#he's literally throwing heart eyes nobody can convince me otherwise

[the-gay-cousin-666]

I bet Andrew's eyes literally light up when he looks at Neil. He holds them a little more open, as opposed to his usual hooded indifference, he looks with intention and more light hits that brown and they look bright and full of life

[fruitcoops]

Hi, Eve

Rose here from yesterday, thank you very much for the Birthday message, I wasn't expecting you to read it let alone reply but I was looking for Coops kids Birthday fluff specifically. It doesn't matter if you don't have time however as I don't want to be a bother.

Hello Rose, and happy (belated) 20th birthday! Sorry for the wait--I really wanted to get this one right to celebrate such an important number. I hope your day was absolutely fantastic! SW credit goes to @lumosinlove, but Stella is an OC

Combined with asks for Sirius lightly making fun of Remus' accent and Remus yelling at a game show (@nazar4114)

“Medusa!” Stella shouted with all the force in her thirteen-year-old lungs. Remus leaned forward on the couch. “Medusa!”

The front door opened with a creak. “I’m h—”

“Yes!” they cheered in unison as Nicole answered correctly. Remus turned and gave Stella a double high-five, feeling his heart squeeze at the vivid joy on her round face. “Good guess.”

“I knew she was gonna get it,” Stella said with a pump of her fist as she turned back to the show and folded her legs underneath her.

“Gonna,” a familiar deep voice mimicked from the doorway. Paper bags rustled before footsteps stopped behind the couch; Remus tilted his chin up without sparing a glance, and Sirius pressed a laugh-laced kiss to his cheek before dropping one on Stella’s head as well. “You sound too much like your dad.”

“Love you, too,” Remus said wryly.

“I’ll take ‘Myths and Moths’ for 400, please.” Nicole’s voice snapped his attention back to the screen, and Stella narrowed her eyes.

“Daily Double!” the automated voice announced. Stella gasped; Remus bit his lower lip. “This mythical shield was wielded by Athena, and is sometimes said to be made of goat skin.”

“Aegis,” Stella whispered, then raised her voice. “It’s the Aegis, Nicole. You know this.”

“We know you do,” Remus said, scooting forward. “You just guessed whose head is on it.”

Nicole’s buzzer went off with two seconds to spare. “What is the Aegis?”

“Hell yeah!” Stella whooped.

Remus turned to her and raised his eyebrows. “Excuse you.”

“Sorry.”

“Are you two going to do this the whole afternoon?” Sirius asked from the kitchen, obviously amused. “We might need to get the neighbors some noise-cancelling headphones.”

Stella blew a dark lock of hair out of her eyes as she flopped her head back. “It’s almost final Jeopardy, papa. We have, like, ten minutes.”

Sirius blinked at her, then shook his head. “I swear you two share genes.”

“Ope, you caught me,” Remus said over the noise of the commercial break. “When I was 20 and had literally never left Wisconsin, I went and had a secret kid in Maine who looks terribly like you just so that someone would watch Jeopardy reruns with me thirteen years later. Oops.”

“It’s the truth,” Stella said with great gravity. “I remember.”

“Mon dieu,” Sirius muttered, though he couldn’t keep a smile down. He had never been able to hide around Stella, not once in the three years since they had adopted her. It was one of the things Remus loved most about him. “By the way, nobody under the age of fourteen is allowed in the kitchen for the next…hour. Ish.”

Stella squirmed around until she could rest her arms on the back of the couch. “What if I get thirsty?”

“I’m sure you can invoke birthday privileges and ask your dad to get something for you.”

“Birthday privileges?” Remus scoffed. “Nobody in this house has a birthday today. Yours was last month, and mine’s in March.”

“It’s my birthday,” Stella said.

“What? No, it’s not.”

“Yeah-huh.”

“Your birthday is in June.”

“It’s today.”

“Or maybe July?”

“It’s today, in December, when there’s snow,” she insisted, throwing herself back against the pillows. “Come on, dad, that’s not funny anymore.”

Remus raised his eyebrows. “Is somebody too old to find their poor old dad amusing now? Can you go back to being twelve so somebody will laugh at my jokes again? I know, I know, we're super lame compared to all your friends’ parents—”

“So lame,” Sirius agreed from the kitchen.

“—but I like to think we get one more year of pre-teen cuteness before the teen angst takes over.”

Stella sat up again with a groan. Looking at her, Remus saw a mix of himself and Sirius that had always baffled him, considering they had adopted her comparatively late in her life; beneath it was something uniquely Stella. Maybe it was her double-jointed elbows, or the board-straightness of her hair next to their curls, but there was no mistaking that she was her own person through and through. He loved that about her. “I’m not going to be a terrible teenager.”

Sirius poked his head around the edge of the kitchen—his nose was adorned with a smudge of flour. “Can I record that for future use?”

“Non.”

“Ooo, using the French,” Remus hissed. “That transformation is already beginning.”

“It’s not like you were bad teenagers, right?” She settled upside-down on the couch with her flamingo-patterned socks high in the air.

“I almost convinced Grandma to let me dye my hair blue, but otherwise I was pretty good.”

“I was terrible,” Sirius laughed. “I didn’t talk to anybody for a solid three years.”

Stella frowned. “How? I think I’d die if I did that.”

“He’s stubborn,” Remus stage-whispered.

“I heard that.”

Stella suppressed her laughter as best she could, but she was about as good at hiding her emotions around them as Sirius was. She didn’t really giggle—the amount her voice had deepened over the past three years always gave Remus whiplash—but her laugh had the same cadence as it did the first day they heard it. While Stella had been quiet at first, it only took love and time to bring her out of her shell. Within a year she settled into their lives like she was always meant to be there.

A thoughtful look crossed her face. “This is my last year before high school.”

“Does it feel different?”

“Not really.” She paused, then shrugged. “And a little. I don’t feel older. It just feels like there’s stuff I won’t get to do anymore.”

“And a lot more you will get to do.” Sirius left his dishtowel on the counter before joining them on Stella’s other side. “You can drive soon, you’ll get a longer curfew, you get more freedom…”

“I guess.”

“What are you going to miss?” Remus asked as she toyed with the hem of her shirt. It was a basic Lions FAN jersey; he was fairly sure she bought it to be ironic. That, and she only wore one of theirs if she was upset with the other, or if one needed a boost at a game.

“I dunno.” A few beats of silence passed. “My classmates. My team. It feels like everything’s going to turn upside down.”

“You can still keep in touch with your friends, and I bet your team won’t be too different,” Sirius said quietly. “Even if it does, that doesn’t mean you have to give all of them up. People change in different ways. They come and go on their own time.”

“There’s going to be a lot of upside-downs over the next couple years, kid.” Remus offered her a smile. “But you’re going to be just fine.”

“You two sound like such dads right now.”

“This might shock you, but that’s because we are.”

The corner of her mouth tugged up and she lolled her head to the side to look at Sirius. “Is the cake done?”

“Fifteen more minutes.”

“Will you watch final Jeopardy with us?”

“What’s the category?”

“US Presidents.”

Sirius exhaled through his nose, but nodded. She grinned and turned herself upright to snuggle against his arm. “You just enjoy watching me lose.”

---------------------------

“Alright, is everyone ready?” Sirius called from the kitchen.

“On three,” Remus said, raising his phone camera. “One, two, three!”

“Happy birthday to you,” over a dozen voices sang. They were off-tempo and so out of key the composer was probably spinning in his grave, but Stella’s clear joy didn’t waver for a millisecond even as her cheeks reddened. “Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Stella, happy birthday to you!”

Finn, of course, dragged out the last note. So did Leo, Logan, Kasey, James, Lily, and Talker in varying degrees of awful harmony attempts. It was terrible, and beautiful. “Make a wish,” Sirius said softly as he set the cake down and stepped back. His eyes were the brightest quicksilver Remus had seen in many moons.

Stella closed her eyes, took a breath, and blew as hard as she could—the entire room erupted into cheers when all the candles went out. She was laughing and blushing at the same time when Remus turned the lights back on, though the humor won out in the end and she helped pass plates of cake to her many aunts and uncles. Like every year prior, Regulus managed to smear a bit of frosting on her chin, only to immediately deny it with great offense when she noticed. It was becoming a bit of a tradition—one that Remus never grew tired of.

I know what I would wish for, Remus thought as he looked around the table at their patchwork family. Celeste, Dumo, and his own parents had no doubt spoiled their first grandchild with ‘cusp of adulthood’ gifts, and Natalie and Lily would certainly steal her away after cake for some girl time. Finn and Logan would remain the fun uncles while Leo and Regulus kept their thrones as the cool uncles; Stella would interrogate Jules on the intricacies of high school for at least an hour before they destroyed everyone in a snowball fight. The world they built together had a place for everyone.

I would wish for this. This, for us, forever. It wasn’t a bad eternity to imagine.

[sixeyesgojo]

Team Gojo with babies

Summary: Team Gojo handling babies while they’re babysitting.

Content warning: fragile babies and Gojo

A/N: Oh, I’m almost caught up; only a two or three chapters are left until I have nothing to import from AO3 anymore lol Then I can finally start writing another oneshot lmao

Gojo Satoru

You would never guess but he is surprisingly good at holding babies, this man would never drop a baby

but he would pretend that he's dropping the baby just to fuck with everyone

This man seems to not only be a great jujutsu sorcerer but also some kind of magician: babies stop crying as soon as he holds them

Babies love playing with his white hair

He has no problems making the baby burp after feeding them

No problems with changing diapers either, he does it so neatly??

but he will whisper "This is all for the sake of the next generation" when he does it

Satoru going on a walk with the baby in the stroller? A sight to behold.

This man absolutely loves making the baby exercise because it's "like playing a video game console"

He talks to the baby... a lot... about almost everything. He'll sometimes imitate girly voices. Or reenact High School Musical scenes.

Sometimes he tells the baby about his day while changing the diaper. The baby wails. He'd say stuff like "Oh my god, so true bestie!!" (in the said imitation of a girly voice)

will pretend to eat the baby's hands or feet. His favorite part to "eat" are the cheeks though

Oooooh, the baby enjoys the airplane game with Gojo

I don't even know what to say, he's just great at everything. Even if he's not, that's just him pretending, not trying.

Itadori Yuji

HELP THIS BOY RIGHT NOW

He's a baby himself, so he will be helpless

someone has to tell him what to do and preferably show him how to do it

Feeding the baby: Bottle? Okay, that should be easy. Baby food? This boy will put one spoon into the baby's mouth and then a spoon into his own mouth.

occasionally, the baby will throw up on him but "it's fine", he says

Yuji will try to teach the baby to say his name. He'll be like "Yu-ji" for at least 45 minutes before realizing that this is a literal baby with limited ability.

changing diapers would be messy but good thing that Yuji is a quick learner

Babies like Yuji's fingers, they will use their iron grip on his fingers

sometimes they will try to jab their fingers in Yuji's second pair of eyes too

Like Satoru, he talks to the babies but somehow manages to be on the same wavelength as them??? Don't ask me how, he just does that. Baby laughs? Yuji laughs. Baby cries? Yuji almost cries too.

He also tells the baby about his day: "Did you know that Fushiguro....???"

He will toss the baby in the air - baby laughs, he laughs, all is well.

His go-to technique to make babies laugh is making dumb faces

watches movies or shows for children while holding the baby

tries to teach the baby how to walk

Fushiguro Megumi

Babysitting? He initially scowls at the very idea but let me present to you some soft Megumi hours when he is alone with the tiny human

HE WILL iNTRODUCE HIMSELF TO THE BABY, LIKE: "I'm Fushiguro, not that you know how to say it anyway but I'll be taking care of you today." IN THE SOFTEST VOICE

This boy will cook baby food himself, he knows how

not the best at changing diapers but does just fine

other than that, he is at a loss

'What do you do with babies?' - Still does better than Yuji though... but still at a loss.

will hold the baby so tenderly, he thinks they will break if he grips a little too hard

Contrary to the other two, he will leave the baby on the baby mat to play on their own at times while he does chores... but not for too long. He will check on them a lot.

Sometimes, he will play some soft music so the baby can listen to it while he holds them, gently rocking back and forth

Please, his facial expression when he holds the baby is so soft. Nobody can convince me otherwise.

He lets the baby play with and squish his cheeks

He reads children's books to the baby

plays with their baby arms and tickles them omggg

In his mind, that's his little sibling now.

Kugisaki Nobara

The baby is oddly drawn to the heart on her hammer but Nobara knows better than to give the baby the hammer. She will look for cardboard to cut out a heart-shaped form and paint it pink, so the baby can play with it safely.

creates a whole blanket fort for herself and the baby

Nobara definitely does that airplane thingy when feeding the baby

plays her favorite songs and dances(?) with the baby, twirling them around

At times, she will just hold the baby close to her and do nothing

Did you see these tiny hands though? Nobara loves them. She's always surprised at how strong a baby's grip can be.

is the type to play peek-a-boo a lot

How dare anyone breathe wrongly into this precious tiny human's direction?

naps with the baby, I don't make the rules.

Nobara definitely would dress up the baby but I doubt she has any spare baby clothes lying around

One thing she enjoys a lot is going out with the baby sitting in the stroller. It feels so peaceful, unless the baby starts crying..

Talking of a crying baby, she's not very good at handling them. Happy babies >>> crying babies, so she tries her best not to upset them.

"When you grow up, you better be as strong as I am," she says while squishing those squishable cheeks.

Nobara is lowkey sad when she has to return the baby

Taglist: @gojos-mochi​ @megumifushi​ @bleueluna​

[socheckitout-mikey]

Can I request some Teen Wolf headcanons where Isaac is dating a girl who acts in school plays? This sweetie pie would be in the front row and give her flowers on opening night, and nobody can convince me otherwise.

hey birdie! yes, i wholeheartedly agree with this. isaac would be the sweetest! the only thing that i changed in this was the gender of the reader. i decided not to specify, just so it’s more inclusive! i hope you enjoy what i’ve come up with. - mae

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Isaac Lahey Dating Someone who Acts in School Plays Hc’s:

° First and foremost, can I just illustrate how supportive af this boy would be? Isaac may not be into plays or musicals as such, but if it’s something you enjoy doing or are passionate about... then he’s here for it!

° No matter what part you play, Isaac thinks it’s amazing. You could legit be a tree in the backdrop and he’d hype you up about it. Boii is just too precious ffs.

° Isaac is especially supportive of this because it’s an extremely normal thing to engage in, as well as the fact it gives himself and the pack something ordinary to look forward to.

° You best believe that Isaac isn’t letting the supernatural drama in Beacon Hills ruin this for you and him. Yes, this play is also now for him; poor boy just longs for some normality instead of grotesque claws and fangs!

° He’s genuinely that boyfriend that will help you memorize/practice your lines. Even if it ends up being cringe. He gives fantastic feedback...

° “Yeah, maybe try saying that again, but breathe this time.”

° “I’m nervous, okay?!”

° And you bet his wolf ass that he’s absolutely t e r r i b l e at acting. All he’s managed to do is distract you and pee yourself three times in a row already.

° “Stop saying it like that, Isaac!”

° “It’s what it says though!”

° “That’s the actions of Romeo, you overgrown beanstalk!”

° “Ohhhhh! That makes sense now...”

° Like, absolute and total heart eyes for you. Security we have a problem

° He waits outside of the auditorium for you once practice is over, because he doesn’t want to overstep boundaries and make you embarrassed by his presence.

° He would’ve waited inside, but he’s also incredibly awkward. Isaac still eavesdropped from outside in the hallway, sneaking a few a lot of glances through the little window in the doors.

° Everyone knew that Isaac was already a total sweetheart to you, but now? Boy, do they love him even more! Why you ask? Because after each rehearsal, there he is, present with your favorite snack and a whole host of praises. We’re all jealous, okay?

° Everyone wants Isaac to be their boyfriend now.

° I mean, you bagged the best boy ever!

° Isaac takes you to opening night, parting ways with you somewhat awkwardly, wishing you good luck and all.

° He does it in a way that makes you relax, even though it’s a little awkward.

° “You’ve memorized those lines really good, you know? You’ve got this babe.”

° “And if you throw up on stage, I’ll have on video, Y/N.” Stiles interjects, slapping you encouragingly on the back.

° “Thanks for putting so much pressure on me, you absolute reject!”

° Literally his eyes are hearts when you’re on stage. He’s so entranced.

° Unfortunately, the moment is ruined when Stiles S C R E A M S at the top of his lungs bc loud boii is trying to support you.

° Scott and Lydia are now stuck with the task of trying to prevent Stilinski’s premature death at the hands of Isaac himself.

° That sort of thing from Stiles used to terrify you, but now you’re highkey embarrassed as Coach Finstock slaps the back of their heads and reprimands them for ruining the school play.

° Isaac claps what a fucking dork.

° Like everyone now wants an Isaac. And who can blame them? Boii is the sweetest and anyone who disagrees can catch these hands!

° After the play is finished, Isaac meets you backstage with the rest of the pack. It was meant to be romantic, but everyone else cut in before him, which irritated the hell out of him.

° But hey, even Derek turned up, giving you an affectionately awkward pat on the head and a “Not bad”, which kinda stunned everyone. Like seriously, why did Sour Wolf even show up? Stiles doesn’t let him hear the end of it either.

° More embarrassment from Stilinski ensues when he’s virtually in tears, a total wreck, and everyone’s trying to calm his dramatic ass down.

° “Stiles, no one died in the play.” You remind the hyperactive knuckle head.

° “I know that’s why I’m crying.” Stiles sniffles, wiping his eyes profusely.

° “How on earth do you survive, Stilinski? You’re literally the worlds biggest loser.” Isaac mutters, shoving passed him.

° Eventually, Isaac either muscles his way through or get’s his shot to have a moment with you. He’s got flowers at the ready and an ample army of praises for you. And kisses. We can’t forget the kisses.

° “You did so good, baby! I’m so proud of you!”

° Boii makes you blush like tf who gave him the right!

° In all honesty, boii has stars in his eyes and loves you sm. So no matter what you do, he’s simping after you. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

if you enjoyed, please like, reblog and follow for more!

requests: open!

[rueren]

haikyuu boys and coffee

purely self indulgent. i have zero reason or evidence for anything 😭😭😭(didn’t do all the characters but i did as many as i could remember)

dont give them caffeine for the love of god don't do it:

HINATA ... self explanatory tbh.  throw him a mini snickers n hes set for another 6 hours

BOKUTO... another self explanatory one.  if he’s getting tired give him like 3 skittles and hell be fine

Terushima ... just don't im begging u please don't give him coffee.  he hallucinates

NOYA  ... he will bounce off of the walls dont do this to yourself him

tanaka ... honestly i think hes fine on his own but if hes with noya, they'll do something stupid like see who can handle more espresso shots before getting heart palpitations 

kogenagawa ... this baby doesnt even like coffee dont let him have any im bEGGING  he’ll hurl

LEV ... oh my god no please he’ll drink straight espresso thinking it’s regular n be like this is light work yall r babies then down like fOUR CUPS then think hes having a heartattack my heart 😭😭

atsumu  ... thinks he can handle alot of coffee, but is def another one who will start to hallucinate

futakuchi  ... i have no explanation for this sorry guys

yamaguchi  ... its too bitter for him.  doesn't even like it.   eventually likes it when he’s older but w lots of sugar

goshiki ... very self explanatory. it’s too bitter. he tried once, bless him, bc he saw tendou constantly drinking jt but he just can’t bring himself to like it

they need an IV drip of coffee in each arm and one in their leg please they are tIRED: 

AKAASHI ... self explanatory

SUGA ... he’s tired let him take a nap im BEGGING. those kids are his life force but they also suck his life force. he loves them to death

asahi ... i feel like i’m highschool he doesn’t really need it but time skip asahi chugs like 3 cups a night during fashion week

oikawa, ... self explanatory again

kenma ... he probably shouldn’t take it as much as he does because 1) he only drinks the insanely sweet ice coffees and 2) he uses it as a substitue for sleep but kuroo is convinced that kenma will one day bite his fingers off if he doesn't let him have coffee so he begrudgingly allows it

ennoshita ... he is also tired 

tsukkishima ... doesn't wanna deal with anyone's shit

suna ... also doesn't wanna deal with anyone's shit. 

osamu ... doesn't wanna deal with atsumu’s shit in particular 

matsuwaka ... have you seen his eye bags? please daddy baby get some sleep 

TENDOU ... this man inhales that shit bro you cant convince me otherwise

hanikami  .. yeah it just fits tbh.  he hears oikawa speak once and just downs a full cup

semi ... he’s tired of everyone’s ..,,,, everything ?? he needs a nap ok he also gets vv grouchy when he’s jetlagged dont @ me. post time skip he downs a cup or two before he gets off a plane so if there’s any fans on route that stop by he isn’t rude n grouchy to them 🥺🥺

somehow doesn't ever need coffee, they're always awake enough to function (if only barely):

daichi... he had to get used to it, dealing with all of their shit for so long.  

kageyama... somehow drinks milk and is then completely fine?  nobody knows how.  milk literally makes you tired i- downed a pack of strawberry milkshake at a training camp and was physically buzzing from all the fructose

kuroo ... pre time skip this man has never drank a single sip of coffee once in his entire life i guarantee you.  but post time skip??? cEO KUROO???? ........ yeah he still barely drinks it, but hes always got a large ass Starbucks cup on him so everyone fears him, thinking he’ll be cranky without it it was a present from kenma awh .  its actually filled with water or tea of protein shake or something im crying.  like can you just imagine everyone in the office scurrying to get the big ass rooster head-ass boss his cup of morning coffee bc they've seen him with this enormous ass titan of a travel mug everyday and he takes it every morning graciously, only to give it to kenma when/if he drops by through the day.  pls im sCREAMING

shirabu ...  thinks its gross dont ask me why.  i have it drilled in my head that tendou got everyone to drink it but they pretended because they didnt wanna hurt his feelings, and nobody actually liked him.   

ushijima  ... the most self explanatory thing ive ever seen in my life oh my god. he read online once that it has addictive qualities and immediately went d r u g s ? ! ? ! ? ! ? tries his best to stop tendou from his “addiction”. “it’s like heroine, satori. you know, like cocaine. irl make you sick” pls my heart can’t take it

aran  ... i also legit dont have a reason for this just lOOK at him

kita  ... he doesnt need it dude hes fine. dont ask how, he gets a good nights sleep.  literally never needs to pull all-nighters. cute baby awh i love him sm 

aone... i physically mentally? can not  see this man drinking coffee it doesnt work

IWAIZUMI ... honestly i dont know how he does it.  he is a tired man how does he nOT DRINK IT.

[littlestarofthewest]

Title: Matthew’s Monster Mystery | Words: 2759 | Rating: Mature

Pairing: Gen | (past John x Abigail) | Tags: monster AU, modern AU, WIP

Credit: inspired by @veradia‘s art | with input from @fangirl-ramblings and @sad-sweet-cowboah

Summary: When John insists on going to a Halloween party, Abigail worries that people might catch on that she and her friends aren't just dressed up as monsters. If only she knew that the night would take a turn for the worse.

Arthur hears voices the second he opens the apartment door, meaning that his three roomies are home, and judging from the sound of it, they're arguing.

"Come on, Abby. It's a party, not a matter of life and death."

"John, you're literally dead," Abigail counters, making Arthur huff a laugh.

He checks the mail on the counter while the argument continues in the other room.

"So? Doesn't mean I have to act like it," John says. "Back me up here, Sadie."

"He has a point," Sadie says, and Arthur enters the room right as Abigail scuffs at her in disbelief.

"What's going on here?" Arthur asks, and when both John and Abigail attempt to answer, he points at Sadie. "I'd rather hear it from her."

John leans back against the couch like a sulking child while Abigail crosses her arms and glares at Arthur.

"John brought home this flyer for a Halloween party he wants to go to," Sadie says, nodding to a piece of paper on the table. "Guess what Abigail has to say about that."

"I can imagine," Arthur says, and Abigail huffs.

"And you know I'm right."

It's one of those times Arthur wonders why exactly he lives with these quarrelers, but as a werewolf, he can't exactly be picky. After all, he's lucky that they want to live with him. If only they left him out of these disputes.

To stall, Arthur picks up the flyer and reads through it, feeling everybody's eyes on himself.

"I understand your concerns, Abigail," Arthur begins, only to be interrupted by John, who jumps up from the sofa.

"Oh, come on. Not you, too!"

"But," Arthur continues, emphasizing the word as he looks at John, "I don't see the harm."

John slaps his hands together, throwing a triumphant "Ha!" at Abigail. She only rolls her eyes at him before turning to Arthur.

"You can't be serious," she says. "Us? At a party? I thought we agreed to fly under the radar. After all, we're not exactly the fitting in kind."

"In this case, we are," Arthur says, holding up the flyer. "Everybody's going to be in costume. I wouldn't have to worry about any teeth or fur showing, and John could go out without having to hide the fact that he's nothing but a rotting corpse for once."

"Appreciate the support, brother," John throws in with a sarcastic tone.

Arthur grins at him before Sadie snatches the flyer from his hand to read through it as well. "Look, Abigail, it's not even a Halloween party. It's tonight, not tomorrow. And it takes place in an abandoned factory. The area is huge, and nobody's going to look at us twice. And if they do, we'll just claw their eyes out and eat their hearts."

"Not. Funny," Abigail says, looking like she's about to claw Sadie's eyes out. She might have done so if it wasn't for the fact that Sadie could just pop them back in without harm.

"You could use a day off yourself," Arthur says, trying to set Abigail at ease. "You might not have the physical problems we have, but we know you're struggling with hiding all the time."

"Yeah," John throws in before Abigail can disagree once more. "Imagine a night out. Putting on a nice dress, dusting off the pointy hat. And if you throw some sparks, people will think it's a cool party trick."

"I don't know," Abigail says, the fight leaving her.

"Come on," John says. He walks over to Abigail and takes her hands. "Let me see those sparkling eyes."

Abigail tries her best to hide it, but a smile creeps onto her face. It's moments like these that make Arthur wonder why the two of them are not a couple anymore. They'd be great if they could just stop with the constant fighting.

"Show us, Abby," Sadie says, and when Abigail shakes her head, Arthur chimes in as well.

"You know you want to."

"Fine." Abigail takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. When she opens them, they're glowing with golden spots. "Let's go to the party."

--------

Arthur shoulders his way through the crowd to get back to their table. The gang turned him into their personal waiter since he has the best assets to get through the dancing people. 

"Coming through," he growls, and a steampunk Sherlock jumps to the side, dragging a person in a full-body fox costume with them to make room.

Climbing the stairs to the upper level, Arthur has the same effect on a few more people. Although they must think that it's a costume, they still seem mighty impressed. To celebrate the occasion, Arthur didn't bother to even put on a shirt, his fur and general body heat enough to keep him warm. The only thing he's holding back at the moment is the claws. It's kind of hard to carry drinks with them.

At the table, Arthur hands Sadie a beer before putting down two bottles of whiskey. Abigail's still nipping on her first cocktail, her eyes growing big at the sight.

"What are you doing? I thought we were at least trying to be inconspicuous."

"We are," John says before grabbing one of the bottles. "Nobody's even looking at us."

He takes a drag from his joint, and Abigail rolls her eyes. "Why would you risk getting in trouble with that? You can't get high anyway."

"I just like the taste," John says before opening the whiskey bottle and drinking from it as if it was water.

He's clearly baiting Abigail, but she doesn't lay into him for once, looking at Arthur instead. "Why do you always indulge him?"

"Maybe I just want to see how much his body can take before it falls apart."

Sadie laughs when John makes a face, and even Abigail fights a smile. Arthur pulls up his glass and pours himself a drink before pushing it over to Abigail.

"Think you can give it a little kick?"

Just like John, Arthur can't get drunk from alcohol alone, but being roommates with a witch has its perks. It didn't take them long to figure out that Abigail's magic can spice things up a little.

Abigail looks around as if to make sure that nobody's watching. Arthur's convinced that even if somebody does, they wouldn't care. Most people here are drunk, high, or otherwise engaged. Abigail shrugs before holding out her fist over Arthur's glass. She opens it up and then moves her finger in a circle. The liquid in the glass glows and moves with her finger, then a small puff of smoke goes up in the air.

"Thank you kindly," Arthur says, and Abigail smiles.

"I guess it's really pretty safe."

"Told you," John chimes in before pushing his bottle over to Abigail. "Now do mine."

Abigail frowns at him, venom in her voice when she speaks. "John Marston, when the hell will you finally learn some manners?"

"What? You did it for Arthur."

"He asked," Abigail spits, but before she can say more, Sadie jumps up.

"That's it, you two are killing my vibe. I need something to do. You coming, Arthur?"

The chances of John and Abigail getting into another fight is pretty high, so Arthur gets to his feet. "Right behind you."

They make their way downstairs, and Sadie keeps looking around as if she's searching for something in particular.

"You got a plan?" Arthur asks, and Sadie smiles.

"I think I do."

A few minutes later, they're standing beside a table that's filled with cups. Sadie found a few "easy boys" as she called them, and challenged them to a game of beer pong. While she's playing, Arthur stands to the side and enjoys the show.

Since Sadie doesn't even have a bloodstream the alcohol could get into, it's no trouble for her to have a drink or two. Not that it really comes to that. All of her balls hit their targets, and the "easy boys" don't stand a chance.

A few people come closer to the table, watching as Sadie's opponents do their best to beat her, one of them swaying dangerously from one side to the other. They didn't stand a chance from the start, but the drunker they get, the funnier it is to watch them try. After a while, even Arthur begins to feel his pumped up drink and cheers for Sadie. At least until a small figure appears next to him.

"Hey, big boy," the woman says, smiling at him.

She's wearing a tight black dress, her hair falling in waves over her shoulder. Arthur's eyes are drawn to her blood-red lips and then to her nails when she trails them along his arm.

"That is such a great costume. The fur looks so real."

"It is," Arthur says, regretting it a second later.

The red lady doesn't seem to care, though. She keeps touching him and looks up to him through her fake lashes. "I wish I would have dressed as Red Riding Hood. You could have been my big bad wolf."

A shiver runs down Arthur's spine, something he rarely gets to feel. "I- uhm," he starts while drawing a complete blank for what to say next.

"Told you, I'll win, honey," a familiar voice says, and Sadie grabs Arthur's arm before dragging him down to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Let's head back."

She doesn't give the red lady a second glance and pulls Arthur along. When they're out of earshot, Arthur sighs. "Thank you."

"You looked like you were about to pass out."

"I'm not even sure what she wanted."

Sadie laughs. "Climb you like a tree would be my guess."

"But why?"

"One of these days, we'll get you a nice box of self-esteem, and then you'll see." Sadie leans in, putting her lips right by Arthur's ear. "Big bad wolf."

"Just keep walking," Arthur grunts and maneuvers Sadie up the stairs.

Surprisingly enough, they find John and Abigail sitting on the same side of the table. Judging by Abigail's rosy cheeks, they buried the hatchet and gave John's bottle a little kick after all.

"You seem chipper," Sadie says, and Abigail shrugs.

"When you can't fight them, join them. Right?" Abigail says, looking back and forth between Arthur and Sadie. "What have you been up to."

"Sadie dragged some guys," Arthur says, and John and Abigail both laugh.

"They had it coming," Sadie says, waving her hand dismissively. "Way more important - Arthur got hit on."

"By who?" Abigail asks.

"Sexy vampire lady," Sadie says with a grin.

John leans back in his chair with an expression on his face like Christmas came early. "Bet you loved that."

"Just shut up," Arthur grunts before emptying his glass and reaching for his bottle to fill it right up again.

Abigail pats his arm. "She probably wasn't the one. Doesn't mean we can't keep looking."

"How about her?" John asks, nodding to a small group next to them. "The fairy. What do you think, Arthur?"

The woman in question is about Sadie's height, with long silvery hair. She's wearing a dress that looks like the wind blew up some leaves, and she walked away with the ones that got stuck.

"That I'd snap her like a twig."

"No, don't say that," Abigail says, and Sadie leans over the table to get a better look. 

"You think she's the real deal? That doesn't look like a wig, and she sure has the physique for a fairy."

They all stare at the woman now, but it's hard to tell if someone is a monster or not. After all, they might be pretty good at hiding, just like the four of them are.

"Bet you 5 bucks she's real," John says, and Arthur takes another look at her.

It's been a while that he ran into someone like them. To him, the fairy looks as real as the vampire lady.

"Fine, you're on."

"I say fake, too," Abigail says. "From what I can tell, there's no magic on her."

"You might be right, but I still bet on her being real," Sadie says, leaning around Arthur for a better view. "I wouldn't mind a little magic from her."

"Let's find out then," John says, and before Abigail can hold him back, he already stumbles over to the poor woman.

They don't understand what John's saying, but while the woman smiles at first, her expression quickly changes, and she slaps John before storming off. 

Despite the harsh treatment, John comes over with a smile. "Guess I was wrong. She's no fairy."

He throws money on the table, and Arthur pockets it while Abigail studies John's face.

"You just got slapped, and you lost the bet. What are you smiling about?" she asks.

"Fake fairy was very excited when I asked about her number for the pretty blonde at my table," John says, winking at Sadie. "She only slapped me when I asked if I could watch."

"You're an idiot," Abigail says, but Sadie jumps to her feet.

"You're a genius," she says, clapping John's shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

John sits down and takes a swig from his bottle. "One down, one to go. So, vampire lady, huh?"

Arthur only shakes his head. The last time John tried to set him up didn't end well, and Arthur has no desire to try again. 

"Why one to go?" Abigail asks. "What about me?"

"Oh, I know who you're going home with," John says, and by the way he looks at her, she and Arthur can tell what he means.

"No way," Abigail laughs, but Arthur has seen those signs before.

"I'll get another drink," he says, getting up from his chair.

Abigail shakes her head at John, who's still giving her what he might think are bedroom eyes before turning to Arthur. "Your bottle is practically full."

"You two take that one," Arthur says. 

He doesn't want to stick around. Either John and Abigail are going to fight again or they'll get along way better than Arthur cares to see. Although he's not that interested in going on the prowl, he'll rather take his chances in the crowd. Maybe he can find somebody nice after all. Everything, as long as it's not a vampire.

-------

When they leave two hours later, Arthur's just tired, Sadie has fake fairy's phone number in her pocket, and John and Abigail whisper and laugh with each other about things only they find funny.

Therefore, Arthur's happy when his phone lights up with an incoming video call.

"Hey guys, look," he says, waving the other's over before answering the call. "Hey, Hosea."

Their friend and somewhat father figure waves back at them. "Hello, Arthur. How are you doing?"

"We're just walking home from a party."

"Party, huh? That's smart. Blending in with the Halloween crowd."

Both John and Abigail break into fits of laughter, and Sadie huffs. It's funny to hear Hosea call John smart of all people.

"What are you up to this late?" Arthur says, trying his best to focus on Hosea.

"I'm meeting a friend, we're-"

Hosea trails off, and Arthur can see him look around.

"You're alright, Hosea?"

"Yeah, I just thought I-" Hosea starts, but then he looks away from his phone again, his eyes growing big. "Hey, what are you-"

The picture shakes, Hosea disappearing out of the frame. "Let me go," he grunts, then the image goes dark.

"Hosea," Arthur shouts, but his phone switches the screen, showing him that the call has ended.

"What the hell was that?" Sadie says, and John and Abigail both stare at Arthur, all happiness drained from their faces.

"I think someone attacked him," Arthur says, his whole body tingling at the words.

He looks down at his phone and finally has the sense to call Hosea back. It rings again and again, but nobody answers.

"What now?" John asks. "We should do something, right?"

"Find him, of course," Abigail says.

"Was he in the park?" Sadie asks. "I think I saw that ugly fountain in the background."

The picture of what they just saw comes up in Arthur's mind. "You're right, we should go. Maybe whoever he was about to meet wasn't a friend after all."

They quickly make their way along the street towards the nearby park. Another shiver runs down Arthur's spine, giving him a bad feeling. He'd never admit it out loud, but he doesn't believe that they'll find Hosea so easily. 

Something is very, very wrong.

[hqprotectionsquad]

Meant To Be (Part Two - Tadashi x Reader)

Title: Meant To Be Ship: Tadashi x Reader Word Count: 2415 Summary: Tadashi never expected himself to be at a frat party on the first night of college, and Y/N never expected herself to end up at a frat party with a boy she just met.

(accidentally messed up my post so it’s not the same summary, and i wish i remembered what it was :c)

Meant To Be - Part One here!

“This isn’t really where I expected myself to be on the night of my first day at college,” Tadashi muses as he swirls his head to take in all the sights. A frat party of all places. The multicolored lights block your vision almost completely and it’s hard to see what’s in front of you. People splay wide on each other with the cracked leather couches underneath each other, and it’s impossible to turn in one direction and not see anyone sucking face.

Your friend, Michi, told you to bring your “cutie,” when she started donning her clothing back in your dorm room. You laughed upon hearing that and turned to look at her final outfit of barely anything at that matter. Were your leggings and flannel not enough? Whatever. It didn’t matter because Michi was there to attempt to find her latest flavor and you were just strung along, and you were most definitely not going through this experience alone.

Tadashi came along on his own will and boy, you are so glad that he’s the one by your side at this very moment. “Michi needed friends to come along, but at least she told me that since we also brought our friends, Kazuo and Chihiro, we’re okay to leave if we want to.” You raise your voice but Tadashi can just barely hear you over the pounding music that flows throughout the house. No matter where in the world, you suppose the fraternities know how to throw a party. 

His head leans down by your ear to say, “I can’t believe I had to pay to get in but you didn’t!” The mere centimeters between his lips and your ear make you slightly delirious and you don’t even have anything in your system yet.

Despite his efforts to make himself clearer, there’s no point. “I can’t hear you, Tadashi!”

His hand grasps your fingers as Tadashi walks to anywhere he feels like the decibels decrease. He’s quite the tall boy, but you already noticed that before. In this dark lighting, there are glimpses of freckles that adorn his neck but you can’t tell if they go down further since his corduroy jacket hugs his nape. He has a bit of a homey, but fashionable taste in clothing, you might add.

When he halts by the kitchen, he is happier that at least he can hear and see you properly, despite the sloshing of people and alcohol. After watching people throw back their heads to send the liquor down their throats, Tadashi has a better idea that makes up for him having to pay an entrance fee, even if he’s a little disturbed by the thought popping into his head. “Do you know what’s the best to drink?”

The look on his face tells you that he’s never really done anything like this before. “What if we both take shots? Just to get it over with and then take it from there.” You pull plastic cups off the counter and pour in enough of the liquor to cover the bottom of them. The potent liquid appears like water, but you know better. One of the red cups goes into his hand and Tadashi purses his lips and furrows his brows when the scent hits his nose.

“Have you tried this before? It’s going to burn our throats, won’t it?” A controlled breath pushes through his mouth. You nod with a giggle flowing out of your mouth. You haven’t even had a sip and you can feel crimson dashes coating your cheeks. What is going on, you’re never like this around, boys, girls — anyone for that matter.

“We should do it together on a count of three. At least, that way, we can’t chicken out.” The corner of your lip curls into a triumphant grin. There’s no way you’ll get this virgin out of this important event of life. Tadashi’s head bobs up and down with an affirmative strength. You bump your cup against his and count down. “Three, two, one.”

It’s more of a smoother transition from plastic to throat for you. You press your mouth against your elbow for a polite cough, not wanting your messy saliva to get all over the place. On the other hand, you keep an eye on Tadashi as he hesitates to lift the rim up to his lips. The next second, he tosses the liquid back and it sails along his tongue, searing his taste buds. He resists the urge to hack it up and onto the floor, so he forces it down, but the taste remains on the inside of his cheeks.

“So,” you poke his side with a finger as you speak. “How was it?” You ask even though his facial expression tells it all — his nose scrunches when you ask the question. It’s so obvious.

“Probably won’t be doing that again for a while.” Tadashi mutters and a laugh comes out after. A smile surfaces on your face without you even noticing. Has his cheeks always been dusted with the same freckles of his neck? Has he always shined this bright among people? How is this the first time you’ve met this boy? “I don’t think hard alcohol seems to be my cup of tea.”

“It’s okay. It’s just something to get us loose,” you mention, though you don’t want to keep shoving down liquor like everyone else in this room is. You want to remember these moments, whatever this night will bring to you. You find a liter of soda somewhere and unscrew the cap. “Maybe you’re just a sweet tooth.” You pour a bit into both of your cups and set the liter off to the side for the next person to use.

Tadashi sips from the cup without a beat to wait. He takes a minute to look all around him and you can’t really tell what he’s thinking about as he sees these girls and boys who all seem to know what they’re doing. Everyone here has an idea of what they want to be or who they want to be with, no matter their age or gender. It kind of makes you wish you were at least a little normal. 

“Who goes to college without an idea of what they want to do?” Your mother sneered at you when you clicked the button that sucked away a portion of your money. “I can’t believe you’re enrolling without a single idea of what you’d want to be after that. You need to decide otherwise…” She thought of a consequence on the spot and the next words that came out her mouth pierced your heart and ripped it to shreds. “Otherwise, I won’t pay for your education. You’ll have to find a way to pay for it yourself.”

“Mom!” You pushed away from the table and stood up to meet her eyes. Her voice didn’t seem convincing but you knew that look. That look was deadly and worked every single time. There was no one to save you here, nobody to convince her otherwise. “Okay. Fine. Just give me my first year, both semesters. I’ll figure it out.”

That conversation was two months ago and on this first day of being immersed in the college atmosphere, the tightness in your chest from that day returns at this very moment. Why are you even here? In college?

“I miss my friend,” Tadashi says, breaking you out of your clouds. “He’s in school in Tokyo. He wants to study history. He’s always wanted to work in a museum, so it makes sense.” That is what was reeling in his mind as he looked at the kissing couples and the drunk students, completely different from you.

“He seems nice.” Another sip from your cup allows you to think of what to say next. What are you supposed to say next? “You know what, let’s get out of here.” You can’t take the thermal tension building within this one room. You’ll get another experience to go to a party, but you just need to get out.

“Leave?” He scratches his temple with his nail. A nervous smile dances onto his face and his tongue swipes along his bottom lip. Does he know that with the slightest effort, he can make anyone fall for him? “Are you sure, because we can stay if you want more—”

“I really don’t. I’m not as big a drinker as Michi, or really anyone.” The truth seems a little lame when you say it out loud but Tadashi lets out a sigh of relief.

“I thought you were going to say you wanted to drink more. I’m glad you’re not.”

“We can head back to my dorm, if you want. Since Michi’s staying here for a while, she’ll probably crash at Chihiro’s room.” You toss your empty cup into the plastic bag on the side of the kitchen. “We’ll be by ourselves,” you add, albeit with your cheeks glowing, either from the influx of alcohol in your system or for a separate reason.

The icy air flutters across your skins as you and Tadashi take your leave after attempting to say goodbye to Michi, Kazuo, and Chihiro. It ends up being no use because you’re sure Michi is sidling up to some guy she just met, and at some point in the evening, you’re certain Kazuo will blubber to Chihiro of the feelings he’s harbored for her since middle school. Your friends can be predictable, which is why you’re thankful for Tadashi. He’s been unexpected since you’ve met him this afternoon. You definitely could not have expected to be at a frat party with him tonight and bringing him to your dorm with no specific intentions except to free yourselves from the stuffy house.

“It’s nice outside, especially after being in there for a bit,” Tadashi does not say this to you specifically, but to the open, because when you open up your mouth to form a reply, he’s already looking straight ahead. “Oh! I forgot to ask earlier.”

“Yes?”

“Where’s your dorm? I think I might be leading us to a random place.” Tadashi rubs the back of his neck and when he exhales, you can see his breath swirling in the wind.

Oh. That’s what he was referring to, not anything else. Silly of you to think otherwise. “I live in one of the dorms close by here. I’ll just lead.”

For the next ten to fifteen minutes leading until you are standing in front of your dorm door, no words are exchanged. With the quiet steps hitting the pavement, you hope — for two seconds — that you stayed at the party, just for one more shot. The effects are already starting to wear off and not that you want to mask your feelings behind alcohol, but it would sure help.

Your fingers vibrate while you jiggle the key into the doorknob, yet you miss it the first couple of times because your fingers are shaking and it’s gotten to the point that you can’t really tell if they are shaking from the high you’re experiencing from the alcohol or the boy who is standing really close to you.

“Let me help you,” he says with a laugh. Maybe he’s not a lightweight like you. On his first try, he pushes the door open with ease.

“I’m guessing the alcohol didn’t get to you the same way it got to me,” you murmur. You think to opt for your bed, but instead you cross your legs on the carpeted floor, patting the space in front of you for him to sit.

“It’s my first time, so I don’t really know what to expect.” Tadashi crouches down and when he mimics your position, you realize that his cheeks are bright red.

“Your cheeks are as red as mine,” you giggle with delight. There’s not much to say except make small conversation, but if this is what it comes to, then you are more than happy to participate. Not just everyone meets a person like this on their first day of college, and you don’t want to let him go.

Maybe it’s the dimmed lights that are stringed around the perimeter of the dorm, or perhaps it’s how close your knees are to touching, but this only reminds Tadashi of better times. He’s already sobering up and he wants this to be one of those times he looks back on. What kind of movie is he living in?

He inches toward you and your clothed knees brush against his. The slight bit of tension that ensues is overbearing. Have you been this pretty your whole life? Tadashi’s lips press against yours. It’s just as he imagined this to be: soft and sweet, though a little tangy from the vodka. His palm cups the edge of your jaw and his fingers splay against your cheek.

Tadashi pulls away with wide eyes. “I just remembered I forgot to speak to my parents. They told me to call them when I had the chance tonight.”

He begins pulling out his phone, when you pat his hand with a smile. “You probably shouldn’t talk to them now, we’re both a little drunk.” You don’t even know how that would go down. Even though Tadashi’s more sober than you are, it might be awkward if he ever let out the truth of where he went tonight, where he is right now, and who he’s been with.

“Oh. You’re right.” Tadashi slips his phone back into his pants pocket. “Was that kiss okay? Did I read the situation wrong?” His cheeks start to flare up again like fireworks. He twiddles with his fingers in his lap, suddenly interested in how the pads from one hand touch the other.

“Tadashi, I liked it a lot.” You reach out to slip your hand into his and it surprises you that he allows it to happen. Your heart is beating against your ribcage, threatening to slip out of your body, and your pulse speeds up when his hazel eyes meet yours.

His voice comes out timid, and you can barely hear him when he asks, “So you wouldn’t mind it if I did it again?”

“I’d like it if you did it again.” His lips are slightly chapped when they’re molding with yours but you don’t mind it at all. Perhaps leaving the party after one drink is the best thing that could have happened to you.

[copias-thrall]

Recognition

Suey makes a surprising discovery.

(Start at the beginning)

*light breath play*

It’s been happening for weeks.

A sudden feeling of eyes on you. Weird, little incidents that you can’t help but connect together in your mind—your own Baader-Meinhof phenomenon.

Browsing at the consignment shop, and you look up—having felt the weight of a stare—to see a gaggle of girls whispering behind their hands. When you catch eyes with them, they make a hasty retreat, giggling. You look down at yourself to make sure your boob isn’t hanging out, or that there’s no toilet paper stuck to your shoe—but everything seems in order.

At the MAC store (if you wanna upgrade Mary’s stock that’s nobody’s business but your own), when two baby goths seems to be intently watching what you put in your basket. You smile at them, but they just look down quickly, as if the floor holds the secret to non-cakey face powder.

Enjoying $5 beers and reading a book at your neighborhood bar when a group of emo dudes sends you a drink. And, ok—not to brag—that’s not the odd part. It’s the way they elbow each other until one of them comes over and asks if you’re expecting company. You eye him—and the expectant pack he came from—deadpaning that you don’t do gangbangs. He giggles nervously.

“So no one’s joining you?”

“NoPe.”

You have your speech all prepared when he just sighs and says That’s a sham, before heading back over to his group, which reluctantly leaves. Men, leaving when you say you’re by yourself. 

Weird.

It’s all enough to give a girl a complex. So, you try to convince yourself that people looking away when you look up and clearly talking about you surreptitiously, is all in your head. 

You’re having a pre-holiday lunch at the greasy punk diner with your friend Arry because she's not coming to the tree trimming, when the pieces start to fall into place. The two of you are embroiled in a dish session, when a lone girl approaches you. She’s maybe 19—growing out green hair and sporting a Monroe piercing—and she approaches you shyly.

“Excuse me,” she all but whispers.

“Yes?” you say, not unkindly.

She hesitates a little, her eyes darting to yours and then back to the floor, then asks, “You’re Mary’s girl, right? Mary Goore?”

Arry—who you have not told—raises her eyebrows at you and rests her chin in her hand, curious as to where this is going.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I am.”

The girl sort of rocks back and forth a little, sucking in one side of her cheek.

“I have a-a thing. He just. Always seems so intense? If I gave it to you … ?”

“A thing.”

“It’s-it’s nothing weird. Just a-a drawing.”

Arry is looking at you like, This makes sense to you?!

You smile big and try to send out I’m-not-going-to-eat-you vibes, which is a struggle since your default setting is mostly fuck-off-and-die.

“All right, let’s see then.”

The girl’s face snaps to look up at you, gauging your sincerity, before swinging her messenger bag around. She fumbles around in it, bringing out a sketchbook. You can see she’s shaking as she flips through it. She finally manages to get to the right page, and then she’s turning it out and around for you to see.

It’s a gorgeous caricature of Mary on stage in his corpse paint looking grave and holding his guitar out like a weapon. There’s a speech bubble that says, “u want sum fuk?”.

It’s hilarious.

When you don’t respond immediately—only because you’re so entranced—the girl starts sputtering.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s wonderful,” you say as you look up at her. “This is great—right up his alley.”

She brightens. “Really??”

“Really,” you agree.

“Th-thanks. So you’d … ?”

“Yes, I’d love to give this to him, if that’s what you want.”

She nods vigorously.

Luckily you have your computer and bag with you, so you gingerly place the drawing inside your closed laptop for safekeeping. The girl is looking at you as if you’d hung the moon.

“Do you have an insta?” you ask.

“Oh! Yeah, it’s …” She leans down and writes her handle on a napkin.

You take it, smiling warmly at her, and are surprised when she leans down for a side hug, before quickly scampering off. Arry is giving you A Look.

“What. The Absolute Fuck. Was that about?”

You blush. It’s not that you’ve been hiding Mary … it’s just that it’s so new, even if doing the math in your head tells you otherwise. You give her a little shrug.

Arry glares at you. “Ok, fine. I was giving you a chance. But if you’re not going to come clean …” She pulls out her phone, tapping and scrolling through it before sliding it over to you. “Explain .”

Picking up the phone you see a grainy picture of you at Regency sitting on Mary’s lap. Your head snaps up.

“Where did you—”

“Oh, keep scrolling.”

You do, and you find several more from that night, some really unflattering zooms with redeye from other bars, and the selfie Roxie took—in which you and Mary are pale and glowering and Roxie still looks high.

“Where did you get these ?” you hiss, clenching the phone.

When Arry holds out her hand, you reluctantly hand it back over.

“One of my friends sent that last one to me—that’s from Roxie Hearts’ instagram, by the way. She’s a pretty well-known—”

“Yes, I know.” You put your head in your hands.

“She’s since deleted it, by the way. But, Otis sent it to me asking if this wasn’t you. I kind of fell down a rabbit hole of hashtags from there. So. Explain.”

“Um,” you say and you trace patterns with your finger on the table, “you remember Bathroom Guy?”

“This is the guy who fucked you in a bathroom?!”

You grimace at your friend.

“Yeah?”

Your friend slaps the table and shakes her hands at you.

“HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME YOU’RE DATING BATHROOM GUY ?!”

“It’s only been like 6 months or something,” you mutter.

She throws a french fry at you.

“Six months !”

“Dating is like pregnancy ! You can’t announce it too soon! It might not take!”

“That’s only for like, three months, you cow. You’re fucking impossible. Only you would think 6 months is nothing! DETAILS .”

“I just,” you stammer, “I don’t know! He put his number in my phone and I just. Kept calling him up. For sex. I have needs you know!”

“Oh yes. We’re all very clear on what a fucking nympho you are. But how do you go from booty calls to random teens giving you fan art of your boyfriend who’s in a band.”

You put your head in your hands and moan.

“I don’t know! Here I am thinking of him as This Guy who just randomly shows up to fuck, to complain about everything, and to watch my cable when he’s not working—and it turns out that’s dating. Ta-da!”

You give her jazz hands.

She scrunches her face at you.

“Tell me you’re not in one of those situations you get yourself into.”

“What situations?”

“Ok, look. Don’t get offended—”

“Arr—”

“No: listen, hun—sometimes you date guys just because it’s like you don’t know what else to do. Don’t give me that look, you know you do. They're clearly into you, and you just seem indifferent most of the time.”

You shrug. “Well, Mary isn’t like that.”

“Which is why you haven’t fucking told anyone?” She raises her eyebrow.

You start shredding your napkin. “I guess maybe I keep waiting for him to realize I’m not the cool girl he thinks I am? How embarrassing would that be if I told people and then he dumped me? He knows all kinds of … people.”

“Oh, hon,” she says as she puts her hand on yours. “You’re amazing. That’s what he sees.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe,” you say, and you quickly take back your hand.

There’s a beat, and then Arry asks, “Do you have any pictures of him?” 

“Seems like you have plenty,” you huff.

“Yeah, all grainy. C’mon! Don’t hold out on me!”

Begrudgingly, you fish out your phone and pull up the G-rated album—which you created after Krissy almost swiped too far in your camera roll—and hand it over to Arry. She takes it greedily and starts zooming and swiping.

“Huh,” she says, her face twisting in … concentration? “Don’t I know this guy?”

“You literally just said you stalked him on insta.”

“No, from somewhere else.” She waves her hand at you. “Whatever.” Arry keeps scrolling. “Well, he looks … happy.”

You frown. “You don’t like him.”

She hands the phone back to you. “I don’t know him. I just think the makeup is weird.” She leans in. “Does he take it off? Have you seen his real face?!”

You scrunch your face at her. “Of course he takes it off.” You toss your hair haughtily. “You think I’m going to let him eat me out like that? Like I need another UTI in my life.”

Arry bursts out laughing. “You did seem to get a disproportionate amount.”

Shrugging, you say, “Spermicide, who knew?”

“Yeah, sure. That’s why.”

You throw a fry back at her. “Bitch.”

She sticks her tongue out at you.

“Anyway . No, he usually doesn’t wear it when we’re just hanging out.”

“So you don’t hang out a lot?”

You squint at her. “Why would you say that?”

“None of those pictures show his face!”

“They don’t?” you ask as you open your phone to scroll through again. She’s right, so you pop back to your camera roll. “Oh. Well,” you look up at her, “those ones are … private.”

“Sexy pictures aren’t supposed to have faces!”

While there are X-rated pictures of the 2 of you sans faces on your roll, the ones that you’re talking about are not those. One is you in bed wearing Mary’s tee with him asleep and drooling on your chest; another is him at your cafe table focused on his guitar; still another is him at your feet, staring up at you. 

So—not X-rated but definitely private.

“Yeah, well—it doesn’t need to be sexy to be private.” You lock your phone and shove it back in your bag.

Arry is staring at you.

“What?”

“You like him.”

“Of course I like him. I’m dating him, aren’t I?”

She gives you a knowing smile, and you roll your eyes in response.

“SoOo … when do I get to meet him?”

You groan again.

You’ve basically just gotten home yourself—and are in the process of shucking off your stockings to soak—when Mary bangs into your place with his usual finesse. You’re surprised because Fridays are his big money-making day at the bar, especially now that it’s the holidays. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask as you wander out of your bathroom.

Mary makes a face at you as he throws down his stuff. “Well, hello to you too.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean—you’re supposed to be working.”

He takes in your outside clothes. “Oh … were you … going out?”

“Just got in, actually. Saw a friend for lunch.”

Mary continues taking off his shoes. “Ah. Well, I switched.”

“Switched for what? You’re already working tomorrow night.”

“What are you? My day planner now?”

You bristle. “Christ, Mare. Is it a crime to know when you’re going to be unavailable. What? I should just sit here waiting for you whenever just in case ?”

“Fuck—calm down, all right? I asked for the night off, ok?.”

“You’re blowing off work?” you ask as you squint at him. “Why would you do that? I thought you were counting on the tips?”

“See, this is why I told you I switched. I’m not ‘blowing off work’—I asked Mickey last week if there were any days he could spare me, and he called to let me know I could take tonight off if I wanted.”

You shift uneasily.

“But why would you do that?”

“Uh … to spend time with you?”

“But, I’m not … I didn’t ask you to do that. I don’t want to be why you can’t make rent. I could’ve waited til before I left on Monday to see you.”

Mary just sighs and flops down on your couch, pulling the balled-up afghan over his lap.

“Suey, I’m not as broke as all that. It’s tight—sure—but. Life is more than just watching it pass you by while you feed into the capitalist grind, you know? Is it so out there that I want to see my girlfriend without either of us having to fuck off afterwards?”

He looks over at you. You crawl onto the couch after him, squeezing yourself behind him so you can massage his shoulders. Mary melts into your touch.

“Of course I want to see you, but I don’t want to be why you can’t concentrate on your band, especially since you guys have such a full schedule til the end of the year. I know how important that is.”

He tilts his head to kiss your hand.

“Even if that’s why I can’t see you as much as I’d like?”

“Clingy dudes are such a turn off,” you say as in mock affectation. “I like my independence.”

Mary snorts.

You work his neck and shoulders in silence for a while before he catches up one of your hands to kiss the knuckles.

“One day I’ll give you everything.”

Your gut does something complicated, so you pull your hand back to rest on his shoulder.

“That’s a nice sentiment, Mary, but I won’t hold you to it.”

Mary sighs with his whole body.

“I wish you would.”

The two of you stay like that for a while—with you encircling him from behind and his head back leaned back on you.

“So …” you say. “Apparently we’re all over the internet.”

He twists a little to face you.

“What do you mean?”

You scramble off the couch to grab your phone from your bag, and present the pictures now in it to Mary. He scrolls through, his face indecipherable. 

“These are all …?”

“On Instagram, yeah.”

When he gets to Roxie’s selfie, he exhales heavily, resting his forehead on the phone.

“I’ll tell her to delete this.”

“It’s apparently already gone.”

He rolls his head back toward you.

“I’m sorry.”

You squint at him. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t think sometimes.”

You smirk at him. “I’m not going to refute that.”

He makes a tetch noise at you.

“I didn’t think what, uh, showing you off would mean. For you.”

You crawl into his lap. “I mean, it’s a little weird. I’m no one.”

Mary chucks you under the hey. “Hey. You’re someone. To me.”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “You know what I mean, Mare.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re all over Instagram, but I’m not sorry people think you’re someone.”

He’s giving you his soft eyes, and you suddenly remember the fan art. You let out an Oh before climbing off his lap. Mary seems a little put off, but you can tell his curiosity is piqued when you extract the sheet of paper stock from your laptop.

“ A fan of yours gave this to me to give to you.”

Mary looks pained.

“It’s amazing,” you say as you hold out the paper. He takes it gingerly, and you make yourself comfortable once more on your couch. He’s staring at the page, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

“You should feature it on the band’s insta and @ her.”

He looks at you. “The band has an instagram?”

“You’re fucking useless, you know that? Yes, your band has an insta. It’s awful, by the way—who takes your pictures? A dog with a GoPro?”

“Uh ….”

“Useless. Anyway, I’m telling you—post it and tag her.”

He carefully sets the picture on your coffee table.

“I’d rather tag you,” he says as he noses into your neck. Your tilt your head to give him access, and you feel his lips press into the juncture of your neck—

—and then he blows a raspberry into your skin.

You shriek and try to pull away, but he grips you tightly against him as he continues to misuse your neckline. You’re twisting in his grasp, laughing and trying to push him away. He snuffles into your skin, growling and wetly licking at you. You finally manage to get your hands under his shirt, and you wiggle your fingers into his side, causing him to yelp and jerk away.

“That’s cheating!” he says as he fights to keep your menacing hands away from his body.

“All’s fair in love and war, asshole.”

You lunge for him, and he catches up your wrists in his strong grip. He pulls you into him, practically touching his nose to yours. Hooded eyes dart around your face he says,

“Oh yeah? Which one’s this?”

He’s looking at you intensely, his grip relaxing slightly, and that’s when you lean in and bite down hard on his bottom lip. He makes an aggrieved noise as he flinches away, and you use the opening to push him down and dig your hands into his sides again. He’s flailing and cursing at you, so you climb on top of him and fight to get his arms pinned under your legs.

“Hah! I’m queen of the hill, motherfucker. Victory is mine!”

Mary’s face is flushed under his day makeup, and the laughter tears have worn trails down his temples. He’s making Grumpy Skeleton face at you.

“You play dirty, Suey.”

You lean down, hands trailing teasingly over his sides as he tries and fails to jerk away from your touch.

“I play to win. And I demand my spoils.”

“Oh? And what do you think you’ve won?”

“A favor—a kiss. On the lips.”

He quirks his eyebrow at you. “Just a kiss?” His hips shift and buck under you, his erection obvious against you.

You nod. “Just a kiss.”

“Ok, Queen Bitch. You may steal a kiss from your prisoner.”

Smiling wickedly, you hike up your skirt and knee up his torso. His eyes open wide, but his pupils are fully dilated. You cast about for—ah!—a napkin on the coffee table from … whenever … and wipe some of the makeup off his face. He grumbles at you, but allows it. 

Once you’re satisfied, you toss the napkin in the general area of your trash can, then you knee up further. When you’re kneeling over his mouth, you reach between your legs and shift the crotch of your polka-dot panties out of the way.

“Kiss it.”

His hands reach up to grip at your thighs; he licks his own lips, then presses a chaste kiss to the ones of your cunt before looking up at you for approval. You pet down his head, the fake blood from his hair flaking off onto your hand and the couch.

“Mmm. That's a good start, but you should show me your technique—use a little tongue.”

Mary closes his eyes again, and his tongue flicks out to trace the seam of your folds. He does this a few times, you letting out pleased sighs, before slowly wiggling the tip in between them. At the first exploratory flick on your clit, you moan and grip his stiff hair. He slithers his tongue up and down through your slit slowly, dipping into your hole before licking at your nub.

“It’s ok to get sloppy!” you gasp as you rock against his chin. “I don’t mind a little spit.”

His grip on your thighs tightens as his mouth presses into you, his tongue now lapping in an ever-increasing rhythm as you gasp and work your hips against his rhythm. Mary shifts his long legs so that they’re bent at the knees, and you lean back into them. 

“So good. Fuck … yeah. Put a finger in me!” you moan.

He manages to work a hand under you, his finger slipping in easily because of your wetness, and he presses into the spots you like. You’re trembling with the effort of holding yourself up, and you’re swallowing hard when you remember you have to breathe. Mary redoubles his efforts, his tongue speeding up as he swirls around your clit and his finger beginning to fuck in and out of you.

“Oh god, oh fuck, oh god,” you chant as you feel your pussy begin to pulsate and tighten. Mary presses the tip of his into your nub, and you can feel the sweetness of your orgasm pool, ready to break. You tense, back bowed, about to cum—and Mary, eyes now firmly fixed on you, sets his tongue flying on your engorged clit. You let out ridiculous moans—worthy of a bad porn star—as you climax and your pussy pops, your knees pressing hard into either side of his head. Mary doesn’t stop the massage of his tongue until you lean all your weight into the wall of his thighs behind you.

“Is my Queen Bitch pleased with her favor?” he asks wryly as he wipes his face with the collar of his shirt. You purr out an Mmm, content to just lounge against his knees. He—however—sits up, rearranging the two of you so that you’re straddling his lap.

“If I may be so bold?” he says as he gives a few experimental ruts against you.

“Lay on,” you say lazily, and make a “proceed” motion with your hand.

Mary’s eagerness is palpable as he struggles to get his dick out of his jeans without bucking you off him. You smile at him smugly as you refuse to help with his efforts at all. He makes a few annoyed sounds at you, but is ultimately successful with freeing his cock—your clit giving a throb of interest when you get an eyeful at how hard and flushed it is.

“C’mon,” he whines as he rubs it against you. “You gotta help out.”

Sighing as if you’re so put out, you lift up enough for him to rub his cockhead through your slit a few times—a grunt of approval escaping from his lips—before he gets the tip inside you. You slide down him—the both of you moaning as he enters you fully—and then he hooks his hands over your shoulders for the leverage to pound up into you.

You try to ride him, but his thrusts are too insistent for you to keep up, so instead you grind your clit down into the curls of his pubic hair. He’s been rubbing his face back and forth over your collarbone, but suddenly he tilts his head back and slows his fucks.

“Oh fuck, oh shit. Wanna feel your tits.” He tugs at your blouse. “Take this off before I rip it off you.”

You roll your eyes, but begin to fumble with your buttons as he yanks his band tee over his head. He almost does rip off your cami when he sees you have another layer to contend with, but ultimately you shimmy out of it without incident. When your breasts land heavy against your ribs, he’s quick to lean down and suck one into his mouth. He rocks into you now without rhythm as he sucks and licks at your tits, more interested in the weight and fullness of them in his mouth than nipple play. 

While he plays with them, you reach your hand down to play with your clit as you rock your hips. You lose yourself in the feeling of Mary filling and sucking on you as you bring yourself closer to a second orgasm. He doesn’t seem to notice how close you are, so he’s surprised when you suddenly jerk away moaning and start clenching around his dick.

“You sneak!” he gasps out as your climax rhythmically squeezes him. He snarls at you as he once again grips you to him and starts to fuck up into you without mercy. Your tits are now squashed into his chest, and you moan—still a raw nerve from your orgasm—at the feeling of your hard nipples rubbing against him.

Mary’s forehead presses against your breastbone, and he’s making little noises of distress at his need to cum like 5 minutes ago. The angle isn’t quite right for him to get as much thrust as he wants, and he’s trying to make up for it in frequency—but that’s just tiring him out.

You start squeezing your muscles around him—him moaning each time—and you lean down to whisper praise into his ear as you wrap a hand around his throat.

“You’re doing so well. That’s my good boy. You’ve pleased me so much. Such a very good boy for me.”

You squeeze a little harder.

A few more shuddering thrusts, and he finally stiffens, breathing muffled cries of release into your chest as his climax washes over him. He’s panting, and you feel the throb of his cock as he spills into you.

“There you go. So good, Mary. So good.”

You stay like that until he recovers his senses and tilts his head to blink up owlishly at you.

“Fuck,” he says, and you grin, leaning down to peck his lips.

He flops down onto his back, and you gingerly—legs protesting the whole time—climb off him to wobble unsteadily on the floor. He looks over at you.

“No. Rest,” he says reaching an arm out to you. You take it, but use it to pull him up, which just results in him sliding off onto the floor. “Ugh, why,” he whines as you laugh at his tangle of limbs and soft dick flopping about.

“C’mon. Let’s take a shower and wash all the gross off before we fall asleep like old people. I don’t think my couch cushions can be flipped again.”

Mary groans, but starts the process of getting up off the floor.

“I’m really am gonna get you a plastic cover.”

“That’s a terrible idea. We’d slip right off!”

He grins at you. “Only if we were wearing clothes.”

The two of you are waiting for the Chinese food you ordered, bundled up in the afghan against the creeping chill while Mary flips through your channels and you idly go through Mary’s ancient camera. All the images seem to fall under 1 of 3 categories: dead/decaying things; run down buildings; & injuries … but there are a handful of sporadic pictures of just you—mundane things like you touching your nose to remember something, or asleep on the couch, and one of you frowning at the subway wait time. Thinking of your own “matching set”—so to speak—you look up at Mary; his hair is soft and flat, his face scrubbed clean. You lean in to swipe at Mary’s bare cheek, and his eyes sweep over to you.

“What? Did I not get it all?”

“No, you did—it’s just. I like this Mary. Like, Mean Skeleton Mary is hot, but this one is just for me.”

Mary grins wide, and you smile back—but then he laughs into your face, and you flinch away.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he gasps around his giggles.

“Ok, fuck you,” you say as you pull away from him and curl into yourself, crossing your arms.

“No! No no no!” he wheezes as he reaches for you. “C’mere, I’m sorry.”

“No,” you gripe as you squirm ineffectually to get out of his grasp. You fume in his embrace as he continues to chuckle. 

“You’re a dick, Mary Goore.”

“I’m sorry, Suey,” he says as he swipes at his eyes. “It’s just—that’s the single most ‘mushy’ thing you’ve ever said to me that was legit. Is there a heart in there after all?”

Grumbling, you push at him with your feet to keep him away. “Don’t get used to it. It only beats occasionally.”

Still laughing, he swipes his camera from you, turning it to get you in its frame.

“I want to document this moment, so I have it for the record that your heart beat once.”

You make a mean lemon face at and give the middle finger to him as he snaps a few pictures of you.

“The day Suey’s heart grew 3 sizes.” 

“I hope you know we’re in a fight right now.”

“Yeah, I know. Worth it, though.”

Later, when you’re prone and regretting all the noodles you’ve just consumed—and after you rubbed your food baby on Mary and demanded child support ( “How can it be mine? Look how big it is already! No dice, momma.”)—you watch as Mary picks up the fan art off the table to examine again.

“It is good,” he says. You murmur wordlessly in agreement. “But I’m still sorry you’re out there now.”

You wave it off. “It’s fine now that I know. It was just weird at first—like I had to keep constantly checking that my skirt wasn’t tucked into my tights or something. Now, I keep thinking about how I can’t just go out in my pjs anymore. Full makeup and full outfit for me, even if it’s just to the corner store!”

Mary snorts. “Why do you think I just started going everywhere as ‘Mean Skeleton Mary’?”

“I just assumed it was because you’re a pretentious fuckhead.”

“You’re a bitch.”

He jostles you meanly on purpose, and you grunt as your food sloshes uncomfortably in your stomach.

“I will vomit on you.”

He grins. “Neat.”

“Ugh—gross , Mary.”

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

TLDR: Republicans believe themselves to be infallible and cannot be convinced otherwise

Republicans think America is perfect and always has been, while simultaneously believing that America is DOOMED and ON THE EDGE OF COLLAPSE at all times and want to bring us back to the Before Times™ when men were men and women were household appliances and minorities were someone else’s problem.  If you bring up a genuine critique of American culture or history they throw a pissbaby shit fit and start spewing nationalist platitudes, “America: Like It or Leave It!”  All their complaints stem from their perceived self-importance being eroded; they don’t like to realize that other people with differing opinions exist and should have their voices heard.  If a “brown” or a “black” or a “red” or a “yellow” is allowed to speak, that just means there’s one less space for a “white.”  All their complaints come from a slippery slope argument that if we don’t model our society after their specific cherrypicked interpretation of The Bible then we will degenerate into amoral savagery.

They say being gay is an abomination and allowing it will damn our children to hell; what they really think is that it’s gross and they don’t want to see things they think are gross.  There’s literally no good argument against marriage equality besides “I don’t personally like it.”  America is not a theocracy, so the belief system of Christianity should not be construed as the law of the land.  This stems from their belief that the Bible is infallible, “because the Bible says so.”  They don’t know and don’t want to know about the history behind it, nor the very contentious political landscapes at the times the books were written, nor the personal biases of the very human authors.  If the Bible is a literal textbook, then why?  What makes it so special?  By whose authority were its contents collated and designated THE Good Book?  If the Bible is literal, why not the works of Homer, or the Epic of Gilgamesh?  Just because the Bible says the Bible is right doesn’t make it so.  For the record, I am a Christian, and I think the Bible is just an old book.  I’m a Christian in that I follow the teachings of Christ, which can be summed up as “DON’T BE AN ASSHOLE.”  I live by that, and All the ChrINOs (Christians in Name Only) need to learn it.  Jesus would be ashamed of what he saw today.

They say that abortion is baby murder, on par with ritual human sacrifice and Satan worship. They don’t understand biology, they have a Sunday School understanding of philosophy, and live in a world so black and white that they can’t even imagine a reason someone would have an abortion besides that they’re a terrible person; a woman who would have an abortion is unfit to be a mother in their eyes because they see abortion as equivalent to smothering a baby with a pillow because you don’t want to take care of it anymore.  “He or she is alive, he or she has a heart beat!”  Well, at this point is is just a blob of tissue, not a living person; a heart beat alone does not make something alive or dead.  Your life comes from your brain, not your heart.  If someone is alive the moment their heart starts, then they must be dead the moment is stops, so CPR is necromancy.  A person isn’t considered dead until their brain is dead, so if they wanted to argue that life begins at brain activity they would have a stronger argument, though still weak because brain activity is not personhood either.  Patients in permanent vegetative states on life support may have some brain activity, but they are effectively dead.  There is no way a judge, appointed by senators elected by the people of the United States, can prove that not only do souls exist but that they are created the second a sperm fertilizes an egg.  If “souls” exist, they aren’t so much created as built up over time as we gain new experienced and our brains develop.  What we are is electricity in a ball of meat jelly in our skulls, and that comes to being at a point after which abortions are already banned.  Conservatives also just want to control women; Roe v. Wade isn’t explicitly about the right to an abortion, it is about the right to body autonomy.  Do women have the right to control their own bodies, or do they defer that right to their fathers and husbands?  Are women people or property?  Can a man make decisions on a woman’s behalf?  “You must forgive my daughter; as a simple minded woman she’s fallen into a stupor of female hysteria.  We’ll have the family doctor bring out the smelling salts and leaches.”

They say that certain vices are crimes against God, but only when some people do it.  Divorce is a sin because marriage is sacred, except when a conservative does it, then it’s totally justified because of such and such explanation.  Tattoos are the mark of the beast, worn by degenerates and lesbians, except when a conservative does it, then it’s just art and harmless self expression.  Marijuana is a gateway drug and we need to lock away its addicts and throw away the key, unless a conservative does it, then it’s just recreational, no big deal, we don’t want to ruin the [white] boy’s future because of it.  A black person who does cocaine is a criminal, a white person who does cocaine is a public figure (you’d be surprised how many actors and politicians regularly use coke; they have to have high energy 24/7 in case there are any cameras, so they need uppers to keep themselves presentable).  This all springs from the fundamental conservative philosophy of “it’s okay when WE do it, but not when YOU do it.”  That’s the long and short of it.  The in-group is allowed to do things, but the out-group isn’t.  It’s the Us vs Them mentality taken to the logical extreme; WE are people, THEY are monsters.  WE are allowed to have faults, THEY have to stay in line and follow all the rules.  OUR lives matter, THEIR lives are lesser.  When you strip away the showy bits and get down to the core of their beliefs, everything stems from their desire to hurt anyone who isn’t them.  They want power, they want to be special, they want the Good Guys™ to always prevail over the Bad Guys™, and they want to be the ones to decide who is good and who is bad.  Their opinions are the only ones that matter, everyone else is wrong because they’re not them.  Now, it’s not like you could solve every problem by opening up your mind to new opinions; there are some issues that are indeed black and white with objectively right and wrong answers, but they live in a world where they are incapable of being wrong.  They see personal growth as a betrayal of the self, that admitting a fault is terrible, that apologizing and learning from a mistake is traitorous.  No, they have to double down on every single one of their beliefs to re-instill it in their minds.  They can never doubt themselves, because God will punish them forever if they ever have doubt.  They can’t ask questions or look at things from other perspectives because that would be an admission that their perspectives are fallible.  They are afraid of changing their minds so much that they refuse to even listen when someone explains their opinions because they don’t want to have their minds co-opted by Satan’s LIES!  If they hear something convincing, it’s all over, their entire world collapses, everything they believe is a lie, they lose, they go to hell forever, The End.

That is the dichotomy under which Republicans live their lives.  Nothing matters but what they believe.  They don’t believe what they believe for logical reasons, so no amount of logic will ever make them not believe it.  They’re making up their own rules to win.  You’re playing Rock-Paper-Scissors and they throw Nuclear Bomb, which defeats all three, so you lose.  You say that’s not fair, they say tough.  You throw Nuclear Bomb, and they say they have a bomb proof shield, so the bomb doesn’t hurt them but kills you, so you lose.  You can’t even beat them at their own game because they’ve been playing it longer, and they cry foul when you stoop to their level, suddenly saying that you need to be the bigger person, walking right up to the line of admitting that what they do is wrong but not quite getting there, simply reverting to the complaint that you shouldn’t be allowed to do it.  “I can, but YOU can’t.”  That’s why it infuriates me when nobody ever calls out a Republican for their hypocrisy.  They do something, a Democrat does that exact same thing, they cry foul, but nobody ever says “well, you didn’t have a problem when you did it,” they just try to excuse their own actions rather than demand justification for theirs.  Democrats are always on the defensive, they always look like they’re losing even when they’re winning, so the Republicans can use that to build their base and rally together for the occasional victory (Democrats won 7 of the last 8 presidential elections; the last Republican to legitimately win the presidency was George H.W. Bush in 1988).

I don’t know how you’d even begin to fight someone who is this far down the rabbit hole of self denial.

Democrats self-reflect, Republicans self-deflect.

Democrats are progressive, Republicans are regressive.

Now I’m sure there are no Republicans reading this, but if there are they’ll make themselves known and “totally refute” everything I’ve said with some paper thin argument that doesn’t stand up to scrutiny, but they don’t care because it stands up to them.  They only need to show one example of a Democrat failing to write off the entire party; they only need to show one black Republicans to deny the existence of racism; one gay Republican denies homophobia; one women denies sexism.  They are the party of tokenism.

They will point out the mote of dust in your eye and ignore the plank in their own.

Debate me, I have nothing better to do with my time, I’m a dirty libtard cuckflake soyboy beta with a case full of participation trophies and handouts paid for by other people’s tax dollars (funny, they think handouts are for degenerates, except when they get them.  Inheritance?  Privilege?  Never heard of them!)

[queerofthedagger]

49 for Jegulus please?

Hi nonnie, thanks for the prompt, which was: “ You caught me doing something dangerous and flipped out." 

It kind of... ran away with me and now I have this 6k word story and a lot more story in my head. So, this is basically a prequel to something that is now added to my WIP list. I hope you enjoy it!

Close Call

Summary: James didn't expect to find Regulus Black pacing in front of his and Sirius' flat at 3 am. After all, they're in the middle of a war, on opposing sides, and Regulus shouldn't even know where they live.What he expected even less was finding himself on top of a cliff towering over the ocean, after following Regulus unnoticed. It only gets worse from there (before it gets better).

Pairing: James Potter/Regulus BlackWarnings: None (but Canon-typical violence and some swearing.) Wc: 6041Can also be found on AO3

James isn’t sure what woke him up and he tiredly rubs his eyes, groaning when his gaze falls onto the clock next to his bed. It’s 3 am and he has to get up in 4 hours for Auror training.

Rolling around and burying himself under his blanket doesn’t help though, so after another 10 minutes, he gets up and quietly walks into the small kitchen. The flat is dark, only the streetlamps from outside spending a faint light and he can hear Sirius snoring softly from his room.

He casts a Silencing Charm before turning on the kettle, not inclined to get cursed for waking Sirius up as well, and when his tea is ready, he settles himself on the broad windowsill, pulling his knees to his chest and balancing his hot mug on them.

He leans his head against the cold glass and watches the drizzling rain, only visible against the yellow lights, and how the shadows flicker over the wet cobblestone street. A movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention and he turns his head a bit.

Someone is slowly walking down the pavement in front of their building and he can’t be sure if that are robes or just a coat. Glad that he didn’t turn on any lights he keeps watching, and frowns when the figure comes to a halt, staring at the front door of their apartment complex.

On the one hand, it’s London; it could be any drunk or confused idiot, maybe even some tourist who got lost after one too many beers and doesn’t remember where his hostel is. On the other hand, they’re in the middle of a war and people in dark robes are rarely a good sign, these days.

He bites at his bottom lip and drums his fingers against his mug, pondering what to do. If he wakes up Sirius and it’s nothing, he’s not going to hear the end of it for days to come, but if he doesn’t take a look, he’ll never be able to go back to sleep, anyway.

Sighing, he slowly stands up and when he’s out of range from the window, quickly walks into his room, throws on a jumper, some sweatpants, a coat, and his boots, and then grabs his Invisibility Cloak.

He takes another look out of the window on his way to the front door, his suspicion increasing when the same figure is still pacing.

He silences his steps and carefully slips out of the door, walking down the stairs and takes the exit at the back of the house, his wand held tightly in his hand.

Walking around the building complex takes longer than he likes, but when he comes out a few houses down, he instantly sees that the same person is still standing there, staring at the front door once again.

His heart is beating wildly in his chest and he slowly creeps closer, despite his Cloak keeping to the shadows. He might be a good duellist and whoever that is appears to be alone, but if he learned one thing since he left school, it’s that he should never overestimate himself.

Still, he nearly stumbles and crashes into the dumpster at the side of the street when he’s finally close enough to make out a face under the hood, only a few feet away.

His first thought is that it has to be Sirius, the shoulder-length black hair and distinct, aristocratic features, but it’s gone as soon as it came. Sirius is taller and filled out a lot since they started Auror Training – not to mention that he knows that Sirius is currently asleep.

Which leads him to the question of what in Merlin’s name Regulus is doing here, pacing in front of their flat when he shouldn’t even know where they live, at 3 am, after years of no contact between him and Sirius. At least as far as James is aware, and he’s rather sure that Sirius would have told him.

Shaking his head to refocus, he takes a second, closer look at Regulus who is once again standing still, staring at the door. He looks tired, exhausted really, and his hands are balled into fists and trembling slightly at his sides. Despite his thick cloak, he appears to be even thinner than James remembers, but then again, being a Death Eater is probably not the healthiest way of living.

Hell, fighting in a war isn’t, James would know.

Regulus clenches his eyes shut and heaves a sigh before turning away from the door, one of his hands running through his hair under the hood, a gesture James is still familiar with from school. (Not that he often watched Regulus in his last year. Not at all.)

With a start, James realises that Regulus is going to leave. He stamps down his first impulse of calling for him to stay, instead going with the second, which is to throw a Tracking Charm at him.

The whole situation is utterly strange, and he’s not going to let him leave and forget about it. First of all, it’s worrisome that he knows where they live, considering the whole Death Eater thing and all that. Then, if it’s not about that, there’s still no explanation for stalking out their flat in the middle of the night and looking so miserable that James' mother would try to serve him some tea and biscuits, at the very least.

Alright, and his natural curiosity just demands him to find out, he always had a bit more than a basic interest in Regulus, but that’s really beside the point here.

Regulus throws one last look over his shoulder, his face illuminated by the nearest streetlamp and his expression more desperate than James has ever seen it. He nearly forgets his conviction of keeping himself hidden in the face of it, but before he can react, Regulus apparates away, the pop too loud in the otherwise silent street.

He stays where he is, rolling his wand between his fingers and staring at the spot where Regulus vanished.

He should probably wake up Sirius, but something tells him not to and he knows his gut rarely leads him wrong. He waits a few minutes during which he tries to convince himself that following the Tracking Spell could literally lead him into a nest of Death Eaters, but it’s rather unsuccessful.

When the feeling of urgency threatens to overwhelm him, he closes his eyes, focusing on the pull within him, and apparates.

He keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds after landing, staying as still as possible and just listens to his surroundings. But there’s nothing except for the whistling wind and… waves?

He frowns and opens his eyes, taking in the view of cliffs and countryside and a raging ocean which really doesn’t help his confusion. At least, there is nobody around as far as he can tell. The sky is clear here, contrary to London, and the moon is hanging low, nearly full, and thankfully spending some much-needed light.

It’s not enough that he can be sure that nobody hides in the group of trees further down, but he doesn’t have to light his wand or completely rely on his other senses to move. If he were here for different reasons, it would be beautiful; the restless waves crashing against rough cliffs, with the light of the moon and some scattered stars reflecting in the ink-black water.

He takes a few steps, careful not to slip on the soaked ground and wondering if his spell might have gone wrong, when his eyes fall on a dark figure standing a few hundred feet beneath him on a high boulder, surrounded by water and the wind ripping around the dark cloak.

“What in Godric’s name,” he mutters to himself, certain that he won’t be heard over the howling storm.

He blinks, and Regulus is gone. It takes him way too long to reach the conclusion that he must have jumped into the water and he curses under his breath, not stopping to question if apparating onto the same boulder really is a good idea.

He nearly loses his balance but is already frantically scanning the surface of the water, all the while trying to come up with a single reason for Regulus to be here, to do something so utterly stupid.

He breathes in relief when he sees Regulus pull himself up at the entrance of what has to be a cave not too far away, not that it helps with his non-existent theories, or any idea what he’s supposed to do.

He doubts that it would be smart to be discovered even now, so he waits nearly 10 minutes until he follows him.

He stuffs his Invisibility Cloak into a pocket and grits his teeth before he jumps into the water, vowing to hex Regulus for whatever this is, at some point. He doesn’t even know for sure why he’s still following, what exactly he expects to happen – it’s likely that it’s some strange mission for Voldemort, who knows what the maniac has his little followers do, but it’s not like lack of logic ever really stopped him.

As soon as he reaches the gap in the cliff and pulls himself out of the water, he shoots a few Drying and Warming charms at himself, before pulling his Cloak out again.

After walking for a few minutes, the narrow tunnel opens into a small cave. There’s still a faint bulb of light hovering under the high ceiling, throwing flickering shadows over the still surface of the water that make the whole setting rather eerie.

There’s no sign of Regulus and, for the first time, James wonders if this might be some elaborate trap, but disregards the thought quickly. It’s way too complicated and involves too many chances for that – there’s no way anybody could have counted on him waking up at 3 am, discovering Regulus on their front door and then following him, after all. At least he hopes so.

Scanning the cave once again, his eyes fall onto a small archway and he sighs. This feels more and more like a scavenger hunt, just lacking the actual fun part of it.

It’s silent in here, too silent, and he carefully walks along the rough wall until he reaches the archway, his wand ready in his hand and his heart racing in his chest. Maybe he really shouldn’t have gone alone, without anyone knowing where he is, but it’s far too late to change that, now.

No matter why Regulus is here, there’s a foreboding sense of dread that only intensifies the further he goes.

He slowly steps through the entrance, only to look over an even bigger cave. There’s another light under the ceiling, washing the vast room in ghostly colours, but his focus is on the boat that is close to the small island in the middle of the lake.

Regulus sits crouched, his shoulders are hunched and it’s so untypical for him that it sticks out to James, even with it being years since they saw each other.

He sighs and walks around the shore, searching if there’s any other way across, when the light reflects on a grey spot just under the surface. He stops in his tracks, his mouth suddenly dry as suspicion takes hold of him and he slowly crouches down, only to nearly jump back when he’s confronted with an actual face, empty eyes staring right through him.

Merlin, but this could be right out of the worst nightmare. Bile rises in his throat and he has to swallow a few times to keep it down, to force himself to not turn on his heel and run. Maybe ask Sirius for a strong Obliviate.

He closes his eyes for a moment and stands back up, vowing to not look into the water again. He’s pretty sure that a lake full of Inferi is enough confirmation that this is connected to Voldemort in some way and he stubbornly ignores the feeling of disappointment with Regulus, instead focusing on the hope that this might be a useful lead for their side.

He contemplates leaving when a loud, pained groan echoes through the cave. He whips his head around, eyes landing on Regulus who’s standing bend over a basin in the middle of the island, his whole body so obviously shaking that James can see it from where he’s standing.

He watches, frozen to his spot, as Regulus lifts something to his lips, drinking, and startles violently when a croaky, second voice speaks up. “Kreacher is being so sorry, but Master has to, Kreacher promised,” interrupted by now outright crying and begging from Regulus.

His thoughts are racing, he can’t make sense of anything he’s witnessing and his heart clenches with every sob and every spasm of Regulus’ body who by now sits on the floor, curled up in himself.

“Please, please no more, I can’t, please –“ the words are thrown around the stone walls, their echo imprinting itself into James’ mind, and he absent-mindedly notices that he’s shaking as well.

“Just one more, Master,” the elf sobs, continuing to give Regulus what has to be some kind of potion.

A blood-curling scream finally startles James out of his stupor, only for him to realise that he can’t do anything. There’s no way for him to get to that island and as horrible as this is to watch, he’s pretty sure that if he reveals himself right now, he’d probably be in big trouble.

He’s not stupid enough to underestimate house-elves, and while he’s not so convinced anymore that this is a mission from Voldemort, everything else makes even less sense. Maybe it’s some fucked up punishment and the whole thing is monitored, maybe it’s a test for something – either way, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do.

Everything in him is screaming to do something, Regulus is begging and crying the elf to stop, repeating over and over that he’s sorry, to please not hurt him, to just stop, and James can feel tears running down his own face.

He might not have been close to Regulus, but he wouldn’t want to see anyone suffering like this, and the distress of the elf only confuses him more.

After what seems like an eternity, the elf retrieves something out of the basin and puts something else inside, and then proceeds to hug Regulus, clinging to him while they’re both sobbing – and then he just pops away, leaving Regulus there, a broken heap on the floor.

James furiously rubs his eyes, disbelieving, when he sees Regulus move.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, pulling the cloak away before he can think about it. “Accio boat,” he shouts, overpowering the spell so much that the little, wooden thing shoots over the water.

He only just manages to slow it down before it shatters on the stones and jumps inside, his eyes never leaving Regulus who’s still crawling forward.

He’d shout at him to stop if he thought it would help, but the last remaining rationality he possesses tells him that he most likely wouldn’t hear him anyway and that it would only serve to pull attention if anybody is watching.

He’s only halfway across the lake when Regulus reaches the water and he watches in horror as arms reach out, more and more Inferi pulling themselves up onto the island, grabbing for Regulus’ limp body.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Inferi, how do I…” he mumbles to himself, trying to remember what Moody told them. He knows they covered this but he’s so frantic it takes him way too long to remember.

“Incendio!” he shouts as soon as he does, but he’s too sloppy and still too far away for it to have any real effect.

He can’t even see Regulus anymore and panic is threatening to overwhelm him, but he clenches his eyes shut for a second, taking a deep breath and gathering himself.

“Incendio!” he tries again, putting as much power into it as he can muster, and this time it’s effective, flames shooting far and high from his wand. He focuses, directing them around the island and clearing the path so the boat can pass the remaining distance.

He jumps out before he’s there, ignoring the few hands that make a grab for his ankles. Most of them retreated under his onslaught of flames and he frantically scans the island for Regulus.

He can’t see him and already feels his heart sink, when a few bubbles of air appear on the surface of the water in front of him.

He curses once more, adds a “Sorry, Regulus, but hurt is better than dead,” for good measure and casts, “Accio, Regulus.”

He holds his breath, the few seconds it takes until a body shoots out of the water, barrelling into him with so much force that he falls. He grunts at the impact but ignores the pain in his back, hands scrambling and pulling him close, relieved to find that it’s a warm body with a pulse.

He’s crying and laughing, but the sound of water lapping against stone quickly pulls him out of it. He carefully pushes Regulus next to him, observing the deceptively calm surface of the water and then the shore at the other end.

But there’s nobody and a quick glance at Regulus tells him that he’s unconscious, which, as cruel as it sounds, might be the best for now.

His whole body hurts and he can feel the drain from his overpowered spells, but he pulls himself up and levitates Regulus into the boat first, before crouching down next to him.

The water stays calm and the cave is silent, but he barely keeps himself from fidgeting, instead occupying himself with keeping a close record of Regulus’ pulse. It’s beating steadily under his fingertips, albeit maybe a bit weak, but the fact alone that it’s still there and that he can feel it manages to keep him seated.

Thinking about everything he witnessed, he comes to the conclusion that it’s unlikely to have been on Voldemort’s orders; the only reasonable explanation would’ve been punishment, but he’s pretty sure someone would have stopped him from intervening, then.

That still doesn’t answer what in Merlin’s name Regulus thought he was doing – if James hadn’t been there, he’d be dead now. The thought alone makes his heart clench and his breath stutter.

He remembers that the elf left with whatever was in the basin, the ridiculously well-protected basin – did Regulus steal something? But that makes as little sense as everything else, and he’s slowly getting a headache from all those theories that are leading him nowhere.

Their way after reaching the shore is slow-going, at best. He carefully levitates Regulus in front of him, but that only works until they reach the exit. He just stares at the still raging ocean for a few moments, the sound too loud after the unnatural stillness, and wonders if he should risk apparating from here.

He quickly dismisses the thought – there have to be wards, and at best he’s only going to splinch them if he tries; he doesn’t want to consider the other possibilities.

He sighs, resigning himself to doing this the Muggle way. At least he only has to swim a few hundred feet until he can apparate them to the top of the cliff.

Casting a Bubblehead Charm on both of them, he ends the levitation and hugs an arm around Regulus’ chest and slowly, very slowly fights his way through the crashing waves. He’s nearly at the boulder from where it all went south when he risks the Apparation, losing his balance as soon as they land.

Regulus lies half on top of him but he’s too exhausted to move and, if he’s honest, the breathing weight is rather reassuring right now, the knowledge that he’s still alive.

He stays still for what feels like minutes, trying to regain some strength in his heavy limbs, until Regulus’ coughing makes him move and he carefully rolls him on his side.

He crouches next to Regulus and casts Drying charms at both of them, followed by a Rennervate.

The coughing gets worse, so he casts a few Anapneo’s for good measure, and then watches silently when Regulus finally blinks his eyes open. It takes a long time for the recognition to come, so much so that he’s already fearing that the horrid potion might have done some lasting damage.

It’s ironic that Regulus flinching away from him is as close to relief as he’s going to get. “What – “ he croaks, panic entering his eyes and he tries to scramble away from James without any success.

“It’s alright, I’m not here to harm you,” he says as softly as he can manage. He’d really like to pull him close to make that more obvious, but he doubts it would have that effect.

“You – what?” Regulus croaks again, followed by another coughing fit and James sighs, conjuring a goblet and filling it with some water.

“Here, drink that, I doubt that Inferi-polluted water is all that healthy for you.” When Regulus hesitates, he rolls his eyes. “Honestly, do you think I go through the trouble of rescuing you, only to poison you afterwards?!”

Regulus keeps staring at him, but eventually props himself up on his elbows and slowly takes the goblet.

Silence hangs heavy between them and James stares at the ground in front of him. What exactly do you say, after saving the little brother of your best friend from certain death, who’s fighting at the opposite side of a war? His emotions are all over the place and he has no idea what they’re supposed to do now.

“What are you doing here?” Regulus asks quietly, and somehow, for whatever twisted reason, that sets off a sudden rage within him that he can’t suppress.

“What am I doing here? What the fuck Regulus, what am I doing here? Saving your sorry ass! For Merlin’s sake, what were you thinking?! What did you expect would happen, drinking that bloody potion in a lake surrounded by Inferi? Why did that elf just leave you?! Why –“ he breaks off, realising he’s shouting and that tears are burning in his eyes.

He rubs at them with his sleeves and glares at Regulus, who’s still more lying down than anything else and looks rather taken aback by his outburst.

Apparently noticing the same thing, Regulus struggles to sit up, avoiding to look at him. He links his fingers together and sighs. “You shouldn’t have,” he says, as if it were that simple, as if him dying in that cave that is definitely going to give James nightmares for a long time is what he expected from the very start.

And maybe it is, James thinks, and the truth of it makes cold dread coil in his stomach. He takes a deep breath, clinging to his last strength to not start shouting again. “Regulus, what were you doing here? It wasn’t a mission, it wasn’t a punishment, and your elf left with something.”

Regulus stays silent, his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes fixed resolutely on his hands.

He ponders threatening him, taking him to the DMLE or calling a life debt, but he doubts it’s going to help him. “Come on, please tell me? You know, I might be able to help you,” he tries instead.

A harsh, bitter laugh is his answer, the sound so hollow and desperate that it hurts to just hear it. But Regulus finally meets his eyes, shaking his head. “You were always too noble, James Potter. You shouldn’t be here, you only put yourself in way too much danger.”

Grinding his teeth against the renewed flickers of rage, he grinds out, “It’s not like this whole war doesn’t, already. I swear to Merlin, if –“

Regulus sighs again, holding his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Alright, alright, it’s not like it matters anymore, you already know too much, anyway. I found out what the Dark Lord did to achieve immortality –“

James chokes, the idea alone so horrible that he can’t comprehend it, but the glare from Regulus is enough that he keeps his mouth shut.

“He… It’s incredibly dark magic, so dark not even my family would ever touch it. Oh don’t look at me like that, there are lines even the worst of us wouldn’t cross. Anyway, I found out because he used Kreacher to hide it. I…” he trails off, looking uncomfortable or well, more than he already did.

James stays silent, guessing that trying to push would do him as little good as it generally does with Sirius, not that he’d tell that either of them.

“I… The whole Death Eater thing, I didn’t… I don’t want to do it anymore and this… It was like the final straw. I’m… or well,” he glares at James again who fights very hard to suppress his smile. “I was the only one who knew about this because he thought Kreacher died, so I decided to steal it and let Kreacher destroy it.”

“So you really expected to die, you… did you want to die?!” he presses out, only just keeping himself from shaking him, or shouting, at least.

Regulus' head flies up and he scowls, but it’s tense and twisted and he looks like he barely prevents himself from crying. “Of course not, fuck, I didn’t want any of this, I just, you don’t –“ he chokes, pressing a hand against his mouth, his shoulders shaking.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he pulls him into a hug, the angle awkward but it doesn’t matter. For a moment, Regulus tenses, but then a sob escapes him and suddenly he’s clinging to James, fingers clenching in his coat and choked sobs wracking his body. It’s like he can’t stop, now that he started.

James only holds him more tightly, his head resting on Regulus’ and his mind still trying to comprehend the last hour or two, or however long this whole odyssey lasted.

“It’s alright, hey, we’ll find a way –“

The same bitter laugh interrupts him, but Regulus doesn’t let go, his words muffled, “You don’t quit the Death Eaters, James, much less betray the Dark Lord. I would have rather died in that bloody cave than being murdered personally.”

“You won’t,” he insists, refusing to believe anything else. “Believe me, I didn’t save you just so that bastard can destroy all the effort. You know, it was pretty hard work getting you out of there.”

Regulus laughs again and it sounds a little less broken, so James counts it as a win.

They stay like this for a long time, until James can’t feel his legs anymore and they’re both shivering violently from the unforgiving wind.

“Come on, we should go home. It’s late, or well, early, and Sirius is going to be worried if he wakes up and I’m gone,” he mutters, trying to convince himself as much as Regulus.

Regulus tenses at the mention of Sirius, and if he’s honest, James has no idea how Sirius is going to react to any of this, but it’s not like Regulus has anywhere else to go. Or like he’s going to let him out of his sight any time soon if he can help it.

“I don’t think – “

“Sorry to be frank, but I think our flat is the safest bet you currently have. Sirius will be fine,” he insists, hoping that it will be true. Eventually, if nothing else.

Sighing, Regulus nods against his shoulder, and James slowly disentangles himself, standing up. He winces at the crack in his knees and decides that he’s definitely not going to attend training today.

“Ready?” he asks when Regulus is standing next to him, and at his nod, apparates them both into the backyard of the house.

“Are you sure Sirius is not going to curse me the second he sees me?” Regulus asks dryly while they’re walking up the stairs.

James shakes his head and throws a grin over his shoulder, more pleased than he cares to admit that Regulus is already close to joking. “No idea, I’d suggest keeping your wand ready,” he pauses, turning a bit to look at him. “You do still have your wand, right?!”

Regulus nods and appears like he wants to say something, but stays quiet. James lets it be, taking the last few steps and opens the door carefully.

It’s rather useless, seeing that Sirius is standing in the doorway to their kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest and a crease between his brows.

His stern glare slips as soon as he sees Regulus and James has the rare pleasure of witnessing Sirius looking completely shocked and out of his depth, his mouth hanging open slightly and his eyes wide.

“Found your brother, we have to take him in for a while,” he says light-heartedly, but then sobers quickly. “Let’s make some tea and we’ll explain, alright? It’s a rather…” he hesitates, unwilling to give Sirius the chance to make a pun, now of all times. “Important matter,” he finishes lamely.

He’s too tired to care though and Sirius seems to pick up on the solemn mood and their tiredness, just nodding and moving into the kitchen.

“You want some fresh clothes? Drying Charms are all well and good but, well, that lake…” he offers and Regulus looks so grateful that his heart clenches a bit. Merlin, but if it would have been him in that lake, he might have burned his clothes as soon as he got out.

He hands him some sweatpants and a jumper before leaving to change in the bathroom, uncertain just how much space and discretion Regulus might need.

When he enters the kitchen, he stumbles slightly, utterly unprepared for the sight of Regulus in Muggle clothes. His Muggle clothes. It shouldn’t be this… endearing, and he puts his suddenly dry mouth resolutely down to the stress of the night.

Sirius puts three mugs onto the table and as soon as they all sit down, looks at them expectantly, one brow raised in that demanding manner James envies way too often. He’s rather surprised that Sirius kept his silence for as long as he did, he wouldn’t have put it past him to still be shouting at this point, but he probably should have given him a bit more credit.

Seeing that he took the whole ‘bringing Regulus into their flat’- thing a lot better than James anticipated, he gets on with a summary of the night quickly, from the point when he woke up over following Regulus to the cave, to pulling him out of the bloody lake and Regulus explanation.  

If the matter was less serious, the development of Sirius’ expression from angry to disbelieving, to worried to downright horrified would have been comical. In the end, Sirius just gets up and hugs Regulus tightly and for a long time, who looks more surprised than he probably should.

It’s only now that James remembers how devastated and closed off Sirius has been when he found out that Regulus joined Voldemort; his brother has always been a sensitive topic since he moved in with James, but it became much worse after that. He even remembers thinking that Sirius cares a lot more about Regulus than he admits, but somehow, that got lost over the last few hours. Which, really, is rather justified as far as he is concerned and doesn’t matter all that much.

Sirius hugs him as well, and the muttered “Thank you,” is so choked up that James nearly starts crying again. Shit, but he’s bloody exhausted and rattled from the whole thing.

When Sirius has sat back down and gathered himself, he takes a deep breath and says, “Alright, obviously, you’re going to stay here for now, but in the long run, this isn’t safe for any of us. You can’t go back to our parents, but we should find something we can ward better. Everything else, we can discuss when you two slept. You look dead on your feet.”

Both him and Regulus wince at the phrase and Sirius looks confused for all of a second before he grimaces as well. “Sorry, bad choice of words. Anyway, Reg you can have my bed, I need to get to work anyway. I’ll tell Moody your ill, if it’s only one of us missing he’s more likely to buy it.”

James nods gratefully, too tired to say much more or to even marvel at how easily Sirius slips into planning mode. He would have expected a bit more… he doesn’t know, confusion, disbelief, maybe? Either way, he’s glad that Sirius takes it in stride and decides to worry about everything else after he slept.

He lets Regulus take the first shower, quietly talking with Sirius in the kitchen who asks a few more questions but appears to be mostly relieved how everything turned out, and maybe also still a bit overwhelmed with his brother turning sides so thoroughly.

When Regulus disappeared into Sirius’ room, he takes a quick, hot shower that dispels the last, lingering coldness and then falls into his bed, trying to keep his mind away from the images of the night as best as he can.

He’s just drifting off, revelling in the warmth of his covers when he hears his door creak open. Expecting it to be Sirius, he just shuffles a bit to the side, keeping his eyes closed.

“James?”

That’s not Sirius’ voice. He slowly blinks his eyes open and reaches for his glasses, frowning when Regulus comes into focus. “Are you alright?” he asks when he notices the tremble of his hands and his red-rimmed eyes, sitting up a bit.

Regulus looks utterly uncomfortable but shakes his head. “It’s just, I – “

“As soon as you close your eyes, you feel like you’re back there?” he asks softly, having suffered the same issue when he had just laid down. He can take a good guess that it has to be a hundred times worse for Regulus.

Regulus sighs and nods. “I mean it’s stupid, it’s not like I’m ten anymore but – “

James smiles a bit and shifts closer to the wall. “Don’t worry about it. You can sleep here if you want, the bed is big enough.” At Regulus' still tense expression he rolls his eyes fondly. “Honestly, you’re just going to drop where you stand if you don’t sleep soon, and company helps.”

“Yeah, alright, thanks…” Regulus murmurs, lying down next to him but carefully keeping some space between them.

He’s rather surprised if he’s honest, having expected Regulus to be, well… too proper to ever consider doing something like this, but then again, defecting, betraying the Dark Lord and a near-death experience is probably the safest way to shake you up a bit.

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep but when he startles awake, it feels like no time has passed at all. Images and sounds of his muddled dreams are still fresh on his mind, imprints of Regulus’ screams and the grey faces of hundreds of Inferi, and his heart is pounding painfully fast in his chest.

Before he can start to panic though, he notices the heavy warmth pressed against him and forces himself to focus, only slowly comprehending that it’s Regulus who’s curled against him, his head tucked into the crook of James’ neck and one arm thrown over his stomach.

It calms him down faster than he cares to admit, even coaxing a small smile out of him and he exhales slowly, turning a bit to pull him closer. For a while, he only watches the steady rise and fall of his chest and concentrates on the feeling of having him here, alive and well, and the knowledge that he and Sirius are going to make sure that it stays that way.

And everything else, well. They will see, but he takes the current position they’re in as a good sign.

  I hope you liked it! Send me a prompt if you like

[loving-jack-kelly]

Javid story where Davey is slowly going blind and Jack is determined to show david all the beautiful things in his life

When Davey was little, his eye doctors had been hopeful that his vision wouldn’t get too bad. As he got older, they got less hopeful, and by the time he was twenty, they’d told him he’d probably be unable to see anything more than light and dark by the time he was thirty.

He met Jack when he was twenty-five and had to wear glasses as thick as his thumb to be able to see. He was an aspiring writer, somehow making a living in journalism while working on a book he hoped he could publish someday.

Jack was an artist who’d suddenly made it big with one sale nobody could have predicted.

At first, Davey was worried his vision had gotten worse since he woke up when he saw the painting in question. The colors were nice, but the shapes were hard to make out and honestly he had no idea how it was supposed to be a cityscape, though that’s what the label called it.

He hadn’t realized he’d already found the artist when he’d said that out loud and the person standing next to him started laughing out loud.

“You know, I almost didn’t put this one up for sale. I painted it in two hours at three am. I like the others much better, but hey, if you have enough money only ugly is worth it.”

Jack was much closer to a work of art than the painting they were standing in front of, in Davey’s opinion. He was dressed up for the occasion, some fancy gala hosted by the person who bought his painting, and he looked like he fit right in with the crowd around them. When he laughed, he threw his head back, and his hair quickly escaped the styling he’d obviously spent time on and left him with curls falling in his face no matter how many times he pushed them away. His smile took over his entire face, making it easy to picture where the creases would form as he aged, and he never stopped moving. His hands fluttered when he talked, and when they ended up sitting next to each other near the end of the night, he was constantly tapping his fingers or jogging his leg. He was easy to talk to. Funny. Charismatic.

Easy on the eyes, too.

Davey had always looked at his vision loss philosophically. He might have been going blind, but he’d had plenty of years to see things, and he’d chosen and was enjoying a career that he didn’t really need sight for. There were people who had it worse, and he had managed to stay pretty content with his lot in life.

But he was glad he got to see Jack Kelly.

Jack seemed glad to see him too, if their conversation was anything to judge by.

Jack made a joke, and reached out to brush Davey’s hair away from his face. Jack listened to what Davey had to say, and leaned in close in a way that could be excused by the noise around them but just a little bit closer than necessary.

And when the party was finally dying down, which Davey was surprised to notice since he’d been planning on leaving long before most people, Jack extended his arm and an offer to walk Davey home.

And like something out of a movie, or a scene Davey would never write into a book because it just seemed too cheesy, Jack kissed him outside his apartment’s door. There was a florescent bulb flickering overhead, and Jack gently cupped Davey’s cheek and stayed so close when he pulled back that Davey could feel his breath, and then squeezed Davey’s hand before letting go.

He put his number in Davey’s phone with a heart-eyes emoji and responded immediately when Davey texted him.

And dating Jack Kelly was the easiest thing in the world.

He hadn’t quite expected it to be, the first time Jack had asked if he wanted to go out. He’d kind of expected it to be awkward and weird and probably to fizzle out after a couple of dates. And instead, Jack asked Davey on a first date and it was to a planetarium and Jack whispered facts the program didn’t include into Davey’s ear. He held Davey’s hand and took him for ice cream while the sun was setting. They walked the High Line and Jack picked a flower and tucked it into Davey’s shirt pocket.

“You know, I forgot that I’m lactose intolerant,” Jack said thoughtfully, looking down at the last bite of his ice cream cone. After a second, he shrugged and popped it into his mouth. “Oh well.”

“Oh, well?”

“I’ll take a pill when I get home. Ice cream is too good to live without, you know.” He smiled and took Davey’s hand again, both of their fingers sticky from melted ice cream.

They dated for almost two months before Davey fully explained his eyesight.

Jack didn’t do the annoying thing a lot of people did where he suddenly started treating Davey differently, or throwing Davey a pity party he didn’t ask for.

Davey knew he would be blind eventually. He’d known that for a long time, and he was used to it.

Instead, Jack asked a couple of questions about it, and then he asked one Davey had thought about a lot but never been asked by anybody else.

“What do you want to see?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have time, right? So what do you want to see before you can’t?”

Davey listed off a few places, a few sights that had always been on on his bucket list, and Jack hummed thoughtfully, and then their conversation had moved on and Davey pretty much forgot about it.

Until he found an envelope slid under his door with a hastily written note covering a little doodle obviously done by Jack.

I wanted to see your face but I had to literally run but I know you’ll be home soon so happy Start of Jack’s Grand Plan.

Davey opened the envelope not exactly sure of what to expect. A clue to a scavenger hunt, maybe. A sweet drawing, a longer note, something small and sweet and romantic, the type of gesture Jack loved to give.

There wasn’t any kind of note. Not a single doodle in sight, other than the one on the envelope which Davey was pretty sure was somebody feeding the pigeons in the park.

Davey opened the envelope and pulled out two plane tickets.

Round trip, three days and two nights, from JFK to Flagstaff Pulliam Airport.

And under the tickets in the envelope was printed off receipt for a two night stay in the Grand Hotel at the Grand Canyon.

And then there was a small piece of paper with a list of places with a bold strikethrough cutting through “Grand Canyon” at the top with a bunch of other places listed underneath.

Five minutes into reading and rereading the tickets and the room receipt over and over again, Davey’s phone rang with the ringtone Jack had picked for himself (a frankly very strange cover of Never Gonna Give You Up that made everyone do a double take when it rang in public).

“Hey! I wanted to wait for you but Crutchie called and said he was having an emergency.” Davey could hear the smile in Jack’s voice and also Crutchie yelling something about fresh baked cookies very much warranting the emergency label Jack Kelly they needed to be enjoyed warm. “Do you like it? They’re far enough out that I can move them if the dates don’t work, but I’m pretty sure they do.”

“Jacky…I…you can’t-“

“Already did. Davey, I sold a painting for enough money that I bought an apartment. In Manhattan. And then I sold another painting for even more money. I want to spend it on something good. And you’re good. Plus, I get to go too. It’ll be wonderful, Davey darling, and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

Davey heard Crutchie say something to Jack and Jack laugh in response.

“Crutchie says if you don’t go he’ll go in your place and that would be weird because we’re brothers so you have to go.”

Davey laughed back.

“And you know you want to see the Grand Canyon. And it’ll be fun to get away for a little while. And-“

“Okay, okay, Jack, I’ll go with you.”

“We’ll hash out the details later, then. Love you, Davey, but more cookies came out of the oven three minutes ago and if I don’t start eating them soon Crutchie might murder me and that would spoil everything, now wouldn’t it?”

So they went to the Grand Canyon for the first week of April, and it was absolutely wonderful. Jack was wonderful, the trip was wonderful, and the view was wonderful and everything was wonderful.

And two months after that, Jack handed him a birthday card and inside of it were two tickets to Paris that Jack excused with “I’m going anyway for a show, so you might as well come, too.”

And over the next three years, Davey got tickets to Moscow, Hawaii, Yosemite. They drove to Maine and went through Niagara Falls on the way home. When they moved in together, Jack hung a bigger version of Jack’s Grand Plan on the wall and made a big dramatic deal out of crossing out every place they went to.

Davey laughed at every speech and pretended to protest every time Jack planned a new trip, but he knew he wouldn’t win any argument against going and he didn’t really want to stop going, either. He loved going on trips with Jack. He loved that Jack was determined to show him as much of the world as possible and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

How did he get so lucky?

Slowly, though, his vision was getting worse. He was getting tunnel vision, not in the figurative sense but in a very literal sense, and by the time he was twenty-nine, he finally stopped being able to see anything other than light and dark.

There was one stop left on Jack’s Grand Plan, and Davey was sure it wasn’t going to happen, but Jack still insisted.

So even though Davey wouldn’t be able to see the sights, he and Jack books tickets to Norway complete with a two day cruise in the fjords.

Jack was an artist, and he was just as good with verbal descriptions as drawings and paintings. He spent the entire trip describing absolutely everything he could see to Davey, from the outfits of the people around them to the towering stone surrounding them while they were on the boat.

It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was still pretty good.

Two weeks after they got home, Jack woke Davey up early and dragged him into the living room.

“I have a surprise and you’ll love it,” he said, offering no other explanation until Davey was sitting on the couch. “As you know, we recently completed the last stop on Jack’s Grand Plan. However, I can’t help but feel it wasn’t the same, and therefore, I have decided there has to be one last step before the plan can be declared complete. And that step happens…right now.”

Davey heard Jack pulling paper off of something.

Setting something down on the coffee table. Something big.

Jack took Davey’s hand and squeezed it before setting it down on the thing he’d put on the table.

It was rough. All ridges and texture, nothing smooth about it.

“It’s the fjords,” Jack said, obviously bursting with excitement. “It’s oil paints but it’s almost a sculpture instead of a painting, so you can touch it to see it. It doesn’t look like the fjords at all because I painted them and got the texture right and then added black on top because it’s meant to be touched, not seen.”

Davey ran his fingers over the entire painting, tracing the edges along the frame and feeling for details, surprised at how much he could identify. There was a patch at the bottom that felt the way choppy water looked, and tall patches of rough stone. Swirly clouds.

“It’s beautiful, Jack.”

“With that, Davey, Jack’s Grand Plan is complete. We’ve been to every place you listed, and you’ve seen them all. How was it?”

“Perfect, Jacky.”

Jack sat down next to him on the couch and kissed his cheek, wrapping his arms around Davey’s waist.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cause I was thinking we could maybe do a couple repeats. I could paint more like this. Still get to go on vacation together all the time but this time call it a business expense.”

Davey laughed and leaned into Jack’s arms.

“Sounds perfect to me, Jacky.”

[alternislatronemhq]

Congrats, CHRISTIE, you have been accepted to AL for the role of LUCINDA TALKALOT (FC: Alisha Wainwright). Ah, Christie, excellent job! You’ve taken a character that isn’t much more than a name in this verse and brought her to life! I love your portrayal of her and am so excited to see how she adds to our little group!! Please send in your blog (no sideblogs for first characters, please) in the next 24 hours and be sure to take a look at our new player checklist. Welcome home (once again), we’re so excited to have you join the family!

OOC

name — christie age — 20 pronouns — she/her timezone — gmt+3

any questions? — If I could just ignore the fact she was Quidditch captain during her time at Hogwarts that would be amazing just because it doesn’t quite fit my interpretation of Lucinda. Oh, wait, that’s not a question. Pretty please?

IC Overview

name — Lucinda Talkalot faceclaim — Alisha Wainwright age — 27 (9th of January) gender — Cis-female sexuality — Homosexual

patronus — A greyhound – much like Lucinda, the greyhound is intelligent and gentle, though often accused of passivity. What might be perceived as laziness and indifference, however, is simply a very careful and precise distribution of time and energy – after all, why waste your time on something you don’t care about when you could be working on achieving your real goals?

[tw: claustrophobia] boggart — Herself, stuck in a small space with no means of escaping. Lucinda is claustrophobic and usually, she can deal with tiny spaces as long as they provide some sort of an exit, be it a door or a window, but if they are locked or sealed, her claustrophobia gets triggered. It should be noted, though, that even in the event where she manages to keep her anxiety under control, she still would prefer to avoid small spaces altogether.

IC In Depth

personality traits — 

( + ) Intelligent: Lucinda’s intelligence isn’t innate as is that of the Ravenclaws she remembers from her Hogwarts days, the ones who would just understand concepts and ideas with little if any explanation. Lucinda, on the other hand, needs all the guidance her professors provide and makes use of all available books on the subjects she’s interested in. Her intelligence comes from hard work, from days spent hunched over old dusty tomes, from sheer ambition to learn and to become somebody.

( + ) Driven: It’s the Slytherin in her that would stop at nothing to achieve her goals. If Lucinda Talkalot wants something, she’ll get it. She’d wanted to do well on her NEWTs, she’d done it. She’d wanted to become an Unspeakable, she’d done it. The one regard in which her ambition doesn’t seem to help is the social aspect of her life, but oh, well, nobody’s perfect.

( + ) Accepting: Lucy knows what it feels like not to be accepted, be it for her blood or for her sexuality, and she would never want anybody else to feel like that around her. Even though she’s not the best in social situations, one thing one can always rely on with her is to remain open-minded and willing to listen.

( - ) Reserved: Books don’t ask you about your day nor do they require an explanation as to why you did what you did; they’re just there. People don’t work quite like that, Lucy knows, but she still has trouble putting herself out there and speaking her mind. After all, what does she have to offer in conversation? She’s not funny, she’s not charming, and she quite literally can’t speak about her job.

( - ) Single-minded: She tells herself it’s justified, with how important her work is, but the truth is Lucinda is almost cut-off from the world. The downside of her ambition is that she’s so focused on her goals that she can’t see anything beyond them; even with Voldemort, she knows he was dangerous, but she never quite understood just how dangerous. But what does it matter anyway? After all, he’s a thing of the past.

( - ) Tactless: It’s not that she’s not aware of social etiquette, it’s just that she sometimes forgets to follow it. She doesn’t choose her words carefully, instead they slip out of her the same way her mother’s old china had slipped between her fingers when she’d been a child – without meaning to, unrefined and sharp. She doesn’t mean to be rude, by any means, but she’s also never been known to sugarcoat anything.

character biography — 

Margaret Talkalot always had a vision of how her only daughter’s life would go. Lucinda would attend the same school she did – the only school in town – and then would later attend university in the big city where she would meet a nice, hopefully wealthy man who with whom she would have two children, a boy and a girl, and live happily ever after. It’s a manifestation of everything her mother didn’t get, Lucy realises years later – she’d never got the chance to leave their tiny town, her husband had left her soon after Lucinda’s birth and Margaret hadn’t had other children. (But even to little Lucinda, those fairy tales of princes and princesses didn’t sound appealing – at least the princes didn’t)

Fortunately for her, her mother’s plan started to unravel as soon as Lucinda’s eleventh birthday rolled around. A small white envelope held promises Lucy had never even dreamt to ask for and she’d begged and pleaded her mother to let her go. It’d taken a while to convince her but come September 1st, Lucy was on the train set to Hogwarts.

The castle is absolutely magical in a way that had nothing to do with actual magic. She’s sorted into Slytherin and her housemates give her weird looks as she goes to sit at their table, but that’s fine, the kids back home looked at her weird too. In any case, it’s not nearly enough to dampen her excitement and Lucy spends her first year walking on clouds. The following years she wants to try everything, from Quidditch to Frog Choir, and she does, but… it’s not quite what she imagined. She doesn’t have the experience other kids do with Quidditch, and her face flushes every time she has to sing in front of her peers. It’s okay though, because the library is just as magical and soon Lucy starts spending most of her time there.

She gets good grades, she’s on par with the Ravenclaws, and she wishes sometimes that she was sorted into Ravenclaw instead. Perhaps then she would’ve had more friends? But then she sees Ravenclaws during class, with their clever, understanding eyes, and feels inadequate as she struggles to keep up with the torrent of information. She perseveres. So what if she has to work three times as hard as Beatrice Galloway to get the same grades? She’s not scared of hard work. (She is scared, however, of the way her stomach flutters whenever Beatrice smiles at her. Not because of the feelings she stirs inside of Lucy, but because she knows her mother won’t be happy to learn about them. And Lucinda’s already disappointed her by going to a magical school instead of a “normal” one. Can she disappoint her like that too?)

Turns out, she can. At eighteen, Lucinda passes her NEWTs with flying colours and emboldened by that, she tells her mother she’s not interested in boys. Her arguments sound childish even to her own ears (they’re crass, and smelly, and annoying and she just doesn’t like them, okay?), but they’re true enough and eventually, Margaret stops trying to convince her otherwise. She says she accepts it, but Lucy knows better; her mother is still waiting for the day Lucinda will “come to her senses” and settle down with a man.

The knowledge of it weighs down on her heart, but she’s also never been happier, as though her mother had been the last frontier before freedom. And in the Wizarding World, she’s flourishing – she gets an internship at the Ministry and a few years later, she becomes an Unspeakable. There’s a war raging outside her office, but Lucinda is too busy scribbling down test results and experiment proposal to glance out of the window.

Eventually, it all ends and as relieved as Lucy is, she also can’t deny she feels guilty – but then she reminds herself there’s nothing she could’ve done anyway, except perhaps bored Voldermort to death with theories of how the brain functions.

plot ideas —

I’d love to get Lucy involved with the Order at a later point! In general, the way I envision her character arc (which is always subject to change as time goes on, of course) is that a big part of it would involve her getting out of her office and returning to the world as a whole. That includes becoming more aware of everything going on, becoming more involved in it as she realises she does have more to offer than dry facts she’s read in a book.

Getting her a social life! A bit self-explanatory but as established, Lucy isn’t the best at forming friendship so naturally, I’d love to see her put in a situation where she does end up doing that. Especially with people who challenge her way of thinking. (Also I’ll just throw it out there, but she deserves a girlfriend.)

Some sort of work-related plot seems inevitable too considering how much of her life is spent in her office. Whether that would be potential colleagues (chats by the coffee machine are probably interesting when neither party can talk about their job) or maybe someone who knows more than they’re supposed to (in which case I would love to explore Lucy’s reaction and how she would deal with that). Just about all and any workplace plots!

extra —

Some headcanons:

Throughout this app I’ve been referring to Lucinda both as Lucinda and as Lucy, which I personally see like a very Hercules situation in the sense of:

Meg: Megara. My friends call me Meg. At least they would if I had any friends.

Lucy works in the Department of Mysteries, as previously established, but to elaborate on that, she works primarily in the Thought Chamber. I say primarily because due to the door connecting the Thought and Death Chambers, I’m running with the assumption that their spheres of study are also connected and thus Lucinda sometimes has to visit the Death Chamber too.

(Also I really like the irony of Lucy studying brains, but not being good with people. Like, “I understand your brain, but you I just don’t get.”)

Furthermore, since her job is so centred around minds, she’s also picked up a few skills outside of Hogwarts’ curriculum. Lucinda is an Occlumens, though she struggles with Legilimency. She can only perform it under very particular circumstances, including an intense focus on her part and total silence of the room, so she is almost entirely unable to use it outside of the Thought Chamber. [This is, of course, subject to change if you feel like it might be too much power.]

Lastly, she just gets very flustered around women.

[qqueenofhades]

Please please please write more steamy Garcy action!

Welp.

The combination of this prompt and the above shot from the promo was very bad, so…. have an absolutely will-not-be-remotely-canon, total shipper trash version of Salem, for reasons. Because apparently the combination of Lucy + Flynn + Salem results in nothing but smut for my muse.

Rated E.

AO3.

The summer night wind pulls at Lucy’s skirt as she ismarched down the path, escorted by a pair of Pilgrim’s Progress extras in their black hats and high starchedcollars, a sea of eerie earthbound stars twinkling to every side. Of coursethey’re not actually stars, they’re torches, clutched by the fearful populaceof Salem gathered on Gallows Hill, and the rope strung from an old tree wherefive days ago, on July 19, 1692, Sarah Good, Elizabeth Howe, Susannah Martin, SarahWildes, and Rebecca Nurse were hanged. There will be another round of hangingsin about a month, Lucy recalls, until the trials burn themselves out as quicklyas they’ve started, in October. This still all seems rather academic to her.She wasn’t expecting to it to come this far, but she isn’t that concerned.She’ll get out of this.

Admittedly, she’s not certain how, and she would like tohave a few more options. She’s been separated from the boys, and she isn’t surethey know where she is, which is alarming. She isn’t sure she can pull the H.H.Holmes oracle trick to stop them – Holmes, psychotic as he was, was still onlyone man. This is a mob. Not to mention, that will serve as proof positive ofwitchcraft, and good luck fighting her way through all of them alone. Lucy’scontributions to the team are not of the brute-force and multiple-weaponsvariety. For the first time, her stomach turns over in genuine apprehension. Where are Wyatt and Rufus?

(She thinks for half a minute that the most effective one ofthem here would be Flynn, but there’s no way he’s coming.)

A low, ugly murmur is starting to rise by the time Lucy andher guards reach the hanging tree, and they come to a halt. Cotton Mather,looking more smug and punchable than ever, is standing nearby in his vicar’sstock, swelled with pride, ready to preside over another essential measure insaving the souls of Salem’s impressionable citizens. Lucy has a generous viewof the past, for the most part. Knows that it’s always more complicated thansimplistic pictures would like to paint it. Given the modern world’s irrationalbeliefs and panics and scapegoating, she’s not even about to point too many fingersat the ability of the Salemites to convince themselves that these women arewitches, servants of Satan, and their existence depends on killing themimmediately. But the faces watching her are huddled and hard and blank withhatred. Parents clutch their children close. There are kids here? Probably a vital moral lesson for them or something. Thehell. Never mind the historical relevancy and comparative morality and whateverelse. These people have problems.

Peter Puritan, on her left side, steps forward and makes aflourish at Mather. “Behold Goodwife Preston,” he booms. Too bad communitytheater isn’t a thing in seventeenth-century New England, he would be great atit. “The Court of Oyer and Terminer has judged beyond all doubt that this womanis guilty of the abominable sin of witchcraft, and – ”

“You haven’t tried me!” Lucy says loudly, earning shocked and scathing looks. “You’ve – this is a miscarriage of justice, it’s – ”

This is pathetic. Of courseit’s a miscarriage of justice, and there are still at least two monthsuntil anyone gives a shit about it. “I want to speak to Colonel NathanielSaltonstall,” Lucy plunges on. “I – I know him, he – ”

“Silence, witch!” Paul Puritan, from the other side, looksas if he’s aiming a blow at her, which Lucy instinctively ducks. Her heart isstarting to pound. All right, this is cutting it too close. She’s more thanready for Wyatt and Rufus to turn up on whatever improvised rescue missionthey’ve definitely contrived, and her eyes sweep the crowd, in case they’repulling the Will Turner trick (though a hat with a fancy feather woulddefinitely stick out). The trials do arrest a few men for being accomplices.Are they across town in some other jail?

Is nobody coming?

Lucy starts looking around, wondering if there’s a plank shecan grab or anything else to improvise as a weapon. But while she’s doing this,she’s losing time as Mather reads out whatever canned indictment Rittenhousemust have provided him with – is this thepoint, she doesn’t think her own mother will actually let her get killed, arethey going to swoop in as convenient saviors as the last moment? Is it possiblethat even Rittenhouse doesn’t know where she is? If she’s relying on them to pull her ass out of this –

“Remove your mob cap, witch,” Peter Puritan orders her. “Doyou have any last confession or recantation of your heretical views, before youface the proper punishment for your crime?”

“I’m not a witch.” Lucy’s voice isn’t as loud as she wants.“None of them are witches! You’re killing innocent women, you – ”

Unfortunately, true as this is, everyone sees the defense ofaccused and executed witches as, well, proof of witchcraft. There’s amaddeningly circular illogic to this entire thing, and the gasp that thisutterance provokes is followed by a shout. “HANG THE WITCH!”

Oh, please, Lucythinks frantically. You’ve got to bekidding me. Come on, past. I’m literally fighting to save your entireexistence. Do me a solid.

The past does not, in fact, do her a solid. The shoutspreads, quick as poison, and in that, Lucy can feel the final dam break. PeterPuritan reaches for the strings of her cap – she will be literally exposedbefore the crowd, die bare-headed and stripped of her shame and modesty – andLucy twists away, even as he pulls at the knots and jerks it off. Her hairtumbles out, as Paul Puritan grabs her and pushes her toward the hanging noose.Lucy kicks and snaps, trying to head-butt him, and feels her ear scrape as hejerks the rough hemp down around her neck. She stumbles on a loose board,briefly terrifying her that she’ll hang herself by accident like a clumsyidiot. The crowd is literally baying for her blood, Cotton Mather’s eyes aretwo piggy black sparks, and chasing Rittenhouse has made her believe in onekind of evil, but this is altogether another – she is actually going to die, and –

“LUCY!”

Her heart stops for a full beat in her chest, as the bellowrings out across the rising tide of madness and momentarily halts even Peterand Paul in their tracks. Her eyes sweep across the crowd, looking desperatelyfor Wyatt, even as she doesn’t think that sounds like Wyatt. But how – but how –

Garcia Flynn punches down a final minion trying to stop himand bulls into the middle of the mob like a runaway locomotive, charging acrossthe ground and toward the gallows. Peter and Paul recollect themselvessufficiently from their shock to try to grab him, which is a very bad idea.Flynn decks Peter with one punch and judo-throws Paul, sending himsomersaulting off the gallows with a squelchy noise. His violence is economicand brutal and effortless, almost mesmerizing – Lucy has seen it many times, ofcourse, but usually as something she has to stop or redirect or otherwiseprevent from its fullest potential. Now, for the first time she can remember,it is entirely focused on her – not as its target, but its purpose. For a wildmoment, it feels like Flynn is some strange avatar of her own rage, the way shewould fight if she wasn’t a five-foot-five history professor who had neverhandled a gun in her life until she shot Jesse James. How is he here. How is he – how is he here?

Right now, Lucy doesn’t care. Flynn reaches her in the nextinstant and practically wrenches the noose off her neck, scraping her earagain, and she stumbles forward, clutching hold of his waistcoat. The Salemiteshave been briefly and totally stunned by what looks like the wrathfulmaterialization of the Devil Himself to pluck one of his concubines from thebrink, and Lucy’s historian’s brain has a moment of wondering if this is goingto make the trials even worse. Causes and consequences, short-and-long-termeffects, all the shit she can’t stop thinking about even when her own life isat stake – but God, she was scared, she’s only realizing just now how much, andFlynn – and Flynn –

She can’t bring herself to let go of him, even as Flynnhalf-wraps her in his jacket and hauls her toward the edge of the gallows. Butat this point, Cotton Mather has – unfortunately – recovered himself. “DEVIL!”he booms. “I DEFY THEE, SATAN! I DEFY THEE!”

Despite everything, Flynn has almost a sardonic grin on hisface, just visible in the flickering torchlight, as if even this isn’t theworst thing he has been called. Mather raises his missal, bellowing what soundslike something intended to make Flynn vanish in a puff of brimstone, but whichdoes nothing of the sort, because of course not. The Salemites are confused andterrified to see their vaunted spiritual leader so utterly overmatched, andLucy’s ankle twists under her as Flynn drags her off the gallows. Mather takesa step, as if realizing that God has left him out to dry on this one and it’stime for more physical weapons. He grabs for the truncheon at Peter Puritan’sbelt. “Prince of Lies! I will not allow you to – ”

Flynn, keeping hold of Lucy with one arm, plunges his freehand into his leather jacket, removes a gun, and shoots Cotton Goddamn Matherin the head. It sounds like thunder.

Mather goes down hard, as Lucy screams and muffles it in herhand. Mather is one of history’s most unpleasant racist and misogynisticjackasses, it’s not like this is a terrible loss, and maybe with theintellectual architect of the witch trials gone, Salem will come to its senses.Or it will become convinced that he was completely right all along, with Luciferhimself in their midst, and double down. Lucy isn’t sure if Mather’s dead –Flynn didn’t get a clean hit, just a glancing one – and they have no time to besure. Flynn throws her over his shoulder, and runs, fittingly, like the devil.

He doesn’t stop until they’re well away, somewhere deep inSalem Woods, also known as the Witches’ Wood, and the noise and shout and totaldisorder of Gallows Hill has faded to a distant, dreamy clamor. Flynn stumblesto a halt, pulls Lucy down, and practically throws her against the nearesttree. She has never seen his face look like this. “Are you – did they – ”

“Stop,” Lucy chokes out. “Stop, Flynn. Flynn. Flynn! Garcia!I’m fine. I’m fine!”

This is more or less the truth – aside from her scraped ear,twisted ankle, and hammering heart, she’s physically undamaged, thanks to histimely intervention, but the mental shock is going to take longer to set in.His hands are practically bruising her shoulders, he belatedly realizes it, andloosens them a fraction. His dark hair is tousled, there’s an abrasion on hischeek, and his knuckles are scraped. He has clearly been fighting the entiretown to get to her.

Lucy, to say the least, has no idea how to react to this. Itsays something about how successfully he has convinced her that he hates thesight of her and will never forgive her that she ranked Rittenhouse a morelikely rescuer than him. But it’s him here, face frantic in the moonlight,still completely unable to put up a pretense or façade. “Lucy,” he says again,barely more coherently. “I – Lucy. I thought – ” He stops. Straining madly forhis usual brusque dismissal, he says, “How could you be so foolish as to – ”

“It’s my faultthat the place literally known for murdering slightly strange innocent womenwas about to murder me, a slightly strange innocent woman?” Lucy flares. Shecannot believe him. He has hauled her bodily from certain death and badlywounded or killed Cotton Mather in doing it, and now of course he’s going to bea dick about it. “If you actually think so, I’m happy to walk back there andlet them finish the job!”

This of course is a bluff, as she’s going nowhere near them,but it turns Flynn’s face a sick white. His grip tightens convulsively on her,her toes practically dangling off the ground, and she shoves at him until heputs her down. They stare at each other for a crackling moment. She wants toask him where Wyatt and Rufus are, but the words get stuck. He looks disheveledand frantic and still not quite able to look away from her face. He half-raiseshis hand as if to touch it, remembers himself, and stops. His chest heaves.Quieter, he says, “Don’t ever do that again.”

Lucy opens her mouth, to shoot back any of the obviousrejoinders about how she is not going to have much choice in their present lineof work, and besides, it’s a considerable shock to hear he gives a shit. Onceagain, the words don’t make it that far. It is not only the fear and adrenalineof the near-hanging and dramatic rescue that is making her heart keep up itspresent pace. His face is quite close to hers, and it wouldn’t be hard. To juststep up, and –

(Lucy feels something for Wyatt beyond any doubt. Somethingwarm and alluring and tender, something she could see turning into somethingmore, a foundation to build on, a home to come to, strong and sweet and real.She always has.)

(Lucy also feels something for Flynn beyond any doubt.Something raw and dark and hungry, something she can’t see turning intoanything but the crash of a devouring sea that would take her and drown her,pull her under. This is nothing to build on, cannot move forward, strikes likelightning and burns, burns, burns. She always has.)

The witch and the Devil in the woods at midnight, Lucythinks. It is almost surreal, the way the crickets shirr, the starlight issharp and cold, and in the distance, men who want to kill them chant like Moriadrums. Is she not a witch? She knows their future, she’s traveled here from it,she has seen and done things that defy explanation in her own time, not merelythose. They have wanted to kill her for it, but something else is surging inher now. She wants that power, in a way. And the fear. That moment when Flynnwas decking Peter Puritan, when she felt it as if it was her arm, as if he washer and she was him and both of them were two strange halves of a twisted andtorn-apart creature –

Lucy boosts herself on her tiptoes, grabs Flynn by themostly-undone cravat, and kisses him.

It’s not like kissing Wyatt. That is generous, easy, gentle,knowing she will be caught when she jumps over the edge. This is flingingherself into the abyss without a rope, with no idea what kind of reaction itwill provoke. Flynn could do literally anything, and as a rule in his life,has. But this Lucy, the Lucy who’s so fucking furious at her mother she can’tbreathe, who has spent every waking moment sacrificing for everyone else, who wants to be the one to do the reckless,idiotic thing for once, doesn’t care. This is a dangerous man, and she isn’tabout to romanticize or underestimate that. But if nothing else – if there’sanything she’s taking away from her recent near-death experience – she is alsoa dangerous woman.

Flynn, for his part, is too floored to do anything at all.His hands windmill feebly in the air, and he remains briefly inert against her,until Lucy wonders if she’s completely mistaken and there isn’t whatever there is between them, whatevershe thought there was. His mouth is a hard seam of granite, grim and ungenerousand guarded like a castle wall, just like the rest of him. Just then, for thatinstant, it feels like kissing a statue.

In the next, it doesn’t. His hands clamp onto her face,pulling her head up almost hard enough to strain her neck – well, he’s a fullfoot taller than she is, something’s got to give, something has to bridge thedistance, in more ways than one. He kisses like he punches: he takes noprisoners, he doesn’t waste time on peripheral targets, and it feels liable toknock you out if you run into it too hard. Her hands come up, clutching hiswrists, as their noses mash and their teeth scrape and they bite each other’slips, too used to conflict to come easily into convergence. Lucy isn’t evensure she is enjoying it, exactly. Just that she can’t stop.

It’s Flynn who breaks the kiss (if such a polite,sweet-sounding word can be used to dignify the proceedings) after a gasping,gulping moment. He clearly thinks the insanity of the Salemites must becontagious. “Lucy – ”

Oddly enjoyable as it is to hear her name in his mouth likethat, the way his accent sometimes thickens in moments of heightened emotion,Lucy Preston rarely gets the chance to outright do stupid things, and shedoesn’t feel like losing this one. She takes a step, grabbing his lapels, herloosened hair falling around her face, dark shadows on the paleness. She feelsa little demonic herself, breathing enchantment, whispering spells, and it’s aneven more enjoyable feeling, the tremor that runs through him, the knowledgethat she could break that desperate self-control with not much more than aflick. Witches are known to have sex with the devil, after all. It’s one of themajor features by which you can identify them. How, God knows, but Lucy isn’treally interested in the logistics. Just this. Her monster.

(He’s not, he’s not a monster, she hasn’t thought that for along time now, and yet. She hungers. She hungers.)

(Perhaps the monster is her.)

(She doesn’t altogether mind.)

They stare at each other for a dazzled moment longer, andthen Lucy’s grip changes, turns possessive, as she pulls him closer again.Flynn resists for a valiant split-second longer, and then she can feel himsnap. They are two people with, to say the least, a volatile history, who havehad some sort of connection from the start and whose chemistry has always beenundeniable, who have been spending a lot of time (at least on someone’s Garbage Lord part) insistingthey hate each other now. Of course it was going to become inevitable.

Flynn kisses her ferociously, hand curling behind her head,fingers brushing her scraped ear, but Lucy doesn’t care. Her arms tangle aroundhis neck, they overbalance, and slide down the trunk of the tree into the softmoss at the bottom. Flynn comes down heavily on top of Lucy, catching hisweight on an elbow just in time, as well as tangling in her skirts. It’s awonder anyone gets to the actual fornication part around here, given the amountof clothing, but Lucy happens to know that Puritans hump like rabbits. Don’tlet the buttoned-up religious zealot image fool you. This – sneaking off for atryst in the woods, in the ditches, in the fields, anywhere away from the whiteclapboard house and the judgment of the church – is far from uncommon. And allof that is alarming, if it’s what they’re doing, but it appears they are.

Breathless and entangled, Flynn sprawled between her legs,his head resting almost on her chest, they struggle to sit up halfway, stillkissing, grunting and whimpering between breaths, as he rakes her bottom lipwith his teeth. Lucy wrestles him into a better angle, as he puts down one handto brace himself and strokes her neck with the other, running his callusedthumb up the hollow of her throat and onto her cheek, half-tender despite theheat of their kiss. His eyelashes flutter. The look on his face is unspeakable.This is probably the first time he’s kissed anyone since his wife died. Lucywonders if he’s seeing the ghost of a dead woman in her face – or if he’s not.

It still doesn’t matter. His mouth leaves one more long,hungry brand on hers, then breaks off, venturing down her chin, the undersideof her jaw, as he tugs aside the torn white collar. Lucy shudders from head totoe, even as his free hand has successfully made it under the skirts and isrunning up the slim line of her thigh. As much clothing as Puritans wear ontop, they wear less below. Lucy has made it a policy of retaining her ownunderwear, but aside from a petticoat, there’s not much in Flynn’s way.

She shifts position, crawling onto his lap, shucking hisheavy coat and hearing a thump as it hits the ground with his gun still inside.She may regret that if they are abruptly caught by the Puritans, but then,public indecency would definitely get them arrested, so Flynn will be punchingsomeone anyway. This is insane, this is insane, this is insane, and for a moment, Lucy wonders if she’s actually beingbewitched, that the moon is rising in Salem Wood on a seventeenth-centurysummer night and she’s fallen sideways out of reality. But that is her lifeevery day now. This is something still more.

It doesn’t take long until Lucy’s skirts are hiked up aroundher hips, Flynn’s trousers have been unbuttoned, and if either of them aregoing to stop this before it goes past the point of no return, it has to benow. But Flynn’s hand has almost reached the top of her thigh, and Lucy isgoing to lose her mind if they don’t, and this is going to solve nothing at alland will probably result in their relationship being even more fraught. But it still doesn’t matter. Nothing does except him,and them, and this. She pushes Flynn onto his back, hooks her panties off herankle, and picks her skirts up. Their eyes meet, in a moment of silentquestion. It’s not entirely clear who’s asking who.

Flynn gives half a jerky nod, hands already reaching for herhips, pulling her closer, as Lucy straddles him, knees pressing into the softloam on either side of his thighs. The first intimate brush is practicallymaddening, and she reaches down, taking hold of him in her hand, stroking tipand shaft with her thumb. Then she shifts, guides him in the darkness, andslides him slowly into her, hard and hot and solid. Her fingers slip on him andher, this raw and elemental communion, like druids coupling in the shadow of astanding stone. This ritual, this old magic of man and woman, has beenpracticed for thousands upon thousands of years.

Lucy utters a faint whimper in her throat as she settlesfully onto him, opening her hips, feeling him sliding deeper and deeper untiltheir bodies are entirely given to the other. She leans forward, breathcatching, as she rolls her hips, then plants her hands on his shoulders as shethrusts. He reaches up to grab her wrists, meeting her halfway with a thrust ofhis own, hard enough to send something haywire inside her. She sees sparks. Shegulps and swears, eyes closed, sweat beading in her hair and rolling down theback of her neck. Hitches herself up, drags herself against him, and bends downalmost on all fours, riding out the long shudder of frisson and friction. Hegrips her harder. Her head comes down close to his as she fucks him thoroughly,her hair hanging in his face. He snarls and lunges for her mouth.

As they kiss again, Flynn comes up beneath her like acyclone, flips them over, and catches hold of her hands, shoving them over herhead, as he thrusts into her practically to the back of her spine. One of hishands pulls loose from hers and gets hold of her thigh instead, pushing itwider. Every time Lucy thinks the next stroke can’t keep coming, can’t be moreintense, it is, rutting and jerking. Her free hand claws at him, searching forpurchase in this mad, mad universe, when she fears she has been tipped off theedge and it is a very long way down. Bunch and burst and buck, her back presseddown into the loam, Flynn’s hips coiling and loosening for a final, wrackingheave. He has given up on any feeble denial whatsoever that he does not want todo exactly this. He mounts her once more, strong and lithe and ruthless as atiger, and then starts to lose it altogether.

Lucy isn’t sure if she orgasms, so much as she reaches apoint where her body simply cannot take a single instant more of sensation andstimulation and breathless need, the system overloads, has to call a halt andstart again. Her mouth is open, head thrown back on the leaves, gaspingfruitlessly, her body shaking and blazing. It’s like standing too close to anopen bonfire, not so much soft and pleasurable as searing and primal. She thinksthat perhaps, the Salemites have gotten their wish. She has, in fact, beenburned alive.

It is a very long moment until either of them can even thinkabout moving. Flynn is still inside her, pulsing and softening, until he jerksout of her abruptly enough to make her feel bereft. He sits back on his knees,pulling his trousers up and fumbling with the buttons. Lucy lies where she is,still not quite able to move, as he steals a brief, shamefaced look at her andreaches out to pull down her skirts, as if hiding the evidence will deny it everhappened. His hands are shaking, faintly but relentlessly. He wipes his mouth .“Lucy,”he says hoarsely, the first thing either of them have managed since thismadness started. “We should go.”

Slowly, head rushing as she does, Lucy sits up. She can’tquite get enough air, due to a combination of the obvious and never havinggotten around to taking her corset off. Her thighs are slick and her mouthfeels wet and swollen. She is going to have bruises.

“Lucy.” He remains hunched where he is. “Lucy, did I hurtyou?”

Garcia Flynn, as far as she knows, has never asked thatquestion to anyone before. Lucy doesn’t know how to answer. He didn’t, and hedid, and she feels like the white-hot anvil in the forge, and she isn’t sureher knees can bear her weight. She feels both possessed and cleansed. God,where does she even start to understand this.

(Maybe she doesn’t have to. Maybe it just is.)

Flynn is still looking at her. Waiting.

Lucy reaches up to touch his face, cupping her fingersaround his jaw. He turns his head almost reflexively, as if to kiss her palm,and to hide his eyes. She can feel a wetness that is not sweat. He shudderswith the weight of all the tears he is not remotely about to shed. But despitehimself, a few more slip out. He shakes again. He doesn’t make a sound.

Lucy leans forward and kisses his cheek, softly and chastelyafter the carnal heat and fury of their coupling, and tastes the salt on herlips. Then she puts her other hand out, and allows him to help her up. Theygrasp at each other once they’re back on their feet, struggling to steady eachother. He looks at her again. His expression is indescribable.

It’s a strange feeling to know you own a dangerous man’ssoul, but Lucy Preston will be gentle.

“Come on, Garcia,” she whispers. “Let’s go home.”

[ithoughtyouweredifferent]

I thought you were different Chapter 11: A Slate Cleaned by a Dusty Eraser

A/N: I am so sorry that this took so long!

Fact: Bananas are curved because they grow towards the sun

Word count: about 2,800

Recap: Because you are playing for the big event anyway, you agreed to play the accompaniment for Lins big reveal for his next show (along with the normal music, an original piece and your own very old adaptation of the same piece by Lin you two had written years ago) on the condition that he not include you in any acceptance or thank you speeches which he ignores and almost calls you out anyway because you truly were a vital part in the creation. 

Table of Contents

Chapter 10

Chapter 12 

You walked home exhausted and drained, if preparing for the event was stressful, the day after was a nightmare. Tanya had avoided you like the plague but you had managed to stop her at the end of the day to apologize and make sure that there weren't any hard feelings. She reminded you to keep a line between professional and personal and to be careful with Lin, but otherwise, all was good and well. That had been at the end of the day the nerves and day after a big function stress had been eating at you all day. All to wanted to do was go home, eat, shower, and collapse in your bed. What you didn't want to do was see an envelope slid under your door.

You set down your bag and keys and sighed before picking it up. It had your name and an unfamiliar return address written on it. Lovely. You grabbed a knife and ripped the envelope open please don’t be a bill notice

Hey, it's Lin, I'm sorry if I caused any trouble for you. You were right, it's been a while and I get it that you've moved on. I am glad that I ran into you again it was nice to see you. Being in the public eye is something that was terrifying at first but I got used to it. And it's not everywhere, you're only 'famous' in some places. And honestly I'm fading out--the lead of a Broadway show from six years ago isn't exactly a hot topic It's never too unmanageably bad. Really. I think I'm going to be staying here for a while just settle in in one spot. It is lonely always relocating and never getting close. I get it, that you're over it--over us. But it'd be really nice if we could be friends or something... And a heart with his name at the bottom.

You migrated over to the couch where you sat and read the letter several times over trying to figure out what he meant by it all. It seemed nice, being friends with Lin, but being friends with him wasn't something that would be easy. You thought about how comfortable you were with him, how easy he was to talk to, how he made things that normal friends do seem like so much more...how you had loved him and all the reasons why....and how he would always have a dream to chase that couldn't include other people. You wondered why he had written this letter, he could have dropped by at work, or shot you a text or email or call or actually run into you and spoken face to face. Normal people don’t write letters like this but because.

He would never be a ‘normal’ friend. You remembered how when you had first met he was a friend first and foremost, a friend you had less than a year, he was the person that made the old stories and songs about how the sweet little old couples refer to each other as their best friend because they are. Tanya says that if the relationship is a good as the coffee it will last, but it was with people like Lin that you knew if the relationship is as good as the friendship, it will last. But did the two of you have what it took for a healthy friendship that wasn’t built off of the idea of the friendship you once had?

You didn’t know what to do, you knew that it wouldn’t take much for the old spark to fully ignite on your behalf and you would only be setting yourself up for pain. Like Tanya had said, you had known before that it wasn’t going to work out and you had fallen for him anyway and here you were knowing that it would be just like last time. But you missed his friendship, you knew that you needed something that resembled closure to your relationship other than that goodbye in the school parking lot and that he deserved more than an unanswered letter. The what might have been was going to torture you...but so would the almost certain tragic ending. But you could be friends with him without making it into anything else. You had plenty of friends that you did perfectly well with as just that--friends. Surely, Lin could be the same. Couldn’t he?

You were stupid and decided to leave the letter sitting on your kitchen counter so the first thing you saw when you were really woken up was that letter. You needed to respond and tell him something...but what? That you didn’t love every second you were around him? That you didn’t miss his constant optimism and positivity? That you didn’t like the constant hugging and affection? You knew as good as you were standing these that you couldn’t do that. You stood in your kitchen looking at his letter for the longest time before you decided that it had to be in person and that it had to be wholly honest. You would just send him a simple text to meet later. You didn’t have to work today, hopefully, he wouldn’t have plans. The sooner you got this off of your list to do the better. 

A simple text asking to meet later for lunch. Just basic. Straight to the point. Lunch.

You free for lunch today? We should talk

he answered almost instantly and before you knew it you had solid plans for 12:30 at the deli shop that was about halfway between your building and his. 12:30 means you have two hours to shower and get physically ready but really that meant you had two hours to get mentally and emotionally ready and figure out what to say and how and figure out how to make this go as smoothly as possible.

You had a good plan, you really did. You had a solid way of how to say what you needed to say. Had. As soon as you had both gotten your food and were trying to talk, all plans went out the window.

“Hi,” you said in a small voice. So much for the confidence that you had planned on

“Hey,” 

“I read your letter,” you stated abruptly and he looked at you visibly biting his tongue so he wouldn’t interrupt you, “It was really really well written,” you could tell he wanted you to go ahead and get to the point but now that you were actually looking at him, ou just didn’t know what to say, “I missed you,” the words tumble out before you can stop them, “but I also realize that you have a life and so do I and that as long as you are being asked to travel the world for your job we can’t be together because I don’t think I can do that and you not traveling for my sake is an absurd idea that is completely out of the question-I know that that’s obvious but I thought that it was pretty obvious that I didn’t deserve to be called out for showing you a couple of chord combinations and yet you made it sound like I wrote the whole show. You aren’t ging to be able to stay in a single place for too long and-”

“I can, though! I am!” he suddenly burst, “I have at least the next 7 years right here. There may be a little bit here and there but that is a week or two at a time occasionally. I know 7 years isn’t forever but we had a really great thing going and-

“And that’s another thing, we had a good thing. What if it’s different? What if we realize that I was just using you or that it turns out we were only talking to each other at all because it seemed like our best option given who else was around, or that you were just a once in a lifetime thing to get me out of my momentary slump and move me along in life?”

“So what if it’s different? Everything has changed I’d be more concerned if everything was the same,” he said, “I don’t think that anything is just meant to be. And you’re wrong, there were plenty of other people around then, but we chose to talk to each other and get close and maybe we didn’t choose to fall in love so quickly, but we didn’t either one really try to prevent it. There is nothing in this world that could convince me that you were ‘star struck.’ I remember your initial reaction to meeting me like it was yesterday. Everyone else who meets me already knowing about what I’ve done and is a ‘fan,’” he rolled his eyes at the word acknowledging his ‘fame’, “it is a combination of excited ‘can’t believe it’s you,’ and taking pictures and autographs and occasionally ticket requests and then questions. Of course, there are exceptions but for the most part...but, nobody else blinks away the shock of ‘you don’t belong here’ and warns me about the other fans who are going to swamp me later. It was that first moment that I knew you were different. And if you’re convinced it was fate just letting you use me as a one time crutch then clearly fate has more plans because this is a second once-in-a-lifetime chance that I meet you, ” he refuted every point you had made which was both admirable and frustrating,

“So, what do you suggest?” You asked “I don’t want our relationship to be built out of and centered around the idea of it,” 

“And I don’t want us to do that either. I want us to start from scratch. So that it's as if we have just met only we have a little bit of a head start on the get-to-know-you stuff,” 

“And how do we do that? I don’t have a pile of papers to throw at you,” you half-joked

“Simple,” he stuck his hand across the table, “I’m Lin,” you laughed but shook his hand, 

“I think you know who I am,”

“Way’da play along,” he snorted and you shrugged, 

“You know that this does literally nothing to change all that I already know about you and our history right?” you pointed out but he shook his head,

“Nope. We are like a slate that has just been cleaned by a very dusty eraser. It’s obvious we aren’t starting with a clean slate, but it is blank and empty and ours to write all over with a new story. One that is going to last longer.”

“Does this mean I have finally lost Socrates once and for all?” You asked jokingly

“mmmm,” he pretended to consider it, “No, you’ll always be my Socrates,” he decides and you roll your eyes but go with it, “Like you said, some things will always be there.” he took a  large bite of his sandwich, the first bite you had either had. 

“we keep doing that,” you said laughing

“What?” He asked around a mouthful of food,

“We come in and sit and get something to eat or drink and we just ignore it. We did it the other day with the coffee and at dinner with Chris and now here we are just now starting our food,” 

“Huh,” was all he had to say, “Well,” he raised his sandwich like it was a toast, “We can talk between bites,”

So do you have any plans for today?” you asked him and he shook his head,

“Just this, you?”

“Finish recovery from the ceremony and Friday clean up” 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” you raised your eyebrows at him

“Okay?”

“Before I went on, what was it you were playing?” you felt your face get warm

“The Bach concerto?” you asked knowing full and well that that wasn’t the one he was referring to

“No the one right before that, when your boss came over and was sitting with you,”

“Oh, that one?”  

“Yes that one,” he said rolling his eyes, playfully annoyed

“That was a piece I’ve been messing with for a while...a long while. A really great song I sort of have altered and changed so I don’t think it pushes the limits of copyrighted music too far and besides, at those sorts of events nobody actually listens to the background music, of course you would,” you smirk as if the joke is on him,

“Really? It wasn’t the same thing you were playing while I was talking forever before you bridged into the actual piece?” you couldn't hide the oh shit look from your face,

“You noticed?” you asked quietly 

“Of course I noticed! It was fantastic. At first, I was worried that it was a piece someone else already written that I had altered to make the show because Alex wasn’t there to have heard the original drafts of it that that resembled so how could he know it and then it hit me--you were the one playing it and you had been there for the rough drafts. When did you write that?”

“I’ve been modifying it, of and on a little bit here and there for years, it’s hardly the same piece at all,” you tried to downplay just how much you had worked on getting it right but he knew

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to call you out if I had an acceptance shpiel to give and then I heard you play that and I realized how perfectly we work together and how amazingly talented you are and that I wanted to have you not just in this one but in more and that leads to my next question which is really more of a proposal,” he began and he leaned forward his voice getting lower 

“What?” he was good at surprises but where he was going with this was lost on you

“What would you say to collaborating with me on this show officially? You already have done a lot, it was that story about your aunts and the uncle that first got the gears turning and you’ve thrown enough ideas at me...There is still so much to work out on it and it would be fun to work together on something like this. It would be more helpful to me than you could even imagine and maybe you’ll realize that getting acknowledged for what you do isn’t bad once you’re used to it?”

“You want me to co-write your next hit with you? I...”

“Would you please just consider it? You have so much talent and-”

“Lin...”

“Please please please please?” his eyes were like honey

“Let me think about it,” you said,

“You have just become my very favorite person,”

“That’s not a yes,” you protest

“But it’s not a no!” he looked like he was about to dance around the room so excited,

“It’s a ‘let me think about it before I do something stupid and instinctive that would be detrimental to one or the other or both of us,” you clarified, I can’t believe you’re seriously considering me to co-write your next show. You already have so much done and my ‘talent’ is-”

“I have lots of ideas that need lots of fixing. You are so amazingly talented and the world deserves to hear you,” he insisted 

“Just...I’ll get back to you on it. Okay? Let’s finish our food and then go our separate ways. You probably need to go grocery shopping and I guess I need to really read the song book that you lent me so I can know what I MIGHT be getting myself into,”

“Okay. Yeah. Yeah. Yes. Right. Yes.” he agreed trying to contain his enthusiasm.

“Okay," you said with a hint of laughter in your voice, "and thank you, I am honored," you tacked on realizing that this really was real not just some joke in a school auditorium with your backs to the audience

"You deserve it just like the world deserves you." And to that, you had no response other than to continue your lunch as you both were lost in your own thoughts. 

Chapter 12 

people want to be tagged?: @genericusernameblahblahblah @huffleheyguys @theselfishllama

[whatwouldfrogsdo]

Opportunity (or Dreamer)

Day 6 of Nursey Week!

Trigger warnings: This deals with discussion of racism, particularly racism within the NHL, as well as white supremacy and internalized racism. Disclaimer that I, the writer, am white and so please, please if any of this is insensitive or straight up incorrect let me know and I will edit. There’s also some internalized acephobia.

Also on AO3 here.

“What’s that about?”

Derek looked across at Ransom, then followed his gaze, frowning when he saw April and March playing beer pong. Then he realized that Holster and Dex had sat down to talk just beyond the beer pong table.

Derek paused for a moment, considering if it was okay to answer honestly. “We’ve had NHL scouts. It’s, uh, getting to the point where we have to decide if we’re staying here for fourth year or not.”

“Shit.” Ransom looked impressed. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I think they’re starting to look at Samwell as one of the top colleges to try and pick from or something. Dex and I aren’t talking about it much. We don't want to affect each other’s decision.” His teeth worried at his lip. The reminder of next year's uncertainty got more and more stressful the closer to a decision he felt. The hiss of air next to him told him that Ransom could see some of his doubts, and the next thing Derek knew, he was being steered towards the stairs.

In the attic, they settled on the double  which had replaced the bunk beds about a year earlier, and Derek stretched out so that he was staring at the ceiling. Ransom flopped onto his stomach and tilted his head to look at him.

“What's up?”

“It's stupid.”

“Isn't it always? Okay, start easy. Do you want to play NHL next year or stay here?”

“I want to play NHL, of course I do.”

“And you want Dex to do the same but he's not so sure?”

Derek squeezed his eyes shut. “No. No, I think he'd regret not doing that last year. I didn’t come here for the degree. I came for the college experience, and I can leave after three years knowing I got it. He came as the first person in his family to go to college. It was an effort for him to get here. You never know what might happen with hockey and realistically something could happen that first year before we've made enough to get by on, and I can shrug and live on my parents’ money and maybe write a book or some shit, but he— It would kill him.”

There was a long silence. “Well why the hell aren't you telling him you think that?”

“Because half the time we fight it's about money. And— And because this hits too close to our first ever fight. I applied for the scholarship even though I didn’t need it and he did. What if— What if it’s my privilege talking when I say I want to go into the NHL, but that’s not for him? At least not now. Isn’t it kind of fucked for me to want that success straight away, but want him to wait?”

Ransom pulled the toy frog he and Holster had gifted to them at graduation towards him and had what looked like a staring competition with it while he thought. “I’ve never known you and Dex to avoid fights,” he finally said. “You tell each other what you think, whether it’ll annoy the other one or not. That’s how you work.”

It was true. Derek so rarely told people what he really thought of them, but with Dex he always had, and in the end it had turned into a strange form of trust. Similarly, back in the beginning when Dex was trying to mold himself into somebody he wasn’t, it was only back in the confines and privacy of their shared dorm that he let himself open up, heart pouring out for Derek to see, to the point where they didn’t know how to function when they had to pretend not to know such things about each other. “This is different. This is our futures. Besides, it’s the sort of fight we couldn’t keep up here. It would affect the whole team.”

Ransom stiffened for a moment, and when their eyes crossed, Derek knew both of them were thinking about all those altercations between Ransom and Holster the year before. Making life decisions was difficult.

“Nursey, bro, the main thing is you want what’s best for him.” There was a crack in his voice which betrayed a hint of emotion at the acknowledgement that Holster had only ever wanted the same for him. “And when it comes to privilege- I mean, fuck, have you spent so much time teaching yourself about classism that you’ve forgotten that you playing in the NHL will automatically put you on a Wiki page of Black players in the League? And you'll literally be like the third person with desi heritage. Hockey’s so fucking white, Nursey. You can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by because you’re trying to cater to your white boyfriend’s feelings.”

Derek nodded. He knew that it was true, but forcing himself to make a decision without factoring Dex in seemed impossible.

“Way I see it, Nursey, not talking to each other is making this decision more difficult than if you were. What if he’s thinking the exact same thing but he thinks you want him to go with you?”

“That’s the other thing, though!” Derek said, sitting up. “What if we can’t do long-distance? We’ve been living together in the same fucking room as each other ever since the second time we ever met. It’s not even just since we’ve been together, it’s since before that. We don’t know each other apart. We just went from hating each other’s guts to— to—”

“To disgustingly domestic?”

“Whatever. But we did all of that while living together, and the one summer we were apart was difficult enough and now we’re even closer and he’s my best friend and I don’t know how this would work. We don’t even—” His hand shook a little and he dug his fingernails into his palm as he tried to push the words out. “We probably have sex less than your average long-distance couple already.”

“Woah.” Ransom’s hand flew out and grabbed Derek’s, prising his fingers out of a fist. “That’s personal. You don’t need to tell me that.”

“But it’s relevant. What if we go all that time not seeing each other, and then when we do I’m not in the mood. Am I just supposed to expect him to be okay with that?”

“Dex knew what he was signing up for. If he really isn’t okay with that, he doesn’t deserve you, but I’m willing to bet Jack’s annual salary that he loves you, asexuality and all, and won’t begrudge it. Your relationship is way more than sex.” Derek knew he didn't look convinced, because Ransom let out a heavy sigh and continued. “Long-distance doesn’t work for everyone, right? But it does for some people, and you two— It’s up to you to make it work, eh? I know I’m the last person who should be giving advice on making it work considering my relationship couldn’t handle a move to Boston, but a lot of that was me not putting in the effort. I kept just thinking March and April have each other, so if I’m tired after another full day of med school, I don’t have to ring, or Holster’s got a game this weekend and it’s easier to get to that than it is to get to Samwell for their game, and what if I screw up his rituals by not being there? But if you put in the effort, and if you keep talking to each other, why shouldn’t you be able to manage it?”

Derek stared at a stain on the ceiling - the one which Holster insisted had been there before he moved into the attic, even though Ransom didn’t remember it being there to begin with despite it being right above where his top bunk had been. A long-distance relationship with Dex was incomprehensible to him after all this time of waking up next to him, and every time he tried to imagine it, doubts plagued his mind.

“Hey,” Ransom said softly, and Derek looked back at him. “This will be good for you. If you know you can get through this year, you can get through anything with him. If you can't, it's better to know now when you've both got a definite support system around and you'll have something to throw yourselves into. Otherwise, what? Five years down the line you've got kids to think about and you end up traded across the country from each other and realise that you actually don't know how to function apart?”

Derek nodded. “You're right. I know you are, it just makes me wonder why we have to change anything if we're happy.”

“Things change, bro, that's life. Don't turn down the opportunity to follow your dreams for love. Didn't La La Land teach you anything?”

“I didn't watch it.”

“Oh. Not everyone lives with Holster, eh?”

Derek snorted, but when he responded, it was with a sincere shrug. “He might be worth making new dreams for.”

“Nah, he isn't. Nobody's worth that unless they're willing to do anything they can to let you follow the ones you already have and if that's the case there's no point changing them. What difference does it really make doing it a year early? It's not like the odds of the same team signing you both is that great and it's probably lower signing the same year. You're allowed your own dream. You're allowed to want to give up on college for it and still think Dex should stick it out here. And he doesn't have to make his decision based on you thinking that but also you don't have to make your decision based on what Dex wants. Except you don't even know what he wants! You're just stressing over making sure he's happy and comfortable and please just think about why that's so fucked up.”

Derek’s breath hitched “I know. I know, okay. I'll talk to him. I'll tell him I'm doing it.”

“Good. You can fulfill my dream, too.”

When Derek looked over to see what Ransom meant, he was met with a mischievous grin. He narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Well, I have a dream that one day—”

“Oh my God.”

“The Black boys and girls can play hockey with the white boys and girls.”

“That's already a thing.”

Ransom carried on as if Derek hadn’t said anything. “And I have a dream—”

“Are you really doing this, you absolute nerd?”

“That one day the Atlanta Thrashers won't be accused of reverse racism for hiring Black players.”

“Pretty difficult seeing as they aren't a team anymore.”

“But also that they won't only hire Black players to give themselves a particular fan-base.”

“Are you done?”

He grinned. “I don't know, are you convinced?”

Derek pushed himself off the bed. “Honestly, I'll do it. You're right. I have to do this; it's not an opportunity I can miss, and I want to do it now, not in a year when it'll just feel like wasting time.”

Ransom jumped up to hit him on the back. “Look at my little frog, all grown up and mature and ready to face the world.”

“You're so embarrassing,” Derek muttered as they started back down the stairs to rejoin the kegster. “Uh, but thanks.”

“Any time, bro. I mean that. You've got my number.”

They sidled up to Holster and Dex who each silently demanded if everything was okay. Derek swung himself up to sit on the arm of Dex’s chair, and placed his feet in his lap. The look Dex gave him said ‘we need to talk,’ but his fingers were gentle and reassuring as he ran them up Derek’s calves. Hopefully, they were on the same page.