#gauche: COVER UP WOMAN

[mishy-mashy]

Incorrect (Grey Deer OC) quotes (context is this post)

Extra context below:

Ellia (OC) emcee'd a date auction she and Yami arranged after Julius blew the squad's budget

OC is learning the spoken language. Her level of proficiency is a tell in terms of story progression

She lived with Owen for a period of time

Tags mention Nacht's shtick in the story (maleloser)

Nacht is not a Grey Deer knight. He just keeps getting dragged into their messes

"Ellia" is a placeholder name. It sounds kinda pretentious, so "Ellie", "Elle", and "Elles" are nicknames

They found Nacht drunk once. He threw up on Ellia's brand new shoes that were just gifted to her. Shoes are important to the common folk

-

[Character summary of Grey Deer fic]

Owen: This is Ellia. She has no idea what's going on 85% of the time due to the language and culture barrier.

Owen: This is Nacht. He can't run to save his life due to his chronic smoking, and his physical inactivity leaves him weaker than a little girl. Owen: This is Morgen. Morgen can outdrink Yami and Nacht. He likes carrying his friends like princesses.

Owen: This is Yami. He likes being carried like a princess.

Owen:

Owen: I'd say Ellia needs better friends, but this is literally as good as it gets.

-

Nacht, with a recipe card he got from Ellia: Next, add in a splash of vodka.

Nacht: *upends the bottle*

-

Ellia: What's that?

Yami: Chocolate.

Ellia, not knowing that word: What's chocolate?

Yami: Oh. No wonder you're so bitter.

Morgen: Yami!!

-

(While planning the date auction)

Ellia: We need a way to lure in customers...

Morgen: Maybe we could have some fun, interactive events!

Yami: Nacht bath water.

Nacht: Do you want to die?

-

(Context: OC is learning the spoken language)

Ellia: What does “baka” mean?

Nacht: Moron.

Mereoleona: Idiot.

Yami: Stupid.

Morgen: Everyone, stop.

Ellia: ???

-

Ellia, joking: Yami, can you imagine someone actually liking me? Where are their standards?

Morgen: *standing behind her with roses*

Mereoleona: *holding a box of chocolates and a puppy*

Nacht: *has balloons and a gift bag*

Yami: This is just sad..

-

Gimodelo, standing in the destroyed kitchen: How did you summon me?!

Morgen, frantically flipping through a cookbook: I don’t know!! You were supposed to be chicken soup!

-

Ellia: Hey, can we stay at your base tonight?

Mereoleona: Why?

Ellia: Nacht messed with a magic item and cursed ours.

Yami: And he doesn't know how to banish spirits, so he's just throwing salt at them and yelling "DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A HOTEL TO YOU?!"

Ellia: And Morgen's calling for an emergency family meeting, so that's also fun.

-

(While taking Nacht home)

Ellia: May I have the concern? (Translation: Should I be concerned?)

Yami: Well, when Nacht gets drunk, he either gets depressed or tries fighting the first person he sees.

Morgen: But didn't he just see his reflection?

Yami, grinning: Exactly.

Nacht: *crying because he punched a shop window*

-

Owen: *Turns on the kitchen light*

Ellia: *sitting cross-legged on the table, eating cookies*

Owen:

Ellia:

Owen: *Turns the light off*

-

Nacht: And when you see her, give her this face.

Nacht: *smiles*

Nacht: She'll know what it means.

(Later)

Asta: Oh, the vice-captain told me to show you this!

Asta: *smiles*

Ellia: Oh. He's gonna kill me.

-

Morgen: Okay, what does A stand for?

Ellia: Arson.

Morgen: Wha... N-No. Okay, what does B stand for?

Ellia: Barson.

Yami: *laughing*

Morgen, slowly becoming more desperate: What about C?

Ellia: Commit arson.

Nacht: *eating popcorn*

Morgen: D?

Ellia: Don't come near me, I'm going to commit arson.

Yami: *more laughter*

Nacht: E!

Ellia: Ellia wants to COMMIT arson!

Yami: *starts wheezing*

-

Ellia: Any questions?

Nacht: Yeah—WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

Yami: Dude, chill, I know it’s weird, but Elles has a point.

Morgen: I agree, Nii-san, you shouldn't be so quick to judge without at least trying it out.

Nacht:

Nacht: THAT WAS LITERALLY JUST A CIRCLE!!

*Later*

Nacht, plan finished successfully: Okay, I see it now.

-

Nacht: Has anyone told you how pretty you are?

Yami: Wrong person. That only works on Elles, put your hands behind your back.

-

(After Nacht threw up on her shoes)

Yami: I told you to call Elles pretty in your apology.

Nacht: I did.

Nacht: *sobs* I said she was pretty ugly.

-

Nacht: I thought you guys would be dealing with my bullshit.

*Yami, Morgen, and Ellia currently evacuating civilians from an attack on the town*

Nacht, being used as a warp mage: Not the other way around.

[dragon-communion]

Alright, headcanon time about the Carian siblings and their romantic (and otherwise) pursuits:

Ranni always assumed she would have the most choice, both as heir apparent to the throne of Liurnia and an Empyrean. While even a queen might marry for pure political advantage, an Empyrean is a god-to-be and her husband would be a potential Lord. Needless to say it would be a bit gauche for someone to choose a goddess's husband for her, even if she had no intentions of ever fulfilling the role.

That said, I absolutely headcanon that during the long process of psychologically and politically hogtying Liurnia, Radagon was exactly that gauche and ensured Ranni was betrothed to Godwyn. All things can be conjoined, after all, and why shouldn't the Moon and Sun be companions?

Marika never liked loose ends and Ranni would be just far enough from her sphere of influence to constitute a potential problem. Marrying the Lunar Princess to the golden scion of Leyndell could solve that problem.

Ranni was so busy investing in forbidden magics and the manipulation of flesh that she never really thought much about what kind of partner she'd choose before one was foisted on her, and then she was too busy being offended.

By contrast, the sons of Caria knew exactly how expendable they were in terms of marriage proposals. Sons cannot claim power the way daughters can, but they could marry into power. The only reason neither of them was ever married off was mostly a lack of suitable matches and their mother's preoccupation, their utter lack of political threat to the Golden Order, and the fact that Ranni couldn't care less if the two of them became lonely old biddies.

Rykard is a man of diverse tastes and a uniquely inventive mind. I'm extremely sure he was quite content with a string of bedwarmers and vague thoughts of settling down just long enough to stuff some poor woman with a kid before thoroughly ignoring her. Rykard needs someone who can match his freak, and is also the type of arrogant to be very sure no one ever will. Tanith essentially hit him like a wrecking ball and he's been utterly besotted ever since he realized she was serious about wanting to watch him torture heretics. Ranni seriously thought Rykard was going to kill this woman as some kind of depraved and unthinkable sex act, the way he'd been staring, nobody expected wedding bells.

Radahn is a strange mix of both. He very much likes the idea of feasting and maidens. He understands what knights and squires get up to and why. But it's all abstract, really. He likes glory and valor and legends, all celebrations of masculinity and by extension virility, but. It's as if the story isn't complete without such things, rather than out of any personal attraction to comely shapes. Legendary warriors are supposed to be covered in women and romp long into the night. There's a rumor among the Redmanes that the only thing to set his blood racing is a good fight, and why shouldn't that be the case? The battlefield is where true legends are forged. He's tried bedding folks off and on over the years, but it's not half as interesting as drilling techniques in the yard, and doesn't get any more interesting. Sometimes he fancies that it's a matter of soulmates, that he hasn't met his god properly yet, the way Godfrey had Marika. He wouldn't object to being married off, but he'd feel a bit sorry for whatever woman paired with him because he knows he'd never be home.

[halles-comet]

Okay, I have finally girded my loins and am going to watch the saw trap finale of Sherlock for the first time since it aired. I was 20, living in London, and my flatmate was interning for the BBC where they got so many complaints it almost crashed the website. Most of what I remember is that the show ends with the two of them jumping into the air and doing a freeze frame. Let's dive in.

Opens with Mycroft drinking in the dark alone mouthing along to old black-and-white movies. It's fun when two siblings are gay but in very different ways.

This is not how repressed memories work

The writers are all "Sherlock and Mycroft's sister (who we’ve never established before) is a genius beyond either of them. She’s so smart she can hypnotize people into killing themselves she’s basically a god." And then it cuts to her babbling amazing genius gems like:

She's also like "I can tell Sherlock's a virgin because he doesn't play the violin like someone who knows how to fuck"

Steven Moffat loves one thing and one thing only; little girls creepily singing English poems.

THIS IS NOT HOW REPRESSED MEMORIES WORK

They really skate by the "at 16 years old mycroft told everyone his sister died and his parents asked no follow-up questions" of it all

MOLLY HOOPER SHOULD GET TO STRANGLE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THESE MEN WITH HER BARE HANDS INCLUDING THE WRITERS

The wig they used to cover up BC's Marvel haircut really isn't doing it's job

You have to imagine at one point Andrew Scott was on a short list for a Doctor Who villain because otherwise the camp "I Want To Break Free" dance break is extra gauche

THIS IS NOT HOW REPRESSED MEMORIES WORK

Doesn't John have a baby? When he has to solve gay murder riddles does he just leave her with that woman from the bus he was having an emotional affair with?

They're in a cell that sometimes has glass and sometimes doesn't with no explanation. This is not the level of show that's smart enough to pull that off as subtextual.

JOHN GETS THROWN DOWN A WELL LIKE BABY JESSICA

Whose sister hasn't killed your best friend and then everyone told you she killed your nonexistent dog instead and despite being a famously curious person you just accept this for thirty years? Typical sister move tbh

THIS. IS NOT. HOW. REPRESSED MEMORIES. WORK.

The whole episode they're trying to save a little girl in an unpiloted crashing plane and my brain was like wait a minute I know this trope he uses it all the time it's not going to be a literal plane and then guess what. It wasn't. It was a metaphor for the sister's isolation but somehow she was broadcasting it, in reality, through a radio system with a child's voice for an hour of the episode. To quote Bob's Burgers, it's not a twist, it's a lie. A lie is not a twist!

I was right about the freeze frame. It happened to you. To me. To this country.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode nationale, no. 46, 15 novembre 1902, Paris. Groupe de manteaux et de chapeaux d'hiver pour dames et jeunes filles. Bibliothèque nationale de France

No. 1. — Manteau de promenade pour jeune femme ou jeune fille, en drap rouge. Paletot droit devant, à plis derrière, cerclé de piqûres, fermé par des brandebourgs à pampilles. Triple collet en forme et double col en guipure d'Irlande. Manche ample froncée dans un poignet composé de deux pattes.

No. 1. — Walking coat for a young woman or girl, in red cloth. Overcoat straight in front, with pleats behind, surrounded by stitching, closed with tassel frogs. Triple shaped collar and double collar in Irish guipure. Loose sleeve gathered into a cuff made up of two tabs.

Matériaux: 3 mètres de drap.

Chapeau develours plissé, garni d'une amazone noire.

Pleated velvet hat, trimmed with a black Amazon.

—

No. 2. — Manteau de promenade pour jeune femme, en zibeline gris fer. Genre mac-farlane, entouré de piqûres. Double manche. Au-dessus des piqûres, strap dentelé. Grand col couvrant les épaules; col de fourrure. De chaque côté des devants, macarons en passementerie.

No. 2. — Walking coat for young women, in iron gray sable. Like mac-farlane, surrounded by bites. Double handle. Above the stitching, serrated strap. Large collar covering the shoulders; fur collar. On each side of the front, macaroons in trimmings.

Matériaux: 3m,50 de drap.

Chapeau boléro en feutre noir, bordé de velours noir à dépassant blanc; plumes de coq couchées à gauche.

Black felt bolero hat, lined with black velvet with a white overhang; rooster feathers lying on the left.

[jeniffercheck]

hot & heavy (underestimated and overprotected)

shivlina paris au: pre-canon, karolina does not yet work at waystar, all shiv canon applies. CWs below the cut.

words: 19k

read here or on ao3

cw: drug abuse for shown/referenced cocaine use throughout the fic, domestic violence is referenced throughout with one conversation that goes into minor details, there is nothing graphic. please let me know if you think i've missed anything!

--

It starts before Karolina’s even realized it has.

Breathless and nameless in the warm-toned bathroom of an old colleague’s brand new speakeasy, a passcode-secured hole in the wall that Karolina thinks is better fit for Astoria than Paris, and her eyes shut tight as her shoulder blades dig deeply into the wall behind her, shoved between a doorframe, a red velvet ottoman that probably costs more than her monthly rent, and a pale-skinned girl with a vicious hunger for Karolina’s lips. Her soft hands grab at Karolina as if they’re the last two women on Earth, and for a second Karolina worries that they actually might be.

Then she remembers that it’s just another Thursday in France.

When they’re finished, it’s lingering eyes with quick hands fixing messed up hair and their displaced clothes, slightly shameful at the sound of a toast happening beyond the thick, dark mahogany of the bathroom door; two wallflowers skipping the party. While washing her hands, Karolina realizes she’s still wearing her ring. Vic had given it to her years ago, something like a promise that neither of them intended to keep, and on a whim, she takes it off. As she dries her hands, she finally asks for the woman's name.

“Shiv.”

“Like a knife?” Karolina asks, unable to contain her surprise.

“Like a shiv,” Shiv corrects, her eyes slightly rolling. She pulls out a small bottle, recognizable white powder filling the inside. She opens it up and brings the spoon to her nose, but she pauses before she does anything. “Want some?”

Karolina waves her off.

“Not my poison,” she says, and Shiv just shrugs, as if it’s her loss. She sort of makes Karolina feel like it is, what with the high society elegance of the silver canister, and Karolina thinks it’s a sort of upper-class gauche; the old money secret that you can be trashy as long as it’s behind closed doors. She briefly thinks if she were a hot, twenty-something spending time in Paris she might keep her blow in a five-thousand-dollar tube as well, and by the time the powder is snorted and the door is open, Karolina realizes Shiv never asked for her name.

  —

  Karolina accepted the job on a whim. Or, at least, that’s what she’d said. In reality, it’d been in the pipeline for months, if not years. It wasn’t her endgame, but it was always in her line of sight, and the only obstacle was in her own home, a sobbing, living person, begging her not to go. She can’t remember now if she even batted an eyelash when she chose the job. In that moment she felt like she’d had nothing left to cry about. Whether it was the dead conversations or the dead bedroom or dead, stale fucking air, she wasn’t sure, but she just knew staying in that place felt like a dead end, and doing this? It felt like the rest of her life could be in front of her.

(That’s what she told herself when she packed up her bags and got a storage unit for nearly ten years’ worth of coexisting with someone, and shipped her cat off to France, and then she wrote in her journal that sometimes things have to fall apart to come back together. A lame excuse for someone who always seems to find things falling apart.)

  —

 She sees Shiv again.

Except this time, it’s not under the cover of a hidden bathroom––it’s a wide-open rooftop, and it’s only a matter of time when she finally lands in Shiv’s line of sight, for the second time in her life. Shiv’s having a hushed argument that Karolina desperately attempts not to eavesdrop on, but with Shiv’s growing volume and Karolina’s growing inability to follow the French in the conversation in front of her, she doesn’t think it’s her fault when she hears Shiv snap, “I don’t want you here.”

It’s then, that Shiv’s eyes land on Karolina’s, and it’s a sharp enough glare that Karolina doesn’t know whether Shiv’s scowling at her, the situation, or if maybe perhaps the entire world, but Karolina tears her eyes away anyway, slightly embarrassed that she’d been caught staring at all. She can’t miss out of her peripheral though, when Shiv all but runs away from the man, nearly clipping Karolina’s shoulder as she escapes. Karolina’s gaze moves back to the man, eyes following Shiv with something wistful in his gaze, and she almost feels bad for him, the way you’d feel bad for a puppy who’s running around without an owner.

It’s the kind of scene she knows, recalling all of the parties she’d dragged Vic to, chatting up businessmen who’d inevitably flirt with her and then Vic would get mad and Karolina would remind her that it doesn’t mean anything if she entertains a little misogyny to get fucking ahead and Vic would make her feel guilty for apparently not having any morals, and they’d end the night early and pissed, Vic in the bedroom and Karolina sleeping on the old couch that she was never allowed to get rid of even though it made her wake up with an aching back and half of her limbs asleep, and she’d slink out of the apartment before the sun was even up just to hide out in a coffee shop until it was reasonable for her to enter the office without getting looks, and she’d let everyone think she was just that dedicated to her job.

The group surrounding her pulls her back in with their laughter at what she assumes was a joke, and she plays along, but she really has no fucking clue what’s going on in this conversation.

She’s halfway through another vodka Red Bull when she can feel her phone vibrate multiple times through her purse, and she’s grateful for the interruption as she’s able to finally sneak away, having had her fill of business talk for the night. That’s when she finds Shiv again, beyond the open bar and the DJ, where the sound is muffled and the view is obstructed. The perfect place for Karolina to answer some e-mails, and for Shiv, the seemingly perfect place for a smoke break. Right in front of a sign that says, interdit de fumer. Karolina’s unable to contain her quiet, “Oh,” and her slight laugh at the sight, and then she recalls the death glare from earlier.

“Sorry—” she starts, a mess of an apology already brimming at the tip of her tongue, but Shiv just quirks one of those perfect eyebrows, and returns her gaze to the skyline.

“It’s fine,” she says, leaning on the railing. “You can stay.”

Karolina sends her a small smile, then realizes she can’t even see it, and she shakes her head at herself, eyeing Shiv one more time before leaning against the wall behind her. She sifts through the emails, skimming through what seems to be a vendor switch-up, meaning she’s going to have to make sure all the logos are swapped on materials they’ve already approved of. Typical.

“Jesus,” she huffs, before she’s even realized she’s speaking. She attempts to look apologetic as Shiv looks back, Karolina picking her eyes up from her phone to apologize for the disturbance. “Sorry—work.”

Work. The dreaded thing she can never escape. Shiv doesn’t say anything though, returning to her cigarette and her fucking demure gaze into the city. Karolina eyes her out of curiosity. She looks so familiar, but Karolina would remember a name like Shiv. Then Shiv’s voice rings out, and she doesn’t have much time to consider it anyway.

“It’s not as impressive as I’d hoped,” Shiv says, looking out into the skyline. “Even with the Eiffel Tower.”

Karolina looks ahead. The Eiffel Tower peaks out above everything, illuminating the city with its lights alone. She remembers a time when Paris was a daydream for her, a small cut-out from a magazine that she kept inside every planner from middle school through college. She realizes she can’t even remember whether her first visit here had been for a work trip or a vacation, but she remembers being disappointed.

“The Eiffel Tower makes everything look smaller,” she says. “The rest of the city kind of pales in comparison.”

Shiv cocks her head at the statement, as if she’s inspecting the balance of the buildings. Once you notice it, it’s hard to look at Paris the same. All the hype for one structure. It’s like going to New York City for the Statue of Liberty. You get there and realize you’re not even allowed to climb to the top, and then you find out that it’s in fucking New Jersey.

“I guess you’re right,” Shiv says. Karolina doesn’t think she’s right, but Shiv says it as if it looks true, so it must be. Or maybe other people don’t have time to sit and think about why the Parisian skyline is so much worse than other cities. They have partners and kids and lives. Karolina has her cat.

“I’m Karolina,” Karolina says, and it causes Shiv to turn around again. “Since you never asked.”

Shiv smirks.

“Who says I wanted to know your name?” she asks, and the words themselves are harsh, but the teasing smile remains.

“I wanted you to know,” Karolina says, bouncing her phone against her palm.

“Okay,” Shiv says. “Karolina.”

It’s then, that Karolina decides she likes the way her name sounds coming out of Shiv’s mouth. For a second, she tries to tell herself that it’s too soon, that she doesn’t need to get involved with anyone else while the corpse of her and Vic is still cold, but then she remembers that too soon would’ve been years ago. That things had been over long before they actually were, that she and Vic were choosing security over happiness. They’d settled. This, Karolina thinks, feels far from settling. It feels like fun.

“Was that your boyfriend?” Karolina asks. She watches the way Shiv’s eyebrows immediately flex at the word boyfriend, but she recovers quickly, that easy smile barely faltering.

“Nope,” Shiv says. “I barely know him.”

Karolina frowns.

“He wasn’t bothering you, was he?” she asks, because even if she’s not looking for trouble, this is still technically her event, and she’s willing to throw someone out if it’s making a guest uncomfortable. She’s chivalrous like that.

“No,” Shiv says again. “He’s just hopeful, and—fucking relentless.”

“That’s a kind way to say desperate,” Karolina jeers, unable to stop the retort. She’s about to apologize for being brash but Shiv laughs, and by God, if it isn’t a glorious sound.

“He is fucking desperate,” Shiv says, taking a drag of her cigarette. It’s on its last life, barely clinging to the butt, and she puts it out, then fully turns to face Karolina, leaning her back against the glass railing. It’s held together by various scraps of metal and bolts, and it makes her skin crawl, watching someone put all their trust into a sheet of glass to stop them from plummeting twelve stories to their death. Shiv looks entirely unconcerned.

“You feeling desperate?” she asks.

“This is a work event,” Karolina immediately says, because it is, but she knows the argument is weak, and it’s possible that she doesn’t really care either. It’s possible that she’s having fun adding in a little chase.

“And the other night wasn’t?”

“That was social,” Karolina says, or so she’s been telling herself.

“Yeah,” Shiv says, sounding very unconvinced by Karolina as well. “Why don’t we go somewhere else and be social, then?”

Karolina’s phone buzzes in her hand again, and she resists the urge to check yet another email that she knows she won’t be able to solve until the morning anyway. She doesn’t consider herself a risk taker, but this doesn’t feel like a risk so much as feeling desired, and she can’t remember the last time anyone desired her. So, she makes a decision that she hopes doesn’t haunt her.

“Your place or mine?”

  —

  The apartment in Paris feels like a breath of fresh air. She hasn’t lived alone since her early twenties, back when she still thought a daily commute from Queens to Manhattan was something she could stand to do every day. Her last apartment had become suffocating. It was a pit of festering resentment that burned like cheap candles, leaving invisible soot on the walls; something you can’t notice until it’s too late and the damage has already been done. Like her childhood home, the scent of cigarettes settled so deep into the carpet that it followed her everywhere, even sometimes thinking she can still smell the residue in her hair if tries hard enough. One day they were happy and the next they were caught in the world’s slowest-acting quicksand, unable to dig themselves out of the trap they’d wandered into.

Karolina often recalls their final fight, her using the word we and Vic always using you.

But this apartment is all hers. She can rearrange the furniture as many times as she wants until it feels right, and she can leave the windows open overnight because there’s nobody there to complain about the noise. She can leave her mugs in the sink or on the coffee table or on the nightstand and she can clean them when she wants. She works into the early hours of the morning, and nobody’s pissed off because it’s what she wants to do. Fucking freedom.

  —

  The calls start.

Karolina had elected to get a new SIM card when she got to the country. For the longest time, her only contacts were from work, the veterinarian, and her mother. Now, Shiv’s name sits clear on the bottom of the list. It was a moment of weakness, trading numbers, because Karolina doesn’t know what Shiv’s intentions are beyond late-night summons, and Karolina knows it’s risky territory, getting involved with someone when she feels hot off the press of emotional encumbrance, but Shiv keeps calling. 11pm on a Tuesday, 3am on a Saturday, an egregious 8pm on a Monday and Karolina knows she’s in trouble because she says yes without a hitch.

“The Americans in Paris,” Shiv jokes, and Karolina wants to tell her that she’s not American, not really, but they don’t know each other beyond what gets them off and even though this is the most intimate she’s been with a new person in years, and because of it, Karolina thinks the rest of it, the things about her that aren’t visible on her body, are far more intimate than taking her shirt off. She almost thinks the whole ordeal lacks intimacy.

It’s procedural. Shiv asks if Karolina’s free, Karolina says yes, and then they decide whose apartment they’re going to. Shiv will offer her a bump that she’ll say no to every time, and Karolina will pretend that it doesn’t unnerve her that this girl does coke every time they fuck, and then Shiv will go down on her and she’ll forget that she was nervous at all. Then, once Shiv’s high has kicked in, they’ll switch, and Karolina will try to be careful, will try to please, and she’ll touch Shiv slowly, asking, “Is this okay?” and Shiv will just grab Karolina’s hand, guiding her to go harder, never having said yes at all.

  —

  Karolina gets attached.

And maybe attached, isn’t the right word, but she starts to like Shiv. She starts to like Shiv a lot more than just wanting to fuck a couple of times a week. At first, Shiv is hesitant.

“Coffee?” Shiv repeats, and she makes it sound like the craziest idea in the world. Karolina wonders if it is a crazy idea, getting involved with some apparent socialite with a coke habit and a penthouse in the middle of Paris.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Karolina quickly asserts, “I’d just like to know who I’m getting into bed with.”

“Isn’t the mystery part of the thrill?” Shiv asks, but it sounds forced, not at all like her usual pension for teasing foreplay, so Karolina takes a risk.

“Maybe…I like spending time with you,” she says, and she waits, breathlessly for what feels like hours but is really only seconds, for Shiv to say anything, but the line just goes dead.

It stings a little, but Karolina thinks she’s faced worse rejections in her sometimes-sorry life, and she tries to move on. She leaves her phone in work mode the rest of the day, seeing only emails and team chat notifications, and tries to focus on why she’s in Paris at all. Tries not to let it feel like the end of the world, because it’s not, and she isn’t some unlovable creature that was put on this planet to always be within an inch of absolute contentment, no.

When she gets home, she fears her phone like it’s radioactive, and she sits next to Oliver and listens to him purr and she nurses a big glass of wine. She turns off Do Not Disturb in one swift click, eyes nearly closed and hands out in front like preparation can actually stop anything from hurting less, but there’s a notification from Shiv. Delivered nearly two hours ago, and she opens it up, and feels stupid, first and foremost, but also relieved.

Shiv sent one word, when?

That’s how Karolina finds herself at a cafe, morning blocked off with important “meetings” because she’s ahead of schedule with work and Shiv said she’s already busy this weekend. It’s an expensive place, one she wouldn’t tolerate going to for any extended period of time, but it was Shiv’s choice and anyway, Karolina’s never been the best authority on caffeine sources anyway, what, with her war-stock of 5-Hour Energy.

When Shiv arrives, Karolina attempts to not look as surprised as she feels. Shiv looks different in the daytime, hair pin-straight, and accessories purposefully understated, her outfit is a decidedly European collage of neutral tones with an obvious American aftertaste at the comfortability of it all. Big sunglasses cover her eyes, and her purse looks large enough to carry an entire fucking clown car, and Karolina thinks she looks like a walking ad for The Row.

“Long night?” Karolina asks as Shiv sits down, gesturing to the sunglasses. Shiv ignores her, grabbing the coffee cup that had been waiting for her instead.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“What I’m hoping is your usual,” Karolina says.

Shiv looks at the ingredients marked off on the label, and she lets out an amused laugh, “You sneaky little bitch.”

Karolina wouldn’t say that’s not one of her personality traits, but she didn’t have to sneak too hard to figure that one out.

“You have a habit of leaving receipts next to your key bowl,” Karolina says, having half a mind to look a little sheepish. “I might’ve taken a look.”

“Well, remind me not to leave state secrets out on my nightstand,” Shiv says, taking a sip of the coffee.

“Do you have any?” Karolina asks, to which Shiv just leans back in her chair, shrugging slightly.

“Maybe a few,” she smirks.

“Is that what you do for work?” Karolina asks. “State secrets?”

It’s apparently the wrong question, because the smirk falls, and Shiv shifts in her seat like the state secrets are actually real and Karolina’s just caught her sitting on a big one.

“No,” Shiv says, voice tight. “I’m on a sabbatical.”

This doesn’t shock Karolina, given the way Shiv’s eyes are always a little glassy and her nose a little red, the way her hands always shake slightly when she’s not paying attention to what she’s doing, and the way her body is always under a specific amount of control, as if losing control of anything would mean losing control of everything.

Karolina won’t mention it though, not here, not now, and it’s obvious she shouldn’t push the subject further, so she nods. She changes the subject to something that’s been bothering her.

“Are you sure we’ve never met before?”

Karolina tried asking her, a couple of weeks ago when it was late and Shiv had given her at least two glasses of wine, and Karolina just couldn’t put her finger on it. Shiv vehemently denied it then, but Karolina can’t let it go, especially now, seeing her out in the daytime.

“I can guarantee you, we haven’t,” Shiv says, and she sounds so sure.

“Weird,” Karolina mutters, returning to her coffee.

“Shiv isn’t—it’s not my full name,” Shiv says then, almost sounding nervous. “It’s more of a nickname.”

“What’s your full name?” Karolina asks, leaning forward.

“Siobhan.”

Karolina tries to rack her brain for any memories of a Siobhan. She thinks that’s definitely a name she’d remember, but the only Siobhan she can even think of is—wait.

“Siobhan Roy?”

“In the flesh,” Shiv says, sounding especially unenthused.

Karolina wouldn’t say she’s starstruck, because she’s rubbed elbows with billionaires before, but fucking the billionaire heiress of the largest media conglomerate in the United States? That’s a little more than she’s used to.

“Don’t make it a thing,” Shiv says preemptively, like she can see all of the different outcomes of this scenario working their way through Karolina's head.

“I’m not,” Karolina says, even though she’s definitely lying because this most certainly is a thing, but they’re in Paris and everyone who gives a fuck about Siobhan Roy is across the ocean, so she can act calm for however long this date lasts and then murder board herself to death later in case there’s some crazed paparazzi somewhere that’s desperate to get Shiv in tomorrow’s issue of Page 6. “I guess it makes a lot more sense now, knowing your parents didn’t name you after a prison weapon.”

That does crack a small smile out of Shiv, and Karolina’s happy to have eased at least some of the growing tension.

“I still wouldn’t say that wasn’t their intention,” Shiv says.

Karolina thinks it’s supposed to sound like a warning—a slight, careful, now, don’t get cut—but Karolina and warnings are friends. She knows how to heed warnings and navigate through them. Warnings themselves don’t scare her. It’s what comes from the things that have no warnings. The things you can’t see coming.

“So, now that you’ve interrogated me—what are you doing in Paris?” Shiv asks. Shiv can’t ever seem to get away from the topic of herself quickly enough. She figures now, that Shiv is just a Google search away, and Shiv doesn’t have the same luck with Karolina unless she wants to read the most standard LinkedIn profile in existence, so Karolina entertains her.

“I’m leading a PR team for Fashion Week,” Karolina says. “Ad campaigns, interviews, press releases—”

“Wait—a PR team, or the PR team?” Shiv asks, something like impression on her face. Karolina suddenly feels bashful, like bragging in front of a billionaire is some kind of fruitless endeavor that’s just going to leave her embarrassed and humbled, but Shiv looks interested, and she asked Karolina not to make her name a big deal, so that’s exactly what Karolina���s not doing.

“Well, I suppose it’s the PR team, when you put it that way, but it’s not as glamorous as it sounds,” Karolina says. “In my position it’s mostly phone calls and emails, appeasing the higher-ups so they think everything is running smoothly. The boring stuff.”

“I mean, still,” Shiv says, and she seems genuinely impressed. “Didn’t realize I was hooking up with fashion royalty.”

Fashion royalty. She remembers Vic’s, “Are you fucking serious, Karolina? Paris? Really?” and it’d felt more like a curse than anything.

“Paris Fashion Week can’t be the most extravagant thing you’ve been around, Siobhan Roy,” she deflects, and Shiv rolls her eyes at the sentiment.

“I mean, it’s no Met Gala, of course,” Shiv says, playing along.

“Well, I’ve worked the Met Gala too,” Karolina then says. “But I’m sure there’s something.”

“Fuck you,” Shiv says as she laughs, raising her sunglasses back into her hair, and Karolina finally has the opportunity to take all of Shiv in. Beyond the sleek hair and the jewelry that’s worth at least a few months of Karolina’s salary and the perfectly fitted clothing, she understands why Shiv was hiding behind sunglasses, because she can’t control the image of her own eyes. They’re bright and alert but still adorned with that never-ending irritated glimmer, a red ring of death that warns onlookers of her decaying. They also remind her that Shiv is just a person, not the heiress to a crime empire like The Washington Post tries to convey or the untouchable debutante that Karolina’s own publications perpetuate; she’s just a person. Karolina releases a breath.

“Who’s the worst celebrity you’ve met?” Shiv asks, and Karolina smirks.

“I didn’t meet him personally, but I remember a certain Roy was on the cover of GQ some years back and my staff had some choice words about the experience,” Karolina says, and before she has the chance to elaborate, Shiv laughs loudly.

“His alpha male days,” Shiv muses. “That cover was­–”

Karolina quirks an eyebrow, “It was what?”

“It was awful,” Shiv says, throwing her arms up in surrender but still smiling in amusement, “I’m sorry, it was!”

Karolina can’t bite back her own smile, because really, she has no emotional investment in GQ.

“A lot of readers wrote in after that issue thanking us for having a real man on the cover,” Karolina says, and Shiv scoffs.

“That real man is now into the art of microdosing on meditation,” Shiv says, throwing air quotes around the words, and Karolina hums.

“Maybe they should do another cover story,” she says, and Shiv feigns disgust at the thought.

“How long have you been working in fashion anyway?” Shiv then asks.

Too long, is Karolina’s first thought, but even if she’s not totally obsessed with the clothes and the celebrities and the parties, she’s enjoyed the path, and the money.

“My whole career,” Karolina says. “I started at a publication right out of college, and it just stuck. I’ve been working my way up since then.”

“And now you’re here,” Shiv says, smirking into her coffee again.

“Now I’m here,” Karolina laughs. “Having coffee with someone from fucking New York.”

“Not the Parisian romance you were expecting?” Shiv asks.

“This is a romance?” Karolina asks, and Shiv’s eyes narrow slightly.

“I mean, you practically begged me to come,” Shiv says. “Kind of felt like you were asking me on a date.”

Karolina tries not to let her panic show at the word date. It very well could be a date if either of them wanted it to be, but despite Shiv’s pension for flirting, she’s not exactly forthcoming with her feelings, and Karolina has no clue what Shiv could possibly be feeling in this moment.

“I just thought, you know, if we were going to be benefiting from one another—we might as well be friends too,” Karolina says, taking the easy route.

“Friends?” Shiv asks. She says it as if the concept is foreign, like friends is a thing that never quite works out, but Karolina thinks she’s just keeping her cards close to her chest, the same way that fucking in the dark is supposed to somehow make Karolina see her less or the way that wearing sunglasses that block half of her face is supposed to make Karolina understand her less.

“Why not?” Karolina says, knowing she’s won when Shiv just shrugs.

“Fine,” Shiv says. “Friends.”

  —

  “I can’t believe you have a fucking cat.”

Karolina watches in amusement as Shiv and Oliver have a stare-down in her foyer. Stare down is probably the wrong phrase, because it’s more like Oliver is sitting there, looking sickeningly adorable with his short grey fur and his bright green eyes, and Shiv is glaring at him from in front of the doorway, like a tabby that’s just wandered into the wrong alley.

“Shiv, this is Oliver,” Karolina says, picking him up. He meows as she does so, and she can’t help but laugh at what seems like pure disdain on Shiv’s face.

“Oliver?” Shiv asks, bewilderment clear. “You named your cat after a fucking singing orphan?”

“No,” Karolina immediately fires back, not even having it in her heart to distinguish the fact that Oliver Twist was from a book first. “He’s named after an Agatha Christie character.”

Shiv takes a very long breath, like she’s contemplating agreeing to try this friends thing at all, and then she steps forward.

“You’re a dork,” she says, holding her hand out. Karolina turns so that Oliver can see Shiv better, and he sniffs her hand for a second and before retreating, and curls his head back into Karolina’s arms.

“I don’t think he likes it when you insult his mother,” Karolina says, petting him fondly.

“Well, I don’t like when his mother edges me because she forgot to feed him,” Shiv says, and it’s Karolina’s turn to roll her eyes as she heads into the kitchen.

“You can get yourself off, Shiv,” she throws behind her shoulder. “Oliver can’t even open the fridge.”

Shiv follows her, footsteps hurrying.

“You keep his food in the fridge?”

“That’s where cat food is kept,” Karolina says, setting Oliver down on the ground, and Shiv pulls a face when he immediately jumps onto the counter.

“And you let him on the counter?”

Karolina pulls out his wet food, and a bottle of kitchen bleach, making a point to place it in front of Shiv.

“I’ll wipe it down when he’s done, fair?”

Shiv just huffs, a sound of disbelief.

“You’re a crazy cat lady,” she mutters.

“Shiv, I have one cat,” Karolina exclaims, still unable to contain her laughter.

“Yeah, and that’s fucking insane,” Shiv says. “And you brought him to France!”

“Should I have left him in New York?” Karolina asks. “Given him up to the feral cat colony on Rikers Island?”

“The what on Rikers Island?”

“Oh my god, Shiv, here—” Karolina grabs Oliver’s treat bag, pulling one out and handing it to Shiv. “Hold out your hand to him.”

Shiv does as she’s told, and she holds out her palm, a single treat at the center. Oliver rushes over to her and sniffs it inquisitively until he picks it up, Shiv shuddering as he does so.

“What was that?” she asks, clearly disgusted.

“His tongue?” Karolina says, but she’s laughing. “You’re a hopeless case.”

“You’re the hopeless case,” Shiv says, sitting down on a stool. “God.”

They make eye contact and they both start laughing, and Karolina forgets for a moment that they’re just supposed to be fuck buddies. That they’re not dating and this isn’t a normal occurrence, and even though Shiv has agreed to be friends, that comes with limits. Still, Karolina basks in the light, not wanting to let go of what it feels like to share a life with someone again, even if it’s for a small moment, and even if she doesn’t like Karolina’s cat as much as Karolina would like her to. By the time Karolina has finished feeding him and has wiped down the counter with enough bleach to satisfy Shiv, Karolina’s convinced her to stay for wine.

They’re talking about everything and nothing, random books that they’ve both read that Shiv hated and Karolina loved, movies that they’ve both seen that Shiv loved and Karolina despised. Their knees are almost touching, and every time one of them shifts they both bolt into action to separate, as if the fact that their hands have been inside one another is leagues different than the fabric of their pant legs come together. Karolina watches as Shiv, cheeks rosy from the wine and smile easy from a joke that Karolina’s successfully recounted, pulls her hair back, and that’s when Karolina notices a scar, a little pinkish and normally covered by the fall of her side part, poke out from under Shiv’s hairline. It’s barely visible, only moving past the hair by a few centimeters, and she doesn’t think she’d have noticed it at all if she weren’t sitting so close to Shiv.

And in her own wine-drunk nightmare, Karolina can’t stop the question from stumbling out of her mouth.

“How’d that happen?” she asks, and she regrets it instantly as Shiv’s smile falls and her posture stiffens.

“Uh—it’s a childhood scar,” Shiv says. She swallows harshly, and Karolina knows she’s lying. “My brother, uh, Roman, he—he threw one of his toys at me. I don’t remember what it was now. Probably the red Power Ranger or something fucking stupid like that.”

“I’m sorry–” Karolina says. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You’re fine,” Shiv says, taking a sip of her wine, and then like she flicks a switch somewhere Karolina can’t see, her spunk is back, and she’s cocking an eyebrow, “I showed you mine.”

Karolina wonders if it’s some sort of test and she feels slightly uneasy about the pretense under which it’s falling under, like Shiv didn’t almost just freeze up at the mention of a forehead scar, but Karolina plays along because she bit Shiv, and even if it was an accident, she can handle Shiv biting back.

She rolls up her sleeve, holding out her right forearm to Shiv. There’s a jagged scar along the side of it, one that still makes her previously bolted bones still ache on rainy days.

“Back in high school I did whatever I could to piss off my father,” she explains. “There were these guys at school that liked me, and they had these cool motorcycles so, I’d go riding with them sometimes—I think you can guess how that ended.”

Shiv grimaces.

“I think you have me beat,” she says, and Karolina knows Shiv’s trying to deflect and that Karolina should be trying to let her, but she can’t stand that kind of sentiment.

“It’s not a competition,” she says.

Shiv eyes her, and she can only hold the contact for a few seconds until she looks away. Karolina just pulls her sleeve down, watching as Shiv readjusts her hair, scar no longer in view.

“You should tell Roman that,” Shiv says. “When I started losing my baby teeth the first thing he did was break an arm.”

When Shiv looks back at her, it’s like she’s begging to change the subject, and Karolina complies.

“Roman’s your other brother, right?” she asks, and Shiv nods.

“He’s the middle child,” Shiv says. “So, you know how it is.”

But Karolina doesn’t know how it is. Vic was an older sister, and she would get so mad when Karolina just couldn’t understand that apparent burden. You’re an only child, you don’t get it. She always thought it was a low blow, because, for her, only child wasn’t some sort of crown to claim her spoils with. It meant only successor, only option, only target.

Karolina wonders now if that is a sibling thing, saving your pain for important moments, letting it all blow up at once; breaking an arm when your sister loses her teeth. Maybe Vic did have that part right—Karolina never had to compete for her pain, it was given to her freely. Served with a silent, festering breakfast and a drunkenly belligerent dinner, every day: at least your dad didn’t hit you, Vic. Karolina had thrown up after that argument, the thought that he’d given her some sort of badge to throw in people’s faces when she needed it feeling more like a thorn that was stuck in her side, just so she could rip it out and say—See? I’m bleeding too!—when it felt convenient. That’s what pain is to Karolina. Convenience. To try and compete with it just feels greedy.

“I actually wouldn’t know,” she admits. “I’m an only child.”

She wonders if Shiv can tell that she accidentally bit her back.

“Really?” she says. “You’ve got the feel of, like, an older sister of seven, or something absolutely criminal like that.”

“My parents barely knew what to do with me,” Karolina says, forcing a laugh. “Thank god they never got up to seven.”

Shiv laughs as well, but she eyes Karolina as she does so and it feels not at all dissimilar to the way Karolina so often looks at Shiv, wondering what’s going on beyond the surface of her words. Shiv seems to push past the instinct to dig though, something she’s a lot better at doing than Karolina.

“Well, props to you,” Shiv says raising her wine glass slightly. “I fully would’ve blown my brains out if my brothers didn’t exist, so—congrats.”

Karolina doesn’t say that it’s a miracle she didn’t, and she holds up her glass anyway even though it feels less like a cheers and more like a commiserating tap, but there’s an understanding tone to it. There’s no, “God, you’re lucky.” It’s a, “Damn, that fucking sucks,” and she thinks maybe she’s misjudged Shiv in that moment because she’s not seeing this as a competition, she’s trying to take herself out of the race.

“Parents—they do what they can, right?” Karolina says, but she flashes her eyes sarcastically and Shiv chuckles hollowly.

“Right,” she exaggerates, and it’s then that Oliver jumps up on the couch. Karolina observes as Shiv stills, but she surprisingly doesn’t move away, letting Oliver go where he pleases. “What made you want to become a parent to…this?”

“You mean my cat?”

Karolina watches in amusement as he slowly crawls the small space in between her and Shiv, and he sniffs Shiv’s clothes. Shiv just watches as well, still seemingly frozen in her position, and Karolina stifles a laugh as Oliver picks up a paw, gently pressing it into Shiv’s leg.

“Why is he doing that?” Shiv asks.

“He’s inspecting you,” Karolina says.

“What am I, a fucking bomb threat?” Shiv replies. She slowly brings one of her hands up to him and pokes him in the forehead, and Karolina isn’t quite sure what Shiv’s intentions were, but Oliver takes it as a sign to ram his head into her hand and Shiv pulls it back quickly.

“He wants you to pet him,” Karolina says, and Shiv rolls her eyes.

“I’ve met a cat before,” she says, but the way her hand hesitantly returns to his body and runs across his fur doesn’t have Karolina convinced.

“Are you sure?” she asks, hiding a smile behind her wine.

“I must have,” Shiv says. “Who hasn’t fucking met a cat?”

He seems to like Shiv’s scent or something, because it’s certainly not her energy, and he moves closer to her until he’s lying in her lap. Shiv continues to pet him, and Karolina can hear the loud purrs as they leave his body, and she sneaks a look at Shiv, who’s become solely focused on Oliver. Karolina suddenly wishes she hadn’t left her phone in the kitchen, because she thinks it’s the sort of scene she’d like to look at a million times over, Oliver’s peaceful face and Shiv’s in quiet awe.

“I think he likes you,” Karolina says. Shiv doesn’t look up, but Karolina thinks she can see something of a smile coming out of Shiv, and she doesn’t stop the petting.

“I’m sending you my dry-cleaning bill.”

  —

  She doesn’t see Shiv for a little over a week.

Karolina had gotten a little busy with work and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t missing Shiv, didn’t miss her sharp glares and the charged banter, and she knows Shiv would never admit to as much, what, with all of her French exploits that Karolina makes explicitly clear she wants to know nothing about, but she thinks she can hear it when Shiv calls her out of the blue, and Karolina can feel the nervousness seep through the phone receiver.

“Do you want to, uh, hang out—again?” Shiv asks. “Like, not what we normally do, um—dinner, maybe?”

And it’s wrong of Karolina to tease, but it feels natural as the words come out.

“You asking me on a date, Roy?”

Her own heart pounds a little as she waits for Shiv’s response.

“Would you want it to be?”

Karolina doesn’t even have to question it.

“I think I’d like that, yeah,” she says.

“Good,” Shiv says. “I’ll send you the details.”

And then Karolina has to wait.

Has to painstakingly wait, and it feels like she’s nineteen again, going on a date with a girl for the very first time, except this time she’s thirty-nine, and it’s probably something like her millionth date with a girl, and she’s fresh off the tail of the longest relationship of her life. She’s not quite sure which thought is worse, but then she remembers going home for college break and facing her father with an un-hidable hickey on her neck, and she decides that she’s overreacting.

And then suddenly they’re on the date and Karolina forgets why she’d been nervous at all. It’s just Shiv. Ridiculously beautiful but indisputably infuriating Shiv.

“You’re sure you can’t get Oliver a pen?”

“The answer hasn’t changed since the last ten times you’ve suggested it,” Karolina says. “And like I said, he’d just jump it.”

“Whatever,” Shiv mumbles, stabbing her salad. “I’m just saying, the cost of one cat pen would surely save you on all of those lint rollers. It’s just basic economics.”

“How about the next time you come over, you try putting Oliver in his carrying case,” Karolina says. “Then let me know how you think he’d feel about a pen.”

Shiv eyes her suspiciously until she narrows her gaze, giving up with a light-lipped sip of scotch. Which, by the way, Karolina said did not impress her.

“That feels vaguely like a threat,” Shiv says, putting down her glass, and Karolina just shrugs.

“Want to find out?”

Shiv has half a mind to give it a rest, still shoving her fork into her meal with the ferocity that could only come from a woman who’s just lost an argument about a cat three separate times in a row, and Karolina tries her own hand at a question that she’s asked before.

“Will you tell me what you actually do for work?” she asks. “When you’re not on a sabbatical?”

Shiv doesn’t look happy to answer the question, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to go running this time either.

“I’m a political strategist,” Shiv says. “I manage election campaigns.”

This catches Karolina off guard. Not that she’d ever been big on keeping up with the Roy dynasty anyway, but she sort of assumed they’d all just have bullshit jobs. Political strategy seems, real, for lack of better words.

“Trying to get in the White House one day?” she asks. She’s half-joking, but Shiv seems to consider the serious side of the question.

“Maybe at one point I would’ve hoped,” Shiv says. “Now…I don’t know.”

The words hand in the air, and Karolina gives them the space settle. Before she can get a word in, Shiv is sharing more.

“I’m thinking of getting out of the business,” Shiv says, meeting Karolina’s eye. “I don’t know if it’s for me anymore.”

“Hence the sabbatical?” Karolina assumes.

Shiv shrugs as if that’s partially it, but Karolina figures she won’t push that line of questioning any further.

“What was the last campaign you worked on?” she asks, but that seems to be the wrong direction as well, Karolina noting the way Shiv’s posture stiffens in the way it always does when Karolina asks something that unsettles her.

“Uh, just—it was a congressional candidate,” she says, her words stilted.

“State secrets?” Karolina asks, and she feels bad as Shiv looks away, knuckles going white as she grips her glass.

“Something like that,” Shiv says.

Karolina sighs. Talking to Shiv sometimes feels like she’s solving dozens of tiny puzzles at once, saving information and storing it for later, pulling out old facts when she finally thinks she’s found the missing piece. She wants to tear the puzzles apart, to tell Shiv that it’s okay to be scattered, that she doesn’t have to keep things so close to her chest, but Karolina knows how hard that can be. Because that’s cheating, right? If you give someone all the answers to your heart? You’ve made it too easy for them, and then they get greedier and greedier until they hold all of your cards and you have nothing.

So, Karolina gets it; trusting is hard. That doesn’t mean she can’t leave the line open.

“You know––there’s a shorthand we use in my line of work—maybe you use it too, but it’s for when you need a filler name, like maybe you can’t say it now, but you might want to say it later,” Karolina explains. “It’s just, TK—to come.”

Shiv nods, just the slightest bit, and Karolina continues.

“Just—if you ever wanted to talk about any, state secrets, or something,” Karolina says. She quirks a teasing eyebrow at the last part as Shiv looks back up, and Shiv reveals a begrudging smirk as she does so. Karolina doesn’t think of it as any kind of battle won, but it does maybe make her feel like somewhere deep down, Shiv can accept more between the two of them. A date is just a first step. Trust is a whole new game.

“What about you?” Shiv asks. “What does a woman do after Fashion Week?”

“I don’t know,” Karolina says honestly. “I only thought as far as taking this job. It was risky, but, it would’ve been stupid to pass up, right?”

“I mean, I for one, am glad you took the job,” Shiv says.

“Oh?” Karolina muses. “And why is that?”

“I guess…I just like having you around,” Shiv smirks, and Karolina can’t help from smiling as well, because Shiv is trying. Maybe she doesn’t want to share the big stuff, not yet, but she wants to share, and that’s more than Karolina thinks she can ask out of her.

“Yeah?” she raises an eyebrow, waiting for Shiv’s inevitable but to drop, because Shiv might be showing earnestness, but Karolina knows that honesty can’t come without a little protection.

“And it’s nice having someone around who can order all of my meals in French,” she adds.

“There it is,” Karolina says, still smiling. “Using me for my services.”

“Trust me,” Shiv says. “Those aren’t the services I use you for.”

Karolina blushes. She fucking blushes.

“And what services are those?”

Shiv gestures to the waiter for their tab.

“You wanna go find out?”

  —

  Karolina doesn’t need to find out. She already knows. That every time they get into bed, tangled limbs with the lights off, Shiv wants her rough and Shiv wants her fast. She wants just enough, never more, and never less. Karolina knows that when they’re finished, she can stay, but not too close, and when they wake up in the morning and Shiv needs to get amped again because the alternative is not leaving her bed for three days, Karolina can’t say anything. She does wonder if this is the only reason that Shiv keeps her around, that for whatever reason, Karolina acts as a bystander to it all. A happy medium disposed to bend at her will.

Karolina obliges, maybe because she’s so lonely that it doesn’t matter, or maybe because she thinks Shiv is so lonely that it does matter. Regardless, she’ll wake up with Shiv in her arms and Karolina will pretend to shift in her sleep, give Shiv enough time to wake up and escape her grasp before she thinks Karolina will even know it’s happened at all.

But that night, after Shiv’s satisfied and Karolina can feel the growing knot in her stomach get even larger, Shiv extends a hand. Karolina takes it, and wakes up the next morning still connected.

  —

  It’s in the small things. The way Shiv texts to ask how work is going, or the way she sends Karolina a delivery from her favorite lunch spot if she knows it’s been a busy day. It’s in the way she invites Karolina shopping with her, asking for her opinion on which top she thinks will piss off the snobby Francophile who lives on the floor below her more and the way Shiv can never help but to smile when Karolina just asks her which top she feels better in. It’s in the way Shiv will pull Karolina behind the curtain when the store associates aren’t lurking, and she’ll kiss her with a giddy look in her eyes because Shiv knows Karolina hates worrying about getting caught but loves how much Shiv enjoys it.

It’s in the small things. Which is why the big things hurt so much more.

The second Karolina is through the door, she can tell something is off. She’s caught off-guard by Shiv’s forwardness, and even though it’s not unwelcome—it’s not like she doesn’t know what Shiv called her over to do––something feels different.

“Can we slow down?” Karolina asks, trying to ignore the sensation of Shiv’s mouth inching up her neck.

“Why?” Shiv asks. “It took you fucking forever to get here.”

“It took—fifteen minutes,” Karolina says through stilted breaths, hands involuntarily gasping at Shiv’s hair. “Shiv—can I fucking take my coat off?”

Shiv sighs and leans away, resting a hand on the wall beside Karolina’s head. Karolina shrugs her coat off, sending Shiv a pointed look, and she lightly presses it into Shiv’s chest.

“Hang it up for me?”

Shiv rolls her eyes as Karolina smirks, but Shiv grabs it anyway, disappearing into the hallway. When Shiv returns, Karolina’s smirk immediately flips into a grimace.

“Shiv, your nose is bleeding,” she says, immediately looking around for tissues or anything. Shiv brings the back of her thumb to her nose, cursing as it comes away coated in fresh blood.

“Fuck,” she says, barreling past Karolina and towards the bathroom. Karolina follows her, watching with worried eyes as Shiv attempts to get the bleeding to stop. Under the bright fluorescent lights, Karolina can actually see how worn-down Shiv looks. The more time she’s spent with Shiv, the more time she’s spent looking at that silver vial. The knowledge of it taunts her now, and she’s starting to regret answering Shiv’s call.

“How much have you taken today?” Karolina asks. She tries to keep her voice even, like it’s curiosity at play and not an accusation, but Shiv’s already high on the defensive.

“Just a little extra,” Shiv says, removing a bloodied tissue from her nose. “That’s all.”

“What’s a little extra, Shiv?”

She watches as Shiv dabs a clean tissue around the area, looking satisfied when no more blood comes away from it.

“Does it matter?” Shiv asks, washing her face.

“Of course, it matters,” Karolina says then, eyes closely following every one of Shiv’s movements. Now that they’re up close, she can see it clear as fucking day. The extra-shaky hands as she dries them, the black of her pupils taking the place of that usual crystal blue, the way she seems extra hungry for Karolina. “You’re acting like a damn rail station.”

“Very funny,” Shiv says. She grabs Karolina’s hand as she exits the bathroom, attempting to lead Karolina toward the bedroom, but Karolina shrugs her off.

“Stop,” she says. “I’m not finding this amusing, Shiv.”

Shiv’s eyebrows furrow then.

“I’m just having a little bit of fun,” she says, her frustration seeping through her voice. “Fuckin—lighten up.”

Karolina rolls her eyes. She thinks it���s a juvenile blow, one that she’s heard too many times before. It’s not so different than the frigid and the anal and the uptight, and sometimes, Karolina thinks, she’ll take those. She’ll take the criticism when it’s necessary or it’s fair, because sure, sometimes Karolina does need to lighten up, but not when Shiv’s version of letting loose is going to the bathroom and doing as many lines of cocaine that her heart can take before trying to fuck Karolina into the next morning.

“What did I tell you when we first started doing this?” Karolina asks, Shiv just rolls her eyes in return as well.

“I’m not even fucked up right now,” Shiv argues, and Karolina takes that as a challenge she needs to prove wrong. She scans the apartment for anything else, and immediately an open liquor bottle hanging out on the coffee table.

“You drinking in between lines?” Karolina asks.

“Jesus Christ,” Shiv mumbles, rubbing her forehead. “I’m fucking fine.”

Karolina thinks it has to be some sort of sick joke, Shiv standing in front of her with God knows what absorbed into her body, bloody and sleep deprived, just begging to be fucked. Karolina isn’t even sure where to begin on the list of reasons why Shiv clearly isn’t fine.

“I can’t know that, Shiv,” Karolina argues, because it’s true. This girl will tear herself inside out, on her knees, bruised and bleeding like some prisoner of her own war, screaming––damnit, I’m fine!––just to keep the truth away from herself.

“Oh my god, Karolina,” Shiv groans. “I’m not gonna go cry rape just because I let you hit it while I’m high.”

The words feel so appallingly harsh that Karolina doesn’t even know where to begin, so she doesn’t. And maybe it is Karolina’s fault, just a little bit, because if she were being truly honest, the consent is only a small part of it. The bare minimum.

If she were being honest, she’d tell Shiv that it makes her feel used. That it makes her feel like she’s some ethical weapon of self-destruction to Shiv, because it’s not self-destruction if it’s coming from a different person, right? Shiv doesn’t only keep her around for moments like these, right? She can hear Vic, somewhere in the back of her mind having the last laugh. Maybe this is Karolina’s penance, for fucking everything else up too.

“I’m going back home,” she says. “Enjoy your fun.”

She doesn’t turn around as Shiv begs her to wait, and doesn’t respond to the texts that begin piling up as soon as she walks out the door. She lasts two days––both of which take everything in her not to behave in a way that would guarantee the entirety of her team quitting by the end of the week––before caving, sending a one-word yes when, for probably the twentieth time, Shiv asks if they can talk. She comes home from work that day to find Shiv waiting outside her apartment, a bag of Karolina’s favorite takeout in her hand.

Karolina approaches her tentatively. She knows the silent treatment was wrong, but Shiv was wrong too. And Karolina’s not big on saying things she’ll regret.

“Hey,” Shiv says.

“Hey,” Karolina echoes.

“Look, Karolina—I’m really sorry about the other night,” Shiv says, cutting right to the chase. She thinks the apology sounds unnatural coming from Shiv, and she knows Shiv must not hand out concessions often.

“Yeah?” Karolina says. “What are you sorry for?”

Because if Shiv wants to act immature, then that’s how Karolina will treat her. She’s surprised when Shiv continues to comply, and she nods to herself as if this is what she deserves. She’d half expected Shiv to fight back, not come running home with her tail in between her legs, and Karolina doesn’t feel any satisfaction. She just feels like shit.

“For being an asshole,” Shiv says, and Karolina raises her eyebrows, as if to say, “That’s all?” and she watches Shiv fight the urge to roll her eyes. At least she still has some bite. “And for—violating your boundaries, or whatever. It wasn’t cool of me, I know that.”

Karolina does think it’s a decent apology, as far as Shiv’s standards go, but she’s still upset, because if she and Shiv don’t have trust then they don’t have anything, and maybe what’s more upsetting is that it showed her the trust still isn’t there. That she’d been building it up in her mind for nothing.

“I had one rule, Shiv,” Karolina says, stepping closer. “One fucking rule—don’t call me over when you’re like that.”

Like that. Karolina knows they’re dancing around words now. Dancing and dancing until they get so tangled up that they both come spinning out. Shiv’s eyes dart around, but the street is empty. The cool weather reminds Karolina of a quiet afternoon back home, when she’d have time to leave work early and get to walk the streets of her neighborhood while all the kids were still in school, and she lived far enough downtown that she never saw any tourists. Then she’d get home and she’d feel like Vic was disappointed to see her. Like she’d ruined the afternoon by just returning to her home.

Enter Shiv, begging Karolina to let her in.

“I just—I wasn’t thinking,” Shiv says.

“Obviously,” Karolina can’t help but fire back, and she doesn’t trust herself to say more. A breeze goes by, and she watches as a chill runs through Shiv. She holds her hand firmly in her pocket, wanting to reach out but fearing what would happen if she did.

“Can we go inside?” Shiv asks.

And Karolina’s still mad, of course she is, but there’s a small part of her that just wants to let it go, wants to say fuck it and just give Shiv another chance. She ignores the scary thought that she’s already given Shiv chances, but she’s not sure if chances are something she likes to quantify anymore. She’s certainly burned through enough chances to last a lifetime.

“Fine,” she says, and Shiv follows her silently into the apartment as Karolina does her best to stay relaxed, to remain calm. When they get inside, she leaves Shiv in the kitchen as she goes to change and tries to breathe through the uncomfortability at being angry with someone she cares about. She hates being angry. It makes her fingers twitch and her skin crawl, and it makes her feel all too close to her father in the way that she can’t be certain if it’s the ghost of his touch grabbing her from behind or inching up from somewhere deep within her. Or if maybe it’s just her, inescapable and lurking in her own mirror.

They’re both silent as she returns, pulling out plates and silverware and the food that Shiv’s brought which, really, does smell fucking amazing even if Karolina is a little upset with herself for falling for a bribe, and Shiv attempts to talk to her, but Karolina just shoots her down with one worded answers until Shiv gives up, crestfallen like a kid who keeps trying to get their voice in at the dinner table until they realize that nobody in the room cares about what they have to say. But Karolina isn’t disinterested. She’s fucking upset. Majorly upset.

“You know––I’m not afraid that you’re going to accuse me of something,” she eventually says. Shiv’s head shoots up at her voice, but quickly falls back down, and Karolina’s shocked when the movement looks something like shame.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Shiv says quietly. “It was fucked up.”

Karolina looks up at her, and her heart pounds a little because she doesn’t want to say what she’s going to, but she needs to say it, because Shiv needs to hear it.

“It felt like—” But Karolina cuts herself off. Shiv’s looking at her again, eagerly awaiting the words, like she’s ready to absorb the critique and the reprimand and the disappointment and carry it with her forever, ready to mold herself into whatever Karolina could possibly ask her to just so long as Karolina doesn’t leave. Karolina pockets the words for a rainy day. “Just—don’t do it again, Shiv. Please.”

And Shiv nods.

“I won’t.”

And then Karolina lets Shiv stay over, because she’s mad but she’s not a monster, and she doesn’t think she’s much of a match against Shiv’s sad fucking eyes anyway.

They’re lying in Karolina’s bed, so close together yet somehow worlds apart, and Karolina’s watching Shiv pet Oliver, his small frame nestled in between them.

“He likes you,” Karolina says, her voice still thick with upset.

“He’s soft,” Shiv says.

“Most cats are,” Karolina tries to joke, but it falls flat between them. Shiv is silent, contemplation swimming through her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, eyes still on the cat. Karolina looks away as well, doesn’t want to see the sadness on Shiv’s face.

“It’s fine, Shiv,” Karolina says. “I already said it was.”

She thinks Shiv might leave it there, and she’s about to close her eyes when she hears Shiv’s voice again.

“What were you going to say earlier?” she asks. “About—how it made you feel?”

Karolina watches Oliver shift, twisting his body so his head lands directly where Shiv’s hand is.

“Like—” she swallows. “Like you were trying to use me to hurt yourself.”

The air in the room quickly becomes thick with the words, and she waits for Shiv to deny it, to pick a fight, cry, to do something, but she just lays her hand near Oliver and settles into the bed, her voice dense with a heaviness that Karolina wishes weren’t real.

“I won’t do it again.”

  —

  They try their best to get back to normal, and whatever normal is, it’s definitely not in the voicemail Karolina receives only days later.

“Hey, Karolina, it’s me, um—I know this is an odd request, like, really fucking odd, but—my dad—he’s coming through on a business trip and wants to get dinner, and, look—say no if this is totally fucking insane, but, I don’t know, do you—do you want to come? Just as friends, obviously, this wouldn’t mean anything, but with your career and his business I think you might have shit to talk about and I—I just don’t know how I can let him see me like—uh, yeah, um—if someone was there to just take the heat off then, I don’t know. Let me know.”

Karolina doesn’t think that she sounds desperate as much as she sounds scared, and while it is an absolutely nutty idea, Karolina feels compelled to help. She’d also be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit enticed by the idea of getting a personal sit-down in front of Logan Roy, but really, who in their right mind wouldn’t be? So, she says yes.

She ends up at a restaurant with bottles of wine that cost more than her fucking life insurance policy, settled at a small and intimate table with her fuck-buddy, and her fuck-buddy’s dad, who also happens to be the king of Manhattan. He doesn’t seem impressed when Shiv shows up with a stranger, at least not at first, but Karolina’s attractive, and she’s smart, and she knows how to craft a statement, and so she makes a joke about Sky News and the BBC and how she should’ve appreciated traditional American news media when she was still back home, and that cracks him open wide, a prideful man, unable to resist the temptation of competitive praise.

“Dad, Karolina is the Head of PR for Fashion Week,” Shiv says. “Both seasons.”

“Oh?” Logan hums, narrowing his gaze onto Karolina. “They’re working with an agency in the States?”

“No,” Karolina says, gripping the base of her wine glass. “I was previously working with Condé Nast and developed some professional relationships in Europe. One of my previous clients is on the board here, and they had an open position. Lucky timing, maybe.”

She tries to smile at Logan, but his personal demeanor is unflinching. Still, she doesn’t falter.

“Well,” he says, as if that’s that, “It’s good they’re letting women lead these days.”

Karolina sneaks a glance at Shiv, who’s trying to stifle a laugh into her drink as her father continues. It’s a performative politeness, Karolina can tell, but, hey, at least he’s being nice, right?

“You know, I always told Shiv she ought to aim higher,” he says. “It will be good for her to be around a professional.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, Dad,” Shiv says, rolling her eyes.

“And Shiv?” he says. “What are you up to?”

He sounds curious at best, but there’s an edge to his voice, and Shiv certainly doesn’t seem to like the sound of it. Karolina still wonders if for some reason, Shiv purposefully poked the bear.

“You know,” she waves her hand flippantly, “Meetings with different contacts. Keeping my options open.”

Karolina waits for a cue to jump in, to put out the fire that’s surely building in front of her, but Shiv looks determined to keep it under her control.

“And the Washington situation?” he asks, and for a second, it’s as if Karolina isn’t there at all. An intruding third party, eavesdropping as Shiv shifts in her seat, yet still taking the scene in, watching the way Shiv purses her lips and staunchly avoids looking in Karolina’s direction.

“It’s handled,” Shiv says stiffly.

Logan eyes her and Shiv meets his gaze with an unflinching sort of conviction, until Logan nods to himself and suddenly, like he’d cast some spell to lift a dark curse, the table feels light again. He looks at Karolina with a very easy smile, and she suddenly understands where Shiv gets it from, her ability to just switch. To hit some button and transform herself into whatever the situation has called for.

“How do you two know each other?” Logan asks, and Karolina scrambles, because she realizes she has no idea what Shiv had told him.

“Um—through a mutual friend,” Shiv says. “You remember Lisa Arthur, right? She heard we were both in Paris and said we should connect.”

Connect is a good word for it, Karolina thinks.

“Uh-huh,” he says to Shiv, then turning to Karolina gain, “This one staying out of trouble?”

She can’t miss the frantic eyes Shiv throws her as he asks, but it’s a no-brainer.

“Oh, I’m afraid she’s nothing but trouble, sir,” Karolina says, and there’s a slight pause before Logan’s laughing, and Shiv nervously joins in with a slightly relieved laugh of her own, meanwhile Karolina’s just thanking God she wore black so that nobody can see the sweat dripping down her spine.

“This restaurant was a good choice, Siobhan,” Logan says to Shiv, and Karolina can’t be certain, but it seems to her like they’ve won Logan over for the night.

  —

  They’re lying in bed, separated by mere inches, but Karolina can feel the ghost of Shiv’s breath on her bare shoulder. She’s closer than she usually is, and Karolina pushes her luck. It’s not something she likes to test very often, and she doesn’t think the universe looks down kindly on those who take more than their fill, but she can’t but feel like the universe has often given her more than her fill. So, she’ll take, just this once.

“The Washington situation,” Karolina says out loud, “is that about—why you’re taking a break?”

Shiv is quiet, but Karolina’s still keeping the windows open at night, so the room is a little cold, but the moonlight is shining through just enough to illuminate them in the darkness. She can see Shiv’s eyelashes batting as they both lay awake.

“Yeah,” Shiv says. “But it’s nothing. Just a—a low-hanging fruit. Dad shouldn’t have brought it up in front of you.”

Karolina swallows thickly. She has a million more questions that she won’t ask, because that was her push. That’s all the luck she’ll test for tonight.

“Okay,” she says, turning onto her back. “Consider it forgotten.”

Shiv doesn’t respond to that, and it’s quiet for a moment until Karolina hears her voice again.

“When we first met, you asked if my parents named me after a knife,” she says into the darkness.

“I did,” Karolina mutters. She remembers thinking the name Shiv more closely resembled a comic book character than a socialite. Siobhan made a lot more sense. Siobhan Roy made the most sense.

“My dad named me,’ Shiv says. “I don’t think my mom really had a say.”

Karolina tries to check-in to the mental game that she and Shiv always seem to be playing. The reading between lines, the talking in circles, and she thinks maybe she can tell what Shiv is trying to get at. That in some, fucked up way, Shiv’s dad is important to her. Regardless of what Karolina knows, or thinks she knows. Shiv gives a little, so Karolina gives a little as well, because despite whatever Shiv thinks, or thinks she knows, she and Karolina are seeming more alike than not every day that passes.

“My dad always hated my name,” Karolina admits. She breathes out deeply, not having thought about it in a long time, the way it seemed like he’d spit her name every time he had to say it. Like he couldn’t get it out of his mouth fast enough.

“Why?” Shiv asks.

Why. Karolina sighs softly, pondering the same question she’s asked herself so many times before. There’s really only one answer that she ever came down to.

“Maybe because it was mine.”

Shiv doesn’t say anything, but Karolina can feel the bed shake and the sheets rustle, and she realizes that Shiv is moving closer to her, fitting her head in the crook between Karolina’s shoulder and her neck, and wrapping a hesitant arm across her torso. Karolina immediately meets Shiv’s hand with her own, because she doesn’t want Shiv to feel unwelcome in her space for any longer than the half a second of hesitancy Karolina feels as Shiv nestles in, and she feels a special kind of calm wash over her as they both settle into the contact.

When Karolina wakes up, Shiv is still there.

  —

  “What do you think the artist is trying to say?”

Shiv is leaning down, talking lowly into Karolina’s ear. She says it in a teasing tone, clearly making fun of the pretentiousness of it all. They’re at an art gallery opening, another event Karolina’s gained the privilege of attending through her client connections. It’s above her social league, that much is apparent, but Shiv had seemed interested when Karolina mentioned it in passing, and so Karolina RSVP’d herself and a plus one, the thought of Shiv willingly joining her as a date too good to pass up.

Karolina eyes the painting. It’s a minimalist gallery, certainly not Karolina’s favorite for deciphering beyond what would look good on her walls, but she attempts to humor Shiv. The piece they’re in front of is a fully blacked-out canvas with a series of neon orange circles taking up the space inside. She imagines someone who likes this style of art might have something to say about the crispness of the circles or the contrast of the colors, and she thinks the technique must have something to do with why the painting has a charitable price tag of over four hundred thousand, but even still, she actually finds the nature of it pleasing.

“I like this one,” she says. “Something about the way the colors are presented, it’s nice.”

“Sure, it looks nice,” Shiv says, still looking unimpressed. “But it just seems too easy. I’m pretty sure this is what Roman used to make before eating the mac and cheese colored crayon when he was eight.”

Karolina fights against the urge to ask Shiv why her brother was still eating crayons at age eight, and she just marvels at Shiv’s relaxed state, no regard for whether the artist could be lurking behind her, or whether a gallery investor could be in the sea bodies in front of them. She doesn’t have a care in the world, and it’s like Shiv seems to revel in the discomfort of it all. Karolina’s come to realize that Shiv can walk into a room and immediately decide whether the people within it are worth her time, and the moment she walked in, she decided this gallery was bogus and that switch flipped in Shiv. She’s walking around with her hand on the small of Karolina’s back, whispering insulting quips about the guests and the artwork every so often. There’s a mischievous giddiness to her, an American heiress in a room full of French people who have no idea who she is.

“Does it have to prove something?” Karolina asks, turning to Shiv. “To be worth looking at?”

Shiv seems slightly taken by the question, but then she raises her eyebrows, the emotion only fleeting.

“I didn’t take you for a connoisseur,” she says, and then she looks at the painting again. “I guess you’re right.”

Her eyes glaze over the painting, and Karolina wonders if it’s actually doing its job, making her feel. Shiv seems to be someone who is always trying to prove her worth, as if that’s something that needs to be proven at all. Shiv squeezes Karolina’s hand and tells her that she’ll be right back, and Karolina doesn’t have to wonder why the painting suddenly made Shiv so upset, because it’s not about the painting at all. Shiv just needs another fix.

So, Karolina holds Shiv’s champagne and tries to undo the knot in her stomach, but it only grows with every tormenting second that Shiv takes, and Karolina hates that this is a condition of their affair. Hates that she’s just supposed to pretend this is normal, and hates that she feels powerless in stopping it. Shiv eventually comes back from the bathroom with watering eyes that she knows there’s no use in trying to hide anymore, and Karolina meets those eyes with angered ones of her own that she really tries her best to hide, but can’t, because they were having a good night, and now they’re not.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Karolina ends up saying, because it’s true and she means it, but Shiv doesn’t get mad. She just shrugs her shoulders and gazes at the painting again.

“I wish I wouldn’t either.”

  ––

  When they get back to Karolina’s apartment, shoes kicked off and bodies tentatively heading for the bedroom, Karolina waits for an okay that never comes. Shiv’s sitting on Karolina’s bed and Karolina’s lingering in the doorway, and they come to a standstill, Karolina like she’s waiting for permission and Shiv like she’s waiting for an order. Karolina leans against the doorframe as she eyes Shiv. She looks smaller in the yellow light of the room, patiently waiting for Karolina to take the lead. She’d been silent in the car back, and Karolina suddenly worries that Shiv thinks she’s upset with her.

Which, maybe Karolina is, but not in the way that should worry Shiv.

“Want to watch a movie?” Karolina asks, cocking her head slightly. She doesn’t let herself react to Shiv’s surprise, or the hesitancy with which she looks back at Karolina, doesn’t dare give Shiv a reason to believe that Karolina wants anything more than what she’s asking for.

“You’re, um—you’d be fine with that?” she asks. She sounds like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, like she’s holding her breath because Karolina’s testing her and it wasn’t an exam that she’d had the time to study for; but it’s not a test. Karolina doesn’t need a headboard apology, she just wishes she knew the magic formula to making sure Shiv never has to do anything that she doesn’t want to do, even if that’s despite herself.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Karolina asks.

Shiv looks away, trying to hide the way the question hits her, and Karolina elects to ignore it, grabbing the remote and climbing into her bed, far from the end where Shiv is sitting. When Shiv looks back at her, Karolina holds out the remote as if to say, your pick, and after a moment of hesitation, Shiv grabs it. She scrolls through the options for a while, pausing on a few enlightening selections before absolutely blowing Karolina’s mind with what she does choose.

“Practical Magic?” Karolina asks.

“What,” Shiv snorts, “Karolina Novotney isn’t into Practical Magic?”

She has to feign offense at that, because her DVD collection (currently most likely covered in layers and layers of dust in her storage unit back home) would be highly insulted by the thought.

“I am,” she says. “I just didn’t think you would be.”

“I guess I’m full of surprises,” Shiv says, smiling sweetly.

“You just have the hots for Sandra Bullock,” Karolina says.

“Something tells me you have the hots for Nicole Kidman,” Shiv says, twirling a lock of her hair. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Shut up,” Karolina says, and she crosses her arms, because fine, maybe she’s always had the hots for Nicole Kidman in Practical Magic. Shiv and her frustratingly beautiful red hair don’t have to have anything to do with it.

She looks over to Shiv and it takes about two seconds before they both burst into laughter, and the tension is broken as Karolina reaches out for Shiv and pulls her into her chest. Shiv collapses into her willingly, and the ever-present graveness of everything feels a little bit lighter.

It can only last for so long though, and it’s not until the credits are rolling and the evil boyfriend is long-dead and they’re just lying there, Karolina running her fingers through Shiv’s hair while thinking way too much about why Shiv would’ve chosen this movie, that Shiv takes charge of the conversation.

“You know when you said that the Eiffel Tower—that it’s so big the rest of the city pales in comparison?”

That feels so long ago now, almost a few months of Shiv filling up Karolina’s mind since that night.

“Yeah,” Karolina says. “I remember.”

“Do you think that can happen to people?” Shiv asks, voice peaking. Karolina looks down, but all she can see is the top of her head and her wringing hands.

“Maybe,” Karolina says. Because people can become consumed by things and never return. They can get chewed up or swallowed whole and be spit out all the same, and it can define them, the thing that took them. But that wouldn’t happen to Shiv. There are already pages and pages of things Karolina can say about Shiv that have nothing to do with the thing that consumes her. Karolina doesn’t even know what that thing is, and it’s then she realizes that there’s something paradoxical to it, because how can Shiv become overshadowed by something that she won’t let exist?

Still, if it did come to light, Karolina doesn’t believe it could tower her. Not when she knows how bright Shiv’s presence is, “But not to you.”

“How can you know that?” she asks.

“Because I’ve seen you in front of the skyline, Shiv,” Karolina says. “All I could see was you.”

She can feel her heart pounding, and she knows Shiv must feel it too, the rhythmic beating vicious from inside her ribcage, but she finds that she doesn’t care. If Shiv doesn’t know how she feels at this point, then it’s a lost cause anyway. Shiv doesn’t immediately respond, and when she does, it’s not what Karolina is expecting.

“I’m sorry that I’m such a mess,” she says, and Karolina’s erratic heartbeat turns to something more like aching, because Shiv actually does sound sorry. Sorry that this is her life, sorry that she’s dragged Karolina into it, sorry that she can’t feel the same way Karolina feels about her.

“You’re just hurting,” Karolina says, and Shiv stills, because Karolina knows it’s not something she was supposed to know, not something she was supposed to figure out, but she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to look at Shiv and not figure it out. Even still, Shiv hasn’t let it consume her. She stands tall among the wreckage.

“Maybe,” Shiv eventually says, confirming weeks of observation in just one word.

  —

  Sometimes, Karolina really just wishes everyone in the world would do her a favor and keel over.

“I don’t care what we have to promise them,” she says, holding up a finger to an expectant Shiv, fresh coffee in hand. “Just put whatever they want in the scope and we’ll deal with it, okay?”

The employee on the other end agrees, some Junior Manager named Jacques—as if it couldn’t get any more fucking French—and she hangs up as fast as she can, setting her phone down roughly onto her kitchen counter.

“Jesus—fucking, Christ,” she huffs sharply, leaning her hands on the counter. She knows setbacks are par for the course in an event like this, but they’ve been dealing with absurd requests from talent and vendors all week, and there’s only so much that she actually has the time to make happen. Not to mention that it’s a Sunday, and she can’t remember a single moment in the last ninety-six hours that she wasn’t either sleeping or putting out a fucking fire.

She takes a deep breath, trying to evaporate the ugly adrenaline of anger that’s forced its way into her system, and then she feels a weight against her back and two arms snaking their way around her torso.

“If only this was London Fashion Week,” Shiv says lightly. “Then you could just call them all wankers and get on with your weekend.”

“I don’t like cursing at my employees,” Karolina says, ignoring the joke.

“Okay,” Shiv says, drawing out the word. “Then how about you just ignore them for an hour so that doesn’t end up happening?”

Shiv squeezes at Karolina’s side a little bit, a reminder that she’s still here, that human life beyond client scopes and emails.

“I have to take care of a few more things,” Karolina says, trying to escape Shiv’s grip.

“It’s nine in the morning on a Sunday,” Shiv says, lightly fighting against her. Karolina gives up, not that she’d been trying very hard anyway, and she turns around, leaning against the counter. Shiv quirks an eyebrow. “I think they’ll survive until ten.”

Karolina isn’t sure that’s so true, since they clearly couldn’t survive until nine, but she relents, leaning forward into Shiv’s chest with a sort of purposeful reluctancy, not all that dissimilar from the way Shiv likes to act when she’s pretending she doesn’t want Karolina around. She wonders if they’re less of a match and more of a reflection, constantly catching each other in the act with nonjudgmental eyes but consequential curiosity all the same.

Shiv brings her arms up higher, swallowing Karolina in her embrace, and for a moment, she lets herself imagine that this is real. That she’s back home and it’s a time in her life where she still knows the Bodega guy’s name and she still keeps cat treats in her purse for the tabby that lives in the pasta aisle at her supermarket, and she hasn’t chosen capitalism over love. She imagines a Shiv that doesn’t scare her, one whose face isn’t so chiseled, and hands aren’t so unsteady, whose cheeks still carry the same, sweet pink but whose eyes don’t look so constantly at odds. One that she met in a way she could tell her mother about—a mix-up at the dry cleaners or a small talk at the crowded DMV—so the dull throb of shame for never having brought home a man might hurt a little less. She wonders if there’s a world where she can have that again. Where she can have Shiv in a way that doesn’t feel like everything is always seconds away from total destruction.

She wraps her arms around Shiv as well, and briefly wonders what would happen if she just never let go.

“You okay?” Shiv asks.

Karolina doesn’t know if there’s a right answer. Things have never been better, but there’s still an emptiness. What are you supposed to do when you think you might be falling in love with someone who doesn’t even seem to understand what love actually is? Karolina’s no expert either, but she knows enough to understand that Shiv’s experience is obscured, and she knows enough to understand that Karolina’s absolutely fucked.

“There’s just a lot going on,” Karolina says, and she tries not to let it sound how she means it, which is that work is a lot, and Karolina’s life is a lot, and Shiv is a lot. She can feel Shiv’s nails lightly graze her back as her hand curls slightly into the fabric of Karolina’s shirt.

“Is it too much?” Shiv asks, and Karolina knows they’re not talking about her job anymore.

“No,” Karolina says. “I’ll handle it.”

Because she will. She’ll get the vendors the extra two partners they’ve requested even though the pre-parties start in five days, and she’ll find twenty extra park benches (that certainly don’t exist) to splatter their logos across even though they’ve never needed that many park-bench signs before because, really, pigeons don’t go to fucking Fashion Week, and if in the middle of all of it, Shiv calls her in the middle of the night skiing down a slippery slope and too drunk to realize that the bed she’s asking for is in Karolina’s apartment, she’ll be there. She’ll handle it.

“You know you don’t have to be perfect around me,” Shiv then says. “You’ve eaten my shit, right?”

And Karolina guesses that she has. That she’s shown up for Shiv night after night and Shiv just wants to return the favor. Because in some sense, Karolina is asking Shiv to trust her. To let down her defenses and believe that Shiv won’t chase her away just because things aren’t currently built for a white picket fence, and Shiv is asking Karolina to do the same. To trust her, just a little bit, to handle some of the hard stuff. Karolina isn’t so sure that the Shiv she knows has that ability, isn’t sure she’d pull the lever on the trolley if it were coming straight for her, but she knows that Shiv must exist somewhere, that at some point she had to, so Karolina gives it to her. Gives her the reigns for just a singular thirty seconds, an inconsequential test trial that can’t result in bodily harm or sudden death.

“Fine,” Karolina says, maybe with a little more attitude than she’d wanted, but Shiv wants to be trusted with the real her, and sometimes the real Karolina is snippy. Shiv’s hand relaxes and Karolina focuses on the pressure of Shiv’s fingers on her body, and it does feel good, letting Shiv be the bigger person.

“I have to run some errands,” Shiv says, grip not loosening, “so, why don’t you go answer those emails and curse out whoever you need to, and I’ll be back with lunch?”

Karolina bites her tongue, not wanting to ask what those errands are, because she’s pretty certain it has something to do with the low stash she saw when Shiv asked Karolina to grab her phone from her purse the night before, and she just nods into Shiv’s chest. Lets Shiv feel like she’s doing something right for once, because in a way, she is, and then she lets Shiv go, trusting her to come back in one piece.

(She only ends up cursing out one person.)

  —

  Karolina continues to pretend. She pretends like Shiv agreeing to be her plus one to the week of events doesn’t make her heart skip a little, and like when Shiv texts her and asks what jewelry Karolina will be wearing to make sure their metals don’t clash it doesn’t feel more romantic than anything else she’s ever experienced before, and that when Shiv is standing next to her, hand on the small of her back, strategizing about all of the ways to maximize the business potential in the room because Karolina still doesn’t have her next job lined up rather than grumbling about the snobby rich people and begging her to leave early, it doesn’t somewhat feel like maybe they’re the two most powerful women in the room. That maybe, she’s met her match.

It’s a double-edged sword though, and Karolina can’t pretend that Shiv’s mood doesn’t shift at the end of each night. That the second the lock clicks in either of their apartments she’s taking off her earrings with a rigid spine and pensive eyes and Karolina can’t ignore what that means, can’t stand the thought of Shiv just playing along to make her happy. So, Karolina pushes again, hoping that it won’t be too much.

Shiv’s standing in front of the mirror, switching out her necklace for her everyday chain.

“You’re beautiful,” Karolina says, hovering in the doorway. She smiles as Shiv meets her gaze through the mirror, and Shiv gives her a small smile of her own, before changing out her earrings. Karolina walks into the bedroom, stopping in between Shiv and the bed, still looking at Shiv through the mirror.

“You know, you really don’t have to keep going to these events,” Karolina says, sitting on the bed, “if you’re tired of the charade.”

Shiv meets her eyes through the mirror and Karolina can see the moment she turns herself back on, as if she’d forgotten was a machine supposed to be willing and able for any bidding.

“I don’t mind,” Shiv says, closing her jewelry boxes. She turns away from the mirror and when she faces Karolina, she’s replaced her face again, this time with something distracting. She moves forward, not stopping until she’s leaning into Karolina, one hand placed precariously over Karolina’s chest. “Besides, it’s kind of hot when you get all, oui m’dame, to your boss.”

Karolina nearly takes the bait, wants to thank Shiv for sticking by her side in the best way she knows how, but it gives her pause, because that’s what it’s about, is it? Karolina doesn’t want Shiv to come just because it’s going to win her points. She wants Shiv to come because she wants to be there,

“Hey, wait—” Karolina says, lightly pushing Shiv back. “I just—I don’t want you to feel obligated, you know? I’m not going to be mad if you want a night off.”

Karolina thinks she’s struck a nerve at the way Shiv’s lips twitch just a little and her eyebrows dig a little deeper into her forehead. She’s touched a sore spot that perhaps had been lingering all along. She wonders about the TK of it all and worries that maybe she has gone too far, but Shiv’s face returns to neutrality almost as quickly as it’d left, and Karolina thinks the attempts at hiding her uncertainty would work if she just didn’t know Shiv better by now.

“I’ll tell you if I don’t want to be there,” Shiv says, brushing Karolina’s stray bang away from her face. “Yeah?”

Karolina wants to take the sentence at face value, but she’s not so sure she can trust that from Shiv. She wants to, but can she?

“Will you?” she asks, and she searches Shiv’s eyes. Shiv stares back, likely going through all the things she can say to dissuade Karolina from the image of Shiv she’s built up in her mind, but it’s no use, Karolina knows who Shiv is, and Shiv knows that. Still, it doesn’t change anything. Shiv nods, and Karolina has to believe her.

“Believe it or not, I sort of enjoy the company,” Shiv says, a small smile returning to her, and Karolina knows that’s her cue to drop it. Knows that’s all Shiv will give her, a promise of honesty that they both know she’s not intent on keeping.

“Sort of?” Karolina says, leaning back expectantly.

“Well,” Shiv says, following her movements, “Maybe a little more than sort of.”

Karolina doesn’t stop her this time, letting Shiv give what she wants to give, and although she can’t shake the feeling that the tender hands and the roaming lips are supposed to be more like compensation than they are desire, she still accepts them, and when they’re finished Shiv lays Karolina’s arms and she remembers that it wasn’t so long ago that Shiv couldn’t even bear to touch her afterward.

“Shiv?” Karolina says, and a quiet, “Hm?” reverberates on her chest. Karolina presses a featherlight kiss into Shiv’s hair and Shiv just burrows herself deeper into Karolina. Karolina imagines this is real.

“I like the company, too.”

  —

  “I’m going to have to go back to New York soon,” Karolina says. Her eyes are half closed, enjoying the warming weather on her balcony as Shiv smokes a cigarette. Their hands are loosely connected, Shiv dragging her thumb lightly across Karolina’s palm. The runways have started, and Karolina’s job is almost complete. Things are slowing down for her, just wrap up meetings and after-action reports.

“Why?” Shiv asks.

“Because it’s where I live,” Karolina jokes, but neither of them laughs.

“Do you know when?” Shiv asks.

“A few weeks,” Karolina says. She opens her eyes, squinting at Shiv in the sun. Shiv taps her cigarette harshly over the ashtray.

“Can you stay longer?” Shiv asks, quietly, and Karolina frowns, because Shiv never asks for anything, not out loud at least, and if she did, Karolina can’t think of anything she wouldn’t do. But this is something she has no control over. Something she can’t deliver on.

“My visa is going to expire,” Karolina says. “They need to kick me out so the next group of tourists can come in and be disappointed by French espresso.”

She fights again to find some amusement on Shiv’s face, but she finds nothing even close to it. Shiv looks away from her then, but her grip on Karolina’s hand becomes tighter.

“I hadn’t realized how long it’s been,” she says.

Karolina hadn’t either. Months of entanglement, from a chance meeting in a random club to this.

“Just because I’m leaving—” Karolina says, “—this doesn’t have to end.”

She watches Shiv’s face for even a hint of what she’s thinking, but Shiv just stares out into the view in front of them, a couple of rooftops that have their own inhabitants enjoying the freak warm weather. Karolina wonders if things for them always feel this grave as well, or if they’ve reached a point in life where everything’s stopped being so dire. She really thought she’d be there by now.

“That’s a pretty long distance,” Shiv eventually says, and Karolina puts down her book and reaches over to grab Shiv’s arm, lightly grazing her thumb across it.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says.

Shiv looks at her and then looks away again, sighing.

“I’m not going back.”

“Why not?” Karolina asks. Shiv’s bouncing a leg now, and Karolina knows they’re getting into dangerous territory, but they both need to know what’s going to happen after this. Karolina doesn’t know if she’d survive the cold turkey, and Shiv might act like she can, but Karolina doesn’t want to find out whether or not that’s true.

Shiv takes another sharp drag of her cigarette and her eyebrows furrow.

“I can’t,” she admits. Shiv says it like even the thought threatens to break her, but Karolina wonders if it’s too late for that. That despite her best efforts, Shiv is already long shattered.

“What are you afraid will happen?” Karolina asks, her voice calm.

“I don’t know,” Shiv says. “There’s nothing left for me there.”

Karolina knows why Shiv would say that. That her family legacy and the big fancy parties and the distant father who favors her overbearing brothers aren’t anything she’d want to go back for. That whatever happened in Washington carved a wound so deep that she needs uppers to get out of bed and downers to slow her heart enough to get into it, and that it’s easier to ignore and forget than to remember and let go. But Karolina still doesn’t think there’s nothing for Shiv there.

“I’m not nothing,” Karolina says, and Shiv finally looks over again. Karolina thinks she can see a twinge of pink over Shiv’s nose, a little extra glossiness in her eyes, and it’s a gut-wrenching thought, the idea that Shiv is fighting a battle in her mind that she won’t let Karolina into. She’s throwing her own body in front of the archers as if that’ll save either of them from destruction when in reality, it’s the thing that hurts them the most.

“No,” Shiv says. “You’re not.”

Karolina hates seeing Shiv feel so alone, especially when she’s right next to her, touching her, existing with her. She thinks Shiv feels her emotions like she’s the only person on the planet who has ever had them, and Karolina wishes she were more tactful, because anything Shiv is feeling, Karolina’s certain she’s felt before.

“I don’t really have anything to go back to either,” she says, and Shiv immediately shakes her head.

“You have a great life,” Shiv argues, as if it’s supposed to mean that Shiv doesn’t, as if it’s supposed to mean that Shiv is dragging her down, somehow, and Karolina wants to laugh. Her life has become hollow. Hollow work for a shallow industry, distant friends that she doesn’t check up on enough, too many lost lovers to count with the most recent feeling like her culminating failure. She considers that maybe she’s just been hollow from birth, and she wonders if Shiv can feel that shared between them, that absence that can linger in a child forever if parents aren’t careful enough.

She realizes then, that maybe it isn’t about tact at all. If she wants Shiv to give, then she has to continue to give as well.

“I chose Paris over my relationship,” Karolina admits. “Before I left, she gave me an ultimatum—and I chose the job. Nine years, gone.”

“I’m sorry,” Shiv says, and it sounds like she means it. Karolina shrugs, hands still linked with Shiv’s.

“I’m just saying, I don’t have a life to go back to,” Karolina says. “I’m starting over.”

Shiv seems to get that message, the idea that they could start over together, and she roughly wipes at her face, Karolina assuming it to be a tear that she can’t see from where she’s sitting.

“Why’d she give you an ultimatum?” Shiv asks, ignoring the sentiment.

“She thought I loved my career more than I loved her,” Karolina says.

“Did you?”

Karolina will never forget when Vic asked point blank, “Do you?” and Karolina hesitated. She hesitated, and that was it. In that split second, they could both fill in the blank.

“Maybe,” Karolina says instead. “Or, maybe in the end I just wanted to love her more than I actually did.”

She hates the way remembering makes her feel so cold, how instead of comforting each other through the end, Vic had just told her to get out, and she did. She left without a fight. She just gave up.

“Love is fucked anyway,” Shiv says, but Karolina stills, unsure if that’s true. She decides to bite, praying that it doesn’t send Shiv away.

“Were you—you and TK, were you in love?” she asks nervously.

Shiv drops their hands at the mention of the codeword, and she crosses her arms, folding into herself. For a second, Karolina thinks Shiv isn’t going to give her an answer, but she’s surprised when Shiv does.

“I thought we were,” Shiv admits. “But when he—”

She cuts herself off, and Karolina just waits for Shiv to fill the silence again.

“The way it ended,” Shiv eventually says. “It didn’t feel like love.”

Karolina doesn’t let her mind wander. She’s silent as she tries to come up with something to say that doesn’t feel like she ripped it out of a get well soon card in the pharmacy, but then Shiv steals a glance at her, a very quick one, and her voice rings out again.

“What do you think love should feel like?” she asks.

Karolina looks at Shiv, carrying more pain than she’ll ever truly know, yet here she is, being honest with Karolina. Asking her the big questions, letting herself be vulnerable with someone new, and Karolina realizes that maybe she has done something right for once. That love and trust and a career and happiness might not be as far out of reach as she’d thought. She closes her eyes and faces the sun again, letting her body soak up the warmth.

“Maybe like whatever this is.”

  —

  Shiv won’t say it, but Karolina knows they’re exclusive. Knows that Shiv considers Karolina hers and that if Karolina strayed, Shiv would care. That if Karolina left, Shiv would care. That Shiv cares. She also knows it’s too soon for Shiv. That old wounds aren’t yet old, and that she still can’t trust Karolina not to accidentally rip them open, that Shiv just needs time. They both know that they’re running out of time.

What Shiv doesn’t know, is that Karolina is prepared to wait.

  —

  Sometimes, it feels like Karolina is still catching up. Things go well for so long that she forgets exponential growth can stutter and stagnate and sometimes even fall, despite her efforts, despite how much she wills for things to be smooth and perfect. But even in stagnation, there are lessons learned, there are things that change and that still constitutes growth, right?

Shiv calling her panicked and breathless at two in the morning and asking if she can please just come over is horrifying and heartbreaking but also very different than a Shiv who a few months ago couldn’t even hold Karolina’s hand, right?

When she gets there, it’s not quite the scene she’d been expecting. Shiv’s call had her fearing the worst, but the apartment is calm and clean, and she can’t quite figure out what the issue is until she finds Shiv, curled up on the couch, an American news channel on her TV. Shaking hands carry her nail beds to her teeth, and her slightly angered face is partially hidden by the way she has her knees pulled into her chest, listening intently to the soft hum of the television. Karolina’s eyes travel towards the TV; on it is a special report, some greasy bastard with enough pomade in his hair to supply an entire class of pre-tween boys who’ve just discovered the world of manscaping and shifty eyes that look like the secrets he’s sitting on could take his entire campaign down in one fell swoop taking up the screen, and Karolina thinks she puts the final puzzle piece together.

She sets her bag down and walks over to Shiv with cautious legs, cautious arms, and a cautious mouth, and she sits down on the couch, listening to the report. It’s a fluff piece about an after-school meal program in DC.

“Did you work on that initiative?” Karolina tries asking.

Shiv doesn’t move, the only sign that she even heard Karolina’s question being her cheeks sucking in as she shifts her jaw, and her eyes drop from the TV, as if she can’t speak while looking at him.

“Uh—” she sniffs, and digs a hand into her hair for a second before her hand rubs harshly on the back of her neck, “yeah.”

Karolina nods, steeling herself before asking her next question.

“Is that him?”

The silence is suffocating. If she couldn’t see the tight rise and fall of Shiv’s chest, she wouldn’t be sure she was even breathing at all, and Shiv’s face immediately twists, as if the question itself was the last straw in her ability to hold back the tears. She watches as Shiv fights against the instinct to blink, fights against the instinct to let herself cry, to fall apart and to let Karolina see this, and eventually, something gives, because Shiv may be great at pretending, but she’s not superhuman.

She blinks and the tears run down her face slowly, and then, so slightly that Karolina would’ve missed it if Shiv weren’t the entire center of her world currently, Shiv nods.

Karolina releases a deep breath and steals another glance at this man’s smug face, still not even knowing exactly what he’d done, but feeling a familiar rage course through her system. It’s one she keeps on reserve, one she doesn’t often pull out because it’s so red-hot that it feels like she can’t come back from it. The kind she’d used the first time she stood up to her father. It’s then that Karolina notices the small ATN on the corner of the screen, and she knows that if she were anywhere else but alone in an apartment with Shiv, she’d allow the anger to be blinding; but for now she’ll just have to let it be sadness, and protection, and reassurance, and whatever else Shiv could possibly need from her right now.

She doesn’t think she can stomach the sight of him any longer, and doesn’t think Shiv can either, so she grabs the remote and that’s what finally springs Shiv into action, latching onto Karolina’s arm as if it’s the last thing she’ll ever do.

“Wait—” Shiv says, and her eyes tear away from the remote and back to the TV, then to Karolina, and they’re full of such a timid desperation that Karolina wishes she could just open Shiv up and find the faulty wiring, wipe whatever horrible memories seem to be trapping her in this moment and just fucking fix it, but she can’t. What she can do is get this prick’s shadow out of Shiv’s living room before it does consume her. Before it swallows Shiv whole in a way that she feels like she can’t come back from.

Karolina gently brings her hand over where Shiv’s is still latched onto her arm, biting the inside of her cheek when Shiv jumps at the touch, but she doesn’t stop, just guiding Shiv’s fingers to uncurl and then she connects their hands together. She holds on tightly, rubbing her thumb across the top of Shiv’s hand.

“I’m going to turn it off,” Karolina says softly. “Okay?”

She waits for Shiv to react, not daring to break the eye contact Shiv is maintaining until eventually, Shiv is the one to break it, and she nods; hesitantly, but she nods. Karolina immediately turns it off, cutting off his arrogant voice in the middle of some sentence about education reform and the thought of him makes her feel sick, the theatrics of this pedestal he’s posing on when she can see Shiv right in front of her, the consequences of his pedestal in her peripheral, touching her hand. The consequences are real, not some bullshit bill that he’s only getting passed as some sort of mutually beneficial hush deal.

She turns to watch Shiv closely, waiting for any sign of what her next move should be. She doesn’t let go of Shiv’s hand and Shiv doesn’t make a move to let go either, and Karolina is almost ready to speak up again when what little is left of Shiv’s resolve cracks fully open, and Shiv drops her head into her free hand, letting it all out as if this is the first time she’s allowed herself to feel the depth of her emotions since this whole thing had started. Karolina takes deep breaths herself, not wanting to get swept away in her own emotions, and she rests her free hand on Shiv’s back, waiting for any sign that Shiv might not want the contact. Shiv doesn’t react, and Karolina wonders if Shiv even remembers she’s there.

She doesn’t know what to say to even begin trying to make it better, and she feels entirely out of her depth. She just resorts to being there, because Shiv had asked for her, and if this is what Shiv needs, then fuck, Karolina would sit here for months. The French police will have to drag her out of the country kicking before she leaves Shiv, that’s for damn sure.

She draws the same pattern over and over across Shiv’s back until eventually, Shiv leans down, laying her head across Karolina’s lap. As she does so, the tears lessen some, not quite all-encompassing but still burdensome, nonetheless. Karolina is surprised when Shiv speaks, her voice gruff and guarded, and Karolina knows just from the sound alone that she would give anything to take away an ounce of the pain.

“I thought coming here would make things better,” Shiv says. “Like maybe the distance would stop it from feeling like so much.”

“Treating the symptom,” Karolina says, moving her hand to play with Shiv’s hair. Shiv doesn’t say anything to that, and Karolina takes the turn to speak again, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Shiv sighs, her breath shaky.

“He just really hurt me,” Shiv says, her voice cracking slightly, and it’s so simple that it makes Karolina want to scream. She can feel the sting of tears in her own eyes, and she blinks them away. There’s no complexity to it. He hurt her bad enough that she raced to an entirely different continent to numb her days with booze and blow, in a country where she barely speaks the language and nobody would ever notice her, to whittle herself into nothing. To carve herself hollow with sex and drugs until there’d be nothing left to take from her. Nothing left to lose.

Karolina’s fingers move towards Shiv’s hairline, both her and Shiv stilling when she brushes against the scar she’d asked about what feels like so long ago now.

“Did he do that?” she asks, though she isn’t sure she wants the answer. At first, she doesn’t think she’s going to get another one, every question she asks feeling like a deeper hole that she and Shiv might not come out of unscathed, but she has to try, and it seems Shiv does as well.

“The handle of a kitchen cabinet,” Shiv says, clearing her throat. “He said he opened it too fast. That he forgot I was there.”

Karolina hates how clinical the answer is. He said it was an accident. He didn’t see me. He said. He said. He said.

“Is that when you left?” Karolina asks, and she doesn’t want to ask it, doesn’t want the confirmation of whether or not it’s the last scar, if it’s not the only scar—somehow worse if it’s the only visible scar— but it doesn’t look new. It looks old and angry and most of all, it looks sad.

“Uh—no, that was…it was the first time,” Shiv says. “I guess I believed him, or—or, I wanted to, maybe…”

“It’s confusing,” Karolina jumps in. “When you love someone, and they do that.”

“Yeah,” Shiv whispers.

Karolina removes her hand from Shiv’s hair and drapes her arm over Shiv. She’s trying to figure out what her next move should be when Shiv’s fingers run along the surgical scar on her forearm. She remembers she decided to start sharing more. That she owed it to Shiv if she expected the same from her.

“Do you remember when I told you about that?” Karolina asks, and Shiv nods.

“Motorcycle accident,” Shiv says.

Karolina nods even though Shiv can’t see her, and she eyes the scar, less faded than it should be for something almost twenty years old.

“When I broke it, I had to get surgery—a plate and seven screws,” Karolina says. “After it healed, my father, he’d um—grab my arm in that spot. Never hard enough for it to hurt, but just hard enough so that we could both feel the screws under my skin. I don’t know if he even remembered they were there the first time, but every time after that, it was with purpose, you know?”

Shiv grazes the scar again, as if she’s afraid to touch it.

“He wanted to remind you,” Shiv says. “Of your weakness.”

“Yeah,” Karolina says grimly. Not that she needed reminding, and not like she didn’t continue to test him anyway.

“Are they still in there?” Shiv asks. “The screws?”

“No,” Karolina says. “I had them removed once I could afford it. That’s why the scar hasn’t faded so much.”

It was a day of freedom. Something tangible that she could rip out of her body and be rid of, but she knows Shiv doesn’t have that same luxury.

“TK—” Shiv says, even though Karolina knows his name now, “When we got back from the hospital—he told me it was a good thing I wouldn’t be the one on TV, and he held that over me, every time we got into an argument in public or somewhere he couldn’t—somewhere he didn’t have power he’d find a way to say it. And now, every time I look in the mirror he’s just fucking there. He’s always there.”

Shiv’s voice cracks again and Karolina just holds her tighter.

“It’ll fade, Shiv,” Karolina says, because there isn’t anything else Karolina can assure her of.

“I just wish I could erase him,” Shiv says. “Pretend none of this fucking happened.”

Karolina won’t pretend like she knows everything, but she thinks she knows this one thing. She’s banked her entire life on it being true.

“He’ll fade too,” Karolina says. “It won’t always feel like this.”

Shiv just grabs Karolina’s arm and holds it close to her chest, and as Karolina feels Shiv’s heart beat fiercely into her bones, she knows she is telling the truth. She listens to Shiv’s quiet breaths, and looks around the living room, the sweat from the early morning dew on the windows making the glow of the room much warmer than it currently feels. It’s a big apartment, too big for one person, and she doesn’t know how she’s going to leave Shiv in a week. She doesn’t know that she can. Even still, this is bigger than her.

“Shiv?” Karolina asks, hesitantly.

“Yeah?” her small voice croaks out.

“I think––I think maybe you should see someone,” Karolina says, and she can’t stop her own voice from cracking as the words come out. “You can come back with me, and we’ll find someplace private in the city, or maybe somewhere upstate and I––you know, I wouldn’t be that far, then.”

Shiv’s response comes in the form of the smallest, most defeated sound that Karolina thinks she has ever heard, a quiet, “Okay,” with an affliction that Karolina hopes she’ll never have to experience come out of Shiv again.

“Okay,” she whispers back.

“Will you stay tonight?” Shiv asks, and Karolina just runs her free hand soothingly through Shiv’s hair once more.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

[nothisis-ridiculous]

XIII

Set years after the end of Baldur's Gate 3, Astarion and Tav meet by chance after years apart. This story follows their meetings every year, on the anniversary of the start of their adventures. “It’s a little early to be lush.”

III-

“It’s a little early to be lush.”

Blaire- Tav returned a bright grin, giggled, and then twirled until she spun so tightly that she scrambled to keep her footing. The crimson ribbons falling from her black capelet strung out and tangled with her erratic movements.

He could only laugh.

“So why here,” Astarion asked, craning his head up at the ostentatiously red-roofed tower. It was an eyesore in the middle of the Uppercity, not that the Uppercity hadn’t seen better days either. But this monstrosity of roofs that didn’t match the number of floors was a curious place to meet.

“Why not,” she shot back with a smirk as she strutted toward the building.

“Bl-Tav-.”

Her head tilted back at him, “But it will be fun.”

“I have no doubt, but what does it have to do with this gauche tower?” He waved his left hand in the direction of said tower.

His companion huffed, implying he should intrinsically know whatever crazy plan she had concocted for the both of them. Her pupils flared as she sauntered by him, with a soft sigh to accompany her. His head and body followed after her as she approached the side of the building. This was going to be an exciting night.

“So, knocking is out of the question,” he pressed, “one specific teifling does owe us several favors by right for gifting him the building.”

Her cowl flared out as she rounded back on him, opalescent eyes absorbing him curiously, “don’t ruin the fun, Astarion. Yes, we could ask, but I think breaking in would be so much more fun. Unless you suddenly oppose breaking in and fun.”

“Darling,” he half snarled, “I never back down from a good time, but there is a teensy tiny problem with this plan…”

“I’ll invite you in; you’re worrying too much. I have it covered.”

His hands went to his hips as his eyebrows rose, “you’ve had too much to drink.”

Tav launched herself at the building, making it to the first decorative eave with ease as she called out behind her, “You reach two hundred and fifty, and suddenly you age out of making illogical choices; what a drag you are, Ancunin.”

“You beastie,” he muttered under his breath as he followed after her, watching her black rump clear the first roof, “fine, torment the vampire. Just don’t cry when you end up with fangs at your scrawny neck.”

“What was that?” she called down, “I can only hear an old man huffing.”

“You little,” it was too soon to use beastie again, so he used that energy in trying to catch up with her. For a drunk person, she sure was moving quickly. He clambered onto the surface of the first roof, trying not to question why scaling the Wizard’s tower was not more heavily guarded against this kind of intrusion. Or how neither of them was a burnt mark left on the side of the tower, only remembered by a perceptive passerby in a moment of curiosity...

It was easier not to question luck when it was provided.

Astarion looked back over the side, he had climbed much further up than it had looked from the ground. Hells, there were at least seven roofs left. Looking back up to his elvish companion, she wavered, a black and white shape against the stone wall. He didn’t keep her waiting out of fear she would imply he was old again—the cruel woman.

His arms began to shake by the third roof, but he was not alone as Tav started to take more frequent breaks. Squeezing her legs together, she allowed her arm to hang loose as she scanned his direction. But she was never close enough that he could see her expression clearly.

By the fourth roof, he had to rest, and his stomach started to protest.

Tav floated down beside him with a plastered-on grin, settling beside him but just a hair’s breadth away from touching him. She swayed to the other side to return to her original position, just barely not touching him. It earned her a short-lived grin as she started to chuckle, as his expression changed to vexation.

“What?” he demanded, a touch too harshly.

Her hand wavered above his shoulder, “I have a spell.”

“Now?” he exclaimed, “when I’m halfway up the damn building?”

She tucked her hand back into her side, “not quite half,” Tav brushed herself off as she stood, “but if you don’t want it.”

“Cast the damned spell!”

She tapped his shoulder and strolled away until the sound of her boots scrapping against the stucco bricks started to speed up as she began to run straight up the side of the building. The realization that the wretched creature had hammed up climbing to torment him. He needed to punish her for such treachery. After he had so kindly picked her up off the bathroom floor and made sure she landed in a soft bed. He hadn’t even snooped, which was big of him.

Astarion took off after her, trying to ignore how disorienting it was to run straight up the side of a building.

He was much faster than his companion and tackled her to the ground. Flipping her over until he landed over her hips. “I’ve got you pinned, darling,” he pitched his voice low, sultry.

She giggled. Giggled.

“This isn’t nearly as fun when only one of us is drunk.”

Tav considered something, her jaw flexing as she worked over the words that came out throatily, “I could help you with that.”

“I’m certainly willing to listen,” his fangs already extended, with his wicked grin.

“Drink my blood,” she cleared her throat to move out of the deeper register that had gripped her tone, “two birds, one stone. You get fed and a little more drunk.”

“If you insist…” he bent down over her slowly.

With her little giggle, Astarion took that as her permission to proceed. His nose brushed over her neck and vein before he bit down. Her moan came a second before his teeth sunk into her flesh.

This was the one sweet vintage he did enjoy, would sample again, and yearned for. This concoction of her heady essence was more her than the taste of her cunt or lips. More her than the salty sweat that coated his tongue or the peach-heavy scent of black hair his nose was nestled in. It evened out with the warmth of her body beneath him, as her hot blood provided her warmth. He pulled Tav in closer to him, cradling the back of her head, excusing it as wanting a better angle to continue his feasting. This act was only made special by virtue of her blood being the first blood he had received willingly, and only for that reason. He fought to keep that reasoning at the center of his reality.

“This is much harder when your throat is moving,” his voice warped and garbled around her neck.

“I’ve got to replace the blood with something,” she expressed flippantly.

“Now?” his annoyance peaked through, “right now?”

“Riiight,” she tucked the flask back under her shoulder.

His eyes narrowed, the look lost into the mass of her hair. He almost lost his appetite for blood. Almost.

Astarion regrettably let her go once her hand squeezed his bicep, “delicious as always, my friend,” his fingers wiping up the droplets that threatened to escape from his mouth after he had helped Tav back upright, “but I still need whatever booze you are hoarding in your little pack.”

Tav rubbed at her neck and tossed him the small flask.

Astarion sniffed it, “Please, not some white wine again, your lack of refined tastes is embarrassing.”

“Just think of what you want to drink,” she replied with a note of tiredness, “it shou-”

Astarion gagged on the drink and spat it out of his mouth,” bloody hells!”

Tav snorted, hiding her mouth behind her hand, “I should have specified booze only at the moment.”

“It would really help if you decided to be more forthcoming,” he half snarled but tested it again, more satisfied with the results of the second round, “rather than just letting me find out.”

“I think that would put a damper on things,” Tav shrugged.

“Or you’re cruel and like seeing me in pain,” the spawn whined.

“I think a little magical backwash is hardly torturous, but if we must continue on with the dramatics,” she gently teased, brushing past him on her way to continue up the build, “can we at least do it while we are moving? We are wasting precious starlight.”

He returned a mocking bow, “Yes, of course. Up the building, we must continue to whatever madness you are leading us into.”

She pressed a finger to her lips as she pressed onwards.

Astarion looked behind him and to the streets that seemed to be behind him rather than beneath him. This was a most interesting spot to attain a meal.

--- --- ---

Tav scrambled over the planter, disrupting more than a few flowers as she went on clearing the Wizard’s balcony. Astarion joined Tav, but with far more grace on the balcony. The air within the balcony was much warmer and far less thin than the air outside the terrace's confines. He brushed the sleeves of his worn brown doublet as his eyes traced the stone floor. Finding nothing out of place at their feet, he looked at the fearless Tav, who worked on the doorway into the tower. The door clicked as she managed to finagle it open.

“Did I mention how much I appreciate you teaching me that trick,” Tav murmured gently as she glanced back at him.

“Lockpicking? I’m glad to be an agent of chaos in whatever form it takes.”

“Take the compliment, Asty,” she walked backward through the door.

He grinned as he approached the doorway, halting at the threshold, “My dear, I assume everything is a compliment.”

“Brimming with so many talents, you must take everything as such,”Tav called back as her eyes searched for something particular.

“I am quite talented,” he smirked, “and beautiful. Not enough people mention that.”

“Are we feeling underappreciated lately, Astarion?”

“Gravely,” he sighed, “but I would settle for being invited into the tower that I was forced to climb, that would go a long way in making me feel appreciated.”

“Riiight,” Tav giggled, “hurry on in. I’m inviting you in.”

The force that repelled him relented as he passed over the threshold. He wasn’t going to squander the opportunity and think about it, lest he suddenly be barred again from entering. Tav was engrossed in something at the desk, so that was an easy point to see to first. It was a boring set of scrolls and several books stacked nearly at one end of the table. She had one unrolled scroll, and her eyes scanned the script. He wasn’t one for scholarly pursuits, so he sought entertainment elsewhere. Enlightening as the elf may be, boring spellwork wasn’t going to hold his attention.

His red eyes darted over the walls filled with papers and books and promise of something to pilfer. His attention drew to a nearby case and the ring nestled within it. With a sly look at his friend's turned back, Astarion picked the lock.

“What in the hells,” a crisply annoyed voice echoed throughout the cavernous room.

Tav’s head swiveled to Astarion with a minimally cross smile before pointing in the direction of the opaque tiefling, “Ahh, Rolan.”

The wizard’s tale flicked once with annoyance before it raised then stilled, “Blaire, apologies, I mean Tav,” the cantankerous tiefling’s voice grew warmer, “you should have knocked.”

“I had the intention of not disturbing you at all, dear Rolan,” she countered gently, but Astarion still felt her words pointed at him.

The wizard fussed with his sleep-disheveled hair, and the octave of his voice fluttered about, “it would have been no bother. Though I suppose I should have questioned why you asked me to leave your materials out.”

Tav returned with her twittering, oh-so-pleasant laugh that revealed just how shameless she was acting, “Much easier, I suppose, but I wanted to keep my skills from getting rusty. I hope this wasn’t a terrible inconvenience.”

Rolan made a pathetic attempt of huffing at her, “Who am I to chide the woman who saved my skin,” if his projection could blush, it would be, “But you made excellent work of it! I had no clue until your… companion alerted me to something happening inside the tower.”

“I’ll make sure to keep his hands from wandering,” she returned with a saccharine smile, “but I have my things, I should let you return to your sleep.”

The tiefling nodded and stole a glance at Astarion, “Good night, Tav.”

The shimmering image disappeared, and silence filled the room again. Tav kept looking at the scroll as if the encounter had never happened as Astarion’s chest began to tighten. He kept his tone measured, neutral, “So, another fan of yours?”

“Meaning?” Tav’s response was a hairline over annoyed.

He cleared half the distance between them, with his top half slightly tilted, “Wizards, is that your type?”

Tav looked over her shoulder at him, “no,” she spoke carefully, “I’d say its moody that encircles...” she paused, then her voice switched to terse, “Is it that outlandish that I may attract some attention?”

“That wasn’t the point at all, darling.”

“What is the point then, Assty,” she spoke with her gentle brand of venom, “we already know my terrible taste in partners, or is it my looks that come into question? Or better yet, some defect in my personality, if I know you, it is the trite naive angle.”

The sound that escaped his mouth was the unholy union of a harrumph, sigh, and a tsk. Astarion hated how disarming Tav could be. He couldn’t come up with anything much more scathing than the observation she had made about herself. Taking the wind of his sails, but this meant more time for him to come up with a better rebuttal that involved none of the words she mentioned. Later, as she had already begun to pack up the books and scrolls left out for her, she gently stuffed them into the sack her flask had come from earlier.

Tav made another pass around him, wordlessly.

He waited for her to say something, anything. Only to watch her clear the balcony and then continue up the building. Astarion looked at the case he unlocked and contemplated just taking the ring despite what Tav had promised the wizard. It would serve her right, leaving him alone like this. But a small, nagging part of him fought against that urge. Ignoring that inkling for good, he settled on following her up onto the roof. Feeling satisfied that he could still attempt to annoy her.

She sat on the roof with one of the scrolls pulled out again.

Taking another long pull from the flask, he settled next to her, watching the breeze stir her hair until he couldn’t languish in silence any longer, “reading anything fun?”

Her opal eyes rounded on him but softened as his barbs were kept at bay, “an experiment I needed help with if you wouldn’t mind handing over that flask.”

She placed the scroll beneath her thigh as she took the canteen back and sliced open her wrist with one of her daggers. Astarion, while sated for the time, watched the blood drip into the open flask hungrily. His tongue wanting nothing more than to lick the blood from her wrist and to continue that up to her mouth. Tav chanted a few words and handed the flask back over.

“Let me know how it goes.”

He tipped the flask into his mouth cautiously and was met with the pleasant surprise of her blood, in a far greater quantity than she had let drip into it.

“It’s not quite the same,” he partially lied.

“But is it sustaining? Enough to curb the hunger?”

“It’s certainly enough to make my head spin,” he admittedly wryly.

Tav blushed, then nodded, “But say I wasn’t ‘lush,’ would it do the job?”

“Yes,” his eyes narrowed, “but what for?”

She looked away from him, excusing herself by patching up her wound, “While the Underdark may be uniquely suited to housing vampire spawn for the time, a more permanent solution needs to be found. Even if not for your spawn alone, maybe it could allow your kind freedom… understanding.”

“You underestimate the allure of fresh, warm blood,” he growled, but for a reason outside the surface of his words.

“I wasn’t implying it was perfect or the end-all-be-all solution,” she sulked.

Astarion found his mouth returning to the flask, not so proud of his need to downplay her achievement. It was a generous and pragmatic gesture. This was a way his kind could provide for themselves without having to play the part of bloodthirsty killers. Allowing some of the spawn some semblance of returning to their lives if they chose it. His selfishness of keeping her blood all to himself aside, he hadn’t deserved her consideration of his struggles. While he held the solution in his hands, he had only seen the fruition of what was likely a longer labor. That nobody but a busybody elf that dared to care for a vampire spawn would even consider solving or thinking about. His tender friend had probably belabored her words that had encouraged him to lead the spawn, leading to the discovery in his hands. He didn’t know how to repay this.

Tav leaned back on her hands, her head following something in the sky. He caught the trail of a meteorite crossing over the shattered moon with a curious blue twinkling. Watching it fade with his companion in silence.

“Huh, a portent from Corellon,” Tav mused aloud.

Astarion rolled his eyes, a god would never give a fig when it related to him, especially to the elven god that his soul was lost to, “probably meant for some other fool.”

Tav chuckled gently, “I’m not looking for validation in signs. It’s just something curious I remembered from a book.”

She didn’t need to explain it away, every elf knew of the god that had kicked them from heaven. And the whispered hopes and signs that they might please the god that may allow their soul to return home someday. Not that Astarion was under any illusions, his damned soul had nowhere to go when another bastard would inevitably end his time on Faerǔn. Tav was more the sort to see the elf heavens in some distant reincarnation, if not this lifetime, if she was motivated for it enough. Tav adjusted herself, pulling up one knee into her chest as she looked over the city, though her eyes remained trained on the stars. Without the pollution of the city lights, they were much more vibrant in the night sky. A rarity to Astarion now that stalked around in the Underdark, far away from the celestial bodies held in the sky. He nursed the flask, a rare warmth spreading over his features as the blood and booze warmed him. A quiet ease overcame him as he joined her search of the stars, enjoying the breeze that gently jostled his hair.

“You know, I knew you back in the day,” Tav started softly, “before the tadpoles.”

“I wouldn’t forget seeing this face either,” his tone turned to match her gentleness after she snorted at him, “but you must have been very young, a mere babe.”

Tav snorted again, “No, I was a waitress in the Blushing Mermaid. I liked taking your tables, you were always tipping well.”

 “Hah! With the gold I usually stole from my marks.”

“Makes me feel less bad for snagging up the tips before you could take them back,” Tav looked at him with a smug grin.

“Wretched creature,” he blew out an amused breath but for the death of him could not remember her. It wasn’t the kind of place he imagined her in. Not that she hadn’t proved to handle herself in a fight, but against the jostling and harassment of the most belligerent patrons? It wasn’t her scene. “It still doesn’t bring back any memory or your face, but I don’t remember many of their faces.”

“They weren’t the kind of people anyone missed.”

“Not from that place no,” his mood was starting to sour, so he would change the subject, “but what were you doing there? In that hovel.”

“I ran away from home,” she didn’t seem at all fussed.

“What a few days before you were abducted?”

Tav chuckled and leaned back on her hands, looking directly up at the sky, “wrong again. Must of been some of the human blood still left in my mother, so I matured quickly. I was almost fourteen.”

“Fourteen, well then, that makes things perfectly reasonable,” he half mocked, “I thought you were one of those theater types; why leave that lifestyle when you are still so completely enamored with it?”

“I was,” she laughed again, “but the call to adventure also came early. I wasn’t going to be confined and forced to follow rules. I thought I was so smart and knew better than my father.”

“Ahh, the bane to elvish parents all across Faerǔn,” he gave a dramatic sigh, “but that was an objectively stupid thing to do.”

“Like forcing ourselves into an orge and bugbear mating attempt.”

“The entire excursion into the Iron Throne. They were just gnomes.”

“Reading the Necromancy of Thay,” she yawned. 

“Headbutting a stranger.”

“Pffht. Holding a stranger at knifepoint!” “Fine, kissing a goblin’s filthy feet,” he returned with a pointed finger.

“Slipping a live flashblinder into a Steelwatcher’s pocket.”

“I was challenged, darling. I could be mistaken, but I remember it saving someone’s hide.”

“Compared to the several times I pulled you out of trouble?”

“Silly mistakes, every single last one of them,” his brow furrowed.

“Sure, no troubles then. I’m sure the lava would never have dared to touch you.”

“I’m a priceless treasure, and it would have known to go around me.”

“Uh-huh, just like you would have levitated over the acid pity in the sewers.”

“It knew the wroth it would face if it scuffed my boots,” he replied haughtily.

“And the hand pulling you back meant nothing,” she mused, “I’ll travel back in time and tell that person to be less useful with the aid.”

“Maybe that person shouldn’t have been wise with the hauntingly beautiful vampire in the first place,” he huffed, “you...they were always too cocky with vampire kind in general. Rushing a vampiric master with only your wits and a light spell.”

“I thought it was heroic,” she replied firmly, “besides, it was only to distract him long enough to get you down.”

“Foolish, little beastie,” he sighed, “and here I thought time would dull your need to do good.”

“This tired line again?” she returned with exasperation as her shoulders curled inward and her smile struggled to hold. 

“Would you rather reiterate talking me into drinking from another fetid drow,” he intoned slowly, relishing her smile dropping altogether, “or it could be a dragonborne this time; I’ve never tried one of those, fetid or not.”

“Fuck you, Astarion,” Tav pushed herself up and began to walk away from him, her boots clattering against the stucco.

Pushing her temper didn’t relieve the pressure in his chest as it ought to. Rather, he felt guilty so casually mentioning her greatest sin against him. But he could not ignore his role in guiding her to that snide comment. Even if it was after he got a taste of that foul blood, she had pulled him off the disgusting woman. Astarion had forgiven her immediately- it was his own fault for listening to her taunting suggestion. For not respecting his own autonomy, and if he was forced into another zone of truth, his desire to get under her skin. Knowing that she would feel guilty to the point of giving in to him and choosing him over that damn wizard.

The echoing of her feet stopped just in time to catch her taking a step over the edge. Astarion bolted for her, “Blaire!” his voice softened and faded as his hand tried to catch some part of her, “Tav.”

Her eyes looked up at him from where she hovered in the air. The opalescent eyes studying him carefully from under her lashes, her face screwed in slight disdain, “Yes?”

“You jumped off the damn building!”

Tav returned the biggest and most beautiful roll of her eyes, “And you keep snapping at me for whatever emotions you do not want to feel, per usual.”

“Really? Because that’s rich coming from the woman that does nothing but smile,” he sneered at her, “Getting talked down by a wizard? Smile. We have our pride prodded at? We smile. Hells, it’s like you don’t feel anything.”

Tav raised an eyebrow at him, “Gale? Is that what this is about?”

“No,” he floundered, “I don’t particularly care about any God.”

“Gods, you’re a prick,” Tav growled as she jumped back onto the roof.

Astarion folded his arms and waited for an actual accusation to defend himself against. Being called a prick alone wasn’t enough, as it was one of her favorite terms of endearment for him.

The elf exhaled sharply, running her hand along the bridge of her nose and into her hair, “is it really as simple as anyone showing interest in me? The Orc at the Tavern, Gale… now Rolan?”

“You know the Orc is in bad taste; how could you not smell him?”

“Sometimes I forget you’ve been in the ground for two hundred years.”

“You can’t tell me it doesn’t disturb something primal in you?” he purred at her.

Again, she gave him that stunning eye roll, “That’s beside the point, Astarion.”

“So we’re doing this now,” he balked, “sixteen years too late?”

“Yes, we are doing this now. Sixteen years later,” Tav’s head tilted with each word she spoke.

Astarion groaned loudly and made a scene that involved recrossing his arms and a little stomp of his foot. Still, watching her falter over the edge of tension’s sweet precipice was borderline obscene as she threatened to tumble into the depths of the sweetest explosion. Or it could be the liquor in his system driving him to think so hot-hotheadedly.

“You told me I was a mistake, so what fucking ground do you have to stand on in my life,” he felt the anger radiating off of her, and he was drawn toward it, “so back off or shut the fucking hells up, Astarion.”

“When you make it so easy to mock you, I must respond,” he proffered her a play bow, “who else would guide you from terrible life decisions? Especially when you are so...removed from selecting the appropriate playmates.”

He caught the cinders behind her eyes, but the sparks never spewed out to consume him; instead, she chose the kinder option, “You’re on that list, or was that inconsequential?”

His hand flicked away her words, “I have never claimed to be appropriate in any given situation, that would be incredibly dull of me.”

The tanned flesh of her temples flared, and her gaze sharpened. He was happy to keep riling her up like this, it only made her eventual release that much sweeter. Astarion didn’t think she had it within herself to pull out anything that couldn’t bounce off his armor of nonchalance. It wasn’t his fault Tav couldn’t bear the thought of stabbing him back. He wanted her to go low, to cut him back so he had a reason to remove the conflicted tangle of feelings that remained in his cold, undead heart for her. This mortal had too much power over him, and he wanted a reason to take it back to rip out that cancerous part of him. “Jealousy might be the feeling you are looking for,” she intoned.

Vulnerability was always the best way to incur his wrath.

“Of Gale, really, that almost hurts.”

“I would have picked you,” she admittedly so softly the breeze almost carried it away.

This time, he cleared the space between him, letting the anger flood through him without the pithy attempt at damming it, “No, no. No. You don’t get to say that! You chose the wizard!”

Her lip curled in response, “What after being spurned? It was all rainbows and bloodshed until you randomly decided that I was a mistake. ”

“I wasn’t sleeping with you for pleasure alone. Back in the forest, we both came out on the winning side. The game was clear. You get a moment of escape with a world-endingly beautiful vampire. I got someone to defend from Cazador.”

“Oh?” she huffed before letting a chuckle escape, “we’re back to pretending I didn’t see you were manipulating me? Please, Astarion, give me some credit. My stupidity alone was falling for it anyway. Shame on me for thinking the vampire had a heart somewhere in there.” She returned his earlier bow with a flourishing one of her own.

“That’s funny. Because I remember seeing you be awfully comfortable with several members of our little camp,” he looked at his fingernails and took his time to leave in a long, inconsiderate pause, “You must be confusing lust for adoration, darling.”

“Please, if you were in my place, you would have slept with everyone. I may have relished the attention, but I do not sleep around lightly.”

His red eyes glinted, starting to grasp around what he needed, “So you have to admit you were rather attached to Gale. Everyone knew the wizard was planning something special for the two of you that night.”

“Gods forbid someone actually enjoys your company,” she growled heatedly as he spoke over her, Tav gave up ground as she retreated with a growing blush, “That’s it, wasn’t it? Apparently, not everyone knew.”

“Come off it, you ‘astrally bonded’ with him with little convincing after I stopped our sordid affair,” he had to save face by mocking her to minimize that she had struck far too close to the source of his jealousy. The underlying ineptness he felt around his lack of experience with a real relationship. With what he had wanted with Tav, Gale’s entire plan had revealed how ill-suited he was to pursue something serious, as he could not work his head around such a well-planned and thought-out seduction. He thought in the moment and not for the future. This woman didn’t want his faltering attempt at a normal relationship, and deep down, he knew she deserved much more than his broken heart and body. So he’d keep pushing her away from him like the diseased curr he was.  “What did we wait a mere hour after things ended out of respect?”

“Was I supposed to weep? Crumble and be unable to move on?” her arms flew out as he laid out the guilt on her, trying to push away the burden of his shame that he lumped on her.

Astarion snorted, “I could have done with a tear or two. It would have made your claim to care about me believable.”

“And jumping to conclusions over private conversations was the only way to prove that someone really didn’t care about you?” her tone softened, making him want to throttle her more.

“I was proven correct, if I recall correctly,” his words remained razor-sharp and would not yield to her white flag.

“You aren’t the only one who wanted someone to shield them from their problems,” she retorted, “if I could feel butterflies in response to the most hoity-toity laugh, I could certainly find something endearing in the tender wizard.”

“Hah, hahaha,” that ‘hoity-toity’ laugh couldn’t be contained, “how does it feel to be in the dregs with the rest of us?

“I never claimed to be a saint in any given situation,” she made a show of holding her hand up to observe her fingernails.

“Cute,” he smirked, “but you really do need to work on the rolling on your back thing.”

With, likely her third-ever eye roll, her smile returned, if a bit tightly, “I’m aware. But it was once two of us who had that problem.”

Astarion returned her eye roll with one of his own, “I have grown, my dear.”

“So many things to look forward to in age,” she remarked with a barely contained grin.

“The folly of the young,” he tsked as he stepped closer to her. Tav didn’t back away, so he leaned into her space and cupped her jaw. His greedy thumb was already reaching out to caress her silken skin.

They both froze when her face nuzzled into his palm, pupils blown wide with desire.

Soon, her back was pressed against the stucco bricks, his hips rutting against her core to keep her pinned against the incline of the roof. Their hands were a blur as they scratched and raked for whatever buttons they could reach. His mouth wasn’t content with her mouth for long, as they longed for more of her. Desiring all parts of her to consume and use until they sought a climatic end together. His teeth grazed along her neck but kept descending to her breasts to illicit a carnal moan out of her, but he kept sinking.

His tongue made a slow and loud trail of sucks and licks along her sternum before he latched onto her exposed nipple and began to suckle. Tav’s arousal and the slap of her hips against his chest created an irresistible symphony of his senses attuned to her alone.

His eyes traveled back up the expanse of her freckled skin to see blank eyes. A soft moan escaped her mouth without the urging of his body.

Astarion tenderly set her down and stepped away as he wiped at his mouth. Feeling dirty for what he had almost done.

“Tav,” he called out after she hadn’t returned to him.

It was another excruciating ten seconds before her head shook, and she began to put herself back together. Finally, she staggered onto her feet that balanced beneath her trembling legs.

“How long has Harleep been using your body?” he knew she would understand his implied question.

Her hand pushed through her hair, removing the black strands from her face, “it’s been going on all day. I haven’t had a moment of peace,” she admitted softly.

He acknowledged her pain with a hum.Those opal eyes eventually returned to look at him, her jaw flexing and telling him that she was stewing over the words to soothe this over, so he spoke first, “Well, look at that; you are capable of learning.”

“Excuse me?”

“Usually, you’d simper and apologize,” he waved his hand, “and you’ve resisted that urge.”

Tav let out an ugly snort with a shake of her head, “Thanks Astarion.”

He sighed heavily and looked over the horizon, “I suppose I should get you home before the dawn rises.”

--- --- ---

They walked the city streets in silence, but Astarion didn’t feel like he needed to push her to talk. As pitiful as a pair it made them, he was probably the one person who could understand her situation the most. Sure, he was many years removed from his abuse, but it never really left either. So he would be the strong shoulder to cry on if she reached out to take it.

He paused at her stoop, giving her ample space to fidget with her dark blue door in its too-small space.

“Tav,” as he finally broke the silence between them.

“Yes, Astarion,” she returned hoarsely.

“One of us had planned on seducing you- that night on my grave,” he bowed deeply and pivoted away from her open door. Leaving to the sound of her soft chuckling.

[funky-sea-cryptid]

Yo, I loved the Saintverse and I've got some questions but feel free to skip or ignore this ask if I'm being too curious! - what happened to yuno's elf, and the other elf spirits (luck's and gauche's, if they're part of the timeline), and charmy's wolf? - are... are the bulls, y'know, still there? - I loved the little bit of info you shared about the saints, could you talk more of their personalities & group dynamics?

HIII THANK YOU SO MUCH and of course not! you're not being too curious!!!

this happens after the elf arc (within the six month timeskip post arc) and rufel plays a. he sure is part of this (and is not having a great time) the only elf spirit in any of the saints would be yuno's elf and he's not conscious all the time (the only one in no.7 having a good time). as for charmy's wolf, the wolf is a spell like rouge so it would probably be hanging out with kelpie.

well. morris fused their souls together (or, tried to in 7's case) so,,, yes? but also no. they did undergo some brainwashing so. you know. take that how you will i guess? the saints are very much seperate people than their components

YES yeah it's. saints 1-6 are supposed to treat each other as siblings? and they do it's just.... they're the second most dysfunctional family in spade (first goes to the zogratises).

stella is the collective older sister (area woman has SUCH an alcohol addiction) and she gets along with ares because they make fun of each other for being so normal and healthy about this. the only person she will ever come to with her troubles is vesta and that's because vesta won't tell anyone. she adores her siblings but dear god are they obnoxious no she ISNT crying again leave her alone futhark

ares is THE emo girl of the house he's so fine and rational guys. he gets teased for never being able to keep anyone around and having zero rizz whatsoever like he hasnt come out of the bedroom covered in blood. he pretends he's Too Cool to have trauma but um. he is not. and everyone knows it. let him listen to mcr in peace. teamed up with stella (support/offense) or vesta (support). the only one who actively tries to help seven stabilize.

doleur is painfully self conscious so they tend not to talk much, but they engage in parallel play! it'll be near impossible to get them to admit they love their stupid fucking siblings but you know. It is what it is or whatever. they're usually teamed up with vesta or futhark (but mostly futhark because they're both MEANIES)

vesta is the REAL epic niisan they ARE the sibling that everyone comes to and they love it. everyone loves them they're literally a sweetie all the time and because they're so versatile they get put with all of their darling siblings! they have faint memories of not being able to connect with people so this is very nice!

futhark is MEAN they're the saint of condemnation and criticism for a reason and thats because when morris said he was god futhark said "didnt know god was a scrawny BITCH" but mostly because they're mean to everyone. although with their siblings it's how they show love so.

kelpie is the self professed baby everyone pick her up IMMEDIATELY right now. little touch starved attention demander. she ADORES stella and futhark and helps tease ares bc ares is fun to mock when he's off in his room being emo. she has fucking. five magical attributes and two of them consume mana so she's technically one of the most powerful saints. she's so clingy fr,,, she loves her siblings please pick her up she's just a baby (the amount of war crimes,,,, man)

yeah uhhh yeah! feel free to ask more :3c my dms are open

[protagcnists]

it might need to be studied, how quickly her mind could be swallowed up by an attraction. consumed by that search for pleasure, begging for ferocity. it wasn't uncommon in these exploits of hers for the person to fade to the background. but here, karolina never seemed to drift out of focus. shiv was sharply aware of her, of each subtle movement beneath of her, of each intake of breath or swipe of a tongue. her eyes cracked open. a brief moment she had to steal, if only to witness karolina up close. any barrier between them ultimately shattered.

shiv pulled back, reluctantly, catching her breath to cover up the disappointed huff that escaped when their lips parted. she ran her fingers through the length of karolina's hair in an effort to detangle them. she'd never seen the other woman with a hair out of place, and a light smirk befell shiv's lips at her handy work. it had barely scratched the surface, though. she could do better. more.

before she could decide where else to touch, shiv's hands were stolen from her, sandwiched between karolina's soft palms. "hey—" shiv rebuked the comment, a twitch to her eyebrow. but she was easily distracted by where her hands were being led. retracing every curve they washed over in their mind, as if she could commit them to memory. shiv cocked an eyebrow, angling her head specifically so it was above karolina's, looking down. "since when do you think you're in charge?"

and yet, her fingers didn't leave the button. they couldn't. because the prospect of what lay beneath was almost more tantalizing than winning. bizarrely, the notion of a power struggle wasn't unappealing to shiv. she could do what was asked of her, but not before turning the tables. now, it was karolina's hands that were in hers, and shiv took them, planting them firmly on either side of karolina. her show of i'll do it, but not because you told me to.

she made quick work of the button-down, treating each one as a minor inconvenience to be tossed aside. at some point, she recaptured karolina's lips before the fabric finally fell open. nails scraped against the newly revealed skin as shiv traveled up her torso, inhaling as she cupped the woman's breast before pushing the rest of the shirt off her shoulders. fuck. her lips flew back underneath karolina's jaw, traveling down her neck once more, finding a new path along the curve of her shoulder. shiv bit the skin, testing the waters.

she was about to move herself off the couch when she stopped, hands at karolina's waist. "you aren't going to try to fuck me, are you?" in the other way she hoped was clear. still playful enough, though it seemed responsible to confirm, what with blackmail being so gauche.

how many times had tom sank into this very cushion with shiv straddling him ? his overly priced hermès tie sliding apart by the very fingers that tangled in her hair. had he desired so much respect and approval from shiv towering over him as he desired in the office ?

it hadn't mattered. tom didn't matter. karolina's craving for the mans wife blurred all lines of him. he might as well not existed. the two women superimposed a lot of images that would be frowned upon. if karolina stopped her hands from roaming up shiv's thighs, she could see tom's dopey, smug face in her head. 'shiv, honey.' exasperating.

karolina's mouth opened willingly against shiv's. taking in the woman's taste. she was laced in sweet temptation. enough for the older woman to indulge, gliding their tongues together. karolina's body heat was rising the more the two of them gave into one another.

to be cupped by siobhan roy. karolina felt so fragile in her freckled hands. there was such a capability shiv had to shatter her. her lungs were desperate for a breath. suffocation would be worth it if it meant keeping their lips attached. a frustrating groan hummed at karolina's throat before she pulled back. it was just enough to ease the pressure growing in her chest.

" shiv." lips leaned forward to graze against the woman's. this time she didn't give in completely, but allowed herself to nip at them gently. hands slid from the woman's thighs feeling secure enough that neither of them would run. she reached up for shiv's hands. for a moment she held them together. " since when do you listen ? " a smirk curled at her lips. a small squeeze, and karolina guided shiv's hands down her neck she had once kissed. down the curve of her shoulders and to that one button of karolina's shirt that she'd been toying with earlier. daring. telling. " unbutton it." give in.

[cunaeparker]

in you i find solace

pairing: steven grant x fem!reader

word count: approx. 6k

warnings: SMUT, minors dni. piv sex. very brief allusions to mental illness. friends to lovers. nothing too explicit, very soft :’) 

summary: thunderstorms are frightening. she finds herself wound up at her neighbour’s flat—aka her best friend’s residence—surrounded by candlelight and words unspoken. maybe the blown fuse was a blessing in disguise?

a/n: new fixation! very happy that i found something to give me a much-needed boost:) very excited to be able to write again!! i’m not sure how i did writing stevens character as accurate characterization isn’t my forte but this character is so. endearing i couldn’t help but to conjure something up :3

Thunder booms from outside and rain pounds the windows of her flat.

The weather is all-too familiar for England, and if she was a native to the British island perhaps she would've become desensitized to the deafening blow of the wind and pound of the rain on her window pane, but as a non-native, a mere nomad in search of adventure, she finds herself trembling with every shake of the building and jumping to every strike of lightning that illuminates her half-painted walls.

Lightning casts eerie shadows on the flat's grey and turquoise finish. The paint combination is obviously quite garish, and she's always hated the gauche seafoam that's adorned her flat's walls, always taking time to indulge in a few hours of painting—but this storm ravaging the old complex? It instilled fear and left behind something ominous in its wake. The irony is comical; for a woman in search of life, usually running from country to country with a bold fearlessness tramping through her veins, it's funny that the one thing she's frightened of haunts her latest residence: the flickering of the lights followed by the ground-shaking rumble of thunder and the absence of light. Complete and utter darkness; borderline perpetual rain.

So, with a candle lit in her trembling hand, hot wax dripping onto her skin due to the unfortunate lack of funds required to buy a holder, she scurries out of her flat and heads to the only true place she finds solace in in this busy city—her neighbour's flat.

"Steven," she whispers urgently, banging on the wooden door. "Can you let me in, please?"

Mere seconds pass by before the door swings open. Steven is holding one of his own candles, and behind him she can see a large array of them scattered around his messy flat. His eyebrows draw into a worried line and his dark eyes soften when they meet hers.

"Y/N? You alright?" he asks, concern laced in his words as his eyes widen slightly.

She ponders for a moment but subsequently decides to ditch the confident facade in exchange for one a lot more genuine.

"Erm," she hesitates, starting to feel a little foolish. She shouldn't have come over. She knows she can't handle the pound of the rain and the all-consuming darkness alone, though—

"Y/N?"

Steve's voice snaps her back to reality. His lips part in worry and the concern in his eyes and the blatant care emanating from his pajama-clad body is enough to induce an unfortunate onslaught of word-vomit.

"Oh, God," Y/N finally starts to pour out, eyes glinting with mania, "I'm not alright at all—the darkness is terrifying and I can't stand to be alone in my flat when I have one single candle to light! I really despise the shitty fuse system-thing in this complex, I swear to God it goes out every time there's a storm but now it's midnight and there's no daylight to spare and if I'm going to be honest with you, I am petrified of the dark and—"

"Y/N, calm down."

Steven's surprisingly even tone interrupts her and he steps out from beneath the threshold, gently placing a hand on her arm. His gaze is calming and his warm touch acts as an immediate benzodiazepine. With Steven's emergence, she can see dripping candles and various stacks of books within the flat: it's undoubtedly messy and covered in paper and notes, but in the plentiful amount of times she has entered—whether it be for an evening top-off after a night out or to grab that sodden bra she had left when the sudden downpour last week forced the pair to scurry back inside—she knew his flat to be an oddly endearing second home.

"It's okay," he continues sweetly, even going so far as to offer a smile. "Come in, if you want," he gestures, "it's a lot darker in the hall, we don't want anything to jump out and attack us, yeah?"

He laughs, but there's a tight and nervous edge to it.

Y/N attempts a smile. Learning to take Steven's bad jokes was a skill in itself.

"Odd joke choice considering the state I'm in," she says. She also tries to phrase it like a joke, but now she can't help but feel as if something is now looming behind her. She looks in behind Steven's stout frame. "Erm, I'll come in now, if that's alright?"

Steven's eyes widen as he stumbles out, "Of course, of course—"

She practically leaps into Steven's flat. Quickly placing her burning candle onto a wooden table already coated in dry wax, she jumps into the bed, shimmying under the cold sheets. He hums as he locks the door. When he finishes up, he turns towards her and starts to walk towards his bed; his eyes aren't locked on hers yet, and his fingers work at the knot at the band of his sweatpants.

"So, be honest," he begins, still working away at the string. The effectiveness in which he works and the way his large pyjama shirt rides up over his torso (exposing his surprisingly defined abdomen) causes a swarm of butterflies to flutter in her stomach. Or, rather, worms—Steven is her best friend, and although others may deem him as odd, it was a blatant fact that he did have a sort of unkempt-handsomeness to him. Steven continues and doesn't pick up on the way her eyes travel down his body. "Why didn't you tell me about this fear? You know I can help whenever you're feeling stressed or freaked or upset."

Y/N's heart warms at the sentiment but she only shrugs and pulls the covers up to her chin. The warmth from the candles and the woody scent of Steven on his pillow only aids in her attempts to relax.

"I'm not sure why I didn't tell you," she says sheepishly. "It's embarrassing, I guess—I act all tough, but something as mundane as darkness terrifies me. It's odd and childish and stupid."

Steven parts his lips to interject, and she suddenly remembers Steven's constant insistence to stop the self-deprecating remarks—she instead follows her sentence with an unconvincing chuckle of, "I guess. I don't really care, though."

Steven raises an unconvinced brow as he walks over to the bed and lies in the empty spot beside her.

"You don't care?" He asks, although he doesn't pose it as a question, but rather a statement. His lip twitches into a small half-smile. "I mean, you seemed to care when you ran in here all bamboozled an' stuff."

Y/N laughs breathily, rubbing her eyes. "Yeah, well, sometimes we have to act like we don't care even though there's shit raging beneath the surface, you know?"

Steven's expression becomes distant and his usual warmth seems to fade.

"Yeah," he says quietly.

She picks up on this, but decides not to pry. Although Steven is a wonderful friend and companion, he is oddly secretive—it took her nearly three days out on the town to get him to admit his favourite ice cream flavour, and even with an exasperated throw of his hands in the air and an airy laugh, his answer sounded more like a question. Almost as if he himself didn't know.

Steven's sudden distance sparked a small silence.

Y/N realized that Steven probably felt lonely. Or thought that he would be ridiculed for the smallest, most unimportant things such as ice cream flavour (Steven's is lemon, and although it is questionable for her taste, she would never berate him). He was just a man trapped within a routine and a strong fear of rejection and ridicule.

In this revelation, Y/N's brows furrowed, drawn together with sympathy. She turned onto her side and placed her hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump ever-so-slightly. But when his dark eyes met hers, body rolling over onto his side as well, she smiled and she could sense some of that tension dissipate when his body seemed to slump into her touch.

Tonight, the darkness is scary, but spending it with Steven, bathed in warm candlelight, makes her appreciate it just a small bit.

"You're a good friend," Y/N says. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

Her words are hushed, for she fears for speaking too loudly. Typically the night is an instrument of fear but now the night morphs into something quiet and revered.

Steven's tired eyes seem to glow. A small smile weaves its way onto his face and she swears she sees a peek of crimson pass behind his sharp cheekbones.

"Thanks," he whispers. "You are too—and it's really no problem."

Y/N has to bite her lip in order to contain the wide smile threatening to weave its way onto her face. And for some bold reason she can't really understand, she pushes herself closer towards him with a hum, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. She places her head beneath his chin, resting it on his chest, and although she hears his breath hitch, she feels his hands slowly begin to lift the thin material of her blue camisole, caressing the smooth skin of her bare back. The movement is so heady it's nearly unnatural for him. But it results in an overwhelming sense of contentment both parties lack.

Y/N sighs and closes her eyes. She feels his head slowly begin to rest comfortably atop of hers, and it's enough to ignite a crazed fire in her heart. She never knew Steven Grant's warmth could be addicting.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment.

Y/N runs her fingers through his dark, unruly curls and hears him release a shaky breath. Steven does the same. Then, he pulls away ever-so slightly, smiling softly at the small frown turning down her lips before pressing his forehead to hers, gently smoothing his thumb over her cheek. It's so bold and not Steven but it is. She can see her reflection in his eyes and its warm and content, swathed in candlelight and darkness.

Maybe, with Steven, she can learn to treat the darkness as a friend.

His breath mangles with hers and he is unbearably close.

"Y/N?"

He is so soft-spoken. The words are said so quietly the syllables hardly brush past his lips.

Y/N hums and lifts her head, barely nudging his nose with hers. Steven gulps, and although it's a barely discernible noise, it's enough to make her heart race.

"I... I love being with you, Y/N," he says. His eyes flit back and forth between her own. "You make me feel... not alone, anymore. You... you embrace the stupid oddities and quirks and are so loved for it—you are just... God, you're so amazing. Thank you."

Y/N's face crumbles into an expression of sheer elation.

"You really think that?" she whispers, eyes sparkling like crushed diamonds. "You think rather nicely of a grown woman afraid of the dark." She laughs and doesn't fight the urge to run her fingers through his scalp. "You're a funny man, Steven Grant."

Steven chuckles airily and brushes her nose with his. He says nothing. His smile, the overabundance of utter tenderness radiating from him... it's enough to make her heart beat out of her chest. She thinks it might grow wings and fly out into the storm at this point; and hopefully, it can join up with Steven's rapidly beating one too, and perhaps they can manage to fuse that chordae tendineae of the heart or spindle fibres of the cell and create something new.

Something whole.

Something that can embrace the literal darkness of life; something that can learn to fight off the evil lurking within that darkness.

And for reasons unknown, when thunder illuminates the room and the beautiful figure of perpetually exhausted Steven reveals itself to look rested, Y/N doesn't fight the urge to lean closer. Their eyes flit to each other's lips, lips parted in anticipation. Her nose, her lips, her forehead, they brush against his once again and his minty breath mingles with hers—she fights back a smile at the sudden vision of him brushing his teeth with candlelight. Oh, Steven. No one compares.

Perhaps she's waited too long, studying and revelling in the beauty that is him.

"Y/N," Steven breathes for what must be the umpteenth time that night. Y/N feels his eyelids flutter closed and she smiles—damn those enviable long eyelashes. He's so beautiful. Steven's lips barely brush against hers. "Is it alright if I—"

"Yes," she sighs, not waiting to hear his answer before boldly connecting her lips to his.

This kiss is soft and tender. It's unadulterated emotion and the simple placement of ones' lips on another. Y/N feels Steven's eyebrows furrow as he reaches up to gently hold her face, and her throat involuntarily allows a small whimper to pass through her nose. He smiles against her mouth, taking the liberty to gather a handful of hair from the back of her head.

It feels so right. Nothing has ever felt so right in her life.

She melts into his touch.

"Kiss me like you mean it, Scotty," she murmurs.

Steven smiles again, "It's Steven."

"I know."

"God, I love you."

Y/N's heart is surely going to burst now. She's not sure if he even noticed the admittance, but the sudden, gentle touch of his tongue to hers is enough to rid her of all thoughts she's ever had and all the thoughts she will have. She inhales shortly, tentatively swiping her tongue over his bottom lip before entering his mouth. Colours explode behind her eyes and although Steven's kiss is messy and frantic and hidden behind shades of dirtiness and desire, it's passionate and binding and tastes of citrus and mint. She runs her hands through his hair, tugging gently, and his quiet grunt of pleasure is the act that confirms—no longer is Y/N trying to ignore the pulsing growing stronger between her thighs. Embracing his tongue and the messy altering between passion and adoration and frenzy, she throws her leg over his own, lifting herself to straddle his thighs.

Steven's eyes darken and a thin sheen of sweat beads at the top of his forehead. His chest heaves and his mouth is parted in awe as Y/N takes the liberty to sensually circle her hips, moving her hands up her body starting with her torso to her neck, eventually wrapping them around her camisole. She bites her swollen bottom lip and her breastbone also heaves, overtaken by lust.

"Is this okay?" she asks huskily, leaning down to press a series of wet kisses to Steven's neck. As she sucks, she feels him swallow and nod.

"Y-Yeah, it's definitely okay," he sighs, running his hands up the expanse of her thighs and waist with hungry eyes. Suddenly, she has the urge to thank whatever higher power had her absolutely set on wearing spandex shorts to bed. Leaning down once again to press her lips to his, she rolls her body against the growing bulge under his sweatpants, gently biting on his neck. Steven grunts, and she feels the ghost of his hands reach to caress her bum before quickly pulling away. It seems as though he has chosen to lay his hands awkwardly beside him instead of touching her—it's enough to make her smile, because it reminds her that she is indeed intimate with none other than Steven, a respectful yet slightly awkward man.

She peppers a trail of kisses from his collarbone—thank the Lord for his oversized tee—to his neck and then to his earlobe, nibbling on the flesh. She feels him shudder and mutter something under his breath.

"Steven," she hums into his ear, fingers deciding to tangle themselves in his already wild make-out hair, "you know you're allowed to touch me."

He gulps. "I know."

"Then why don't you?" she says lowly, continuing to kiss his collarbones.

"I don't wanna disrespect you." He squeezes his eyes shut and tosses his head back at her touch. "You're too lovely."

Y/N's ministrations cease and her expression softens. She leans back to sit onto his thighs once more, gently grabbing one of his hands and bringing it to her lips, tenderly trying to convey how much that means without using words. And by the look on his face, with his stretched-out collar and wide eyes, she thinks he understands. She places a final kiss to his palm and instead of setting it down beside him he cups her cheek once more, rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone.

She sighs and presses another kiss to the pad of his thumb. "You're so sweet."

Steven only smiles in response. He gets it.

He pulls his hands away from her face and runs his fingers over the small design on the hem of her camisole. Aptly rolling up the bottom of the top, his chest begins to heave once more, and he sits up with her still in his lap, whispering, "Move your arms up. Please."

She doesn't hesitate, and the feeling of Steven's fingertips trailing the expanse of her skin is heavenly. He takes the camisole off, leaving her only in a nude bralette; he has seen her shirtless a few times, like with the downpour incident, but in this context, the softness of her skin underneath his rough fingertips is a lot more sacred. Pulling away for a moment, Steven takes the time to admire the whole of her, running his hands up and down her sides. He looks utterly enamoured.

"You're beautiful, Y/N," he praises, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips that has her frowning and chasing his own when he pulls away much too early for her liking. He then leans forward to kiss her neck to make up for it, a sensation so fruitful it has her throwing her head back and tangling her fingers in his hair, letting out a satisfied sigh. Steven pulls away, again too soon for her liking, but only before he runs his fingers against the elastic bottom of her bralette.

His eyes become darker, if possible, and he slowly eases the fabric up and over her head, exposing her bare breasts and the thrumming of her heart against her ribcage.

In past instances, the hunger that glinted behind former lovers' eyes was borderline malicious and animalistic. But, Steven? His stare is drenched in admiration. It's so raw it makes her core throb.

His mouth opens and closes. His hands continue to knead at the flesh by her hips. And for once, she and him both find the eager man at a loss for words. He slowly runs his hands up her stomach, and when he finally reaches her breast, the darkness behind his eyes is all-consuming.

"God," is all he says—no, groans—before suddenly grabbing her by the hips and flipping her over with a grunt, leaving him on top. Y/N smiles and cups his face in her hands, bringing him to her lips once again. Now, the kiss is dirty and longing, and all hints of sensuality are thrown out the window.

Steven pulls away, leaving a string of saliva attached to their lips before going down, down, down, letting out a quiet groan before attaching his mouth to her pebbled nipple. He gently sucks, occasionally nipping, leaving Y/N a writhing mess on his bed, winding her hands in his hair once again. His ministrations are sure to accommodate both nipples, teeth marking the supple flesh of her breasts and lips latching onto any expanse of flesh he can get.

"Steven," she whimpers suddenly, gently pushing his head away, "Can you take off your shirt?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah, 'course," Steven says hastily, even though he looks surprised when he glances down to his chest, seemingly forgetting that he had not yet rid himself of the scratchy fabric. He quickly takes it off and tosses it somewhere in the room, facing her slightly debauched form with a wide smile. "Better?"

Y/N's mouth runs dry.

She had seen his defined back through some of his tighter-fitting clothing. However, she had not expected him to be so... shaped. His tanned skin was littered with tiny freckles and old scars, toned abdomen taut and lean. Y/N was never really familiar with the idea of him being a regular gym-goer, but in his god-like radiance, she couldn't find it in herself to think or care about how these magnificent abs came into existence.

"Steven Grant," Y/N gawks, "you're really hot."

Steven smiles almost bashfully before kissing her breast again, using his other hand to knead at the fatty mound. "You're not too bad yourself, Y/N."

Y/N shakes her head and feels a blush crawl up her cheeks as she tries to hold her composure.

"No, I mean like, I would literally shag you at any given moment if I saw you on the street—oh." She throws her head back into his pillows when his teeth graze her nipple. "Steven..."

"Hm?"

She pushes him from her breast and looks him in the face. The shine of his saliva and the redness of his lips and the flush of colour flooding his face is enough to make her orgasm. He looks divine.

"You are beautiful," she says, throwing her arms over his shoulders and relishing in the way his bare stomach feels pressed against hers. "You are very handsome, love." She kisses him. "I mean it."

Steven is silent for a moment.

"Thanks," he whispers. He doesn't say much, but she knows whatever he wants to say has already been said, and he knows that she knows it, too.

Steven kisses her softly, passionately, sensually; he abandons the dirtiness for it is false. He falls back onto his knees, looking at Y/N through dark lashes as he starts to slowly pull the shorts and panties from her legs. Her breath catches in her throat when she is left completely bare.

"Steven..."

"Sh," he encourages, gently pushing her legs open. His eyes look from her bare core to her heaving form, and he spits onto his fingers before thrusting them before Y/N's puffy lips. "Lubrication," he explains.

She obeys, and if anything, the unawareness causes her to get even wetter. The saltiness of his fingers mixed with the sweetness of his saliva is enough to send her reeling. She sucks hard, closing her eyes and humming as Steve's other hand clutches her wet mound. When deemed lubricated enough (even though Y/N's been dripping the entire time), Steve makes a pleased noise and gently taps at her clit. At this she jolts, and without warning, Steve shoves two fingers into her cunt.

"Oh, fuckkkk," she whines, trembling from the absurdity of it all. "Shit."

"Yeah, that's it," he mumbles quietly as he sinks onto his knees, watching her squelching core with fascination. "Doin' so well."

Y/N is reduced to only moans when Steve expertly (she doesn't know where this experience came from, though she does not care to ask) curls his fingers upwards, hitting the spongy spot inside of her that has her seeing stars. She gasps and throws her head back, throwing out a hand to grab any part of Steven he would give to her. With a grunt, he reaches out a hand and she grips it tightly, trying not to make any loud noises.

"Y/N," Steven says from above her, tone sweet, "I want to hear you. Please."

"Mhm," she manages to respond. Tears form at the corners of her eyes.

Steven smiles. "Good."

Y/N trembles at the praise, only letting out a high-pitched whine.

"Oh, God, you're so—FUCK! STEVEN! Oh, fuckfuckfuck, I'm gonna come—"

The sudden fondling of her clit without warning is enough to push her over the edge. She gasps and arches her back, feeling waves of white-hot pleasure shooting through her body. She grips the sheets so hard her knuckles turn white and her mouth seems to be open in a perpetual o-shape, glimmering with spit in the candlelight, eyes squeezed shut.

Her pleasure is so visceral it is wordless. Steven smiles. He presses a multitude of kisses to her collarbones and tangles his fingers in her hair, making soft crooning noises as he coaxes her through orgasm.

"That's it, good girl," he whispers innocently, moving his head to allow her to grab onto his dark curls. Suckling on the juncture between her neck and collarbones, eliciting a content hum from her, she realizes that Steven's nature is so utterly caring and nurturing she knows his words aren't spawned from lust. It's genuine, and if anything, it sends another storm of fluttering butterflies to her sensitive core.

The pulsing inside her ceases, and Steven's touch doesn't feel so ghost-like anymore.

She opens her eyes and meets Steven's.

"Holy shit," is all she says. She laughs. "You're a madman."

A small smile quirks up his rosy lips. "Yeah?"

"Yes," she confirms. She moves upwards to tangle her hand in his hair, resting the other one on his back. He presses his forehead to hers and she hums. "You're quite something," she whispers.

Steven sighs.

"You are, too," he responds softly.

Gently, he grabs her hands in his, falling back onto his knees. He guides them to the waistband of his boxers and his eyes are dark.

"Is this okay?" he says quietly. Insecurity but flaming boldness flashes behind his eyes.

Y/N's heart flutters and she nods.

"Of course," she says. She looks up at him and nods once again, encouraging him. "Fuck me, Steven."

A noise gets stuck in his throat at her words. "God," he groans, shaking his head with a small, incredulous smile, "I'm the madman?"

Y/N grins.

And with that, he falls back down on top of her, allowing her to pull down his boxers. The moment it takes to awkwardly wiggle out of them is barely even remembered (besides from Steven's loud yelp when he lost his balance and almost fell off the bed, eliciting an ugly snort from Y/N's naked frame) before she catches sight of his cock: if the thickness isn't the most impressive asset of his, it's the length; Y/N has to hold back the involuntary bulge of her eyes at the sight.

She gulps. She expects nothing less than a staggering gait for the next week.

Steven's eyes are piercing as he lowers himself down, placing his elbows beside her head. He kisses her forehead and mumbles against the hot flesh, "You ready?"

Y/N hums and rubs her hands over his back. "I've never been more ready for anything."

At that, the smile that lights up Steven's face is so soft it can be compared to the finest of cashmeres. Sweetness and adoration is practically dripping from his entire being and when he finally pushes into her, the tip slowly stretching her opening, they both gasp.

Steven grunts and lets his head fall into the crook of her neck. He begins to thrust, setting the pace so unbelievably gentle and slow and passionate it nearly causes her to shudder and go limp. He's grounding. Every ridge of his cock within her walls is perfect, as if the conjoining of their bodies has always been fate; something put rigidly in-line by a higher power. A sense of liberation from earthly conditioning and a taste of destiny.

For a brief moment, she decides that the gods Steven studies so avidly are most definitely real in order to produce a sensation such as this.

Her hands clutch at Steven's back as her mouth falls open, feeling his thrusts pick up in pace.

His lips fall from her name like a prayer and she tugs his hair, throwing her head back into his soft pillow. It's Steven everywhere and it's all-consuming: his smell in his pillows, sheets, the warmth of his skin and the expanse of small freckles on his back. She could get lost in him.

"Fuck," she moans. Steven continues thrusting. She knows he can't speak and she sees the urgency and love in his eyes when every dark curl bounces against the sweaty sheen of his forehead. "You're so good," she continues praising, wrapping her legs around his waist. "I trust you, fuck, I love you so much, Steven."

His groan is guttural. "Shit," he whimpers.

He begins picking up his pace. The sound of moans echoing throughout the flat - one deep and one high-pitched - is a dirty cocophany of raw human emotion. The sound of his balls slapping against her wet heat, the sound of his gasps when she scratches her nails down his back. It's too much yet not enough.

"Harder," Y/N gasps desperately, squeezing him tighter between her thighs.

His head falls into the crook of her neck once more as he manages to groan out, "I don' wanna hurt you."

"I don't care."

Steven's body shudders and he nips harder at her neck. "Fucking hell."

He slowly pulls out and leaves her entrance dripping before slamming back in once again.

Y/N cries out and clutches at the sheets once again, eagerly welcoming the large hand that flies out to grasp it. Steven looks utterly debauched: his murmurs of praise mixed with the sheen of sweat on his body, the contours of his abdomen and his long eyelashes that flutter with every perfect clench of her walls is enough to send her over the edge alone. She always knew he was handsome, but in this state, his attractiveness is nearly enough to make her come.

She squeezes his hand in hers and manages to make eye contact. The sounds have faded into the background and she's only focused on the building orgasm between her thighs and the look of utter pleasure etched into Steven's face.

"Fuck, Stevie," she whimpers. Her cries egg him on and she feels the tip of his cock brush her cervix, sending her into a spiral of loud moans. His dick is so deep she can almost see it through the walls of her stomach. The sight causes her to gasp and throw her head back, arching her back as Steve disconnects his lips from her neck to instead place them on her lips. He kisses her with fierce intensity, swallowing her moans and attempting to cover his own.

"Shit," he whines, causing his teeth to clash with hers, "I'm really fuckin' close."

Y/N pulls away ever-so slightly, a string of saliva keeping them connected. She leans up to kiss his shoulder and cups his face with her trembling hands.

"Let go, honey," she encourages, eyebrows furrowing into a pleasure-filled line. She kisses him again, initiating the dirtiest kiss of the night; she licks his tongue and he nips at hers with a loud whine, pressing his lips to hers, hard. "Come inside of me, Steven—"

"Oh, fuck!"

His cry is guttural and laced with pure ecstasy. He grunts as his thrusts become irregular, and Y/N gasps, pulling his head close to her. She kisses his hair and coaxes him through his own orgasm, hushing him with her own sweet words, rolling her hips up to meet his sputtering cock. He's coating the inside of her walls with his seed and it's intimate and hot and sensational, and Lord, if she didn't come from penetration, this alone would be it.

"That's right, it's okay," she coos, rubbing his back as his grunts start to become deeper in pitch. "You're doing so good."

Steven shudders. The slow roll of his hips cease and he finally stills inside of her, meeting her heaving breastbone with his chest. Y/N continues to whisper as she gently threads her fingers through his unruly hair.

There's a content silence.

Steven then lifts his head up, revealing a pair of dark, hooded eyes clouded with lust and exhaustion.

"You didn't come," he says suddenly.

Y/N is stunned for a moment. She was so lost in his beauty that the idea of coming had completely left her mind, and she can't recount a time that had ever happened. It's quite new. An experience unparalleled to any other. It's something lovely and wrapped in the soft clutches of admiration.

So, all she does is smile, and bring his soft lips to hers.

"I don't care," she whispers. "Just being here with you is enough."

Steven looks unsure. "Are you sure?"

"100%."

"You're pulling my leg."

"No, I'm telling the truth!" she laughs, throwing her hands up as Steven gives her a look. This look is prolonged when he collapses beside her, resting his head on his palm. Y/N turns to her side to meet his gaze, eyes clouded with mirth. "I'm being honest, I truly didn't care - just watching you was enough to satisfy me."

Steven frowns. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

Y/N shrugs, containing a smile with a bite of her lip as she moves her head up to rest on his bare chest. She feels his arms instinctively wrap around her and it sends her heart into a crazed thrum.

"I dunno," she tells him. "I guess it means I like you or something." The admittance is attempted to be said casually, and she hopes Steven takes it as such, but the pounding of her heart beneath her ribs and the hopefulness she exudes is enough to make her combust. She tangles their legs together and says no more.

She feels Steven reluctantly nod in agreement before the movement suddenly stops.

"Wait," he says. Confusion is evident in his tone, "You like me? Me?"

"Yes," she breathes.

And for once in his life, Steven stops talking. Instead, a love-drunk smile weaves his way onto his face as he pulls her naked body closer.

"Interesting," is all he can manage.

"Indeed."

Steven rubs her back and feels her breath against his chest.

"Y/N?" he implores.

She perks her head up, although her eyes are closed, and hums.

"I.. I, uh, like you too. I think." he says quietly.

He feels Y/N's smirk against his skin. "You think?"

Steven is silent for a moment. "Uh, yeah?"

"You're funny," she chuckles breathily after a second. Sleep coats her words like syrup and she finds herself pushing closer into his warmth. And before she drifts off to sleep, Steven feels her lips twitch into a contented smile, and he knows that although he might've phrased his own admittance wrong, she still understands. She'll always understand him, and she'll always relish in his presence, whether it be intimate or strictly professional or nothing other than platonic. And when she finally does drift off to sleep in Steven's arms, the smile he gives her is saturated with every nighttime top-up, every conversation about foreign lands and Egyptology, every tender fleeting touch they both failed to recognize... it's one of utter admiration, and oddly, acceptance; for the odd pair that is Steven and Y/N, two persons in search of contentment and the sense of home—they can finally manage to find solace in each other.

[genderkoolaid]

was thinking about why marginalized people often use slurs in describing oppression. like in the phrase "magical negro", or using the term "cripple" or "tranny" when talking about how people see us. its not reclamation, it's more about specifically forcing the dominant group to face their bias.

bc when it comes to overt forms of bigotry, there isn't really the need to do this. the bigot will very directly tell you why they hate you- because you are a [slur], a stand-in for everything the believe about the group they hate (being unnatural, criminals, dirty, sinful, ugly, a drain on society, etc).

but generally those kinds of overt bigotry are harder to have in polite society, especially when the marginalized group in question has enough visibility and has been loud enough about their treatment that people have to acknowledge it. now, saying you hate black people or trans people or immigrants is a social faux pas, and people acknowledge that hating those groups is Bad.

but anything less than hatred is still looked over, because critically examining how our actions contribute to social patterns is Hard and requires abstract thinking, and it's much easier to just get rid of the most blatant forms of bigotry and wipe your hands of the whole nasty "systemic oppression" issue. overt bigots are bad, ostensibly because of their bigotry, but largely because they just are so gauche about it, you know? it's easy for Good Liberals in the US north to mock the gun-obsessed fat Southern man caricature who doesn't believe in climate change and says slurs, but they often get quiet and awkward if someone brings up the liberal white woman from New York who quickly locks her door when a Black man walks by her car on the sidewalk. She doesn't hate black people, so she can't be racist- there's a world of difference (in her mind) between herself and the Racist. even if, whether it's through gun violence on private property or calling the cops because she feels scared, a Black man gets killed because a white person's racist bias.

getting back to the original point about slurs: using them in this context forces people to recognize that all of that bias is the same. your racism, transphobia, ableism, isn't different just because you use nice words. dominant groups get uncomfortable when marginalized groups use slurs to point out their bigotry (i.e "you want me to be a good tranny") because it draws a direct connection between the blatant, socially unacceptable bigotry and the socially acceptable, low-key bigotry. a lot of times, society reacts to oppressed groups fighting for liberation by addressing the most obvious elements while allowing and encouraging the subtle elements, so that way they calm down and stop causing problems, but society doesn't have to meaningfully change. drawing that connection pulls the cover off of society. no more "but I don't hate immigrants so I'm not xenophobic!", because xenophobia isn't just ICE officers keeping kids in cages, it's also getting annoyed with people who have strong accents because why can't they just learn to speak English better and making every movie set in Eastern Europe have a blue filter so you know it's Foreign and Sad.

basically, slurs are used as a weapon to remind marginalized groups of every stereotype about them, and "put them in their place". but they can also be used to force polite bigots to face their own bigotry, blowing away the smokescreen of "only violent oppression is real oppression". There's a power to be found in bringing your issues into the light when the world would really rather you sit pretty and smile and thank it for doing the bare minimum while still making your life hell.

[lesbianwhiptaillizard]

MYTH ABOUT GENDER #5: Gender as defined by the LGBTQ+ community isn't based on stereotypes.

For many people, physical sex dysphoria is what makes them believe they are trans. I will cover this in another post. But more and more, it is seen as gauche and even offensive to assume that trans people must have dysphoria. This leaves it down to that elusive definition of gender, one that doesn’t include sex characteristics. What is gender?

We already know what conservative/Patriarchy Christians believe about gender roles. I covered that in Myth #1. Their idea of gender is obviously based on generalizations, outdated ideals, and sexism. Now I would like to cover whether the idea of gender in more liberal LGBTQ+ dialogue is based on stereotypes, and if not, what they are based on.

Hear from transgender individuals on what gender means to them:

According to Michael, writing for Transgender Today, “I grew up thinking and behaving “like a boy”. I was given the usual girl stuff, but I wanted Tonka trucks, I played with the boys in my neighborhoods and did not get along with girls much. In my childhood/early teens I became very athletic… I excelled more in math and science – traditional “male” subjects. I was and continue to be very mechanically-inclined… I like to dress in men’s clothing (I even tie my own bowties) and when I did back then I was called “sir” many times as I am now.”

Let’s unpack this one a little bit. Tonka trucks, athletics, math, science, and mechanical-mindedness. Do those sound like facts about men, or do they sound like stereotypes to you? If they sound like facts, I ask you to consider reading such books as Delusions of Gender by Cordelia Fine, which details study after study of how socialization affects the (very plastic) minds of children, and The Gendered Brain by Gina Rippon, which dispels the very prevalent myth of “male” and “female” brains. Myths like these are the reasons why you find so many barriers to women in STEM, why women are often not taken seriously in STEM fields by their colleagues, and why to many, a female mechanic is laughable. Should we let things stay this way, just because, supposedly, women are just biologically worse at STEM? Or are these “facts” actually harmful stereotypes that dissuade many girls from choosing to study in those fields? Are women any less of women because they pursue science or engineering? I’m sure you know that to believe that would be a ridiculously outdated notion.

And finally, wearing “men’s clothes”. Men’s clothes are often comfortable and practical. They rarely sexualize the wearer, and some people just prefer the way they look over dresses. There is nothing wrong with wearing men’s clothes, even if you are a woman. Many of my clothes were raided from the men’s section. But this does not change my womanhood or my gender expectations. I am still seen as a woman (which I am), and I am still expected to conform to people’s ideas of gender, which, yes, are based on stereotypes.

Here is another account, this time from a nonbinary person:

Amber, writing for The Temper, says, “My gender expression is an androgynous, mostly masculine incarnation of this. I like to appear gentle, but not soft. I like to appear strong, but not intimidating.”

The implication here is that women as a gender are gentle and soft, while men as a gender are strong and intimidating. These are harmful stereotypes, just like those in the Christian Patriarchy movement. These are the kinds of stereotypes that make men push down their emotions and make women feel forced to take a caretaking role.

There are many who would stop me here and remind me that gender is much more than just stereotypical preferences and emotions, and that women (even trans women) don’t have to be “feminine” according to anyone’s definition in order to be trans. They would say men are not defined by “masculinity” either. I would agree with that to some extent. Gender (a.k.a. sex) is not about stereotypes. However, gender (a.k.a. harmful gender roles) is based on stereotypes, and there would be nothing left of it if we took them away. So if gender isn’t biological sex, and it isn’t stereotypes, according to some in the LGBTQ+ community, what is it? There is nothing left.

Bottom line: If gender according to the LGBTQ+ community doesn’t involve stereotypes, it ceases to have any meaning whatsoever.

[dollydonna]

Did my best to isolate Angie’s audio from the gathering of the four houses by Mother Miranda.  Despite this audio sample being only for Angie’s audio, below is the transcript of the whole ordeal

[Scene given is from the perspective of Ethan Winter’s, on the ground, presumedly having been knocked out. His hands are bound in metal cuffs and his left hand is wrapped in bandages. The first thing seen with groggy eyes is a cracked doll like puppet in a wedding veil and dress bending down to wave on it’s own. Obscuring the puppet temporarily is a cloaked form with clammy uneven features covered by dark hood and robe that is then motioned back by the puppet. Around Ethan seems to be the pew seating of a derelict church turned inward to the isle with the candle lit figure of what can be presumed to be Mother Miranda in her own dark robes with metal avian-esque face mask heading where a priest would normally be standing to give their sermon. Sitting to the pew on the left is the tall Lady Alcina holding a lit cigarette on a long holder. On the right is Karl Heisenberg holding a large intricate hammer over his right shoulder. They both appear to be pleading their case to mother Miranda as to why they should get to have Ethan Winters. During all this the puppet runs back to a fully hooded and veiled female form covered head to toe in black other than her pale hands sitting to the direct left of Mother Miranda, being picked up by this form and put into her lap, adjusting her wedding gown after taking her seat in the woman’s lap] Alcina and Karl are talking mostly to each other whereas Angie is more or less addressing Ethan or speaking for her own sake until yelled at by Karl

Angie

: hMᴹmₘᴹ

[giggling]

Alcina

: Furthermore I can assure you if you entrust the mortal to house Dimitrescu

Angie

: Uh oh!

Alcina

: my daughters and I shall deliver to you the finest cask of his slaughtered blood

Angie to Salvatore

: Out of the way ugly! I want to see! 

Angie

: Ohohohahaha, he’s awake!

Karl starting

: You mean- 

Karl to Angie

: Both of you shut the fuck up!

Ethan Winters

waking up to all of this

: Huh, what? Where...

Karl

: You mean you’ll screw around with it in private. And where’s the fun in that? Give him to me. And I’ll put on a show that everyone can enjoy.

Alcina

: Ugh! So gauche. What do we care for bread and circuses?

[lyranova]

Hi! I was wondering if you’d be able to write a sort of fluffy sad/comfort Greyche fic using the fluff prompt 39 and the angst prompt 37? Pretty please ❤️🥺 thank you

Hiya anon! I’m so sorry this took so long, between my mental health and IRL I kept pushing this fic off I’m so sorry and I hope you’re still around 😭! I hope you enjoy this hurt/comfort angst fic anon it’s been a while since I’ve written for Greyche but I hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @eme-eleff @flow3rbudz @ckjwnnbc

Word Count: 846

Warnings: Possible Spoilers for the Anime/Manga! Also angst!

———

Gauche awoke with a start as he suddenly heard someone knocking incessantly on his bedroom door. He quickly lit a candle before getting out of bed and walking towards the door, he grumbled a few words under his breath. He was going to give whoever was on the other side of his door a piece of his mind.

“ What the hell-!” He started before his sleepy eyes landed on a blue haired woman, her hand mid knock and she was wearing just her pajamas. “ Grey? What is it? Is something wrong?” He asked in concern when he noticed the woman trembling, her cheeks red, and her blue eyes full of tears.

Before Gauche could say anything else the woman launched herself into his arms and held him tightly, she began to cry softly into his chest. After recovering from the initial shock of Grey’s hug, Gauche quickly closed his bedroom door before gently, and somewhat awkwardly, wrapping his arms around her.

“ You’re safe now, I’m here.” Gauche told her softly as his hand gently went up and down her back soothingly, he remembered having to comfort Marie many times when they were younger, whether it was due to a nightmare or something ‘scary’, rubbing her back always seemed to help calm her down. So Gauche decided to try and use the same trick on Grey.

His trick seemed to work.

After a few minutes Grey finally calmed down enough, she pulled away slightly. Her face was red and puffy from crying so much and she still had tears gently falling from her eyes.

“ Grey, what happened?” Gauche asked again, much softer this time. Grey blinked up at him before realizing that he was holding her in his arms, she gasped before quickly moving away from him. She turned her back towards him and crouched close to the floor as she covered her face with her hands.

“ I-I’m so sorry! T-This is so embarrassing!” Grey stammered, Gauche sighed and shook his head. He noticed she was still shaking, whether it was from her embarrassment or from whatever happened to her he couldn’t tell.

“ Grey,” Gauche said with another sigh before he walked over towards her and crouched down himself. “ What happened?”

Grey turned slightly to face him, peeking out between her fingers, she could see his face was expressionless as always but his eyes held a softness to them that she had rarely seen before. She looked away for a moment, clearly debating whether to be brave and tell him or to just run away.

Tonight, she decided to be brave.

“ I-I had a dream about what happened yesterday, with the leader of the Dark Triad, Dante. E-Everything played out the same except that,” Grey paused for a moment, biting her bottom lip as more tears threatened to spill over. “ that you died because I wasn’t able to save you.” She added as her voice broke softly. Gauche looked down at her, his face softened and became sad. He was the reason she was crying? He felt a pang in his chest as the thought crossed his mind.

“ I-I’m so afraid Gauche! I’m so afraid that we’ll go out there tomorrow and that you'll get hurt again and this time I won’t be able to heal you!” She cried before suddenly turning to face him, she fell to her knees and she suddenly reached out and clasped his hands in hers.

“ Lie to me. I don’t care what you say, just lie to me. Make me feel okay again.”

Gauche let out a soft gasp at her words, her eyes pleading for him to lie. Her hands that held his were still trembling in fear and the tears in her eyes just didn’t seem to stop falling. His heart slowly broke at the sight. He moved his hands to grab her wrists and he pulled her towards him and held her tightly in his arms once again.

“ I won’t die tomorrow. No one is dying tomorrow you hear me? We’re all going to make it out of this alive, I’ll make it out of this alive.” Gauche told her firmly as she clung tightly to his chest, the grip she had on his shirt tightening at his words. “ We’ll defeat the Spade Kingdom, we’ll get Captain Yami back, and then we’ll come home and everything will be back to normal.”

Both Grey and Gauche knew he was lying, not everyone would make it out of this battle alive or unscathed, and the ones that did, their lives would never return to normal. Sure it would get back to ‘normal’ somewhat, but it wouldn’t be how it was before the Spade Kingdom attacked. But Grey did ask him to lie to her, to make her feel okay again, and so he did just that.

Grey nodded as her head rested against his chest. The two sat on the floor with Grey wrapped tightly and securely in Gauche’s arms all throughout the night. Both content with believing that everything would be alright. Even if it was only a lie.

———

Ah i hope you enjoyed this anon! Thanks for reading and I hope you all have a good day~!

[destielshippingnews]

Edvard's Supernatural Rewatch & Review: 1x11 Scarecrow Part 2

(Part 1 available here)

Here is part two of my review and analysis of Supernatural 1x11 Scarecrow, where I will be discussing travellers who are as dumb as a post, Sam impressing on strangers, and the introduction of demons to the Superverse (yes, I am still calling it that).

In part one, I spent 5,000 words discussing the first nine minutes of the show, and then I took a break of almost three months because of Christmas, work, and studies. However, I am ready to continue pulling this show to pieces. Part one ended with Dean and Sam arguing about whether to find John or not, and then splitting up after Sam’s gauche comment won him a well-earnt mouthful from Dean.

Before joining Dean in Burkitsville, Indiana, let me first say it does indeed seem strange that Dean spent the first 10 episodes of the show wanting to find John, and even got his estranged brother to help him, only for him to drive off in the opposite direction once he receives information on John’s whereabouts. Sam has always wanted revenge for Jess’s death by finding and killing the thing which killed her, so his refusal to go to Indiana with Dean and his running away is consistent to his motivation. It certainly looks like Dean is being odd and Sam rational, but please bear in mind that Dean has been groomed to follow John’s orders. His behaviour here is completely in keeping with that: John told him whitherto go, and thither he goeth.

Following the brothers’ argument, Dean is shown driving the car into what looks like a cemetery until the camera pans round to reveal a Butlin’s holiday resort. After considering calling Sam on a flip-phone, he thinks better of it and gets to work. A tracking shot of Scotty’s Café and Dean walking along the verandah creates an unsettling feeling of something unnatural watching them before Dean tries to strike up a conversation with the Scotty in question outside his café. The man recognises Dean’s cover name – John Bonham – as the drummer from Led Zeppelin, whereupon Dean tries to build rapport based on classic rock. Scotty is not particularly talkative, but curt and dismissive. I wonder whether he might be hiding something...

Perhaps showing some inexperience in handling cases like this – or talking to people – without either John or Sam to help him, Dean begins talking straight away about the missing people to Scotty. He hands his new-found bosom buddy the missing persons flyers, but receives only ‛We don’t get many strangers around here’ for his trouble. Probably sensing some hostility, Dean makes a comment which can either be read as sarcastic or flirty: ‛You’ve got a smile that lights up the room.’

Dean’s smile and awkward body language suggest to me it was closer to flirty than sarcastic, but a bit of both, perhaps another suggestion of tricks learnt to avoid people’s anger. In case you have not read all my reviews, I have previously made reference to Dean’s habit of flirting and even sexualising himself to avoid trouble with authority figures. Tuck that away at the back of your mind somewhere. It will become more relevant in 1x14 Nightmare.

After canvassing the owners of the local general store whom the viewer saw in the cold open, Dean finds out the missing people HAD in fact been in the town; the young blonde woman from the cold open recognised the tattoo on the man’s arm. The owners send Dean in the direction of the interstate (motorway), but his EMF reader (the one he made himself, RE: 1x04 Phantom Traveler, thank you very much) starts making noise near an orchard. Investigation leads Dean towards the scarecrow on its stand, and to finding the missing man’s tattoo on the scarecrow’s skin. This was a rather creepy moment for two reasons: Dean is incredibly close to a scarecrow which was shown to move and kill people in the cold open, and the scarecrow seems to move ever so slightly, perhaps in a breeze.

So far, so good. This is not the most interesting premise (at least not almost 17 years after the episode first aired), but solid. People are going missing, and it is fairly obvious to anybody paying attention that the townsfolk are involved.

Before dealing with Sam’s scenes, I want to discuss Dean’s return to town and the scene in the café. After the blonde girl from the shop fills up his car and info-dumps about the town being spared the economic hardships neighbouring towns are suffering, Dean then learns another young couple is passing through town and having their car fixed. The young man and woman in question are in the café waiting for their car to be fixed. While doing so, Scotty is serving them food.

It appears to be the consensus that Dean was acting awkwardly in this scene, and while Dean certainly can have difficulty interacting with people due to his highly abnormal upbringing, I do not think his behaviour was all too weird given the circumstances. Part of the reason for people thinking he was acting weird is likely the fact that he is a young man trying to talk to strangers. Without getting too far off topic, I doubt his behaviour would be seen as so awkward if he were a young woman.

That said, it is socially awkward and incompetent to strike up a conversation like that with complete strangers who are busy eating all the free food Scotty’s giving them. Awkward, but not so weird. Sure offering to fix their car was awkward, but since I am generally given to seeing the best in people, I might be missing something. The real awkward and concerning behaviour comes from Scotty. It WAS awkward, incompetent, and downright rude for the waiter to essentially tell his customer not to talk to the other customers, and that alone should have warned the young couple that something was amiss in the situation. Perhaps the strange man trying to get them to leave before dark was perhaps telling the truth. The fact they ignored this shows wilful ignorance and stupidity. They are in the middle of nowhere, and the roads will be very dark and lonely after nightfall. If I were in a café in the middle of nowhere and a man were encouraging me to get out of there before dark, I would scarper. Horror plots which rely on stupidity are weak sauce.

The next warning should have been the sheriff coming into the café to take Dean away for … sitting in a chair in a café and trying to talk to strangers. Sure offering to fix their car would have come across as strange, but does it warrant police involvement? No. So something is weird about the situation, and the couple… does nothing.

Maybe I am just giving Dean too much leniency and understanding. It would not be the first time, and it certainly will not be the last.

Cutting to Sam and the boring half of the episode, on his hitch-hiking trip he stumbles across a woman named Meg, the show’s first recurring villain. Given that this is supposed to be an important moment in the lore of the show, the introduction of demons is decidedly understated, bland, and boring. I might be alone in this, but I have never cared for Nicki Aycox’s portrayal of Meg. She is a fine actress, but what she was given to do and the way she did it did not work for me. The character felt cocky and a bit cheesy, as well as entitled, privileged and boring. The actress’s appearance in 4x02 Are You There, God? It’s Me, Dean Winchester was better, but I much prefer Rachel Miner’s version of Meg, though it took a few episodes for her to get into the role.

Funnily enough, Nicki Aycox was in the film Jeepers Creepers 2 which I wrote about in part 1 of this review.

After being a bitch to Sam (not that he did not deserve it after his behaviour earlier in the episode) about being a ‛freak’, she leaves in a van with a weird creepy guy and runs into Sam again later at the bus station. Apparently, weird creepy guy ‛was all hands’ so she left him to get the bus instead, but I think she cut his throat to make a phone call like she did at the end of the episode.

Sam’s half of the episode mainly consists of sitting with Meg having a bitch about his life. It is clever that Meg poses as somebody Sam can relate to in order to get close to him and find out as much information as she can, but what is not clever is Sam trusting her so soon. I understand the writers wanted him to connect to somebody other than Dean and to have the opportunity to vent his spleen, but he imprints so fast on a complete stranger that it is ridiculous. Something killed his girlfriend, and though he does not yet know what Meg is, he DOES know something is after him, and that it probably is not a good idea to go round shooting your mouth off about your private life to strangers, no matter how pretty said strangers might be.

I know why Sam trusts her; she is pretty. Praise Odin’s mighty foreskin that Sam learns his lesson soon after this and NEVER repeats this mistake.

Referring back to the beginning of the previous paragraph, Sam’s half of this episode is mostly sitting and bitching. Anybody who has read my last ten reviews should know that Sam was meant to be THE protagonist of the show, the one leading the narrative and forcing things to change to reach his goal. Dean was supposed to be the sidekick. However, here we have Sam indulging in half an hour of poofy-haired emoing at a bus station while the sidekick actually investigates the disappearances and pushes the plot of the episode forwards. This is a problem with Sam’s characterisation which I have mentioned before and will mention again. If HE were the sidekick, it would not be so bad, but that is not how things appear to be. What makes it worse is that he sweeps in at the end of the episode to save Dean after putting none of the work in himself, just so that he can still look the part.

This is something else which bothers me about the show. It is not quite so evident in the early years (unless I have forgotten), but in later series of the show, Dean weakens a monster while takes a beating, only for Sam to sweep in at the last minute and dispatch it with a bullet or an angel blade without actually doing anything to soften it up. We see that trend beginning here, and it gets my goat every time with its Gary Stu amateurishness.

Their conversation on the phone in this episode was mature, and it was nice to see them talking to each other like sensible adults who are not in a poisonous narcissist-codependent relationship. Revealing the show’s clear bias, Dean’s sincere apology tells us he takes all the blame onto himself whilst trying to absolve the actual culprit – Sam – of responsibility and blame. In my discussion of 1x10 Asylum, I talked about a similar scene where Dean assumes responsibility and apologises, though Sam was at fault. Over the years, it has become clear to me Dean does this because it keeps people he loves near him. If he removes their responsibility, he avoids conflict with them. The people around him are all too happy to let him do this because it means they do not have to feel bad about their actions.

In part 1 of this review, I discussed the Norse gods, the Vanir, and the scarecrow in depth, so I do not need to go into much detail here about Dean and Cigarette Smoking Man’s scene at the university, but a few points came to mind:

1) any strike to the head strong enough to knock a man unconscious is enough to kill him, or cause serious brain damage. The sheriff hit Dean in the head with the butt of a shotgun hard enough to knock him out cold, but Dean has no negative side effects from this, not even a concussion. I have watched the whole show, so I am aware that ‛God’ is writing this, but a deity should know better.

2) a sacrifice is only a sacrifice if it is done willingly. What the townsfolk do is simply murder, not sacrifice.

The episode ends with Dean and Emily being tied up in the hazelnut grove orchard as offering to the scarecrow, and being saved by Sam in the nick of time because he had to do SOMETHING useful in this episode. The scarecrow takes the shopkeepers as tribute rather that the young ones, killing the man on-screen (because of course it does) while dragging the woman off screaming. Its choice of killing the middle-aged couple is odd given the sacrifice was supposed to be part of a fertility ritual so that the town’s apple pie-fuelled economy can keep going. There were a few significantly younger and more fertile offerings readily available in the orchard, but the scarecrow bypassed them all. Paula R. Stiles suggested in her review of this episode that the scarecrow was tired of its agreement, and tired of sacrifices which were not really sacrifices but murder, and there might very well be something in this.

Whatever the reason for its actions, it left Dean and Emily alone. The two return to the orchard a day or so later accompanied by Sam to burn the scarecrow’s tree down. Whether this kills or releases the god is not specified, just as it was not specified whether the god came into being with the tree, was tied to the tree, or is the tree’s spirit.

The second-to-last scene shows Dean and Sam seeing Emily off on a bus to Boston (a LONG way from Indiana, roughly 1,000 miles, almost the same as the distance from Tromsø to Oslo). The townsfolk receive no direct punishment for their human sacrifices, with Dean confessing that whatever happens to them after their business fails will have to be punishment enough. This scene also has Sam sort of apologise to Dean by saying ‛Jess and Mom are both gone. You and me, we’re all we’ve got’. By this I presume he intended to say ‛I’m sorry for belittling your grief, and I acknowledge your loss and bereavement’, but the way it is delivered is so devoid of feeling and sincerity I want to roll my eyes.

What’s that I hear you say? I want Sam to apologise and act like an adult, but when he does it’s never good enough? Darn tootin’ I don’t, because it feels fake. If Jared had delivered the line with more earnestness and regret, things would be different. His line about ‛You’re still a pain the ass’ sealed the deal for me: he still wanted to get a jab in to impress upon Dean that he is really the one in the wrong, not Sam.

As for Jensen, Oscar-winning performance! Magnificent! Awards! Confetti! Applause!

That is enough smoke up his butt for one review.

To finish, the final scene was unexpected upon my first viewing in 2008, and having a recurring antagonist on the show is something it needed. Once again, another man dies on screen, and the episode ends with Meg making a call to her ‛father’ to mirror John calling his sons at the end of the preceding episode. This was a nice step forwards for the plot, but nothing will come of it for a few episodes yet, unfortunately.

This episode is a fan favourite and enjoys a rating of 8.7/10 on IMDb, based on over 5,700 ratings, and it is an example of how the early years of the show succeeded at horror television. Kim Manners’ direction brought a pleasing X-Files vibe to it, and the colour grading goes a long way to creating a foreboding atmosphere. It is supposed to be April, but it feels like autumn. It also showed us that Dean IS intelligent, and is perfectly capable of solving cases by himself.

It has taken me almost three months to get to the point of having this review finished and ready for edits and publishing, but I am finally glad to soon be able to dust my hands off and move on to 1x12 Faith, another one of the stand-out episodes of series 1, featuring a familiar face from Buffy and Angel, a very obvious song choice, and Dean in a hoodie.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 5

A/N  Know what this fic needs?  More Geillis.  No really, I think you guys are going to like where I’m going with this.   Just bear with me.   Only one more chapter to go after this one, plus an epilogue.   Thanks for coming on the journey with me!  With due credit to Sia, this chapter’s title is Fire, Meet Gasoline.

Previous chapters are best enjoyed on my AO3 page, because I have a bad habit of going back and editing them after they’ve been posted.

Geillis Duncan drove much the way she approached life, which was to say without much regard for rules and at white-knuckle speed.  I gripped her Range Rover’s leather cushion and swallowed any exclamations of dismay as we ricocheted through Edinburgh’s late afternoon traffic.  When we finally slid into an underground parking spot and emerged into the bustling festivity of the Princes Street Christmas Market, I felt the tension of imminent disaster abandon my shoulders.

“Where to first, then?” Geillis asked, looking far too animated by the prospect of accompanying someone while they did their Christmas shopping.

Geillis and I had kept in touch and met for coffee a few times over the past months.  When I explained that I wouldn’t be taking any more cooking classes at Ginger Snap because Jamie was giving me at-home lessons, her reaction was a moonbeam grin.

“Look at ye, wee vixen!  I ne’er wouldha thought ye had it in ya, Claire.  Tho I canna say as I blame ye.”

No matter how much I protested that I was together with Frank and that my relationship with Jamie was purely professional, she refused to believe me.  The ongoing absence of a ring from my left hand didn’t help.

“Now,” Geillis exclaimed once we’d taken in the sights and sounds of the market, “let’s have a keek at yer list.  Where should we start?”

I pulled out my phone and opened the Notes app.  As she read, my friend’s nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Trouser socks, shoe stays, Moleskine notebook, Rive Gauche...  who are ye shopping for, yer grandparents?”

“No,” I protested.  “The first three are for Frank.  The perfume is for me.”

When I explained that Frank had made a list of the items he would like to give me for Christmas, Geillis grew incensed.

“Ye mean he has ye doin’ his gift buying fer him?  Tha’s the least romantic thing I’ve e’er heard.  Do ye even like Rive Gauche, Claire?  And dinna lie tae me, fer I can read yer feelings all o’er yer face.”

Truthfully, I didn’t much care for the flowery scent.  My personal taste ran more towards woodsy or herbaceous aromas.  But it was Frank’s favourite, and it pleased me to please him.  Or it had.  I was beginning to wonder when it would be my turn to please myself.

“Right,” Geillis interrupted my thoughts.  “Marks and Sparks will do jes fine for yer wee granny list.   And then you and I are going shopping fer yer real gift.”

Geillis was a force to be reckoned with in a retail environment.  She navigated like a guided missile from one department to the next.   Twenty minutes later, we were back on the pavement, which glistened with the colourful reflections of decorations strung above.

“Your car is the other way,” I explained as Geillis turned left.

“Aye, tis, but our destination is right o’er here.  House of Fraser.  See?  Tis practically calling yer name, Claire.”

Inside the venerable old building was an astonishing multi-tiered arcade reaching over five stories to a massive skylit ceiling.  The central space was dominated by a fifteen metre-high Christmas tree (a Fraser fir, of course) and every archway of every arcade was dripping with lights.  The impression was like stepping into a Fabergé egg.

Geillis dragged me, slack-jawed, towards the ladies’ wear section.  Circling the racks like a hawk on the wind, she eyed my body, sizing me up quite literally, then thrust several pieces into my hands.

“Geillis,” I hissed, wary of the sales staff hovering nearby, no doubt smelling an excessive commission in the offing.  “I don’t need a new outfit.  And I certainly don’t need,” I shook the garments in question, “something like this.  Wherever would I wear it?”

“Well, fer starters, ye’d wear it tae dinner t’night.  I dinna wish tae offend ye, Claire, but I canna in good conscience allow ye tae set foot in the Timberyard dressed fer a job interview as a primary school teacher.”

With that she shoved me in the direction of the changing rooms.  Deciding to humour her, I was unbuttoning my top when two lacy bits of nothing came flying over the door.

“Start wi’ these.  And dinna think I willna notice if ye’re no’ wearing them!”

I stripped down to my panties, bemusedly wondering how she knew my exact bra size. 

Upon seeing me exit the dressing room in her choice of clothing, Geillis let out a squeal of delight.   She insisted I rip out the tags and leave the store wearing my new outfit, declaring it was her Christmas gift to me.  

I felt tremendously self-conscious as we walked towards the restaurant.  The aubergine velvet jeans clung to my legs in an unfamiliar way and the black turtleneck, while technically not revealing, hinted at kink with its many heavy zippers and fastenings.  Together with my unruly hair, unstraightened for once, I felt like another woman entirely.  I didn’t recognize her, but I felt like she might be someone I’d like to get to know.

The Timberyard was a modern restaurant in a rugged old warehouse, not far from the farmer’s market I’d visited with Jamie.  We were joined there by several of Geillis’ friends, and we ate, drank and laughed until my sides were sore. 

As I wobbled to the loo, I noticed the bartender following me with an appreciative gaze.  It had been a long time since a man had looked at me that way, and it gave me a guilty thrill.

We left the restaurant just before midnight. I pulled Geillis into an impulsive hug.

“Wha’ was that for, hen?” she asked.

“Nothing.  Everything.  Just, thank you for being you, Geil.”

“Och, tis my pleasure, lass.  I only want tae see ye happy.  Now, what do ye say to a digestif?”

After only a slight protest on my part, the two of us piled into an Uber.  Our destination was another restaurant, this time in a converted whisky warehouse by the harbour in Leith.  It was well past last sitting, but when I mentioned this to Geillis she explained away my concern. 

“I ken the owner, who’s also the chef.  Tis a popular spot fer locals in the restaurant scene tae meet after they close up fer a few drinks afore heading home tae their beds.”

Inside, the walls were rough stone, supported in places by industrial metal beams.  The kitchen was open to the main dining area, and I grinned as I thought of Frank’s strong opinion on the matter.  Near the back of the room, lit by dim naked bulbs and the glow from several open fireplaces, was a huge square table surrounded by nearly twenty chairs upholstered in bright yellow plaid.  Around the table was gathered a motley assortment of men and women, all talking and laughing and sipping on a variety of drinks.  And in their midst, his copper hair shining in the firelight, sat Jamie.

A shout went up from the table as Geillis approached.  I hung back, tugging at the hem of my new turtleneck as though I could stretch it to cover my arse.  Besides Jamie, I recognized Jenny, Angus and Murtagh, but I only had eyes for the big ginger chef.  He sat at one corner, probably in deference to his long legs which were stretched out before him, wrapped in black denim.  A black leather jacket hung over the chair behind him.  He looked dangerous.  It was a very good look for him.

Dragging me by the elbow, Geillis nudged and bumped Angus to one side despite his vulgar protests, then practically pushed me down into the chair directly next to the chef.  With a smug smile of satisfaction, she then retired to the opposite side of the table.

I looked anywhere but directly at Jamie, but I could feel his butane eyes on me.  I was certain he would scorch right through my outer layers and down to where Geillis’ choice in lingerie burned against my tender skin.  The noise from the rest of the table faded away.

“Ye look bonnie t’night, Arsonist.”  His voice was low and gruff and it sent a quickening through my veins.

“Thank you, Jamie. It was Geillis’ Christmas gift to me, and I feel, well... let’s just say it isn’t my usual look.”

“It suits ye, I think.”  He reached out and lightly touched the silver tab of a zipper that ended near my wrist, setting it swinging.  I swallowed and looked frantically around.  Several open bottles of liquor stood nearby. Grabbing the nearest one, I poured myself a generous serving and knocked it back, all in one go.  I tried to steady my breathing.

“Look, Jamie...”

Just then a blond man in chef’s whites called to Jamie from across the table.  An exchange involving a lot of Scottish cursing and an off-colour reference to someone’s lobster pot ensued.  I tried to convince myself I needed to leave.  It was late, I was half-drunk, and whatever I intended to say to Jamie should definitely wait for another moment.  Maybe never.

A hand on my thigh broke my preoccupation.

“Sorry, Arsonist, ye were sayin’ something?”

I wet my lips, frantically trying to recall anything but the feeling of Jamie’s strong fingers, stroking me through the velvet of my jeans.

“I...”

At that moment, the woman on Jamie’s far side broke into song.  The rest of the table cheered and clapped along, and it was impossible to hear anything except the concussive pounding of my heart against my eardrums.

Jamie grabbed my clammy hand.

“Come wi’ me,” he instructed, grabbing our outerwear and pulling me towards the door.  Geillis watched our departure with all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

Outside the air was dense and cold, a briny slap after the stuffy warmth of the restaurant.  Jamie obviously had a destination in mind, and we walked hand-in-hand along the cobbled streets for several minutes before finally emerging at the port.  A jetty struck out into the inky sea, and it was there that we ended up.  Besides a few gulls and the winking of a nearby lighthouse, we were all alone.  The sodium street lights caught Jamie’s curls and made them burn.

“Forgive me, Arsonist.  I couldna hear myself think in there.  Tho, come tae think of it, tis no’ much better now.”  Rather than release me, as he spoke Jamie stroked my hand, running calloused fingers over each vein and every knuckle.  I don’t think he even realized he was doing it, but it stole every thought from my head.

“No ring,” he remarked, stroking the finger in question.

“No,” I whispered in response.  

And then it burst out of me, like a tidal wave of feeling that I never saw coming.  I told him everything.  My childhood roaming the globe with my uncle, pre-occupied and rootless, dreaming of stability.  Meeting Frank at Harvard, and realizing that he represented all the things that my life to date had lacked: structure, security, a solid foundation, a home.  And how it took moving to Scotland and coming into contact with a group of near-strangers to make me realize that the price I had paid for that stability was higher than I’d ever imagined.  I’d given up my dream of becoming a doctor. I’d become so lost in Frank’s vision of who I should be that I’d almost lost sight of who I actually was.

By the time the flood of words left me, I was in Jamie’s arms, crying into his leather jacket.  He hushed me with quiet murmurs and languorous stroking of my hair, as one would a child who has woken from a nightmare.

I stepped out of his embrace and rubbed my sleeve across my face.  I must have looked an absolute mess, but he still watched me with those earnest, patient eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I began, “I don’t know what...”

“Claire,” he interrupted.  I’d never before realized just how many consonants were in my given name.  “Ye dinna need tae apologize tae me.  But ye may want tae consider an apology tae yerself.”  At my raised eyebrow, he continued.

“I’m no’ the kind of man tae tell another what they should and shouldna do.  But ye strike me as someone who’s made decisions fer the right reasons, yet ended up in the wrong place.”  Here he paused, as though carefully weighing his words.  “There’s no sin in changin’ yer mind, Arsonist.  Tis very well tae be hungry, so long as ye ken what ye hunger for.”

“And what do you hunger for, James Fraser?”  The provocative words had left my lips before I had the chance to censor them.  His answer came in the form of a blistering look that left no doubt as to its meaning.  Then he gathered himself, banking the fire I’d unconsciously ignited.

“Many things.  Regular, ordinary things, mostly.  My family’s health and happiness.  A faster bike.  My own restaurant.”

“Like Tom’s there?” I asked, gesturing towards the harbour.

“Och, Tom is a braw chef, and worthy o’ every accolade tha’s been showered upon him.  But the hospitality scene in Edinburgh is cut-throat, an’ suitable locations cost a fortune.  Nah, Jenny and I want tae buy back our childhood home in the Highlands.  Tis called Lallybroch, and when our Da passed, our Mam sold it tae her brother.  We’d turn it inta a country inn, wi’ Jenny running the lodging side o’ things and I the dining.  Tha’s the dream anyway,” he ended with a shrug.

I rested my hand on his forearm.  “That sounds like a wonderful plan, Jamie.”

Before he could reply, an enormous yawn burst from my lungs.

“Time tae get ye home tae yer bed, Arsonist,” Jamie grinned.   “Come, I’ll give ye a ride.”

“Wait, haven’t you been drinking?” I inquired as we walked back down the jetty.

“Three years sober,” he explained with no hint of embarrassment.  “I went somewhere pretty dark after my Mam died, an’ it took a near-fatal crash tae scare me straight.”  His eyes squinted in a poor approximation of a wink as he added, “Besides, there are better ways tae chase a rush than in the bottom of a bottle.”

“Such as?” I asked brazenly.

Which was how I found myself on the back on a black motorcycle, my arms twined around Jamie’s waist.  Rather than take me directly home, he steered us north, following the coast.  It was very late, with hardly another vehicle about.  We merged onto the motorway, and Jamie picked up speed.  My thighs tightened around his lean hips, the vibration of the motor beneath us shivering up my spine.  As we emerged beneath the hastate lights of the Queensferry Bridge, I stretched my arms wide, icy air ripping against the sleeves of my jacket.  I laughed, although no-one could hear me.  I yelled, and only the wind yelled back.  I was flying.

***

It was nearly dawn when Jamie pulled up in front of my flat.  My legs thrummed, my eyes were dry with fatigue, and my heart ached, but I felt better than I could ever remember.  I handed Jamie back his spare helmet and shook out my curls.  He watched me in that half-sleepy, half-vigilant way of his that I now recognized as desire.

“I don’t know what I could ever say to thank you, Jamie.”

“Ye needn’t say anything at all, Arsonist.  Nae matter what ye decide, it has been my very great honour tae get tae know you.”

Without another word, he kick-started the engine and drove off into the early morning mist.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to his vanishing shadow.

***

The lamp above the couch was lit, and Frank lay still beneath its glow.  I realized he had fallen asleep waiting for me to come home.  Instead of regret, what I felt in that moment was pity.

The sound of my jacket being unzipped woke him.  He blinked in confusion and then in shock.

“I’m very sorry if you were worried,” I began.

“Worried?  Do you have any idea what time it is?  My God, Claire, I don’t know what to make of you these days.  You’ve never behaved irresponsibly before, and now you’re out at all hours and you’re wearing,” he gestured wildly with his hand at my new outfit which I had, quite honestly, forgotten I was wearing.  “And your hair, Claire!” he finished, as though the manic state of my curls was definitive evidence of my fall from grace.  Despite my exhaustion, I stood tall.

“Frank, we need to talk.”

[angelsdevils]

Asta x Reader

Title: Marry Me Fluff No Warning

Asta watched as you were sleeping, you had fell asleep on his lap and for once he was still. You had caught the heart of the 16 year old boy and when ever you were really close to him his heart rate would increase. He thought he had loved Sister Lilly, but that soon left his mind after meeting you. He soon realized it was just a silly crush and he never felt this way about anyone before but you. He gently pushed your hair behind your ear as you slept and you made a face in your sleep. He smiled finding you to be adorable in your sleep, he didn’t notice but several of people was watching him watch you. They never seen Asta look so...in love with someone. You began to stir in your sleep letting out a small yawn, and Asta felt a blush dust his cheeks as he quickly looked out the window hoping he wasn’t caught staring at you.

You woke up rubbing your eyes confused as you looked around. You didn’t remember falling asleep much less falling asleep on Asta. You sat up looking at the clock before looking at everyone before at Asta meeting his green eyes.

“Are you okay (Y/N)?”

“I don’t remember falling asleep... nor falling asleep on you.”

“Yeah you were out the moment you sat on the couch.” Vanessa said, and you rubbed your neck. That’s when it hit you, your older sister was dragging you everywhere around the capital. You slumped back rubbing your eyes before feeling your stomach growl, you blushed slightly and it wasn’t long that Charmy was right in front of you holding up a huge sandwich.

“How did you... you were in the kitchen.”

“I can feel it when someone is hungry. Here try it, it’s delicious~!”

“It’s huge I can’t eat all of that...” You mumbled at the giant sandwich, Asta was eyeing it with stars in his eyes.

“Share it with Asta then~!” She said cutting it in half giving you half and the other half to Asta.

“Oh...kay....” You said before taking a small bite. Everyone watched you two, and you were confused.

“What?” You asked before turning to Asta to see that he was looking at you, you blinked several of times confused before going into a coughing fit at Asta’s question.

“(Y/N) please Marry me.”

“W-What???” You began hitting your chest, and Noelle hit Asta’s head as Finral gave you a glass of water and you began to down the water.

“Owe what was that for?”

“You can’t marry, you are only 16.” Noelle scolded, and Asta pouted before looking at you again.

“Well (Y/N) can say yes to a future marriage~”

“W-What????”

“What?”

“Don’t you want to marry Sister Lilly?” You asked but Asta got close to you sitting on his knees causing you lean away from him.

“I thought I did too, until I saw you. I haven’t felt this way, so I came to the conclusion it was a hopeless crush. But I love you.” Everyone’s eyes widen at the choice of words he had just used, you blushed and he took the bold move and placed his lips on yours. You froze in your seat along with everyone else in the room, Gauche stopped staring at Marie, Gordon was mumbling faster, Gray was a blushing mess covering her face, Vanessa stopped drinking, Finral passed out, Luck was laughing, Magna’s mouth dropped to the floor, Noelle’s eyes widen in shocked, Charmy dropped her cake she was eating, even Yami’s cigarette fell from his lips. NO one expected Asta to make such a bold move, hell no one expected him to say he actually love you and only had a crush before. Asta parted from your lips staring at you hoping you would say something soon, he was a blushing mess and he was shifting on the couch.

“A-Asta...”

“Yes???” He asked, you weren’t sure how to comprehend what just happened. You looked around the room, and that’s when you realized it really just happened.

“I...”

“Yes......”

“Spit it out woman!” Magna yelled, ready to hear what you had to say and everyone agreed except Finral.

“Iloveyoutoo.” You said really fast but Asta was able to pick it up with ease and he smiled widely.

“Really? So you will marry me when I become the Wizard King right!?”

“Uhm... I guess if ever get together and stay together that long.”

“We are getting together today. I declare you as my girlfriend in this very moment.” Asta yelled fist pumping the air. Everyone let out a sigh of relief when you returned his feelings, and he tackled you into a bone crushing hug. He gave your face multiple kisses and you tried to escape but he wouldn’t let go.

“Asta stop, we are in the living room and everyone can see.” You whined, and Asta stopped pulling you away from everyone before giving you another bone crushing hug with multiple kisses. Your face was red from embarrassment but you couldn’t help but smile.

© [@angelsdevils] all rights reserved. none of my posts or stories should be modified, reposted etc. I do not own the character, but I own the plots to these stories.