rut and find the will to live on? I realize that this is a personal question, and you don’t really have to answer but it’d help in understanding different paradigms and help someone who else who is struggling. Thank You

Related answers:

What do you think is required from a person to succeed ?

Dealing with failure and overcoming adversity

What are some of your top habits that have helped your success? What are some habits in your life you think you need to change?

Did the qualities you’ve mentioned (emotional self-regulation, mental fortitude) come naturally to you? Was it something you had to develop? How can I develop them? Thanks for dedicating your time to this blog. Helped a lot.

The answer is grit (resilience). I have an abundant supply of resilience that’s carried me through a childhood rife with crushing poverty, domestic abuse, physical danger, health crises (hip reconstruction, cancer), rejection, failure, and all the in-betweens that life threw at me to get to where I am today.

To develop and maintain grit, there are 3 core values carved into my soul:

1. “I am not a victim, I am my own hero.”

This stops spirals of self-pity and feelings of helplessness. This creates hope and courage. This reminds me that while I’ve been on the receiving end of some awful events (I mean, truly, ridiculous shit), I still have within me to change my circumstances– then I do it.

Poverty? I put myself through school (I paid 100% of my own tuition, no help from my parents– not a single penny– for undergraduate and graduate school), grinded through 6+ years of studies to graduate from 2 elite universities at the top of my class, hustled through my career, and now I’m wealthy. My parents never have to worry about money again, ever, my wife is taken care of, my daughter is spoiled rotten, my vacations are booked, my bank account is fat, my stock portfolio is cruising, and my career is skyrocketing. I have clothes on my back, a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and a smile on my face.

Physical danger? I fulfilled a lifelong dream to move my family out of the ghetto, buy our parents a home a few years back, and they now live in an affluent neighborhood within a gated community.

Health crisis? I saw the best physicians available, ate healthy, exercised, and continue to take care of my health to the best of my ability. I’ve recovered, I’m well, I’m healthy, I’m cancer free, I’m pain free.

There are many things in life that are unfair and out of your control; but how you prepare for the worst, plan for the best, and respond to those circumstances are in your power. That’s where you need to step up and shine. There will be amazing people along this journey that will help by providing advice, encouragement, and support but at the end of the day they have their own lives to live, their own problems to solve, and their own mountains to climb so you must always be your own advocate. You can’t hitch a ride on their wagon because they’re not going where you’re going. This is your ship and you are the captain, it’s your responsibility to steer it in the right direction so master the things within your control.

2. “Tomorrow will be better.”

This helps with impatience when progress is slow and fights off doubts and despair when changes don’t come as quickly as I want. This creates discipline and consistency. I always tell my wife, the INTJ, after every setback that “I feel like something good is waiting for me around the corner. I don’t know what it is, how it’ll come, or when it’ll come, but I feel it.” And it inevitably does as long as I show up, give 100%, and keep working towards my goals.

“Tomorrow will be better” helps me take things step by step because I have the tendency to look a hundred miles down the road and cringe at the distance still left to travel. I’ve repeated this over and over again, through my crap retail job at Target, through being a janitor scrubbing toilets in the mall, through my long hours cramming for the MCAT, through high stress in my consulting job, and so on and so forth. 1 day becomes 1 week, 1 week becomes 1 month, 1 month becomes 1 year, 1 year becomes 10 years, and suddenly we’re in 2019 and I’ve graduated from my dream schools, I work in my dream job, I’m married to my dream girl, I drive my dream car, and I’ve traveled to destinations around the world I used to only dream about.

Confucius wasn’t playing around when he said “a journey of a 1000 miles begins with a single step.” It won’t be an overnight thing. If your goal is to lose weight, then you’re not going to do 100 push-ups today and get a six-pack tomorrow. If your goal is to raise your grades, then you’re not going to read a chapter and magically get a 4.0 GPA tomorrow. I didn’t snap my fingers one day and suddenly my dream life appeared at my doorstep the next morning. That’s not how it works. However, if today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow is better than today, then those wins will add up over time until you finally get to where you’re going.

3. “You’re going to have to kill me to stop me.”

This is not an exaggeration, this is a fact. This creates tenacity and stamina. You may be smarter than me, you may be taller than me, you may be richer than me, you may be more handsome than me, you may be better than me in every facet but you are not going to outwork, outhustle, or outlast me. Period.

Learn to fight like hell.

This is a mentality I take towards every goal I’ve set because it keeps me alert, prepared, and responsive to seize opportunities as soon as they pop up. I always tell people around me whenever we’re working on their goals to “be ready” because if you’re ready, then you don’t need to waste time getting ready. Opportunities in life fly by in a blink of an eye like a job posting that opens and closes because you didn’t have a resume prepared, a scholarship perfectly matched for your background that got away because your grades weren’t high enough, or the love of your life that gets away because you weren’t available when you two crossed paths. Be ready and stay ready so when the opportunities present themselves you can immediately seize them.

I achieve this by being in constant motion in my life; I am reading, I am exercising, I am traveling, I am working, I am mentoring, I am meeting new people, I am growing relationships with the people I already know, I am perfecting my craft, I am expanding my network, I am learning a new skill, I am building my knowledge, I am recharging, I am reflecting on my life, priorities, mistakes, and next steps– I am improving every single day and I don’t stop. I stay insanely busy, which you might’ve noticed if it’s taken me 6 years to respond to your ask or Tumblr message (my bad), with meaningful things that add to my life. I move with purpose, I work like I’m possessed.

The United States Armed Forces has a saying:

“Everyone wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.”

There are many people in this world who fall short of their full potential because they aren’t willing to work or fight for what they want. They hit a little speed bump, lose heart, and give up, but with a little digging it becomes obvious they didn’t try hard enough to push through the barriers. I worked 3 jobs from 3AM to 8AM and 12PM to 10PM while taking classes to pay tuition and rent, I scrubbed toilets, I bussed tables, I lived on packets of ramen for weeks because that was the only food I could afford, I studied by flashlight, I slept in my car, I walked to work in the rain when I couldn’t afford gas, I studied from outdated textbooks in the library because I didn’t have the money to buy or rent new ones, I attended every career recruiting event, I showed up at office hours to every class I struggled in, I chased every tutoring session until I understood the subject matter, and I was always the first one in and last one out of the classroom or the office wherever I was. I always fought for it. I exhausted every option so that even if I failed, I could sleep peacefully knowing I had done everything in my power to succeed, I had closure that I did my absolute best.

And that’s how I did it.

That’s how a scrappy kid born in poverty in the slums of a third world Southeast Asian country, raised in an unstable home, and burdened with too many challenges to list, became educated, graduated, elevated, and gainfully compensated. To not only survive in life, but to thrive.

[tokupedia]

Celebrating 55 years of Cyborgs on 009 Day 2019!

Cyborg 008

Real name: Albert Heinrich

Powers: Some degree of super strength and armor plated synthetic skin, a built-in radio receiver in Albert’s brain for communication with his teammates. A living arsenal of built in weapons including: a cybernetic right hand with machine gun muzzle fingers that can fire 6.5mm caliber bullets or homing energy lasers (God’s War). A left arm armed with an large electromagnetic/laser blade (Call of Justice), built in knife, and another gun that fires needle energy projectiles similar to the ones used in the Super Gun. Elbow joints contain surface-to-air homing missile launchers (seen in the 1960s films but rarely brought up), knee joints contain rocket launchers which are mainly equipped with Anti-Tank Missiles. Lastly, 004′s body is equipped with a compact nuclear bomb as a last resort suicide attack. (Though given the post-Fukushima mentality of Japan in recent years about atomic energy, this ability has been quietly edited out of recent modern productions or just mentioned and never used)

Shotaro Ishinomori was occasionally observing the politics of the world during the 1960s and the splintering of Germany was one such minor topic when it came time to create one of his cyborgs.

Albert was just a man who wanted a better life with the woman he loved in a place far away from his splintered homeland. He tried to cross the border of West Germany to an unknown destination, only for tragedy to occur as he was shot and his fiancé was killed when trying to run past the border patrol. Black Ghost operatives found him and dragged Albert to their secret lab to be the fourth 00 model cyborg. His flesh body was severely damaged, so anything that was broken was torn off him and discarded (there’s some nightmare fuel for ya) and replaced with cybernetic parts. 

As a result, Albert is the most mechanical of his 00 brethren in terms of components. This affects him psychologically, as he is melancholy, cynical and hates his body as he sees himself as a modern day Frankenstein’s monster. Despite this he has developed insight on humanity and is warm and caring towards his friends. Older depictions saw him as a bitter and angry man with a lust for violence towards Black Ghost. At his core though, he is the big brother of the team and looks out for his surrogate family, acting as first line defense and heavy artillery against armored foes, cyborgs or vehicles such as tanks.

In the 1970s, Germany’s younger generations realized the full ramifications of their nation’s Nazi past. Some were appalled and made strides to do what they could to ensure future generations would not repeat the same mistakes by showing them what happened and making old ruins of concentration camps into museums to mourn and remember those who died there thanks in part to a US documentary in 1979 bringing it to light. A smaller group of others however, had a more twisted view of things, believing they would have ruled the world if things didn’t turn out the way they did. Adopting old ways and taking up arms to “avenge” old Germany to the way Hitler would have wanted. In other words, Neo-Nazis. Elsewhere, some of the old Nazis were facing trial after being on the run for decades until they were finally caught in what had been one of the longest war crime trials in history, the Majdanek Trials, which was slowly winding down.

In one episode of the ‘79 anime series, Ishinomori and writer Susumu Yoshikawa took a bit of those then current events to the forefront and had Albert return home after 15 years to go on a mission on behalf of Dr. Gilmore. What started as an assignment to recover research on an organic metal material called Wagnium becomes a fight for his life as he battles Neo-Nazis who have one sinister plan in mind...revive Hitler with Wagnium as an evil immortal and indestructible cyborg! Albert is appalled upon hearing this and in his rage manages to foil their plans, eventually resulting in history’s most evil human being’s corpse being incinerated to ash. He also lays waste to the Neo-Nazis with his cyborg firepower. Even in later incarnations, Albert has ZERO tolerance for Nazis and prides himself as German born in a modern context.

Albert also proved once his humanity was stronger than his machine parts once when facing an evil robot clone of himself that could calculate his every move. The Robot 004 had advanced versions of his components and was stronger, and Albert tried to fight back despite his outdated tech.

Then, Albert saw a nest with baby owlets during the fight and saw they were falling off and went to catch them. The robot, expecting a counterattack, became confused as it could not predict this outcome in its cold machine programming. While the ‘bot 004 struggled with the concept of caring for the lives of others, the real deal came back swinging and finally destroyed it. Proving that humanity is more than the sum of its parts. 

While his origin is a bit dated, recent entries show that Albert was around during that time and is essentially ageless, permanently looking like he’s 30 years old despite now being almost 90.  

Whatever the future holds for Cyborg 009 in the next 50 years, we can be glad that this machine man with a heart is at the front of the line protecting his fellow heroes!

[lifeinahole27]

CS ff: “On the Two” (Chapter 1/9) (au)

Summary: He’s one bad trip from ending up in AA, and she’s one performance away from a solid job and moving closer to home. Their paths were unlikely to cross until Camp Hope brought them together. How and why they meet and intertwine is against the odds, and definitely against the rules, but will that really stand in their way? A Dirty Dancing inspired modern au.

Rating: E 

Content Warnings: Borderline alcoholism, very brief mentions of past relationships, mentions of the loss of a limb - this fic is primarily tame but I’ll do my best to tag anything that might need tags. 

Chapter Specific Warnings: Alcohol use, past injury mentions

A/N: Holy. Shit. I’ve finally found a minute to post chapter 1. Hoping to stick to a Thursday schedule for posting, and I can’t wait for you all to see this unfold. 

I have to give shoutouts and love to three very important people to this process. @initiala sent this over a year ago:  look i know you're busy and have a lot of fics, but just hear me out: CS Dirty Dancing AU. So. Now you know who to blame/thanks, like I’ve been doing! To @phiralovesloki for the heaps of emotional support and handholding when I needed it. I can’t imagine my life without you in general, let alone my writing process. And of course, my beta, my dancing expert, my sanity: @captainstudmuffin. Thanks for all you do for me, from proofreading to slapping me into action. I’m sure we’re even on boob punches... for now. 

Catch it on FFN & Ao3!

Welcome to Camp Hope!

About Us

Years ago, Ruth Nolan operated these camp grounds as a haven for children to explore the fruits of the Earth and come into their own. For fifteen years, she oversaw the summers of thousands of children, all in need of the room to grow and eager to learn the skills of the outdoors.

In honor of Ruth’s hard work, we’ve re-opened the camp to those who still want to learn about the wilderness, explore the rich terrain that this coastal Maine property has to offer, and take the classes you’ve maybe not had time to take in the past. It’s not all outdoors, either! Our staff is composed of very talented individuals that are available to teach you almost anything, from dancing to the arts, yoga and fitness routines, as well as anything you’d expect from the average camp of summers past. You’ll enrich your body and mind and connect in ways you never have before!

A summer camp for adults may seem like an outdated or unconventional thing, but here at Camp Hope, we aim to improve the memories you may have of summer camps long past, or make new ones if this is your first time. Plus, now is your chance to try things like zip-lining without getting a consent form signed! There are plenty of perks to trying new things when you’re old enough to decide for yourself.

Please check our FAQs and pricing packages; your stay can be as short as a week or as long as the whole summer. Our accommodations range from your own private cabin to our brand new, hotel-style lodgings. We welcome you, and hope you’ll enjoy your experiences!

Sincerely,

Snow and David Nolan

Owners, Camp Hope Ltd.

-x-

Sifting through the mail on his table, Killian tosses the pamphlet for some kind of camping place into the stack to be thrown away. It joins the myriad of advertisements and coupons that he doesn’t bother to look at or ever use. Besides, if it’s a camp marketed towards adults, it’s likely something religious or a thinly veiled addiction recovery facility, and while he’s probably edging along the lines of alcoholism, he’s damn well not there yet.

There’s roughly a week’s worth of mail here, as it’s been a couple days since he’s even thought to check his mailbox, but he’s sure Liam will be up his arse any day here to go over his finances. If he makes it look like he’s been keeping things in order, Liam is less likely to give him his Worried Brother speech this month.

He sips at his coffee, pausing just a moment to pop two painkillers before resuming his sorting. When he’s hungover, the phantom pain where his left hand should be is stronger, and today is no exception to that. He hasn’t bothered to put on his prosthetic, content instead to leave it off until he has to go into public.

Days like this, though, he has nothing but time to mindlessly sift through his queue and get day-drunk. It’s been ages since Killian can remember going more than two or three days without a drink. That doesn’t stop him from unscrewing the top of his favorite brand of rum when he pours the second cup before he settles in to watch Netflix. He sprawls across the couch, happy as he ever can be to live off the settlement over the accident that cost him his hand.

There’s a bar down the street that he visits when he needs personal interaction, and if he’s lucky there might even be a woman willing to help with even more personal interactions. That’s what last night had been – him in the bar until closing, a brunette that he can’t remember the name of giggling as she pulled him towards her car. A short while later, a cab brought him home, alone, with a little less dignity than he had before.

The sound of a key in the door announces Liam’s arrival before the man himself calls out a greeting, and Killian is minimally glad for the distraction from the road of self-pity and/or loathing that he was about to embark down. He knew there was a good reason to starting his sorting today. He stashes the bottle of rum beneath the coffee table again, running his fingers through his hair real quick to tame it down.

“Ah, you are awake. Excellent. I thought we’d set your bills straight, and maybe head out for some lunch. Breakfast? What meal are you on?”

“Let’s just call it brunch. Eat first, bills second,” Killian declares, sending his spiked coffee one forlorn look as he realizes he’ll have to go get dressed and act like a responsible adult for a few hours. He takes one more gulp before taking the mug to the kitchen to dump it out.

He’s in his room for just over five minutes, using food as a motivator to get him out the door sooner. The shirt is mostly wrinkle free, and he thinks the jeans he slides on are clean, so he’s at least presentable and won’t have to deal with Liam’s tongue-clicking. He makes sure to snag his sunglasses off the entryway table before ushering his brother out the door. Had he taken much longer, Liam surely would’ve declared that the bills looked quick or manageable, and they’d take ‘just a minute more’ to complete. As it is, he can see his piles have been tampered with, straightened and organized to his brother’s preferences, as he glances back on his way out; he timed it just perfectly.

Halfway through eating, Liam takes a sip from his water before placing it back on the table, steepling his fingers as he rests his hands on the table. “I’ve just had a thought,” he says in a way that really gives away that he’s been sitting on this for a while now. “How would you like to get out of town for a while?”

“When? How long?” Killian asks, preoccupied by the task of trapping all the toppings on his sandwich. He hates using his prosthetic to eat, doing his best instead to wrangle the whole thing with his right hand while his left arm stays beneath the table.

“Over the summer? We could make an adventure of it. Maybe go back home, visit the relatives. It’s not like you’re doing anything here. As my own boss, I can afford to take some time off. We go, we live a little, return in the fall as new men. What do you say?”

The prospect of getting out of the city, away from everything that holds painful memories for him, does sound appealing. Spending the whole time with his brother, however, tarnishes it just a touch. It’s not that he doesn’t love his brother, but Liam has a tendency to be… a little overbearing.

Of course, for a long time after Killian’s accident, Liam probably had every right to be. He’d just lost a hand, for fuck’s sake. Coming just after the loss of his fiancée probably didn’t help, either, but Killian was deep in a hole of depression for so long he wasn’t sure he was ever going to see the surface again. Now, he’s not so much depressed as he is resigned to this life, unemployed due to disability, living off the accident settlement, and drinking away his feelings as often as possible without officially becoming an alcoholic.

The thing is, Liam’s overprotective shadowing of Killian’s life is nothing new. He’s been this way for as long as Killian can remember, and since Killian can only half remember a handful of instances with either their mum or their dad, it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibilities that Liam feels more like Killian’s father than his older brother. Still, every bird has to fly the nest sometime.

And Killian did for a bit. He flew, and was so close to having everything he wanted in his life – a job doing a craft he loved, a woman that he intended to marry and grow a family and home with, and still the taste for adventure on the tip of his tongue if he ever chose. But all good things come to an end, in his experience.

First was Milah’s passing. Her brief but destructive illness soaked up all their life savings, leaving Killian with a broken heart and empty pockets. He didn’t care about the money, and why should he? He lost the reason he was saving it in the first place. He could earn it all again, but he’d never have Milah back. And then, shortly after, as he helped wrap up a custom boat build for a wealthy client, something went wrong. He still doesn’t remember exactly what happened, just that one minute he had a left hand, and the next he didn’t; it really was that simple.

“I’ll think about it,” Killian finally says, abandoning the hand-held option for his food and dropping it back into the basket it came in. He stabs at the pieces of it with his fork and considers the offer. He will think about it, too; he’s not just saying so to change the conversation back to footy and traffic patterns. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten away. He’s set for life on a permanent vacation if he so chooses, but a change of scenery would be welcome at this juncture of his life.

The idea marinates all while they finish their meal, and the whole walk back to Killian’s apartment. He’s so hung up on the possibilities involved that he doesn’t even complain as they sit down with his meager stack of bills. He signs when he’s told to do so, with no remarks about the tedium of the task while they work.

By the time the afternoon is wrapping up, Killian has made up his mind. As Liam stamps the last of the bills and puts Killian’s checkbook back where it resides, Killian speaks up. “I’ve thought about your offer to get away for the summer. Might not be such a bad idea, after all.” He keeps his tone light, nonchalant, hoping that Liam won’t catch on that it’s something he might genuinely be excited about for the first time in longer than he can recall.

“Excellent. Leave all the planning to me,” Liam says as he stands and throws the trash into the bin. “I’ll send you a packing list when I’ve finalized the plans and we can meet up again to get everything squared away for a couple months out of town.”

With a shrug, Killian extracts himself from the couch in order to see his brother out since all their business is complete. In his distracted state, he misses the gleeful look on Liam’s face; it’s an expression his brother was infamous for as they were growing up and meant that Killian was about to be served a life-lesson, and he likely wasn’t going to enjoy it very much. But he’s so lost in his thoughts about all the places they may go – both familiar and new – that he bids his brother goodbye and settles back in for his slightly interrupted day of Netflix.

He doesn’t even slip more rum into his glass until after he’s had his dinner.

-x-

Emma Swan is just as much a part of Camp Hope as the camp is part of her. For the last fourteen years, Emma has been making the journey of varying lengths back to the campgrounds; it’s something a lot like flocking home for the summer, and she’s made the trip from right in Storybrooke – the tiny town closest to the camp – and from as far as Tallahassee, all those years ago.

This year, she’s traveling from just outside Boston along with her roommate, Ruby. While the stories of their upbringings are vastly different, Emma and Ruby have been two peas of a pod since Emma’s first trip.

Back then, she was journeying to Camp Hope as part of a foster kid outreach program. It was two glorious weeks that she and twenty-some other foster kids got to go to someplace new, rather than waste away in a group home or get shipped off to bible camp again. She was fourteen, and while some of the crafts and activities were aimed at kids much younger than her, she still sat at the table and made bracelets, tie-dyed a shirt and bandana, and participated in capture the flag with water balloons like it was her first time, but that’s mostly because it was.

At the campfire that night, Ruby plopped down next to her, showing her the “right” way to toast marshmallows and offering to put red streaks in Emma’s hair so they could match.

Emma passed on the streaks, but the next day when Ruby dragged her to a special meeting for future counselors, it was all history from there. More than just finding a way to spend her summers that didn’t involve wallowing in her own loneliness and isolation, Emma met David Nolan during the counselors program. Upon picking up bits and pieces about her, David decided to introduce Emma to his mother. As soon as Ruth met Emma, she was set on bringing her on as a permanent fixture in their lives.

Having previously thought that she’d never find a place that wanted her, a place that wanted someone old by foster standards and jaded beyond reason, Emma was shocked. Not only was she wanted, she was loved. Despite the three year age difference, and the short time they’d been together, David became her best friend and brother, with Ruby a close second.

There was a shared passion of dancing between Emma and Ruby, and when they weren’t raking in the volunteer hours during the summer, they were saving every penny they earned from their respective guardians to take dance lessons one town over. And that’s the way it went until they graduated.

Remembering what happened after graduation always leaves Emma with a pit of shame in her stomach that feels a lot like indigestion, so when she wanders to the kitchen, she pops two antacids before starting up the coffee maker. It used to be worse, but time heals all, even wounds that don’t feel like they’ll ever scab over.

It’s time for their annual trip back, just two days away, and Emma has too much to do to spend her morning in a guilt trip over things that happened in the past. Instead, she wanders down the hallway to get Ruby up. There’s a whole list for her friend to complete today, and she’s pretty sure she’s also battling with a hangover from being out too late the night before.

She knocks, only twisting the knob and entering the room after hearing the faint groan of invitation. “Hey there, champ. Good morning!”

Ruby groans again, struggling to push her eye mask off her face and groping for the pain killers and water on her nightstand. She’s one of those drinkers that’s always considerate to her morning self – something Emma has always been in awe of. “You’re not the morning person, stop sounding so chipper,” Ruby instructs after drinking down half the water. She hauls herself to sit up, patting the edge of her bed for Emma to sit down. “What’s on your Snow-style agenda for the day?”

“I’m going to clean. You’re going to wrap up the sub-let on the studio space. Graham is supposed to be down there around noon, so you’ve got time, but I need you to grab the costumes we’ll need for performance nights.” She leaves Ruby to get herself out of bed, and calls out that she’ll get breakfast started.

“Don’t break the toaster!” Ruby calls from behind door that Emma closes on her way out, and while Ruby can’t see Emma rolling her eyes, she knows her friend will sense it. It was one time.

Leaving for Camp Hope has always been a little tumultuous for them, but after this many years, Emma thinks they’ve gotten a little better at it. There were a few years where they weren’t going back to work camp, and those are the years that make Emma’s heart ache most – more than the year she refuses to think about.

They closed the camp when Ruth’s health suddenly declined the year after the year-that-shall-not-be-named, and Emma and David only made the journey every week to tend the growing weeds and mend the deteriorating buildings the best they could. With Ruby’s help, they were able to keep the camp from falling apart, but the same couldn’t be said for them. Ruth passed the winter after Emma turned twenty, and she lost the closest thing to a mother she’d ever found.

Luckily, they had one more to hold their family unit together. A year after Emma met him, David met Mary Margaret Blanchard, better known to her friends as Snow, and Emma got to witness fairytale levels of Love at First Punch between them. Down the road, the wedding was a bit rushed, so that Ruth could watch her son get married. Years after the quick engagement and marriage saw them going stronger than ever.

For two years, the camp remained closed, but David and Snow, thanks to an off-hand comment from Emma, decided to reopen the beloved summer camp as an experience for adults. It took a whole other year until they could renovate everything up to standards, but it was worth it. The first year they opened again, it was so profitable and the waitlist was so long that they were easily able to expand and enhance the experiences.

Shaking her head, Emma realizes she’s spending way too much time reflecting and not enough time moving. Down the hall, she hears Ruby’s water start up, and knows she has until the time the taps shut off to get that woman some hangover worthy breakfast. Pouring herself a large mug of coffee, she takes three deep, scalding gulps to get herself going.

She’s just plating up some eggs and bacon, snatching a bagel from the toaster so Ruby can construct her own breakfast sandwich when the roommate in question comes ambling into the kitchen.

This is Emma’s favorite version of Ruby. Stripped of her makeup, without a product in the world in her hair post-shower, wearing an old t-shirt and boxers for her pajamas. Her usual persona is an elaborate mask, with the heavy makeup and killer manicure, flirtation just as exposed as her long, lean legs normally are. The short shorts and low-cut tops are standard everywhere but at home. That’s the Ruby that will likely crawl into her car bright and early in a couple days, but today she’s happy to spend time with average Ruby, and she’s happy when she does not break the toaster again. There are small miracles, after all.

When both of them are settled at the breakfast bar with their food, they start talking strategy, both in prep for leaving and for camp itself.

“Are the costumes for the Waltz demo here or at the studio?” Emma asks as she alternates sips of coffee and bites of her pop-tart.

“The studio, I think. I’ll grab them when I meet with Graham and lock up everything else of ours.”

“Good. Don’t sleep with him this time, okay?”

“No promises,” Ruby says, a wicked grin spreading across her lips even as she tries to hide it behind her coffee mug.

At the very least, they might get a deal on the rent again, which is the only consolation Emma can think of. The rest of their day is a whirlwind, with Ruby taking care of the studio and Emma tidying up their apartment. She packs the bulk of their non-perishable foods to take with them, cleaning as she goes, until the whole kitchen is spotless. She also takes the time to write down the instructions and emergency numbers for Aurora, their downstairs neighbor that’s been kind enough to take care of their plants and fish while they’re gone.

It’ll be weeks until either one of them can make it back to the city, if they do at all, but Emma doesn’t mind. While she loves Ruby and living in the city, she gets her own cabin for the summer. They converted one of the old lodges into a dance/yoga studio, located just a short walk along the west trail from the main lodge. Behind said studio, they relocated one of the cabins and refurnished the whole place to act as the dance director’s housing for the summer. Thankfully, Ruby likes to throw herself into a multitude of activities, so she bunks in the staff cabins up the hill and leaves Emma to have her solitude.

Mostly, all that means is that no one will know that she’s in the studio putting in extra hours. Maybe this will be the year she can quit hunting down bail skippers and be able to focus on nothing but dancing. She can always dream, at least.

Ruby stops in only briefly to drop off a case of their costumes and check in, taking the time to change into a date dress and do her hair and make-up. She gives Emma a wink before she leaves and tells her not to wait up, before disappearing in a flurry of stiletto clicks and perfume. She doesn’t get home until late, when Emma is already tucked in her bed hoping to fall asleep. Her friend is humming and heads straight for the shower.

Emma’s not a bit surprised two days later when Ruby announces that Graham decided to pay more than they originally negotiated, and laughs at the wolfish grin on Ruby’s face as they throw their bags into the backseat and boot of the Volkswagen Bug that Emma’s had for years. They’re actually running on time for once, but Emma doesn’t expect that to last long, especially when, after only an hour, Ruby announces that she’s famished and starts calling out the name of food places they pass.

The trip to Storybrooke, on the coast of Maine, is one of Emma’s favorites. The scenic views from Boston onward are ones she’s familiar with, but that still lift her heart. The trip is only four hours if they don’t stop, but with Ruby’s pea-sized bladder, and her bottomless stomach, it’s more likely they’ll get there in five hours… if they’re lucky.

One year, it took them almost twice as long to make the journey because Ruby was chasing down the International Cryptozoology Museum and her cheap-o GPS meant that the museum (which was on the way) eluded them for hours until Emma screeched that they were done looking and if Ruby really wanted to see it, they’d find it on the way home.

They found it on the first try on their return drive, and Ruby bought her the biggest cone of Rocky Road ice cream they could find at a nearby ice cream stand, to make up for the original disaster.

This job that they do, this ability to go up and demo and teach dances to the souls that will wander through the paths of Camp Hope, is only possible because of the popularity of the camp. The first year, Emma and Ruby would switch off every two weeks, with Ruby piling all her lessons into the two weeks she was home and Emma trying to catch ask many bail skips as possible in between her own lessons and classes. When the popularity of the camp became apparent, they were able to rent out their studio space to a few other dance teachers in the area while they took the whole summer to attend to the camp. It helps that David is able to pay them, and pay them well, for their time and energy.

Along the way, Emma has met the heartbroken and the heartbreakers, she’s met dreamers and lovers, she’s taught cynics and optimists, and she’s danced for every person in between. The two of them together have dealt with perverts and assholes, handsy men and women who don’t take “no” for an answer, and people who have gone on to contact them once the summer ends to continue their lessons in the city. It makes it all worth it, these months away from all the comforts of home, to spend their summers in another version of home.

Plus, thanks to an excellent network of friends in Boston, they never want for anything from home if they forget it. It’s all just a PayPal and overnight shipping away, really.

As Ruby climbs back into the car from their third rest stop, this thought comes in handy. “I left my favorite performance shoes by the door,” Emma groans out as her friend seatbelts in and starts the car.

“Good, because I forgot to grab my sleeping pills off my nightstand,” she says, grinning quickly and dropping the sunglasses back onto her nose.

“I’ll text Aurora now.”

With the promise of a package imminently to be sent their way, Emma relaxes as the last of their journey passes by outside the windows. She zones out to the sights, not perking up again until they hit the Storybrooke town limits. They’ll top off the tank and stop in to see Granny for lunch (second or third lunch by Emma’s count) before heading up to the campgrounds. Her car crawls by each familiar sight, and Emma smiles at the simplicity of it all – the never-changing nature of their sleepy little town. While she only officially lived in Storybrooke for three years, it’s still the only place she’s ever called home.

Granny is already outside by the curb when they pull up, and Emma takes a minute to let Ruby climb out of the car to reunite with her grandmother. It’s only after she sees their hug loosen up that she opens her door, languidly stretching as she unfolds herself from the passenger seat. Then it’s her turn for Granny to gather her up and hug her so hard that Emma’s back cracks. She won’t complain, it definitely eases the travel tension to get a hug from Granny. They’re ushered inside the small diner the elderly (and boy, would be lose her shit if Emma said that term out loud) woman has run for the last billion years.

“When should I expect the first package from your neighbor?” Granny asks after their lunches have been set in front of them.

Ruby laughs, not even ashamed of the fact that they’re so predictable that her grandmother knows they’ve already left something behind.

“We’ll be back in town over the weekend to get it,” Emma answers.

“I already saw one of the trucks of shipment head up to the campgrounds,” Granny remarks as she refills Ruby’s coffee cup. “Your brother has been up there for weeks getting everything ready.”

“Please tell me he’s at least eating.”

“Snow has badgered him back home a couple times now to eat and sleep, and she picks up meals on the days they decide to stay up there. Sounds like you’re gonna have a full camp most of the summer.”

“That’s the plan,” Ruby says, beaming before she takes the last bite of her sandwich.

Emma waves them both off when they move to go into the back for more family time. It’s not that she and Ruby don’t get to visit ever, it’s just that the stretch between Christmas and camp time can sometimes feel like much longer. The same itch resides just below her skin – the need to see her brother and sister-in-law so strong that she almost slips away before she’s done eating and leaving Ruby to hitch a ride out later with one of the counselors that lives in town.

Instead, she idly swirls her onion rings through her ketchup, taking her time with making sure every crumb is gone from the plate while she waits. She glances around, waving to the familiar faces in the booths and at the counter beside her, and she grins at the large board already propped near the entrance that loudly welcomes the campers to town. Since the grounds are two miles north of Storybrooke, many will pass through on their way. Some will stay overnight in the bed and breakfast while others will stop for a bite and a fill-up before continuing on to Camp Hope.

Thankfully, the business that the camp brings to the town will mean that the owners of most, if not all, of the establishments will have their pockets lined for months to come, making the onslaught of guests and visitors worth it when the summer ends and they go back to something less than a speck on the map of Maine.

Ruby and Granny are back a short time later, while Emma is idly catching up with a sweet yoga teacher that goes by Tink. The name is fitting of the cherub-faced woman with the perfect curly bun of blonde hair on top of her head. She’s new to the staff, but not to the town, so Emma is happy to listen to her excitement bubble over as she discusses all the classes she’ll be teaching for the next few months.

“A little help?” Ruby asks, and Emma finally glances up to see her friend’s arms laden down with several bags of what Emma assumes are home-cooked meals, prepared in advance and packaged for the crew that’s already working on getting the grounds ready for the summer. She moves around the counter to take a few of the cloth totes, waving farewell to Tink as they head out.

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly; they use the main entrance to deliver the food to Snow, who’s waiting for them beneath the welcome sign when they pull up. Emma hugs her tight before transferring two of the bags to her. They make the short trek down to the main lodge where Emma gets to give her brother his own hug, tight and bracing and full of the warmth she misses when she’s away from him for so long. With lunch delivered, Ruby and Emma head back up to the car to move it to the staff parking.

The lodges they’ll each be staying in are much closer to their hidden lot than they are the main entrance, which works out well when they’re unloading enough luggage for four months, and maybe a kitchen sink or two. It takes them three trips up and down the steps leading to the lot: one to Ruby’s space in the staff lodges, one to Emma’s private lodge, and one to the studio itself.

Emma wastes no time turning on all the lights and stepping up onto the vast wooden floor. There are mirrors lining one wall, floor to ceiling, and another has all the cabinets where they store their costumes and gear. The wall opposite her reflection has windows spaced evenly apart, which she immediately starts working open even as Ruby brings in the last tote of their stuff. The air is a little stagnant, but flipping on the overhead fans will get it moving again.

Ruby drops the last container with their gear, rushing out to choose her space and start unpacking as soon as she can and promising to come back later to help get the studio in order. Emma waves her off, already itching to have the space to herself. Her muscles are practically begging to be warmed up, to take advantage of the wide open space that calls her name.

She knows she needs to clean first; the mirrors and windows all have that faint tinge of grime that comes from a long winter of neglect. The air conditioning unit needs to be tended to, as well, and tested to make sure it’s in working order before the summer starts in full. Then there’s the cleaning and organizing and stocking and… and Emma doesn’t care. She rips open the first bag she finds and pulls out leggings and a sports bra – they’ll do in a pinch. She changes quickly before skipping along the path back to the studio.

It’s only a matter of time before she’s selected something with an upbeat tempo, thankful again for the auxiliary port that allows her to play her own music from the impressive sound system. She sits on the dusty floors for a moment to slip on a beat up pair of practice shoes and lamenting again how she’ll have to turn her focus to cleaning next.

She takes her time stretching, making sure to work out all the kinks from the drive up and getting her muscles and body all warmed up. As soon as she’s on her feet, she’s running through swing patterns that she can do on her own. Through lines of sailor shuffles and slides, she dances using the whole dance studio, going from one end of the spacious floor to the other. She doesn’t get this much room in Boston. She doesn’t get this solitude. She doesn’t get this freedom. Maybe this is the real reason she loves coming back to camp so often, and there’s probably something in her psyche to deal with in those regards but it’s nothing she’s willing to look too closely into.

By the time the playlist switches to something for cooldown, Emma has worked up an impressive sweat. She grabs a towel from the same bin she found her shoes in, wiping down her face and neck before dropping back to the floor for final stretches. Placing the towel on the floor, she stretches out briefly, staring up at the ceiling and watching the fans whirl peacefully above her. This is it. This is home for the next couple months. And nothing will change how happy she is to be here.

With that thought, and a beatific smile, Emma changes back to her tennis shoes and hauls herself off the floor. There’s hours of cleaning ahead of her, after all.

Chapter 2

[breakingbadlikeaboss]

Lokane Week - Serendipity

My submission for Lokane week 2018. This will be a continuous mini-fic, with each chapter consisting of a different prompt. Story is post Ragnarok/beginning of IW. Enjoy!

@lokaneweek

Serendipity

Chapter 1: Science and Magic

Jane Foster was never one to believe in fate, destiny, or predetermination of any kind. She was a scientist, and as such, could not allow herself to indulge in such fantasies. To do so would be childish and laughable, and to believe she played a part in some bigger plan was ridiculous. She had to believe that her future was in her hands, otherwise she might as well give up now and let whatever was to become of her happen.

Jane Foster refused to believe that she had no control of her life and her future, but on a crisp fall day in New York, and in the weeks that followed, she found herself questioning her sanity, her beliefs, and even the very fabric of science itself.

It was a Tuesday in October, she remembered it clearly because Darcy had brought tacos for lunch. Only three things in Jane’s world were constant; death, taxes, and taco Tuesdays with Darcy.

She’d felt it then, as she listened to Darcy talk about some new guy she was seeing, and Erik complain about how much hot sauce the fast food place put on his tacos. It was a burning sensation that seemed to run through her bloodstream. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was strange all the same, like a combination of pain and pleasure that left the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck standing on end. Her breath hitched and she instinctively covered her wrist where the sensation had begun.

“Jane?” Erik asked her, concern in his tone. “Are you alright? You look pale. Jane?”

She shook off her shock, and tried to nod at Erik. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just tired, that’s all.”

Erik scrutinized her for a moment, before letting the matter go. The rest of lunch passed uneventfully, and when they went back to work in their S.H.I.E.L.D. issued lab, Jane threw herself into her equations, trying to forget the strange sensation that ran through her veins. She didn’t quite succeed, but was able to fool Darcy and Erik enough to get through the day.

The ride home was uneventful, for which she was thankful. S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided her with a small one-bedroom home outside of the city. She had a cute little yard, and a garage that she had transformed into a small laboratory. As a result of her addiction to science, she regularly parked her car outside on the driveway and walked across her lawn to get in the house. When it wasn’t cold or raining it was fine, but occasionally when the weather was unpleasant, Jane cursed her life choices.

The weather was pleasant on that Tuesday in October. The leaves fell in mass from the single oak tree on the manicured yard, and the neighborhood was silent except for the occasional passing car or barking dog. As soon as she shut the car door, the sensation she had felt earlier was back.

Pleasure bordering on pain burned through her blood. She gasped at the sudden onslaught of it, her hand immediately covering her wrist once again. A chill ripped through her following the burning sensation, and she shivered. Suddenly, it was over.

The astrophysicist stood in her yard rubbing her wrist, and wondering what the hell had just happened. Maybe she was ill as Erik had insinuated. Perhaps she needed to go inside and sleep it off. Surely she would feel better in the morning.

Jane trekked across the yard to the front door, and was surprised to find it unlocked. She could hear the television from inside, a nature documentary about snakes of the Amazon playing.

She could have sworn that she turned the television off before she left for work that morning, and had she really been so careless as to leave her door unlocked?

Jane proceeded with caution. She grasped her car keys in her hand, prepared to use them as a weapon if she needed to. She opened the door slowly, careful not to make any noise, and crept through the outdated living room. It was empty, though the television and lights on suggested that someone had been there recently.

She crept into the kitchen swept the area for any sign of intruders. When she saw him, she froze, her blood running cold.

Loki sat at her kitchen table, decked out in his Asgardian armor, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. His boots were propped up on one of her chairs, and his green eyes fixed on her intently, a smirk curving up at the corners of his mouth.

Jane was stunned. Her mind warred between shock that he was alive and sitting at her kitchen table, thankfulness for him for saving her on the dark world, anger for New York, and a desperate need to claw his eyes out with her car keys for breaking and entering the sanctity of her house without so much as a phone call.

She opened her mouth to speak, and the only word that came out was “YOU!”

Loki smirked, and opened his mouth to respond, but she was already on him. Jane ripped the coffee cup from his hands, and pointed it angrily at him.

“This is my coffee,” she stated like a petulant two year old. She kicked the chair out from underneath his boots. “This is my chair. And this is my house!” She sounded ridiculous, and not at all intimidating, even to her own ears. She threw her hands into the air in frustration. “Why are you even alive?”

Loki, looking not at all shocked by her outburst, remained calm. The smirk on his face grew wider, and when he spoke it was with an air of sarcasm.

“I can see that you are just as thrilled as I am that our paths have crossed again, Jane Foster,” he drawled slowly, his voice like velvet on her ears. He looked around, disgust settling over his sharp features. “Believe me when I say that I would not be in this hovel were it not out of necessity. And if you are so fond of your coffee and your chairs, then you will be pleased to see that I have already prepared a cup for you, and there is chair in which you can sit, if you so desire.”

Jane noticed that there was indeed a second cup of coffee sitting at the opposite side of the table, the steam rising from it and filling her nostrils with the bitter aroma.

“I’m not here to harm you or cause you trouble,” Loki continued, his voice softening minutely. “I just want to talk. Please, sit.”

Suddenly, she felt very silly. Jane sat Loki’s coffee cup down in front of him, and took a seat across the table from him, her fingers wrapping around her own cup of blackened Folgers.

He didn’t speak, but his green eyes traveled over her, mentally dissecting every feature and facial expression with care. She felt almost bare under his sharp gaze, and she found her own eyes fixated on the stern line of his thin lips.

She felt heat rising in her cheeks, and she took a sip of her coffee, hoping hide it, but Loki’s knowing smirk told her otherwise.

“Why are you here?” Jane asked from behind her coffee cup, desperate to get his thoughts elsewhere. Loki’s smirk quickly turned into a frown, and his brows furrowed in anger. “I spent much of the afternoon scouring your black box for news reports, and found none concerning - “

“You mean my television?” Jane corrected. His reply was scathing.

“Yes,” he spat. “It would seem Midgard is so inferior that even reports on the state of your realm must be fed to you through a tiny black box, and even then you are still oblivious to the enemy on your doorstep.”

“English,” Jane demanded. “And skip to the point. I don’t have all day.”

If looks could kill, she would be dead. His green eyes narrowed dangerously, and his hands curled into fists on the table. “Careful of your words, mortal,” he snarled. “I could kill you with merely a snap of my fingers - ”

“But you won’t,” Jane finished for him, growing tired of his attempts to intimidate her. “Just like you couldn’t let me die on the dark world, you won’t kill me now.”

He looked like he wanted to strike her. The muscles in his jaw tensed, and he stood his knuckles turning white from the pressure he held on his fists. His eyes bored into her, hatred burning through them. For a moment, Jane felt fear. Perhaps she had taken it too far.

“Thank you,” she breathed. He froze, the anger bleeding from his face into confusion. “Thank you for saving me. I never got the chance to tell you before.”

Loki drew in sharp breath and blinked in surprise. His fists uncurled and she thought she saw the slightest tremor in his hands as he lowered himself back down to a sitting position. He made no further acknowledgement of her words. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee and schooled his features into neutrality.

“I’m here because we share a common enemy,” Loki finally said. “A being that goes by the name of Thanos attacked the only remaining Asgardians. Thor and I alone survived. I faked my death and escaped.”

Jane nearly spit out her coffee in surprise. “What?” she gaped. “What happened to Asgard? Where is Thor if you’re here?”

Loki sighed. “That is a story for a later time. The important matter at the moment is that Thanos is too powerful for Thor, or your precious Avengers to stop,” he continued. “He intends to destroy half of all life in the universe, so we are all in danger. That is why I am here.”

The astrophysicist felt laughter bubble up in the back of her throat. It spilled out, and Loki raised a brow in uncertainty as she giggled like a school girl.

“You are aware that I have no special powers whatsoever, right?” Jane laughed. “If Thor isn’t strong enough to fight this Thanos, what makes you think I can do anything to help you?”

Loki pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes. “I don’t intend to fight Thanos using strength,” he explained slowly, as if to a child. “I intend to outwit him.”

Her laughter stopped, and she wiped at her eyes with the back of her palms. “How exactly do I fit into this?” she asked.

“You nearly built a working Bifrost by yourself on a realm with no magic,” he said simply, raising his head to meet her eyes. “Your science is impressive, even to beings who have mastered magic and traveled the realms. I have the ability to jump, moving my physical self wherever I please through the universe, but I cannot break the rift between space and time. I was hoping that you could help me with this.”

“Wait,” Jane mused, her fingers curling around the handle of her coffee cup. “You’re talking about time travel.”

“Precisely.”

“But that’s impossible,” she explained, biting her lower lip. “Scientists have tried for years and are unable to build any sort of functioning prototype. It’s just not feasible.”

“The scientists you speak of did not have magic,” Loki pointed out matter of factly.

“And you think magic will make a difference?”

“I do.”

“And you think I can build this?” Jane asked skeptically. “Why not just find one of the scientists who’s actually tried to build a time travel machine?”

“Because those scientists did not almost build a working Bifrost on a realm with no magic,” he replied simply.

Jane felt a grin stretch across her face. “Was that a compliment?” she teased.

Loki smirked. “Take it as you wish, Jane Foster. I’ve chosen you for this alliance, if you feel you are up to the task.”

Jane watched him for a moment, the easy smirk on his face making his features seem carefree. His green eyes looked over her again, but this time they were not critical, only observing.

To strike any sort of alliance with him would be dangerous. She should tell him to leave, and forget any of this ever happened. Instead, she found herself asking the one question that had been on her mind since she’d found him sitting at her kitchen table.

“How did you find me?”

A genuine smile spread across his face, and without warning, he reached out and wrapped his hand around hers.

Jane froze. Her mind screamed at her to pull away and run, but she couldn’t. A burning sensation spread through her veins, bordering the line between pleasure and pain. She gasped, and felt Loki lace his fingers in between hers as she shivered.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he hummed, his voice barely above a whisper. He moved around the table so that he was less than a foot away from her, his green eyes demanding her attention. “The power left over from the Aether. It burns through you like fire, like a drug you shouldn’t want, but you do.”

He squeezed her hand, and she took in a sharp breath. “No one understands,” Loki continued. “Your friends don’t understand. Thor didn’t understand. That’s why you left him, wasn’t it? He couldn’t understand why you’re never satisfied, why you wake up in the middle of the night from dreams of power, a burning hole of need in your chest that nothing will fill because you’ve tasted that power, and you crave it.”

“I understand, Jane,” Loki told her solemnly. “I understand, because I’ve felt it too, and I feel it in you just as clearly as I feel it in me. That’s how I found you.”

He released her hand, and she took in a few sharp breaths, the remains of the Aether setting her blood on fire from his touch.

Loki watched her, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only indicators he’d felt anything at all.

“Well Jane Foster,” he inquired, his mask of neutrality back on. “What is your choice? Will you help me build a time travel device?”

He held out a hand to her, palm upwards.

Jane placed her and in his, not knowing that she would change the course of her life forever.

[soyforramen]

Saints and Sinners, or A Reflection of Veronica Lodge  

(Cross posted on AO3)

xxxx

Veronica Lodge was no saint.  Her life was not devoted to preaching the good word, to doing good deeds, to helping those in need. She would never be a tragic figure, offering up her life so that others could live. She’d never been touched by the holy spirit, though she did let Antonio kiss her after Easter services in seventh grade.  

If she had been a saint, she would never have stood by while her father destroyed so many innocent lives.  She never would have been so willfully ignorant of his sinful ways.  Divine intervention would have graced her with the means to convince her father that fraud was abhorrent, greed a vice, theft a sin.  Veronica would have been able to call upon St. Joseph to guide her father’s hand towards saving the community rather than destroying it in the pursuit of wealth.

After all, Joan of Arc was only 13 when she’d had her first vision of the heavens.  At 13, Veronica Lodge’s only visions were of Prada, and Milan, and Hermes.

Her father’s deeds should have stayed in the past.  Her father had been sentenced and, according to the greater state of New York and the United States Federal government, had served his time and repaid his debt to society.  Hiram Lodge emerged from the federal penitentiary a free, penitent man, absolved of his sins through graft and bribery, like the Medici’s of yore.  (Graft and bribery were only sins in the eyes of the Lord.  Here on earth it was nothing more than another day at the office for Hiram Lodge.)

It had taken her a year and a half to come to terms with what her father had done.  That her father was nothing more than a human made of flesh and blood.  He was no god on earth, as she’d believed as a child.  He was no longer a figure to idolize.  He was corruption in human form, good only for destroying lives in the pursuit of wealth, with little regard for the fallout.

And then he’d come back home.  Her father, the man who raised her, who taught her right from wrong.  The man who’d tucked her in at night, the man who’d snuck her lamb empanadas during Lent, the man who’d taught her how to drive on the busy streets of Manhattan.  The father who claimed to love her.  

The father who showed his love with material goods and luxuries.  Those present that, as she grew older, began to feel more like a bribe.  Like a chain and a cage.  Presents that felt more like guilt, presents that sent waves churning in her stomach as she wondered who’d been bankrupted to pay for the string of pearls around her neck.

When he’d returned, it was so easy to slip back into her old life of ignorance and frivolity.  So easy to let him return to the role of protector and father.  He brought financial stability back into their lives.  He brought security, safety against the Serpents, the Mob.  Against the Black Hood.  He brought normalcy back into her life while the town and everyone around her had fallen apart.

It was so easy to plead ignorance of his misdeeds.  Plausible deniability, after all, was the creed of all Lodge women.

Because Hiram Lodge was, after all, still her father.  And Veronica had been tired of fighting against her past self and learned behaviors.  She’d spent so long trying to be good for others, to be better for others.  With her father’s arrival her old life slipped back around her like a tailor made gown, snug and secure.  And she let herself pretend that he was repairing the broken ties between them, pretend he wanted to help the town.  He’d made friends with Archie, as he’d promised.  He’d offered her a better Riverdale, a better life than what she and her mother had without them..

And Veronica Lodge was never one to easily resist temptation.  

She was no angel.  There were no wings on her back, no halo adorning her head.  Gospel and godly words did not tumble from her lips, though gossip often did.  She looked nothing like the angels that adorned Abuela Lodge’s walls, those blonde cherubs with milky white skin sent to bring good tidings to the unworthy people below.  

In one of their few stolen moments together, Archie had whispered into her hair and called her his guardian angel, his hope against the coming darkness.  The words twisted deep, the adoring words quickly turning to sharp knives of guilt.  Her father had been the one to do this to Archie, and all because she’d refused to act the demure disciple.  

When she thought about what her father had done, what her father continued to do, it hurt.  It hurt even more to think of what little she’d done to stop him.

She’d left the Andrews’ house soon after, the tears falling from her eyes masked only by the rain.  She’d wandered for a while, still unable to return to the penthouse suite where her father lurked.  Instead, she found herself at her home away from home, at the restaurant she’d bartered from the Devil himself.  It was a place she found pride in despite her aching feet and throbbing back.  Every article of clothing she owned now carried with it a hint of used grease and cooked onion no matter when it was washed.  It was a smell that brought her pride to know she was able to work this hard to save something she loved.  It brought her hope that maybe, just maybe, she and Archie could make it out of this town alive.

And now she had returned to her home away from home, the second place in this god-forsaken town she actually felt safe in after the Andrews’ home.  She stood in the entryway, soaked to the bone and unable to stop her tears.  This late at night no one would care about her appearance.  It was populated with late-night long-haul truckers and insomniacs jacked up on Jingle Jangle and coffee.

And, of course, Jughead.  Still picking away at his novel about the darkness that seemed to shroud Riverdale.  A novel that continued to warp and twist with the morbid happenings of the town around them.  A novel where, she was almost certain, she’d become the villain.

She took a step towards the back office, but he’d already seen her in her smudged mascara and dripping hair, such a far cry from her normal composed self.  In a surprising show of concern, he nodded to the chair next to him.  Slowly, she walked towards the seat, knowing he’d be the last person in this town to want to hear her troubles.  After all, she’d been the one attempting to gas-light him, the one trying to convince everyone around them that he was full of conspiracy theories and slander against her father.

Conspiracy theories that turned out to only be a scratch on the surface of her father’s machinations.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out when she was close enough for him to hear her.

His hands jerked away from the keyboard.  He turned his full attention towards her, surprised.  “For what?”

For a long time she couldn’t answer.  A thick, sticky glob of pain and guilt stuck in her throat, trapping all the words should should have said months ago, all the words she’d wanted to say before.  Unable to tumble from her lips, her words transformed into more tears.  Veronica collapsed onto the stool and cried onto the diner counter.

Jughead, typical male that he was, shifted in his seat, unable to do anything about her distress.  Perhaps that was why she’d taken the seat next to him. They were close enough to know what the other was talking about, but not close enough for comfort.  He gave her the space she needed, the space she hadn’t known she wanted.  

When her tears began to dry, she lifted her head only to find a coffee cup, still steaming, had been placed in front of her.  She wrapped her hands around the heat, hot enough to verge on painful.  He handed her a napkin and she dabbed at her cheeks.  For once, she didn’t care who saw her out of makeup.  

“Latent Catholic guilt?” he asked.

She didn’t know if he was serious.  She didn’t know if he was serious about anything other than Betty, and Archie, and his Serpent friends, really.  

But his words reminded her of all the masses she’d missed since moving to Riverdale.  Of the comfort she took in the rote, prescribed rituals that only changed by its own accord.  She’d never been the religious type - too independent, too strong-willed for the outdated views on the world, humanity, and women - but she liked the familiarity of knowing what to do and when.  

No matter how much the world changed, the Church held fast to its belief and faith in an immutable, infallible higher being.  Faith in a father figure that wanted the best for his flock.  Faith that he’d lead her to greener pastures, that he’d care for them and protect them against sin.

But just like her own father figure, the price of rebellion was almost greater than one could bear.

Veronica cleared her throat and sipped at the coffee.  Her throat was raw, sanded down by the screams she choked down daily so no one could hear.  Warped by the fear and hatred and anger.  At what, exactly, she was still figuring out.  She only knew that most of it was directed at her father.

“I suppose so,” she said.  “I am sorry, though.  For not believing you about my father.  And what he was doing to Riverdale.”

Next to her, Jughead shrugged.  His fingers moved across the keyboard, sure of where they landed.  When they stilled again, he spoke.  “I get why you didn’t want to believe it.  I’ve wanted to believe a lot of what my father’s said.  Doesn’t mean it’s forgotten.”

“Or forgiven,” Veronica said softly.  

As long as she lived, she didn’t know whether this was something she could forgive herself for. She’d had the ability, the opportunity to sound the cry, to prove her parents were doing ill, to alert the proper authorities.  And yet she’d made herself comfortable and nested in their ill-gotten gains, selfish and secure that she was untouchable.

The coffee was gone, and her words had fled.  Jughead continued to write, and Veronica didn’t know if he’d even realized she’d left.  She didn’t know if anyone would realize if she left this town besides Archie and her mother.  She’d burned so many bridges this past year it was as if she wanted to create her own personal hell on earth.

That didn’t mean things couldn’t change, though.  That she couldn’t work to fix what she’d destroyed.  Even if she was never forgiven, if she was never trusted again, she would try.  

No, Veronica Lodge was no martyr of yore.  She was not ready or willing to throw herself on the funeral pyre that Riverdale was becoming.  She was not able to lay atop the slow, smoldering embers of a town crumbling in on itself.  She could not, would not cut off her nose to spite her face, no matter how just the cause may be.

Veronica Lodge was not an angel, never a saint or martyr.  Veronica Lodge was, through and through, a human with everything that meant.  She was a human who made mistakes, who made bad decisions.  Quite often she’d backed the wrong horse.  She was a human who’d watched her idols fall from grace, the gods on earth turn into flesh and blood like her.

She’d never be able to wash her hand of the blood her father had spilled, of the lives ruined by her family’s greed.

Veronica Lodge was no saint.  But she was human enough to try.