#how am i supposed to write a story in just eleven sentences?!

[horseshoegirl]

Damn Those Dog Tags: Part 23 - Sleep Deprivation

📜So... I really don't know what to say right now. As a writer, we are supposed to be able to form words into sentences that create worlds, characters... emotions... but I cannot bring myself to form the correct words to describe how grateful I am that you guys took a chance on me, writing this piece of fan fiction after an 8-year hiatus, wondering if I still had it, if I was enough. DTDT is the first piece of Fan Fiction I've ever finished, the first story I have ever finished. And along with you all, I've cried, I've laughed, I've wept, I've smiled over Sadie being herself and Liz standing up for what is right. Jake being who he is, and Bradley... well, he speaks for himself 😅 It's one thing to say you write fan fiction, but it's another thing to say that you want to write fan fiction for people who make you feel supported in what you do. This is my THANK YOU to you all. For your kind words and lengthy reblogs, for the comments, likes and support. DTDT only exists because of you guys. And I love every one of you from the bottom of my heart.

So... with a bittersweet mention, here is the final Part of DTDT. Part 23, Sleep Deprivation 😭

❗18+. Strong Language, Pure fluff, Original Female Character, Original Child Character, PDA, Just in case letters, and maybe a few tears...

#6K words

Part 22 | Masterlist

"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, Dear Sadie Bug, Happy Birthday to you!" 

Cheers erupted throughout the Hard Deck as Sadie smiled at her family, all gathered and singing to her around the piano. Uncle Roo was playing, lightly swaying into her side, making her laugh. Alyssa had her hand on Uncle Roo's shoulder, and the rest of the Dagger Squad was scattered about, singing along with the crowd.

She turned eleven today, and while she loved the fact everyone was here, with her celebrating, she found that the best gift she ever could have received was in how she saw you smile, here and now, with Uncle Jake holding you close. You were smiling like you used to, long before you had left to live in this small town she now called home.

Uncle Jake had lived up to his promise. He reminded you that you were worth it. He made you happy. And he tried.

She didn't need anything else.

"Sadie," a hesitant voice called from behind her. She spun on the piano stool, only to find a single yellow tulip attached to a slightly shaky hand in front of her face.

"Happy Birthday." Will smiled crookedly.

You felt Jake tense up against your back, his chest puffing out and his grip on your waist near the point of pain. Bradley even twisted at the sound of Will's voice, staring him down above the rim of his father's Raybans.

While Bradley might be dating his mother and, albeit, starting to bond with Will, he knew a wooing attempt when he saw one. Sadie's heart was another matter entirely.

You and Alyssa giggled softly at Sadie, blushing as she took the flower and at Jake and Bradley for shooting each other, what you could only describe as an "overprotective dad vibe."

Sadie delicately grasped the tulip, her eyes lighting up as she glanced at Will. "Thank you," she managed to say, her voice a mix of appreciation and surprise.

A silent exchange passed between Jake and Bradley. It was as if they had reached an unspoken agreement, a united front. Will had no idea what he was up against, two grown men ready to go to comedic if not slightly absurd, lengths to stir hardship to any boy that dared to approach Sadie.

Will shot his mom a look, who nodded at him encouragingly.

"Do you wanna.. go play on that old arcade machine in the back?"

Sadie went to open her mouth, an eager yes about to escape her lips, until she thought she heard a growl coming from behind her. She turned back, seeing her Uncle Roo first, his jaw tight. Her Uncle Jake wasn't that far off either, his nose flaring with each breath he took, glaring down at her best friend.

She shot you a pleading, panicked look, hoping you could see the desperation on her face.

Jake and Bradley opened their mouths, Jake's voice overtaking Bradley's as he went, "Over my dead..."

But they were cut short. You had taken your arm resting on top of the piano and jabbed Jake in the gut with your elbow. Alyssa had caught on, grabbing a lock of Bradley's hair at the back of his head and tugging once hard.

"Of course, sweetheart," you replied, jutting your head urgently towards the back. You silently mouthed, 'Go. Now!' and Sadie giggled, scrambling off the bench with her flower in hand, running off with Will towards the back.

Alyssa let go of Bradley's hair, prompting him to shout out, "What the Hell!" as you turned to face Jake.

"Relax, both of you. She's eleven!"

Jake pouted, clutching his stomach. "That little shit stole my idea. Only I get to give her a yellow tulip... it's a tradition at this point, and here he comes, swooping in with his tulip-like he's Mr. Original. It's my thing with her."

"Hey, that's my son you're talking about, Seresin!"

You tapped the back of his head with your hand, biting your lip to stiff your giggle. "He's a kid, Jake! It's just a tulip, not a wedding ring."

That was definitely the wrong thing to say.

Jake gulped hard, and you swore you saw a flash of pure terror cross his face. "No, Nope. No. I just got to call her mine. I need to do the things with her before she properly grows up," he sputtered. "A wedding ring? Liz, she's eleven! Don't put that mental image in my head. She's our girl, don't do that!"

Jake wasn't kidding about Sadie being his, not really.

Once the two of you brought Sadie home from Camp, you sat her down and asked if she was okay with Jake moving in. Of course, Sadie was ecstatic, nodding her head and asking 'when' or 'how soon', which prompted the two of you to start to plan things seriously. But it also posed the question Ridley had to consider the second Sadie was born.

Who would look after her if something happened to you?

It was nothing formal. You merely had to change your Will, stipulating that Jake would be the one to get her should anything happen. But Jake treated it as if it actually was, boasting to anyone he could about his niece. The words practically rolled off his tongue with ease and that sheer cocky confidence he was known for. It also didn't surprise you when you found information packets lumped on top of his computer in your office about the process for formally adopting.

It just further proved to you how much Jake wanted to be in your life.

"She has a good head on her shoulders, Jake. And she adores you," you remarked, looping your arms around his neck. Jake's chest rumbled against yours as he huffed. "Besides, I think you set a good example. She clearly expects high standards."

He let out a grumble, and you could only laugh and stand on your toes to plant a kiss on his lips. "You'll always be the reigning champion in this house, Hangman."

"I agree with Jake, Liz. We need to lock her in a tower."

You dropped your head to Jake's chest before you turned to roll your eyes at Bradley. You caught sight of Sadie in the distance, and she met your eyes and gave you a thumbs up, the tulip still in her other hand. The message was clear; she was okay, she was happy. That's all that mattered to you.

"Want another?" you asked the two of them, gathering their empty bottles. The both of them nodded, and you shook your head as Jake stepped into the space you vacated, leaning over the side of the piano to scheme with Bradley. You rolled your eyes at Alyssa, who shooed you on your way.

You smiled at Penny as you approached the bar, holding the empty bottles out to the air, signalling for two more. It's not as if you couldn't have gotten them and added them to a tab yourself, but Penny was adamant you didn't work tonight.

Your phone rang out and vibrated within the pocket of your dress. You pulled it out, wondering who could be calling you. Everyone who possibly could be was here at the Hard Deck, celebrating Sadie's Birthday.

Then, you saw the caller ID.

The bottles slipped from your fingers, shattering upon impact with the floor.

Not that you noticed, but everyone's heads lifted and turned towards the sound of breaking glass. Jake was the first to reach you, mindful of the broken glass at your feet. Then Bradley, Alyssa, Nat, and all of the Daggers swarmed you, knowing your history with phone calls and wondering what else might be thrown at you this time.

You pressed accept on the tiny device, bringing your phone to your ear, eyes wide as you stared at Jake, panting hard.

"Hello?"

Penny had yelled for someone to turn off the jukebox and for everyone to shut up. It was dead quiet, but for the sound of your voice and the tiny speaker of your phone, the entire bar invested in the outcome of your call.

Jake wanted to reach for you, but he didn't know if he should, wanting to leave you to have your space to deal with whoever was on the other end of that call. You turned your back to face him as the other person started speaking, you pressing a knuckle to your lips and biting down hard.

Everyone watched you nod and heard the question, 'What does that mean for us?' cross your lips.

"What..?" Rooster started to say, breaking the silence. Jake shot his arm out, shaking his head.

But the second he saw you grip your forearm and your skin turning red, he stepped forward, uncaring as glass crunched under his boots, to stop you from hurting yourself.

"Yes, thank you. I'll call if I have any more questions."

You squeezed Jake's hand once he gripped yours, and you hung up the phone. Turning to face the group, you looked at them with a shocked look on your face.

"Liz? Darlin?" Jake asked. "What happened?"

You swallowed, hardly believing what you heard yourself. "Uh...Tyler got thirty years to life."

A few collective gasps went around the room.

"They got him on attempted kidnapping, two counts of physical assault, and.. and murder."

Jake reached for your face and cradled your cheek. "Murder?"

You nodded, silent tears falling from the corners of your eyes. "There was a traffic camera... that fucking white car... the spoiler on the back... they caught him chasing her..."

Your words were fractured sentences as Jake combed your hair back from your face, you trying to sort between your thoughts and the information you had been given.

"That was the district attorney. I didn't even know he had a court date," you sniffed. "His whole family is going down for this... and there was a jury too. Apparently, they didn't take kindly to him attacking an active and decorated Naval Aviator."

Jake huffed, a soft smile on his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. You could tell he was stuck somewhere between relief and discomfort.

You raised your eyebrow at him. "Are you okay?"

He was. Tyler was truly well and out of your lives, and that was a good thing. But somewhere deep down, Jake felt as if the universe had twisted things to make him the hero in a story where the true victims were you and Sadie. It didn't sit right with him.

"I don't wanna sound like an ass, but my career shouldn't have had any bearing that decision."

You shook your head, touched by his reaction. "It doesn't matter, Jake. Not to me. He's going away."

You pressed your forehead to his, a happy sob escaping your lips at the realization suddenly washing over you. "He won't be able to get near Sadie ever again. And Ridley finally has justice for what happened to her. We're free."

Jake pressed a quick kiss to your lips, smiling as you gasped another deep breath. The second he pulled away, letting his nose rest beside yours, you chanted out happily, "We're free!"

Cheers went up around the Hard Deck, and Penny rang the bell, singling a free round on the house. The rest of the Daggers sighed with relief, lamenting about needing a drink, while Rooster whooped, running back to the piano and sliding along the bench as he ran his fingers across the keys.

Yet Jake and you stayed where you were, staring at each other with echoing smiles.

A well-known piano riff sounded off the walls of the Hard Deck, and Jake and you fought the urge to roll your eyes, using the distraction to slip out onto the hard deck patio and over to a grassy part of the beach. You could hear Rooster's playing at a distance, but it was enough not to be a bother.

You went to step forward, but Jake pulled you back by the grip he had on your hand, spinning you under his arm. You giggled, your head tilted back as you went, only to find Jake's hand resting flat on the curve of your back, urging the two of you to slow dance.

Bright orange rays hit the side of Jake's face. Hues of gold, pinks, and soft yellows, all sculpting his jawline, shining tiny flecks into his eyes, and casting a glow into his hair. They highlighted the small, affectionate small that was tugging at the corner of his lips. Jake's Mona Lisa smile was one thing, but this was one that was only reserved for you.

"Is this going to be our thing?" you asked him. "Watching sunsets?"

Jake smirked. "We could do a sunrise to switch things up?"

You let Jake spin you under his arm again, a smile on your face. He pulled you back to him, hooking both his arms around your waist while yours wrapped themselves around his neck.

"No," you smiled, swaying with him across the grass, thinking of when you went to visit Ridley. "I think sunsets are reserved just for us."

---

Despite having a party at the Hard Deck, Sadie's birthday did happen to fall on a Saturday night. So it was only natural one of her birthday wishes ended up being that she wanted these fun-filled nights to continue.

Who were you to deny her that request?

It was just the team that came back to your place afterwards for cake, your backyard lit up by your string lights and the glowing flames of your bonfire pit, music blasting from your speakers. Sadie had just finished opening her gifts from the squad, and Jake and you had saved yours for last.

Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, flicking the stand back on the case and propping it on the edge of the pit. It let out a shrill tone, and Sadie squinted her eyes at the tiny screen, wondering who Jake had decided to call, now of all times.

Suddenly, a woman who looked just like him appeared on the screen.

"Is this Sadie?!"

Sadie squinted her eyes. "Yes...."

Janet's face beamed with excitement. "It's so nice to meet you finally, my brother can't shut up about you. Happy Birthday, Sweetie."

"That's nice of him," she answered, though you knew what she was doing, challenging Janet to earn her affection.

"Which one are you?" Sadie pressed. Jake bit his tongue, fighting a grin.

Janet didn't hesitate when she replied, "Not the twit and not the one that needs a pitchfork shoved up his as... butt."

Sadie giggled, and Janet shamefully called out, "Sorry, Liz."

You shrugged. "She's heard worse."

You met Nat's eyes on the other side of the fire, noticing how she was watching Sadie contently.

"Uhhh," Janet remarked. "You actually kind of look like my brother."

"Do you have any embarrassing stories about him?" Sadie's high-pitched voice made you turn back toward the camera.

Janet glanced over towards you within the frame. "She really is your niece, isn't she?"

You laughed, and Sadie broke into a full smile, her guard dropping a bit. "I like her," she declared, glancing at you and Jake for your reactions.

"If you two are done squaring off.." Jake said, rolling his eyes. "Janet had a hand in your gift and wanted to watch you open it."

He placed a box in Sadie's lap, holding the edge so it wouldn't fall as she tore into it.

"Go on, open it," Jake encouraged with a little bounce in his voice.

Sadie tore at the wrapping paper, lifted the lid and gasped. "Cowboy boots!" she squealed, pulling them out to admire the intricately stitched patterns and the shine of the leather.

"Thought you might need a pair if you're gonna be an honorary Texan," Jake said, grinning from ear to ear.

Sadie lunged forward, giving him a huge hug. "Thank you, Uncle Jake!"

He laughed, hugging her back. "Thank Janet, too. She picked them out."

Sadie squealed out her thanks as she kicked her slip-ons off, quickly trying them on. Except she shrieked when her foot met something within the sole, and she pulled the boot off only to reach down and grasp a few hard pieces of paper.

With a dramatic flair, she pulled out three plane tickets, holding them up for everyone to see. Her eyes widened, and a squeal escaped her lips as she put two and two together. "Are these... are we going to Texas?!"

You took one from her hand, reading the front. "Jake, you didn't."

He shrugged. "She needs to see where her family is from."

Bradley audibly gagged from his spot on one of the chairs, and you barked out, "Can it, Bradley! Don't ruin the moment!"

"We'll see you soon, Aunt Janet," Sadie said, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet with newfound enthusiasm.

"Counting the days, sweetheart," Janet said, waving goodbye as Jake ended the call.

As Sadie tried on her new boots, you reached down beside the bench to grab what would be Sadie's final gift of the night. You carefully slid it into her lap, placing a hand on her back.

"This one is from me... and your mom."

Sadie peered up at you with wide eyes before tearing into the box, practically tossing the lid off in haste. Her tiny hands tore at the tissue paper, and Jake was laughing at her eagerness as the tuffs flew up into the air.

She gasped when caught sight of the dark blue denim folded neatly into the box.

You found that Jean Jacket amongst Ridley's things in the storage unit, finding the courage to go through it finally and see what you could salvage or donate as you undertook the task of redoing Sadie's room. You knew as soon as you saw it that Ridley had been intending to give it to her as a gift, a twin butterfly and ladybug patches having been already sown into the material on the back.

That's what Sadie was seeing now, the jacket folded in such a way in the box only those two patches would be on display.

She wiggled her cowboy boot-clad feet back and forth in excitement as she grabbed the shoulders of the jacket, lifting it up out of the box to hold it in front of her. Jake grabbed the box and added it to the rest of the discarded wrapping paper.

Except as she held it up to inspect the back, the front was on display to everyone else sitting around the fire pit. Collective gasps and shouts of "What?!" sounded off, and you had to bite back your laugh.

"What the hell are those?!"

Sadie lowered the Jacket, peering over to see her Uncle Bob, ready to rat him out for swearing, when she saw his mouth was open like a fish. Twisting her brow, she flipped it over, a high-pitched gasp escaping her lips as she saw the two patches on the front.

The Dagger patch had been the most damaged one, but it was all too easy to grab the one plastered to one of the walls of the Hard Deck for reference. When Mr Murray asked why you wanted to use the busted one and not the one still intact, you had simply replied with, 'This one is special.'

It sat just next to the left breast pocket, perhaps standing out the most. But you, Sadie, and Jake hadn't been staring at that one. There was a second patch adorning the right breast pocket - a patch with a slight modification.

Sadie ran her finger across the gold-threaded wings before tracing the tiny words wedged in tight on either side below it. The tiny words that stood on top of the reason why this particular patch was now so special to her.

Proud niece of Hangman

To your surprise, it wasn't Bradley, but Nat, who yelled out first, "Hey! What about the rest of us?!"

Her shout set off a chain reaction around the group.

"It's not fair he gets to be on there first!"

"Why didn't you ask us too, Liz!?"

"There's a Dagger patch on there. All of us should be on there!"

But you weren't paying attention to any of them. You were looking at Jake, who had reached out to trace the patch as the jacket rested in Sadie's lap.

She looked up at him, hugging his side. "It's true, you know," she said a matter of factly. "I am proud of you, Uncle Jake. I always will be."

Jake snaked an arm around her back, hugging her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, eyeing you with a smile. You would never stop surprising him—the both of you.

The Daggers were still arguing amongst themselves when Sadie scowled at them.

"Hey, guys!" She shouted, giving everyone pointed looks across your deck. "It's my birthday, shove it! He counts! And If I say he goes first, he goes on first, okay!?"

Everyone else, save Bradley, backed off.

"Guess I'm just chopped liver then."

Sadie narrowed her eyes, pushing herself to stand.

"You listen here, you big fat glorified chicken..."

You couldn't contain your laughter as Sadie marched over to Bradley, her finger pointed out in front of her as she started laying into him. Rooster looked scared, and you shook your head, wondering why he didn't realize Sadie would jump to Jake's defence the second she could.

Jake startled you as he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

"Meet you in the kitchen?" he spoke into your ear, squeezing his hand once before walking off, collecting the tray of dirty dishes on the table.

You stayed with Sadie for a few more minutes, making sure the rest of your crazy family didn't kill each other over who could have one of their patches on Sadie's jacket next. Though you'd never let on that Mav secretly slipped you one of his as he joined Sadie when she came back to sit with you.

As you sat there, watching the people who had come to mean so much to you, you felt an odd sense of what you could only describe as 'home' wash over you. It wasn't tied to a place but to your extraordinary found family. Because as much as they were there for Sadie, they were there for you too.

It was the peculiar kind of warmth they brought you, whether Nat was trying to get you to come out of your shell, Penny for acting like the defacto mother you didn't quite have most of your life, or Bob willing to be himself around you. It was in the way Mav cared for both you and Sadie as he did for each of his Daggers and how Coyote was always there when you needed him. How Payback and Fanboy made sure everyone was having fun, and how Rooster was the troubled brother you never had, a little broken, a little worse for wear, but genuinely kind-hearted.

Every family a bad egg after all, albeit bad wasn't the word you'd use to describe him at all.

They helped to fill the gaps left by your grief and sorrow, and you vowed to hold each of them a little closer. Because your life had been a pile of good things and also bad. The good didn't always soften the bad things you had to go through, but the bad never spoiled the good or made them unimportant in your life. Your life was messy and unpredictable but beautiful with its imperfections.

And you, somewhere along the way, were living with people who had chosen to stand by you in your darkest moments.

And Jake. Your Jake.

You turned to Sadie. "Think you can manage these guys while I help Uncle Jake?"

She smiled up at you, nodding, before looping her arm through Mav's, resting her head against his shoulder, tenderly glancing between some of her favourite people in the world.

Walking away, you paused at the back door, leaning up against the glass with your arms crossed as you found Jake humming, swaying along to the song currently playing outside as he worked, hands covered in suds as he diligently cleaned the dishes.

You faked a cough, startling Jake as the sponge slipped from his hands back into the dishwater.

"Anything I can help you with, Lieutenant?" you tease, playfulness in your tone and a grin gracing your lips. Jake narrowed his eyes at you, a cocky smirk on his face, then jerked his head to the empty space beside him.

"I wash. You dry?"

You walked over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, feeling him pause to place his hands over yours. You closed your eyes, pressing your cheek to his back and letting out a deep sigh.

A wave of profound gratitude washed over you. This man had chosen to love not just you but Sadie as well. He had stepped into your lives, filling spaces you hadn't even known were empty at a time when you weren't at your best. When you were fighting with yourself tooth and nail not to start a relationship, when you were missing your sister so much, the thought of her not being here was too great to bear. When you were scared to let anyone that close to you without Sadie's approval and yet, Jake somehow found his way.

You loved him. And there would never be a day in your life when you would let him forget it.

The two of you did the dishes, the odd comment or two passing by. The both of you knew a few of them would be sleeping over, you having already made up the pull-out in your office and Jake having gathered the spare pillows and blankets from your hall closet.

The two of you might have bumped your hips, teased one another, and shared a kiss or two. You might have blown bubbles in Jake's face, and he might have tapped you with the dish rag.

But when everything was said and done, and Jake was working to drain the sink, your eyes tracked to the top of the refrigerator, where that white envelope called out to you. It was wedged between your cookbooks, and you saw nothing else as you pushed yourself off the counter with both hands.

Reaching up, you worked the thick piece of paper out from between the books, only to hold it, staring at the front and absentmindedly tracing the writing on the surface.

Without looking up, you spun towards Jake, feeling a complex mix of emotions. Love, apprehension, vulnerability. But underpinning it all was an entwinement of a slight sadness, but more so serenity and acceptance.

"Hey, Jake," you said softly. Jake turned around, the smile on his face fading when he noticed you were holding a white envelope in your hands. A gentle smile was on your face as you looked down, closing your eyes once before lifting your head.

"I have something for you."

Taking the few steps needed to close the distance between you and Jake, you held out the envelope.

"Another letter?" he teased, slinging the dishtowel onto his shoulder and wiping his hands dry before taking it from your hands. He flipped it over, eyes searching the front until he spotted the fancy handwriting.

Jake's eyes shot to yours, utterly shocked. Yet, you didn't do anything except squeeze his wrist once and lean up to kiss his cheek. "I'll be out in the back with the others if you need me."

Jake remained frozen on your kitchen floor, watching as you walked out the back door. Sadie immediately ran to you, and you held out your arms, a cheerful laugh racking your chest as she hugged you tight.

Jake smiled at the sight, his girls laughing with one another as the music changed, and you wrapped your arms around her, waddling back and forth as the two of you started to dance. But then he felt the weight of the envelope you had given him, and he was drawn back down at the handwriting gracing the surface.

To him

Despite not having seen her handwriting, he knew who this letter was from. You had told him you had opened the shoebox about the letters Ridley had left for various points in either your or Sadie's lives.

He'd never expected Ridley to have written one for him... or at least, the idea of him.

Sitting at your kitchen table, he carefully opened the envelope, tilting it upside down to pull at the folded-up pieces of paper nestled inside. But as he pulled, several polaroids fell onto the table and a few to the floor.

Placing the letter off to the side, he reached down to scoop up the ones that had fallen, drawing in a sharp breath as he flipped one over.

The resemblance between Ridley and you was uncanny.

He didn't know what to expect, seeing a photo of her for the first time. Her eyes twinkled the same way yours did when you were happy, and the two of you shared the same dimples when you smiled. She had the same nose as you, the same hair colour, and the same face shape.

But there were also differences.

He smiled when he noticed the line of freckles spreading across her cheeks, the same type he knew scattered across your back. She had a scar running through her eyebrow and another matching just above her forehead.

But above all else, her smile echoed Sadie's, wide and happy.

He picked up another one, seeing you, as a teenager, laying in a hammock with a notebook and a feathered pen. Ridley had written along the white frame, an author in the making.

There was also one of Sadie as a baby, wrapped in a pink blanket, blue eyes wide as she stared up at the camera. And another of you holding her to your chest in a rocking chair, the two of you asleep. There were a few of you as a kid, another of you holding up a key with your tongue sticking out, and another at your graduation, Sadie on your shoulders stealing your cap.

Jake realized almost all the ones of you were strategically taken by your sister without your knowledge. It's so reminiscent of when Sadie sent that first Polaroid, the same circumstances - like mother like daughter.

Jake laid each out in front of him, lining them up to what he assumed was their chronological order, only to stare down at the story Ridley had left him. He felt his throat tighten as he looked at all of them. Even in the face of something as heartwarming as leaving him photographs of the three of you, the lingering weight of Ridley's absence was inescapable, and it hit him square in the chest.

Though he never had met her, the space she had left was undeniable. Seeing her now, he realized maybe he did know her. In Sadie's smile, in your will to take care of others, in the music she had shared with you and in both of your abilities to put somebody in their place rightly. It caused Jake to smile down at the only photo of her, resting on the table.

"It's nice to meet you, Ridley."

So finally, after the last photo, after the last word had been seen, and the last memory had been touched, Jake unfolded those pieces of paper and began to read.

To the person my sister loves,

Well, shit, she finally did it. My little sister finally found her, Mr. Darcy.

Sorry. As you probably have already discovered, the Beck sisters have a little Pride & Prejudice obsession. Totally my fault for naming my sister after a character in a book I fell in love with in school, but I took my chance when I saw it. But if you have the tendency sometimes to be a pompous asshole with an ego problem, then hey, at least she wasn't that far off the mark.

I'm sorry I'm not there to meet you. Whatever circumstances have prevented me from doing so. I'm sorry I can't have you over to a family dinner, ask about your life, and get to know you. For you to win me over, or for us to bat heads.

Just kidding... I'm more bummed about not being able to give you a shovel talk in person. But I know my daughter, and something is telling me Sadie would have already beaten me to it long before I had an actual chance. She has a thing about Lady Bugs, so run if you see her with an empty water bottle and she... Well, if you don't already know now, chances are you will eventually.

One way or another.

So I think this is my only chance to do it, sad as that is. Sad for you - you probably thought you were getting off scot-free. Nope, sir, I'm still going to kick your ass from my grave. So you better heed the wishes of a dead woman.

Now, she wouldn't have given you this letter if she didn't truly love you... if she didn't want to spend the rest of her life with you. She also must have made you promise to put Sadie first, and the fact you're holding this letter means you have. By her giving this to you, it means you are entirely worthy of her love.

(I don't write this as a means to scare you or warn you about what you're getting into. Cause no takebacks, sir, it's a done fucking deal now. I will so totally haunt your ass if otherwise. Sadie gets her wrath from me.)

There is so much more I want to tell you than I can fit into the pages of this letter. There will always be more, more things left unsaid, more things I never told them, or in what I'm telling you - God, the pressure to write something for someone you may never meet is hard…I hope you have a sense of humour cause I really don't stop rambling.

So, I guess I'll stick with three. Three things I want you to know…

One: Music does not solve all your problems.

Liz might try to tell you otherwise, that music can heal, and while I won't entirely disagree, you need to know the reason why. When we were kids, I'd play music to drown out the arguments, the slamming doors, the not-so-quiet sobs. The ability to guess a tune in just a few notes? That came from needing to know which song would best mask the sounds we didn't want to hear. The playlist wasn't just music; it was emotional armour. So when you listen to music with her, know that there's more beneath the surface. Beneath that lighthearted game is a history that's no game at all. When the playlist ends, and the distractions fade away, be the man who's there for her, not one that hides away when things get rough.

Two: A memory is no longer beautiful just because it fades.

People always used to ask me why I chose a Polaroid over a digital camera. With a Polaroid, each shot counts. You have a limited number of exposures, and each film cartridge is precious. There's no delete button, no do-over, just like in life. And when that photo develops in front of you, you have to wait for it to mean something. Once it does, it's permanent. You can hold it, you can touch it, you can pin it on a wall. But polaroids also fade.

Memories fade. But their value isn't in how long they last but in the ones you choose to capture in the first place. My sister and my daughter have been through a lot, so when you're building this life with them, be mindful of the moments you're capturing. Make those moments count. Make them worthy of being looked back on so there is no room for anyone to doubt the three of you didn't live a life that was not full of love.

Three: Grief is constant, unchanging, and complex - it is the most certain thing, next to death, we are guaranteed.

I have a very, very sneaky suspicion you are a pilot in the navy - hell, she works as a bartender in a navy bar; it was bound to happen with one of you lot (You just better not be the one Penny had called her about, rumoured to be sleeping with all the female bartenders... if you are... aha, good luck sir.. you're so in trouble - That's what Liz gets from me) so you know exactly what I mean. It's ingrained into your soul that each time you go up there, you might not come back down.

Liz struggles with grief and the knowledge that life is precious and fleeting. Don't add to it. Be the person who acknowledges it, who understands it, and chooses every day to make the time you have with them count. Life is fleeting; It can be gone in an instant. It's nothing we should ever take for granted, so please, please, from this dead woman pleading to the man my sister loves, please never take your life with her, with Sadie, as such.

They're both yours now, god help you. Liz, my dear sister, who cares too much. Sadie, my ladybug, who is too honest and sassy for a kid.

I've always put the two of them before myself. Liz has probably told you our story, so I won't rehash the nasty details in what's supposed to be a touching letter - I'm brutally honest, so when I say truly believe it was my sole purpose to be on this earth to 1) take care of my sister and 2) to create what happens to be, next to Liz, one of the most precious things in my life, I fucking mean it.

That being said, we need to make a slight amendment to the Sadie promise. Between the two of us, we need to add Liz to it too.

Lizzie needs to be reminded, given a list of all the reasons she's still here breathing, that she is doing right by what I want for the two of them. Because I know my sister, and she overthinks everything. She will be hanging on by a thread to every decision she will ever make with our Bug, wondering if she has done enough or if she is doing enough.

She already is. She already was.

And she doesn't owe me more than that.

You, however, do.

I need you to remind her of that - that she owes me nothing. I need you to take photos. Take as many as fucking possible. Go on hikes and look for the tiniest bugs. Make memories to hold on to and be the person who scares away Sadie's first date or holds her while she cries. To walk her down the aisle if she chooses and help her if she decides to have kids of her own.

Tell Elizabeth you love her. Every single day. Because you know as well as I do, you don't know the last time you'll be able to. Crawl into the bathtub with her when things get too much and hold her. All she needs is to be held, to know someone is there, standing by her. Thats it.

Stay up listening to vinyl with her, dance across a kitchen floor and make her laugh. Communicate with her. Please, for the love of fucking god, communicate with her about your feelings and your thoughts. She is such a good listener, and she cares so much for the people she loves. That's just who she is, so never forget it.

And promise me this one last favour...

There are more letters like this one in the red box I know she's probably only just opened, probably a long time after I'm gone. Mostly for Sadie, but there are some for Liz... maybe a couple more for you. I'm not sure yet, I'm honestly just making this up as I go.

Can you please make sure they open them? Go through the pile of memories I've left in there every so often?

I'm not being egotistical when I say I know I'm going to be missed. Grief does that to people. It's really just love, wanting to be given but with no place to go. I know those two will always love me in life and in death.

But remind them I know. Remind them I love them too - even if I'm not physically there to tell them myself.

This ended up being not as much of a shovel talk as I thought it was going to be, mostly cause I don't have anything to threaten you with truly.

But how about this, instead?

It's probably weird that I want to say thank you, right? Thank you for falling in love with my sister. Thank you for being there for her, for Sadie. For loving them when I cannot.

But I want to anyway. Because they mean everything to me, and it is my only hope they mean everything to you.

So wherever I am, whether it's in the clouds or in a fucking ray of sunshine, or if I'm a freaking bug, I can only hope I get to see the three of you be with each other in every way that matters.

Even if I can't, I know you're there.

And that's more than enough for me.

Love always,

Ridley Beck

~Fin~

🥲

Tag list:

@blue-aconite @tinytotontheoversizedpony @djs8891 @caitsymichelle13 @startrekfangirl2233

@mayhemmanaged @ereardon @dempy @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @daggerspare-standingby

@phantomxoxo @formulapierre @eli2447 @fulla02 @blckgrl-sunflower @mizzzpink @ohgodnotagainn

@bubblegumbeautyqueen @sarahsmi13s @desert-fern @lynnestra44 @memoriesat30 @penwieldingdreamer @mxlanciia

@bradleybeachbabe @bobby-r2d2-floyd @lavenderbradshaw @roosters-girl @lovinglyeternal @kmc1989 @gigisimsonmars

@keyrani @craftytrashprincess @hisredheadedgoddess28 @abzidabzy @memeorydotcom @vicsnook @taestrwbrry

@its-the-pilot @dizzybee03 @cassiemitchell

Wickett 🥲

(Sadie, Liz and Jake will be around for blurbs and one-shots if that is something you all are interested in 🥰 )

----

Forever After All - The next series after DTDT

[variousqueerthings]

No blowing up the planet!

it's.... Nightmare In Silver!!! the second of the neil gaiman penned episodes, and I've gotta be honest, the only thing I'm really vibing with this time around is Warwick Davis, unfortunately, because I'd want to watch it again for Warwick Davis, youknow?

sexism rank objectification (female character is ogled/harassed/turned into a sex joke by the doctor and/or a lead we’re supposed to root for and/or the camera): 4/10

sexism rank plot-point (lead female character is only there to serve plot, not to have her emotional interiority explored, or given agency to her emotional interiority): 3/10

interesting complex or pointlessly complex (does the complexity serve the narrative or does it just serve to be confusing as a stand-in for smart, this includes visually): 4/10

furthers character and/or lore and/or plot development (broader question that ties into the previous ones, at least two of these, ideally three should be fulfilled): 4/10

companion matters (the companion doesn’t always have to be there, but if the companion is there, can they function without the doctor– and overall per season how often is the companion the focus or POV of the story): 6/10

the doctor is more than just “godlike” (examines the doctor’s flaws and limitations, doesn’t solve a plot by having it revolve entirely around the doctor’s existence): 4/10

doesn’t look down on previous doctor who (by erasing or mocking its importance, by redoing and “bettering” previous beloved plotpoints or characters, etc.): 8/10

isn’t trying to insert hamfisted sexiness (m*ffat famously talked a lot about how dw should be sexier multiple times, he sucks at writing it): 8/10

internal world has consistency (characters have backgrounds, feel rooted in a place with other people, generally feel like they have Lives): 4/10

Politics (how conservative is the story): 5/10

FULL RATING: 50/100 (if I can count….)

it's not so much that it's the worst episode of ever, it's more that it's spreading itself way too thin. And then of course. we get the second most infamous fucking terrible line in Eleven's run:

OBJECTIFICATION: "A mystery rapped inside of an enigma squeezed into a skirt that’s just a bit too… tight."

I am just hoping that Neilman didn't write this line, because it scans as pure M*ffat at his worst, but who knows. this is the Doctor about Clara, and look, not that it should even matter, because it's a heinous line that shouldn't exist, but it also doesn't make sense, because Clara's skirts may be relatively short, but they're cut in a sort of almost 50s flare (I don't know skirt cutting terminology)

and I hate that that's even a point I have to make in this, why do I have to think about the tightness of Clara's skirts fuck you fuck you fuck you!

this is genuinely the only thing, but it comes outta fucking nowhere slaps you in the face and then leaves you with "ah, thank you for summing up the only things that matte about your lead character in one, hypersexist sentence." which... speaking of the first half of that sentence

PLOT-POINT: I've been praising Clara's competency in most of her episodes. she's proactive, she does things even though she's scared, she knows number one rule is Not Dying.... in this episode she's got none of the depth that comes with the things she does

suddenly, she is just In Charge Of Soldiers, and she's practically a different character. gone are emotional tie-ins to what she's doing, in fact she mostly seems to be having fun and/or being very happy to be put in charge of this particular military, with the exception of a second when they're almost killed by Cybermen

I did write initially that I liked her taking charge in this one too, but as the episode went on, she felt more like she was just there to run the B-plot, than to be important. I also wrote down this line "The only reason I’m still alive is because I do what the Doctor says"

honestly I'd have to go back and see if rtd-era companions have these sorts of lines, but also my girl-guy, he's asking you to run first line of defense against Cybermen, it's not that you're not being put in danger. this is the sort of line I'd have expected from Amy, but I think Clara's been remarkably free of them up until now (I could be wrong, but from my notes!) Especially because throughout this season we've had episodes where the Doctor had no idea what to do and you saw that Clara!

this is me picking up on dialogue, because this episode... did not have good dialogue by and large, but we'll get back to that, because we're not done with "The Impossible Girl" (sigh) -- because if you didn't think she was kind of absent proper emotions before, (such as the episode breezing mostly past her reaction to seeing the kids she's taking care of being controlled by Cybermen, which, again I can sort of believe in that she hasn't met Cybermen before and so doesn't think the children are dead like previous companions might, but they're still kids she deeply cares for and apart from an initial comical anger scene, she's just moving onwards with the plot), then remember here at the end that she's not really important, she's just the mystery of the season for the Doctor to solve!

COMPLEXITY: this episode has so many setpieces. there was a war 1000 years ago vs Cybermen that people won, and now they're on this abandoned amusement park that has a bunch of old Cybermen casings, and there's a lost emperor, except he's this guy who's been calling himself Porridge, who's the secret behind an automaton chess player (a real thing that existed in the 18th-19th century and used this exact technique), but is actually the long-missing emperor that's been searched for for awhile, I cannot remember why he was undercover as an amusement park gimmick called fucking Porridge

uh and then the Cybermen start waking up, because the Doctor brought children here and they needed children and I cannot remember why, and they cannot blow up the planet, until they've saved the children, and the Doctor is infected, but plays a chessgame against his evil Cyberself (called Mr Clever, because everything in this era has to be weirdly Silly all the time), while the others fight the Cybermen in an abandoned "comical castle" because it's still a theme park and most of them die, the Doctor convinces the evil!self to release the children and then promptly fries him out of his brain, because why wouldn't he do that???

and all the survivors beam up to the emperor's big ship and blow up the planet. I have a lot of questions. why a themepark (did they explain that, I somehow must have missed it), why is the emperor missing (did they explain that, I somehow must have missed it) why is he pretending to be this guy called Porridge? (did they explain that, I somehow must have missed it) why tf is he missing if he's so easily recognisable that a child would get it?? (did they explain that, I somehow must have missed it) why did the cybermen need children? (did they explain that, I somehow must have missed it) why was the amusement park abandoned and then stationed with troops? (did they explain that, I somehow must have missed it)

so like. there maybe are explanations for all of these points, but my point is that this episode is so unwieldy that if you look away for a second you miss the potentially single piece of dialogue explaining a thing and then it's very unclear for the rest of the story. and I am Watching these episodes, taking notes, going back to read subtitles. I genuinely don't know how I missed all of that

and I like watching things that are complicated, I do. but only if it's also engaging, and this episode is not engaging enough for me to go back now and look through it (or even to possibly watch it again). it's got so much dialogue that is so out of place, tonally and structurally, there's no way I'm going in to try and focus more on it than I already did. my point isn't necessarily that the above wasn't explained, it's that it wasn't explained well, and there was a barrage of weird shit that was coming at you from all sides

CHARACTERS/LORE/PLOT: you'd think, considering evil!Doctor is inside the Doctor's mind and they're battling it out and evil!Doctor is seeing Forbidden Knowledge and also being kinda weird about the Doctor's and Clara's relationship (framing it as explicitly romantic), that there would be more forward-motion, but not really

Clara's not massively changed from the kids having been kidnapped and taken over by Cybermen, and neither are the kids for that matter. which, I don't know where to put this, but remember how back in Rings of Akhaten I was saying that there's a looooot of kids in this era, which would be great if they could act (like the kid in Akhaten), these kids are... not good actors in this episode. and they're also given (especially the girl) thankless fucking dialogue. she's meant to be giving that tween/early teen surliness, and in order to manage this 90% of her dialogue is calling things stupid. She'll enter a scene like this:

Kid: Hello I’m bored Soldier asks her where her sister (Clara) is Kid: She’s not my sister, she’s stupid

this.... is not how tweens/early teens talk, and you can feel the director going "just act huffy in Every Single Moment you're onscreen." she calls the Tardis stupid, she calls an alien planet stupid, she calls people stupid, I swear the nr one word this character says is "stupid"

point being, the kids aren't important to any forward trajectory on the whole, Clara isn't questioning the picture of herself in the last episode that she doesn't recognise so that's a bust, and the Doctor's little duel of the mind doesn't go much of anywhere

the only bit of something that may come up again is the Cyberman bit drifting around space to set up future Cybermen (shocking)

COMPANIONS MATTER: she does. yeah, she does take control of the soldiers. I wish it had been more awkward. why is this Clara, who was having a near panic-attack in Cold War, who was admitting to being terrified in Hide, why is she just so effortlessly good at this? but yeah, she does do Plot Things so to speak

I'm also not 100% convinced the Doctor would leave his companion -- especially this companion, whom he is trying not to get killed for the third time - at the front lines battling Cybermen, that's truly a last resort kind of situation that seems very chill here

“GODLIKE” DOCTOR: aaaand so we get to the A-Plot, which is an admittedly cool little setting in the Doctor's mind where the Gallifreyan cogs whirl around (I wonder if there's easter eggs in there)

and of course, really it's a way to "trick" the evil!Doctor into letting the kids go, so he can say fuck it to the chessgame and just electric him out of his mind, and that's exactly what happens

it's fine-ish, I've marked it down because it totally overshadows the plot where Clara is in charge of scared soldiers, which matters far less, and shouldn't! and also because... I'm circling around saying there's a lot of this dialogue that doesn't work for me either, and that I don't think Matt Smith is the best actor for it

I've enjoyed Matt Smith in this era, more than I thought I would. there are some things he does very well (cry-face is solid, rapid speech patterns without it getting jumbled, annoyance, lotta bodily flailing although I think directors overuse that to the point of my not taking him seriously at all quite often), where I think he often loses me is the Dramatic Time Lord Stuff. the quiet competency and rage, the shouting grand speeches, all of that... never worked for me, didn't work this time either, and the whole episode hinges on it a bit

it didn't help that evil!Doctor called himself "Mr Clever," it's one of those things that happens a lot in this era where the balance of lighthearted-for-"kids" (in the sense that you can see the screen screaming for children to think this is funny/whimsical/etc) and take-this-seriously-in-the-timetravel-show-please is see-sawing like mad. often just a lot little things, like that. it's like someone grabbing you by the face and yelling WHIMSY!!!!!! at you, rather than whimsy coming from the construction of the story

but yeah evil!Doctor is kind of sneering I guess. I think there's just more that could have been done with this concept, but like everything else it's stretched Thin

PREVIOUS DOCTOR WHO: so apparently these Cybermen reference a bunch of Classic cybermen, along with the ones developed during RTD's era. that's cool. also a few references to other Doctor's, especially Ten, with Allonsy and

"You've had some cowboys in here, ten complete rejigs"

“SEXINESS”: we are pretty solid on this on the whole. thank goodness. I do wonder about the emperor asking Clara to marry him, but I'll save the emperor as concept for last

INTERNAL WORLD: yeah, back to complexity, nonsense from top to bottom. I guess it's built like a theme park, in that there is a theme park map. I'm just realising this is set at a theme park and we see four locations -- the bit where they land on the "fake moon," and do some fake moon jumping. the soldiers barracks. the little room kept by the con-man carnival type. and the "comical" castle. why set this at a theme park if you're not showing any... theme park?

POLITICS: this episode is devoid of politics, except we've got this platoon and we've got this emperor of several worlds, and none of it has any bearing on the episode, because we're not meant to think about these sorts of things. the platoon is kind of the dredges, and so several of them are immediately killed by Cybermen, which would be gruesome if one cared about them, but the episode has so much going on that there's not enough time to focus in properly

but also were they drafted? did they volunteer? can they quit? who's their families, their planets? what made them join up if they did join up? why do they care about the emperor, what is that loyalty made up of? propaganda? why does the emperor matter? what is the suggestion that the word "emperor" makes spring to mind?

it's sort of framed like a budget LOTR with a return of the king, except his spaceship was orbiting the planet the whole time. I still don't know what he was doing there, or why they didn't just evacuate and blow it up earlier, and I'm saying this, but also is there more at stake when "blowing up a planet" who lived there? what culture is lost? how does it tie into the idea that an emperor can just blow up a planet?

he's presented as a benevolent, brave person, who's fine with Clara turning down his hand in marriage, but truthfully we know nothing about him at all, and actually a story about that would have been more interesting to me. what are the connotations of it all???

FULL RATING: 50/100 (if I can count….)

a thin thin episode with too much happening, too many characters, highly suspect dialogue, much of which was out of character, and a setting that's cool on the surface and then totally unexplored, because it too, is just there to be Cool rather than to have any deeper bearing on things

it's got some nice callbacks to classic!who and Warwick Davis, that's... most of what it's got going for it, unfortunately

and then that fucking line!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[sunriseverse]

pls expand on ur soulmate post. genuinely curious here

anon you have no idea how much you're indulging me in this. this is a topic that i feel very strongly about, and have a lot of thoughts that have slowly developed over time (specifically, in the almost eleven year period i've been involved, in various capacities, in fandom).

okay, so, for starters, i should define what i mean by a typical soulmate au, to give you a frame of reference. i am specifically talking about aus where people are paired together romantically based on some sort of indelible mark—often a tattoo, or some other form of image, though some aus it's the first sentence a couple says to each other, or a countdown timer (the few exceptions i can think of to the mark trope are red strings of fate and colourblindness that only fades when you lock eyes with your soulmate).

in these stories, there is often angst surrounding a character thinking their soulmate doesn't have the same mark as them, or that the person they love isn't their soulmate, et cetera, et cetera. however, broadly speaking, in the end, the soulmates end up together—they are joined in a blissful partnership, founded on the knowledge that they were meant for each other, due to machinations of the universe foretelling their union. rarely, if ever, is the alternative imagined: a person without a soulmate, or a person who chooses someone, or multiple someones, besides their soulmate; the plot most often resolves with characters "ending up with exactly who they're meant to".

society, especially western, american society, is deeply heteronormative. you are expected to wind up with one person, and that one person is expected to be a person of the opposite sex. you are destined, in many peoples' minds, inexorably, to end up in an opposite-sex relationship. it's part of why homophobes insist that gay people are unnatural, or just need to find the right person, et cetera—because we are not meant to have a choice; we are meant to follow what society (and god, if you're talking to religious, especially christian, people) has set out for us. it's unavoidable, and, really, won't you just be happier if you just do as you're supposed to? (this is a nice, sanitised version of homophobia—in real life, it's much more complicated, but let us narrow our focus to this one facet for the point of this post.)

now, to tie this back to soulmate aus: you are, once again, expected to get together with the person society tells you you should. in fact, you have an indelible reminder of who, exactly, that person is. soulmate fics, even the ones centring same-sex relationships, largely fall into this path; rarely, if ever, is any thought given to what might occur if someone has no soulmate, or rejects their soulmate, or chooses someone besides their soulmate—even the gay people in soulmate aus are doing what they're supposed to; even gay people in soulmate aus don't push the boundaries. the alternative to the heteronormative structure of soulmates is pushed into the margins; ignored, or outright denied. everyone ends up with exactly who they're meant to, the one person who'll make them happy, just like society has told them—yes, even gay people, who, really, if you think about it, have no difference in experience from straight people, because they can conform to society's expectations as well!

to be clear, i am not saying that writing soulmate aus is a bad thing, or that it's somehow erasing gay people, who need to be "different" from straight people in order to be truly gay. what i am saying is that soulmate aus, even ones centring gay people, are an amplification of what society expects of people, and their construction is often, if not explicitly, then implicitly heteronormative.

[plotsbymorgan]

Morgan’s Rp Rules

Hello and welcome to my roleplay and plotting rules. This is an important post that you have to read entirely in order to roleplay or to build a plot with me. I will know if you haven’t read my entire post. I know it’s long and annoying as shit, trust me, I’ve been there, but just tell yourself it’s worth it.

Now! To the rules!

Rule Number One: BE 17 OR OVER. I will not interact with minors, I am sorry.

Rule Number Two: Read my rules entirely and I will read yours entirely. Pretty simple.

Rule Number Three: NO BEASTIALITY WHATSOEVER. Furries and half animals like nekos are okay I suppose, but I would still prefer human-looking people.

Rule Number Four: I do Smut Roleplays and SFW Roleplays. Tell me which one you would prefer best. If you want a Smut Roleplay please tell me your limits when it comes to smut and your limits overall. If you would prefer a SFW, just tell me your overall limits/triggers!

Rule Number Five: If we’re going to roleplay, roleplay in a book style. As in “Talking“, Actions, ’thoughts’, -texting. I am uncomfortable with other styles since it confuses me most of the time. Though I may make exceptions for some styles.

Rule Number Six: Roleplay in 3rd person and past tense. This is a MUST. I will not rp in any other tense or POV. I am sorry, but that’s just how I grew up doing and my brain will not accept other tenses or POVs.

Rule Number Seven: No one liners!!! At the very least a small paragraph or five lines. But not like one word or one sentence. Ever. I write from one paragraph to five if I have the inspiration to.

Rule Number Eight: Romance is required in my roleplays, doesn’t have to be the absolute focus of the story but I want some in it. Also smut isn’t required, but I’d love a good passion-filled and sweet scene every now and then. But again, not required. Only romance is.

Rule Number Nine: I ONLY Roleplay 1x1, meaning me and someone else, I don’t do group roleplays, it stresses me out. But! We can do multiple roleplays at once! That, I can do. Also, only OCxOC. I don’t do canon roleplays.

Rule Number Ten: Be kind to me and I’ll be kind to you. I’m a chatter OOC as well so if you’d like to talk during our roleplay then we’re good!

Rule Number Eleven: DO NOT STEAL MY PLOTS. You either reblog, or keep credits. Never. Ever. Remove the credits. Never claim MY plots as yours.

Rule Number Twelve: I NEED for us to plot our idea for our roleplay TOGETHER. Unless of course we’ve already decided on a specific plot, in that case then we can head straight into roleplay. If we need to figure out a whole new plot, then help me with it. Don’t just say “okay“ or “Mhm“ or stuff like that it pisses me off.

And that is it for my Roleplay and Plotting rules. I hope you’ve read them all. If you have, please send “💛☀️💛“ so I know you’ve read my rules. Oh, and if you just scrolled down without reading to find this section with the code, I will know and I’ll block you. Read my rules damnit.

Good Day/Night!

[squadron-of-damned]

okay so i tortured you with freddy the other time with the character ask meme and now i am going to annoy you again bc you literally made frieda up and i need input on that cunt of a woman

My first impression of them

When I think I truly started to like them (or dislike them, if you’ve sent me a character I don’t like)

A song that reminds me of them

Describe the character in one sentence

What’s the first thing you think about when thinking about the character?

A childhood headcanon

How do you think they were as a kid? (Like, were they shy, noisy, wild, etc)

A weird headcanon

What do you think is a secret they have that they never told anyone?

The most unnecessary thing they ever did?

How do you think they would be as a parent? (and if they are a parent, how do you think they would be if they weren’t?)

Feel free to add more that I did not cover/infodump me (ILY, i'm so sorry SYHLJK)

This is going to take me a while.

My first impression of Frieda were questions: "What kind of a person could have raise up Manfred von Karma for him to turn out the way he did? What was her fundamental flaw that they ingrained a trauma of perfectionism into two generations?" (arguably you could cay three generations; Manfred fathered Franziska fairly late) I knew what she needed to be for the story/family tree to make sense, but I also had to figure out how to make it make sense as a self-contained person.

I think that I first began really hating her when I got the idea that she corrected her children's (and their progeny's) grip on writing utensils and cutlery. (As a kid I had always loathed that and it more cemented in me to hold the pens and pencils wrong.) It was fairly late at night and some alcohol might have been involved, so the idea of that crossbred with the idea of "slapping ruler/twig over fingers as corporeal punishment" and it came out as breaking fingers, mostly on accident. Damage to fingers had always creeped the fuck out of me. So... since then I really do not like Frieda. At all. No going back.

Sorry, besides the Ride of the Valkyries I really haven't got anything right now. I'll get to this question at a later date.

"Your parent's control obsessed mother whose upbringing didn't teach them to be nice, but how to get around the rules, and by the gods you live in fear that as the years come you are going to grow up closer and closer to her image."

Hats. Specifically fascinaters. Second is the "First Republic era" (1918-1938) of Czechoslovakia. She is a girl of that era.

Did a lot of those child drawings. Her father never put a single one on display. So she was dedicated to "get better" until her drawings would be "good enough" to make it on the fridge or something the like. That was probably when all the shit began spiraling down...

As a kid she was doing her best to get her father's attention. However, papa was always very busy and didn't have much time for her. She had all the toys she wanted, was free to pursue any education in any field she wished... but papa didn't have time for her and mamma left when she was young. Baby Frieda just wanted someone who cared.

Living with Bernard had consequences and those consequences were Frieda's strange understanding of electronic and electricity. She owned a literal lightning in a bottle, until one day the fuse-box blew out, at which point 70-something old Frieda von Karma put on rubber gloves (for insulation), grabbed the lightning from the bottle, taped it into said fuse box and ever since then the electricity in the house behaves perfectly. Somehow.

She did actually eventually come to love Bernard. She found out a tad too late, though.

Probably fussed over her appearance too much. She had to look "perfect". I suppose a lot of anti-aging cream was involved in her routine.

I... I don't think I have to answer that one, do I? I mean... Take Manfred von Karma's parenting, take away all the honey (and pancakes) from it, then crank it up to eleven.

Seriously, Frieda's fascinaters are an important part of her characteristics for me, because it was the only thing of her she allowed to be expressive. Her demeanor was always poker-face stoic, her paintings were strictly realistic (unless she decided to do a different style, and even so it was a very realistic take). So her fascinaters were a way of communicating to her surroundings how she felt and what was she going through. She would swap them through the day if her mood changed.

[hoboal87]

The Sofa

Pairing: husband!Winchester x wife!Reader

Summary: You and your husband settle into your new home.

Word Count: 500+

Warnings: fluff, smut, creampie, slight breeding kink (if you squint), slight objectification of the Winchester of your choosing

A/N: this was written for @cockslut-padalecki's Eleven Sentences Challenge my prompt is "Don't ruin the sofa." "I guess I'll have to come in you then." which is bolded.

You've spent the last 3 days christening your new home, you'd never had so much privacy from the other Winchester and you and your husband decided to use it to your advantage: fucking on any and every surface, screaming at the top of your lungs and you came over and over again without having to worry about getting that look from your brother-in-law the next day.

Your living room furniture had finally been delivered and after three hours of rearranging (much to your husband's and his brother's annoyance) you finally settled on the perfect spot for the over-stuffed and extra-long sofa, choosing to ignore a roll of the eyes and the mumble of 'dude, isn't this the first place we set it down?'

Both men are glistening with sweat, and when your husband lifts his shirt to wipe his face, revealing a trail of hair from his slightly pudgy tummy, his 'dad bod' as you had loving referred to it, and you bite your lip as you take in his perfect physique, warmth pooling between your legs. As soon as his brother is gone, you jump him, wrapping your legs around his waist, placing a rough and passionate kiss on his lips, moaning against him as he grabs you by the globes of your ass, giving it a squeeze, before walking you both to your new sofa.

"Someone's eager," he groans as you reach into his jeans and under his boxers to wrap your hand around his cock and slowly start to work him over; his own hand mirrors your actions as it slips into your shorts, and you don't miss the smirk when he finds you've forgone panties. "Dirty girl," he whispers into the shell of your ear, "walkin' around like this with my brother here, you hopin' he'd catch a glimpse," he slides a finger through your folds, "see what he's missin', that he should've taken you while he had the chance?"

You can only hum in response, the next several minutes are a blur: your husband has you cumming hard just with his fingers, and somehow manages to strip you and himself of your clothes, the soft material of the sofa now touching your bare skin. Your husband hovers above you, rutting through your folds, the head of his cock nudging against your clit over and over again, teasing you to no end until you’re begging him to fuck you, to which he finally obliges, grabbing a pillow and propping your hips at just the right angle as he enters you and starts fucking you hard and fast, filling the otherwise silent house with almost pornographic sounds.

"Don't ruin the sofa," you jokingly whimper as you come down from your high, "last thing we need is a stain on our brand-new sofa."

"I guess I'll have to come inside you then," he groans, flipping you over onto your hands and knees, "whaddya say, honey, you want me to fill you up, give you that baby you want so bad?" You moan in response as your husband reaches around to rub at your clit, his hips stuttering before he stills inside you, hot ropes of cum paint your walls, "fuck, I love you."

Feedback is Fuel! Please let me know what you think!

[aurorawest]

For the weird writing asks: 10, 19, 21, and 35

10. Has a piece of writing ever “haunted” you? Has your own writing haunted you? What does that mean to you?

There are lots of things that haunt me, I guess in the sense that I think about them long after I’m done reading. Hyperion and Song of Kali, both by Dan Simmons, though for different reasons. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell (which I DNFed about 10 pages from the end because I just couldn’t handle the tragedy). Perdido Street Station by China Miéville. Kiss and Tell by Adib Khorram (which I think every single person who engages in celebrity fandom needs to read...it’s YA so it’s ‘easy’).

As far as my own writing, I guess I’d probably say the two fics that haunt me are Anamnesis and Do No Harm. Both are tragedies and I think I did a pretty good job. Every time I reread them I always find myself rooting for things not to turn out the way I know they turn out.

19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?

The story I always tell about How I Started Writing is: in 6th grade, I was at my dad's office for Take Your Daughter To Work Day. My dad was a civil engineer, and quite honestly I wasn't really interested in what he was doing, I just wanted a day off from school. I very distinctly remember sitting at his desk in his office and thinking to myself, I'm going to write a story. I'd written stuff before that, but I'd never thought of it in that way, as an actual story with a plot—the sort of thing I'd read in a book.

So I pulled out the notebook that I was probably supposed to be using to take notes about my dad's job—boring!—and started writing an Enchanted Forest Chronicles fanfiction. Only, this was before the internet, so I didn't know the word for what I was doing was 'fanfiction.'

I think I started writing because I loved reading so much, and I wanted to tell my own stories. I always think of writing as the sort of play you do as a kid, but taken into an adult space. My sister and I had these elaborate, ongoing storylines for our toys, and writing is kind of a way to keep playing, I guess, past childhood.

Where am I now? Sitting here with two completed original novels, a completed AU that I want to turn into an original novel, and some in progress AUs that are barely even AUs, they're just original fiction with main characters named Loki Odinson and Stephen Strange. I want to publish, and I'm hopeful I can find a romance novel publisher that will accept my work.

Also, sorry Dad, your job was actually not boring, but when I was eleven years old I loved dragons and cats and not engineering.

21. Could you ever quit writing? Do you ever wish you could? Why or why not?

Definitely not! There were a few years where I thought maybe I'd lost the ability, but it came back. I definitely don't wish I could stop writing. It's so much of who I am.

35. What’s your favorite writing rule to smash into smithereens?

Complete sentences. I LOVE fragments. I mean, obviously I love complete sentences too. But I've always used a lot of fragments in my writing (purposefully, not because I didn't understand how to write a grammatically correct sentence).

Thank you so much!!

Weird Questions for Writers (because writers are weird)

[mintly]

Thank you so much for tagging me @princip1914! These questions were looking really fun to respond to!!

1. How many works do you have on AO3? Eleven!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 39,406! (It's-not-much-but-it's-honest-work.jpeg)

3. How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? I've written for 3 fandoms on AO3: Good Omens, Steven Universe and Sakana. I have a handful of half finished fics for other fandoms that never made it so far, alas.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Not Your Nan's Demon Summoning (Good Omens, G, 655) Crowley was sulking. He and Aziraphale could be having a cuddle by the telly with truffles from that little shop they liked in Brighton, but no. Instead of a cozy night in, all he had was an increasingly lukewarm mug of coffee and the indignity of being trapped inside what appeared to be a grandmother’s sitting room.

For Fear of Burning (Good Omens, E, 1k) After the thermos was delivered, the tension of a hundred years of fear and pain crackled between them like fireworks. Then it snapped, popping and sizzling, catching flame in a burst of desire. They hadn’t even made it under the sheets this time.

Before We Turn to Dust (Steven Universe, T, 6.1k) Their days were dirt roads and endless blue sky. It would be freedom, except it wasn't. Sapphire is a quiet country storefront and Ruby dreams.

Sentiments of Great and Indefinite Scale (Good Omens, T, 8.3k, WIP) Crowley likes Aziraphale. He really, really likes him. It's terrible. He can't help it if his one friend is an angel, but also a bastard, and that he really wants to hold his hand and run his fingers the feather-soft curls of his hair and kiss him until he's breathless. It's not his fault that Aziraphale is entirely irresistible. Crowley finds any excuse to pull him closer, and Aziraphale, most of the time, lets him. Isn't friendship amazing? - Six thousand years of dates and Crowley misses the memo.

Shiver at Your Touch (Good Omens, E, 3.9k) It was a new millennium, and the London Eye had recently opened to the public. Aziraphale had been hinting for ages that Crowley might take him. "Crowley, you must take us to the opening," Aziraphale said.

5. Do you respond to comments, why or why not? Yes! Immediately omg. As soon as I see a comment, I usually respond to it! I just really appreciate each and every one; it's honestly overwhelming to me sometimes that people read my work and maybe even enjoy it enough to leave me a kind word. Also if I do it immediately I won't forget to respond, which I might otherwise whoops.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? Oooh, I hope the end of Rupture and Rapture hits the hardest, but For Fear of Burning gives it a run for its money. I love an angsty, longing oneshot!

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic? Thankfully not hate, not really!

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind? I only started writing smut with my Good Omens fic, and I suppose any sort? I'm still not particularly assured in my smut writing abilities, but I've found it's fun to incorporate that sort of intimacy and vulnerability into a story! It can be so powerful, with happiness or longing or sadness, etc.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Oh gosh, not that I know of!

11. Have you ever had a fic translated? I've been asked before, but I never saw the final result. So maybe!!

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Not yet! @caffeinechic and I have something on the backburner though!! ONE DAY.

13. What’s your all time favourite ship? ffsjdifhsudf if I'm honest, it's my favorite in whatever fandom I'm in at the moment, but I have such a fondness for all my old ships too. I really do love Aziraphale/Crowley though, ever since I first read the book.

14. What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? I only have one WIP (Sentiments) and I will finish it!!! I promise!!! I am making progress, I swear.

15. What are your writing strengths? I like to think that I'm good at imagery; I spend a lot of time trying to pick the proper words to convey a certain vibe, especially verbs! I also work a lot on rhythm and sentence variation so that certain lines Hit Different u know, so I hope that comes through! I just love working on the fine detail of each sentence omg.

16. What are your writing weaknesses? SLOW. I'm so slow. I find it really hard to finish something after about the 2/3 mark and that last third is a slog oftentimes. It's something I'm working on as I try to finish fics and shrink my WIP folder.

But on a technical level, I really want to work on improving story structure so that I feel more confident and able to write longer works! I'm a short story author at my core, but I'd love to write something novel-length one day.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I think that it's important to keep your audience in mind and the purpose for including it! Using another language for a brief phrase or exchange can do a lot to establish a character or setting, but I also think the meaning should be easily gleaned or immediately translated within the context of the story. There're exceptions of course, but that's just how I'd do it (and plan to)!

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for? Ooooh my gosh. Pokemon Special/Pokemon Adventures, which is the Pokemon manga! You can no longer find these on fanfiction.net, which is for the best. I was very proud of them back then though, and I love that it set me onto writing as a hobby!!

19. What’s your favourite fic you’ve written? This is such a difficult question omg. At the moment I'm still really proud of Rapture and Rupture, but I'm also still very fond of the depth I managed to add in my first Good Omens fic, When We Fall In.

Phew! Okay, I think I'll tag @fremulon and @forineffablereasons, if either of you want to play! I'd also be happy to hear from anyone else! I really do love to hear authors talk about their work!! TELL ME YOUR PASSIONS I WILL LISTEN

[the-queer-observer]

The TOXICITY of straight dating culture: Do you even realize what you teach?

A few months ago, a straight teenage girl explained her crush to me with the sentence “He’s so toxic.”

I know a 17-year-old girl with a little to no clue of how a non-toxic relationship should look like.

I started noticing a certain pattern online and in my real life too.

Now it’s a time for my first disclaimer: I am not straight myself. Nope. Not at all. Perhaps that’s why I see through it.

To this point, all I have done about this is that I have complained to some friends, got over it and went on with my life.

Today, a girl, no older than twelve, has told me about her crush on a “bad boy” and we talked about him for a second. He really did seem like what the definition of a bad boy is for tweens.

I snapped.

And here I am, writing my first tumblr post ever on this very topic.

I want to make clear, this is not an attack on those girls. This is an attack on the society, what it taught them and what it failed to teach.

The youngest girl and me, we talked about music. She said she liked “dramatic” songs and played me some of her favorites.

Disclaimer number two: I did know both the artists, but I don’t actually listen to them. The closest to mainstream music my playlists get is Take me to church by Hozier, the rest being a wide range of songs, interprets and genres from pop punk to death metal and everything in between.

I was actually surprised. One of the two artists she played for me was Billie Eilish. The beginning of the song went:

Don't be cautious, don't be kind

You committed, I'm your crime

Push my button anytime

You got your finger on the trigger

But your trigger finger's mine

The second song was by Maroon 5.

It was even worse:

So what you trying to do to me

It's like we can't stop, we're enemies

But we get along when I'm inside you, eh

You're like a drug that's killing me

I cut you out entirely

But I get so high when I'm inside you

Yeah you can start over you can run free

You can find other fish in the sea

You can pretend it's meant to be

But you can't stay away from me

I can still hear you making that sound

Taking me down rolling on the ground

You can pretend that it was me

But no, oh

I am not going to argue about whether it’s appropriate or whether she understands the lyrics the way I do. It doesn’t even matter. She understands the drama in the song. She understands it enough for me to be concerned.

There are other songs like that. There is a whole culture teaching pre-teen and teenage girls, that “they can’t get away”, romanticizing toxic people and toxic relationships, blurring the lines of consent and guess what? The girls believe it’s the way it’s supposed to be.

I texted my girlfriend and we spent some time looking for straight love-songs, celebrating healthy relationships. None of them were mainstream, but we found things like:

That the world is ugly

But you're beautiful to me

Are you thinking of me

Like I'm thinking of you

I would say I'm sorry, though

Though I really need to go

I just wanted you to know

I wanted you to know

I wanted you to know

I'm thinking of you every night, every day

(My Chemical romance)

And

Desperate for changing

Starving for truth

I'm closer to where I started

I'm chasing after you

I'm falling even more in love with you

Letting go of all I've held on to

I'm standing here until you make me move

I'm hanging by a moment here with you

Forgetting all I'm lacking

Completely incomplete

I'll take your invitation

You take all of me now

(Lifehouse)

First of all: Those are 4 extracts of songs, chosen by me to demonstrate my point and they may or may not reflect the reality, you (the reader) see: those two songs might be just an exception, but in that case this post is still not canceled, because there is enough of other correlations and causation for me to have a reason to write this.

Those songs are “dramatic”, but the drama shifts from the relationship itself and its toxicity to the circumstances and environment. My girlfriend even recommended a punk song called Ne touche pas moi (Do not touch me), which is entirely about consent.

I am not explicitly saying that the songs she played for me are bad. It’s not for me to decide.

But all Billie Eilish’ fans I ever met were in the age range between eleven and fourteen, so I am supposing that’s her target audience. As for Maroon 5, I have no idea. However, music influences us. The girl is old enough to know what kind of music she likes and wants to listen to and with the peer pressure going on there, her parents do not really have a say in what she listens to and they are not to be blamed for this.

It’s the culture.

Toxicity is not a positive trait to look for in a potential partner. Even if he is a good looking one.

Enough of music.

Do you know who the toxic crush was?

Draco Malfoy.

One of the most famous of all characters in media, famously portrayed by Tom Felton in the Harry Potter film series.

Disclaimer number four: I have a problem with the books and movies and I also have some issues with the author.

Still, I see a fandom celebrating the love of Severus Snape for Lilly Evans Potter. Except it’s not love and it’s not a crush either. It’s an obsession. One that has become so iconic, the word “Always” is one of the main symbols of Harry Potter.

It shouldn’t be.

It should have never happened.

Draco Malfoy is quite the same thing. He is a racist, a bully. He is raised to be one, sure... That’s not an excuse. He doesn’t actually have a canonical redemption arch (not counting the deleted scene from the last movie and the Cursed child). If he came up to Hermione, acknowledging his mistakes, apologizing for his behavior, then maybe. Perhaps... That’s another story though. My point is, Rowling fails to actually depict problematic characters as actually problematic, they are romanticized by her, the filmmakers, the fandom and the wider audience.

Girls are taught to be the ones to make the redemption arch happen, irl or in fiction. They are supposed to date whoever is into them, regardless of whether they like the person back, and it’s unbelievably often I see them crushing on villains and problematic people like Draco Malfoy, because they are taught, he would change for them or that they could change him.

Toxicity is not a positive trait to look for in a potential partner. Even if he is a good looking one.

Those together result in a complete lack of knowledge of how a healthy relationship should look like. That’s the case of the third girl I mentioned. Being best friends with both her and her current boyfriend, I had three points of view on their relationship. It’s only been the past few weeks, not more than two month it has shifted to a more positive, healthy relationship.

It’s not the girl’s fault. They learn what a healthy relationship is the hard way, mostly after going through a toxic one(s).

WHY?

The sentence: “I always fall for the bad guys.” lacks the essential: “because the society taught me to” part.

It’s so common.

It’s too common.

It’s not even that we wouldn’t talk about it: we do. But you celebrate it. And that is not okay and that is the reason I am typing this.

Disclaimer number 5: The gender roles in this post are based off of my observations. I do acknowledge the fact that girls can be and sometimes are the toxic person in the relationship and that the lesson boys are thought is no way better (more freeing perhaps, but not right either) . It might not be specific to the straight culture either, but again, my observations were.

I was about thirteen, when I figured out I was gay and I had to learn everything on my own. How the relationships should work out, what is healthy and what is not... I had to learn on my own because the society failed to teach me anything. I am yet to decide whether that’s better or worse than teaching the wrong one.

[bondsmagii]

statement regarding the sudden disappearance of all my childhood memories and subsequent photos, gradually, over the course of four years

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Jasmine Harper, regarding the disappearance of all childhood memories and photographs over the course of four years. Original statement given July 21, 2011. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

I can’t really remember when it was that I noticed. It was a gradual thing, but at the same time it felt so sudden… like I woke up one morning and they were all gone, or at least most of them were. But I know that isn’t what happened at all, is it? The more I think about it, the more I realise that I began to forget years and years before I realised something was truly wrong. I thought it was normal, you know? I thought it was just part of getting older. I mean, how many of us get out of university able to recall the full names of everyone in our first primary school class? I took Psychology for one of my A-Levels, actually, and when we did our module on memory that was one of the tests. I must have been able seventeen then, so it was before I noticed this happening. We had to take a sheet of paper and write down every full name we could remember from our first primary school class. I won by a landslide, and I had five names. Only five names! But that’s the thing – I used to have such a good memory when it came to my childhood. That’s why I can’t understand what’s happening.

I had a good childhood. This isn’t any childhood trauma or anything like that. I mean, there were some nasty moments in it, like any childhood is prone to have – I had a problem with bullies when I first started high school, nothing out of the ordinary but you know how cruel kids can be, and when you’re that age it sticks with you. My parents divorced when I was fourteen, but there was nothing specifically traumatic about that. It sucked, and I was sad to see them sad, but they remained civil through the whole thing and actually got on better afterwards, so it wasn’t like there were screaming matches or anything. They were careful to keep my brother and I updated on everything, which I was thankful for. It was nice, that they didn’t do what a lot of parents seem to do – treat us like small children, and not young adults who would also be affected by the situation. If I ever get a divorce, I hope to god it’s as pleasant as my parents’ was. There’s nothing in my childhood that I can pinpoint that might have caused this, and that seems to be a common cause of forgetting, at least – trauma, mental illness, something like that. I’ve… struggled with depression sometimes, but never anything that I didn’t get under control with the right combination of things. Really, I’m a completely normal, average person. There’s nothing that could have caused this at all. I’ve been to doctors, I’ve had brain scans, I was worried it was some kind of tumour or stroke, but no. Nothing. I’m perfectly healthy, but I don’t feel it.

As I said, it began gradually. I realised I was forgetting things; small things. The address of the house I lived in until I was five. Old phone numbers. The last names of childhood friends. Some of my teachers’ names. None of it was unusual. I’m pretty sure everyone forgets those things, so I wasn’t worried at all. A little annoyed sometimes, because it really felt like getting old, or I couldn’t randomly look somebody up on Facebook to see how they were doing or something, but really it wasn’t unusual at all. It was only when I started forgetting bigger things that I began to grow concerned. I mean, this was stuff that I shouldn’t forget at all, or that was relatively recent. I know for most people, childhood probably means when they were a smaller child; before they hit their teenage years, perhaps. Well, this seems to be taking the legal definition of child as its guide, because I found myself forgetting things that happened when I was sixteen, seventeen years old. I mean, that’s not that long ago! That’s not even ten years ago! I began to forget huge chunks of time; before I knew it I couldn’t recall my earliest memories, and then I couldn’t recall anything from primary school. It’s just blank, like trying to think about what was there before I was born. Still I told myself it wasn’t that much to worry about, but then it began creeping up and up, and back then I still had the photographs. I could look through photo albums or friends’ Facebook pages and see what I was forgetting: a birthday party at Alton Towers when we were eleven, the school ski trip to Italy when we were fourteen, our school’s knock-off idea of an American prom when we were seventeen. There I am, in all of the pictures, grinning and present and definitely there. But I can’t remember a thing about the day at all!

I finally accepted something was terribly wrong at my aunt’s wedding. She was getting married pretty later on in life because she was kind of wild as a young adult, didn’t want to settle down or anything. Everyone was fond of her – she always had the most interesting stories and she’s just a lot of fun to be around – and so the whole family was there to see her get married: all the surviving grandparents, great aunts and uncles, cousins, partners, friends, kids, even the dogs were invited. It was a beautiful summer day and everyone was having so much fun and I know this sounds stupid but I feel so mad that this had to happen on that day of all days, because nothing bad is supposed to happen at a wedding, right? Well, everything was fine until late into the reception, and we were all a little drunk but not overly so. I was sitting with my mum and brother at a table with some cousins and my aunt and her new wife, and we were all reminiscing about other crazy family parties and stuff. I was talking about my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary, that happened when I was twelve or thirteen. I was telling some story – of course I can’t even remember what it was now, but it was something about me and my brother and the cousins that were at the table with us, and I was talking about it just fine and then, literally mid-sentence, I forgot it. Not just what we were doing, but the whole event. I didn’t even know I was talking about the anniversary until my brother prompted me, and then it was just blank. My brother and cousins all picked up the story and I laughed along and played it up like I’d had a little too much wine, you know, haha, but I mean it when I say it was gone. And not only that – it felt taken from me. It felt as though somebody had reached into my head and just… plucked the memory right out.

It bothered me so much that I went to visit my mum shortly afterwards. We sat down and had a few cups of tea and eventually I worked up the courage to ask if I could root around in the photo albums, saying that the wedding had reminded me of a few things I wanted to look at again – ironic, I know. Mum was of course down to get out all the albums – she never went digital, she doesn’t like not having physical albums to look through – so we dragged a bunch of them down and sat around the table to look. The first one was normal, just a family holiday to Florida when I was sixteen, but as we started going through the older albums I noticed there were pictures of me missing that I know for a fact existed. They were just gone, and then there were others where I knew I should be there but I wasn’t. And Mum didn’t think anything was strange! There was one picture, I remember it so clearly because we almost got into a big fight about it, and it was of my brother dressed as Spider Man on Halloween. I distinctly remember that night because I was dressed as the Pink Power Ranger and the costume was uncomfortable as hell, so I know I was there. I know I was in that picture, because it was such a ridiculous picture, the two of us in full bodied costumes like that, and I finally mentioned to my mum that I should be in there. Not aggressively or anything, just oh, I could have sworn I was in that one!, and she denied it and I insisted and she kept saying no, she was sure it was just George in that picture, but then I pointed out that George had his arm out in mid-air like it should be around someone. It was clearly around my shoulders. The height was right, his fingers were slightly curled like they were pressing in to my arm. Mum just looked for a moment, and I thought, briefly, that she might finally see it – but then she just said George was doing a Spider Man pose, like shooting a web from his wrist or something, and I just… I don’t even know. I just felt so hopeless, I almost cried. I was sure, so sure! Mum’s always taken photos, even now – every holiday, every event, even just going over for Sunday dinner. She’s told me several times I loved being in front of the camera as a kid, so I know there must have been way more pictures of me than that. Mum just didn’t get what I was on about, though, so I gave up in the end. There was no use fighting. What could I say?

Well, that was when I went to the doctor. I’ve already outlined how useless that was. Nothing wrong with me at all, apparently, but I’m sure most of them weren’t really taking me seriously. I was told it couldn’t be all my memories, and that photographs didn’t just vanish. I was seconds away from getting referred to a psychiatrist when I decided I would be better off shutting up about it. I’m not—I don’t think this is mental illness. I’ve looked it up so many times and I’ve read about people being delusional, you know, not believing they’re the ones in the picture, or that other people in the picture have been replaced, but that’s not what’s happening here. I haven’t read anything about like what’s happening to me. Nobody is out there saying they’re forgetting their entire childhood, birth to eighteen, and the pictures are vanishing along with it. There is something else going on here but I don’t know what. I’ve never done anything to deserve this, I’ve never messed around with anything I shouldn’t. If this is something like—like what you people investigate, I do not know when I would have come across it. I don’t even know what I mean by this. It seems ridiculous to even consider that it could be a ghost, or a curse, or—or God knows what.

A few weeks after this I went to Mum’s again, and one of the photo albums was still out. I looked through it and I was gone from every single picture. I was not there at all. Even the ones I saw only recently, I was gone from them. Just George on his own, and in the spaces where pictures of just me should be, other photos had replaced them. Just scenery shots, or views from the hotel balcony, or Christmas decorations and piles of presents, or spreads of holiday food. Nothing Mum would put in there herself. She likes to preserve the details, but her albums are for people. Her photos in the albums always have people or pets in them. I showed her, pretending it was just out of interest, but she seemed to not know what I meant. “I’ve always accessorised”, was what she said. Something about context, making it a pretty spread, keeping all the themes together. I don’t know. It was nothing that Mum would say, anyway. She was always so militant about it – at least up until recently.

I walked around the house a bit and of course I was gone from the rest of the pictures, too. My school photos were all gone, and all the framed pictures on bedside tables or shelves showed just my brother, or more scenery. There was one picture of the rose bush in the garden and I knew for a fact I was supposed to be standing in front of it, because it was my prom picture and I was wearing a dress the exact same shade of red as the roses, and Mum wanted to get a picture of me standing in front of it to show off the perfect colour match. There was just the rose bush, and even when I picked up the frame and looked closely at the picture, I could see no signs that it had ever been anything but. I wondered why it was still there, because pictures of just me usually vanished and got replaced by something else entirely, but then I saw in the corner, almost hidden by the frame, the faintest pink blur of part of my mother’s finger. Is that all it takes? Is one blurry finger worth more than my entire being? I don’t understand what’s going on!

I think… I think I could deal with it easier, if it wasn’t for the fact that everybody seems to think nothing is wrong. If it was just one of those weird things, I think I could live with it if my parents and brother were also with me on it, knowing it was weird, being concerned. I’ve looked everywhere and they’re all gone, all the photos, in every relative’s house and on Facebook. The earliest ones I can find are on my eighteenth birthday party. Everything before that is gone. I don’t remember anything. It’s like I materialised at age eighteen and there was nothing before that; I don’t even really know who I am anymore. I can’t know, because all the steps I took to get here are gone, and everything I learned about my family and friends as I grew up alongside them has vanished. I feel completely… completely detached, completely adrift, and I don’t know if I’m being paranoid but it just feels like there’s a little less of me every day. It’s like I spent eighteen years building up, and now I’m just… fading away.

I don’t know what to do.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

This is a fairly straightforward one to follow up. There isn’t really much to say. On the surface it does very much seem like a case for a doctor rather than the Institute, but some things do seem to back up part of the story, at least. Attempts to get in contact with Ms Harper were unsuccessful, as it seems she does not exist. There are a couple of records here and there of a Ms Harper matching the age and occupation that she provided with her statement, but when Tim contacted the workplaces involved, nobody could recall her. As for anything else – records such as a birth or death certificate, a driver’s license – there is nothing. Of course, she could have provided a fake name, but Tim managed to get in touch with George Harper, Ms Harper’s younger brother, and confirmed it was the same George Harper by asking a few questions about his childhood. He recalled several holidays and weddings that Ms Harper mentioned, though he mentioned nothing about a sister. When questioned about siblings, he was adamant he had never had one, and had grown up an only child. I’m not entirely sure how he did it, and nor am I inclined to want to know, but Tim managed to persuade Mr Harper to give him the contact information for his parents. Both stated that they had only one child – a son. The only Jasmine in the family seems to be Mrs Harper’s pet pug dog; apparently, Mrs Harper “always liked the name”, but had never had the chance to use it.

Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much more we can do regarding this one.

End recording.

[deanwanddamons]

I posted 3,399 times in 2021

862 posts created (25%)

2537 posts reblogged (75%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 2.9 posts.

I added 5,057 tags in 2021

#fic rec - 992 posts

#carryonourbravehunters - 989 posts

#spread love - 966 posts

#deanwreads - 963 posts

#deanw answers - 646 posts

#response to comment reblog - 183 posts

#supernatural fanfiction - 90 posts

#supernatural - 80 posts

#mechanic and mistletoe - 74 posts

#deanwanddamonsrockflashfic2 - 74 posts

Longest Tag: 63 characters

#how am i supposed to write something in just eleven sentences?!

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Mechanic and Mistletoe - Part Six

Summary: Y/N, an ER nurse is driving home to her Mom on Christmas Eve. Her car breaks down on the side of the road. She calls Winchester Singer Autos and Bobby sends Dean to help her. Will she make it to her Mom in time for Christmas? And will she get back home in time for her shift on Boxing Day?

Universe: Mechanic AU

Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader

Word Count: 4K

Warnings: Fluff. Nothing else really!

Bingo Squares filled: @spndeanbingo - Meet the family

@girl-next-door-writes - First Kiss

@spnfluffbingo - Cuddling

A/N: This is the six part of a series which started as a one shot. It will now be a ten part series with an epilogue and possibly time stamps. 

A/N 2: As always thank you to my beta @winchest09, who helped me with the idea for this story and made the wonderful banner. You are my cheerleader, my bestie and my constant support. I love you. I’d also like to thank my pre reader @cockslut-padalecki

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​ Additional gif found on Pinterest.  

Series Masterlist

My Masterlist

Part Five

Buy me a coffee

See the full post

227 notes • Posted 2021-02-10 10:39:42 GMT

#4

Mechanic and Mistletoe - Part Three

Summary: Y/N, an ER nurse is driving home to her Mom on Christmas Eve. Her car breaks down on the side of the road. She calls Winchester Singer Autos and Bobby sends Dean to help her. Will she make it to her Mom in time for Christmas? And will she get back home in time for her shift on Boxing Day?

Universe: Mechanic AU

Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader

Word Count : 1.8K

Warnings: Talk of relationship break up. Nothing else really.

Bingo Squares filled: @spnchristmasbingo - Whiskey

A/N: This is the third part of a series which started as a one shot. Not sure how many parts it will be yet! We’ll see how it goes.

A/N 2: As always thank you to my beta @winchest09, who helped me with the idea for this story and made the wonderful banner. You are my cheerleader, my bestie and my constant support. I love you. Also a big thank you to my pre reader @cockslut-padalecki​

Dividers by @firefly-graphics​

Series Masterlist 

My Masterlist 

Part Two 

Let me know what you think 

See the full post

233 notes • Posted 2021-01-20 10:31:49 GMT

#3

Mechanic and Mistletoe - Part One

Summary: Y/N, an ER nurse is driving home to her Mom on Christmas Eve. Her car breaks down on the side of the road. She calls Winchester Singer Autos and Bobby sends Dean to help her. Will she make it to her Mom in time for Christmas? And will she get back home in time for her shift on Boxing Day?

Universe: Mechanic AU

Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader

Word Count : 1.5K

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, talk of relationship break up and cheating. 

Bingo squares filled: @spnchristmasbingo: Broken Down Car

@spnaubingo: Mechanic AU

@spndeanbingo: Mechanic AU

@girl-next-door-writes Make Me Feel Bingo: Alternative Universe

A/N: This is the first part of a series which started as a one shot. Not sure how many parts it will be yet! We’ll see how it goes.

A/N 2: As always thank you to my beta @winchest09, who helped me with the idea for this story and made the wonderful banner. You are my cheerleader, my bestie and my constant support. I love you.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist 

My Masterlist 

Let me know what you think 

See the full post

276 notes • Posted 2021-01-06 09:57:14 GMT

#2

“I’m Coming!”

Summary: A video call with Jensen. What could be better? 

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Female Reader

Word Count : 460

Warnings: Smut, PWP, Male and Female Masturbation. 

Bingo squares filled: @spndeanbingo Sharing A Secret

A/N: I wrote this earlier today as the thought just came to me! This hasn’t been beta’d so all mistakes are my own.  My Masterlist 

See the full post

362 notes • Posted 2021-01-11 19:03:01 GMT

#1

Mechanic And Mistletoe Masterlist

Summary: Y/N, an ER nurse is driving home to her Mom on Christmas Eve. Her car breaks down on the side of the road. She calls Winchester Singer Autos and Bobby sends Dean to help her. Will she make it to her Mom in time for Christmas? And will she get back home in time for her shift on Boxing Day?

Universe: Mechanic AU

Pairing: Dean x Female!Reader

Warnings: Slow build, Mechanic AU, Fluff, Smut, Angst. Each chapter will have individual warnings. 

Total words: 49,455 A/N: Series beta’d by @winchest09​. Aesthetic also done by her. She is my cheerleader, bestie and constant support. 

This series is complete

See the full post

484 notes • Posted 2021-01-04 20:51:41 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[hookedonapirate]

Figure of Speech

Summary: Killian has been in love with Emma Swan ever since he was eleven and she was his babysitter. The last time he saw her was the day he kissed her, thinking they were having a special moment… right before she headed off to college with her boyfriend.

When their paths cross years later, he’s just happy she remembers him—because while he’s a talented, free-spirited journalist who takes risks and has a knack for finding trouble, Emma is an accomplished and sophisticated politician who’s planning to run for President of the United States. 

Sensing Killian Jones—the boy who once knew her and supported her long before she entered the soul-sucking world of politics—is the key to unlocking a part of herself that’s been dormant for so long, she hires him as her speechwriter. As she travels the world to launch her 2020 presidential campaign, he is by her side, helping Emma find her voice again. 

The attraction between them sizzles, but when they eventually give into it, will their relationship withstand the demands of the election and scrutiny of the public?

A/N: Thank you @ultraluckycatnd​ for beta reading and @onceuponaprincessworld​ for your help with this! Thank you @captainswanmoviemarathon​ for starting the event and everyone on discord for all your help!

Before you read, there are a few things I want to clarify.

First off, this story is heavily based on the movie, Long Shot, for the Captain Swan Movie Marathon, with some elements of OUAT weaved in. What I’m referring to mainly is that the president in this fic is in no way based on President Trump. In other words, I am not using this fic to bash the current U.S. president in any shape or form, or any other real-life president. So if you plan on going into this with that mindset, I beg you to hit the back button right now. This story in no way reflects my opinions or views, I mainly stuck to the plot of the movie.

Secondly, I hope that I have made it perfectly clear in the beginning scene of this chapter that Killian is not actually a white supremacist, he is only going undercover to get his story. Nor is he Jewish like Fred Flarsky is in the movie. He’s the Killian we all know and love. So please don’t send me hate messages accusing me of either being a racist or writing Killian as one. I was very torn whether to include this scene or not but I feel it is relevant to the plot and shows Killian’s character in this story as very passionate about what he believes in and is a big risktaker when getting his point across, so I decided to keep it.

Third of all, I know some of you are sick of hearing about politics, especially since the U.S. election is so close. But this is not a political movie, it’s a romance. There is of course some talk of politics, but I’ve tried my best to keep it to a minimum. So if you’re worried about that, please don’t be. The movie genre is a romantic comedy.

Writing this fic was a huge wake-up call for me because it’s the first one in a while that I’m not proud of, for lack of a better word, because I have not been able to spend much time on it. I have so many wips in my docs it’s not even funny and I think that has really impacted how this chapter turned out. But because of this fic, I decided to take some time and work on finishing some of my wips before posting them, with the exception of this one because today is my posting date.

With that said, because I’ve been pushing myself to finish my wips, I finished writing my first original novel after working on it for two years, and I will be publishing it soon. So be sure to look out for Follow My Lead, a romance about a former ballerina and a gym owner.

Okay, now I am done with my rant, so please enjoy!

AO3 FF.N

Rated: M

2018

“So you guys are fairly active on social media, right?” 

“Yeah,” Jaxon answers absentmindedly, his eyes focused on the cue ball as he lines up the shot.

“How many times a day would you say you Tweet on average?” 

Jaxon taps the ball, sends it into its pocket, and high-fives Marcus, ignoring the question.

“Hey Rogers, ready to get a Swastika tattoo?!” Richard calls from the other room as the tattoo artist is finishing up with him.

“No, that’s okay, I’m cool,” Killian replies nonchalantly through the large lump in his throat, glad his British accent didn’t leak out as he takes his turn.

“Oh, come on, man, we’ve all got ‘em!”

Killian gulps and looks around the room, all the members pulling up their shirts to show their tattoos on the left side of their chest. He was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but he can sense Jaxon is already suspicious of his motives. He forces a small smile, pointing to himself with his free hand as he holds up the cue stick in the other one. “You want me to get a swastika tattoo?”

“Yeah!” the group chants in unison.

“Then I’ll get a swastika tattoo,” he agrees submissively, hoping the anxiety he feels isn’t clear in his voice. He removes his leather jacket, or rather the jacket he borrowed from Victor, depositing it in a chair before he walks into the adjacent room where the tattoo artist is waiting for him. He sits in the parlor chair, his stomach twisted in knots as he chooses his left bicep for the tattoo and cringes at the thought of getting it. He’s never gotten a tattoo before, and not only is he afraid of needles, but his beliefs don’t at all resemble anything a swastika symbol resembles. Tattoos are removable, though, right? 

When the needle pierces his skin, he pinches his eyelids shut and yelps, “Blo-ooooody he-eeeell!” He realizes his mistake immediately when the words screech out in his thick, British accent. Plus, bloody hell isn’t exactly an American phrase. 

He’s praying no one noticed, because if they did, they would know he’s lying about who he claims to be, but when he flips his eyelids open, everyone’s staring at him.

Fuck.

Jaxon, the leader of the group, enters the room with Killian’s jacket in one hand and wallet in the other, raising it for everyone to see Killian’s driver’s license. His heart flitters with panic. “Look at this. He’s been lying to us. His name isn’t John Rogers,” Jaxon announces angrily. Marcus appears next to him, holding up his laptop. On the screen is the Storybrooke Advocate website with Killian’s profile pic on the page. “It’s Killian Jones. He works for the Storybrooke Advocate! He’s a fucking journalist!”

“Wait, wait, wait, I can explain!” Killian pleads, raising his hands in surrender. 

The members circle him like sharks, and everything becomes a blur as they yank him from the chair and slam him against a table. 

“What are you doing, trying to fucking embarrass us, huh?!” Jaxon screams at him. “Who sent you?!”

“No one sent me!” Killian claims adamantly, fear and pain crippling him as he tries to think his way out of this. “I was just…”

Before he can finish his sentence, Marcus reaches into Killian’s jeans pocket as the others hold him down, and pulls out his phone. Which is currently recording everything. “He’s been recording us this entire time!”

Jaxon’s face is red with anger, steam practically emitting from his ears as he grits his teeth and fists Killian’s shirt in a vice-like grip, pulling him so close that Killian smells his wretched breath. “You infiltrated our group! You’re gonna fucking die!”

They say your life flashes before your eyes during your very last moments. They say it’s like reliving every moment that’s ever stuck with you—every moment that’s ever made an impression on you. Killian always thought when he was finally shuffled off to sleep with the fishes, his life would appear in sequence or at least in random order, featuring all the people who have played a vital role in his life—his parents, his brother, his best friend—but he never thought one person would stick in his mind. He never thought all the images flashing before his eyes would be of one person and one person only.  

The woman he’s been in love with since he was eleven years old.

Killian remembers when he first fell in love with her like it were yesterday. Or at least an eleven-year-old boy’s version of love. He remembers the song, It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday by Boyz II Men, was playing on the boombox. He remembers what day it was, what he was wearing and the fuzzy feeling in his chest. He remembers thinking about one of his favorite movies, The Sandlot, how Squints tricked the lifeguard, Wendy Peffercorn, into kissing him and how she eventually married him even though she was older and way out of his league. 

Back then, a three or four year age gap seemed like a huge deal, but maybe because he was so young and she was… well she was so grown up and mature and very beautiful for her age. Not Wendy Peffercorn. Well, he supposes Wendy was too, but Killian had his real-life version of the movie character. His version of her was also blonde. She may not have been a lifeguard, but she was his next-door neighbor and also his babysitter ever since his brother left to join the Navy. Killian’s bedroom had an excellent view of her backyard and he would occasionally watch her sunbathing by the pool as she listened to music on her headphones or read a book in her bikini. Not only did she have a beautiful body, but she was wicked smart. She was passionate about the environment and the things she cared about. She was super nice to him—which went a long way with him—and had a ridiculously cute, dimpled smile. She was perfect. An angel.

Maybe that’s why, right before his death, she’s the only one he sees.

Before he met her, he never considered kissing a girl, or even liking one for that matter. He thought girls were gross and had cooties. But Emma was no girl. Not even at fifteen. She was a woman. 

Emma Swan was his Wendy Peffercorn.

She still is. Even as he’s being threatened by a group of angry white supremacists. 

She’s all he sees.

“Did you know that every year, the school throws away over five hundred tons of recyclable garbage? And no one cares!”

“Aye, it’s rubbish. But how do you get muppets to care about stuff they don’t care about?” 

Emma shrugs. “They’ll just…” She bites her bottom lip, hesitance etching her features, “they’ll just c-care because it’s the right thing to care about.” She may not have all the answers, but she’s the most inspiring person he knows.

He smiles and rests one elbow on the counter, his chin perched in his hand as he admires her passion for the environment. He admires how beautiful she is in simply a snug pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt with a picture of a buttercup on the front. He admires her waist-length, golden hair, how it glows radiantly in the sunlight cascading through the kitchen window and how it swishes from side to side when she turns around to grab a mitt and pull the pizza out of the oven. Delicious aromas of crisp, baked bread, melted mozzarella cheese and sweet tomato sauce waft through the kitchen, making his stomach growl. Licking his lips, he jumps off the stool and heads over to grab a slice from the pan.

She gently swats his hand away. “Don’t touch, kid, you’ll burn yourself. Let it cool, first.”

He frowns as he returns to his seat. He hates it when she calls him that. He doesn’t want her to think of him as a kid; he’s almost a teenager! Heeding her warning, he does his best to resist the temptation of getting up again and grabbing a slice, even though the gooey, golden cheese, colorful toppings and toasted crust look amazing. Instead, he places the hand she’d touched on his cheek. He never wants to wash his hand or his cheek ever again.

Emma continues the speech she’d prepared for her Student Council election. She’s running for president, and he is not only her biggest supporter, but he also came up with her campaign slogan, ‘Stay calm and vote for Swan’. He was quite proud of himself when she actually thought it was clever enough to use.

“I would definitely vote for you, Swan.”

“Thanks, Killy,” she says, ruffling a hand through his hair.

Now that’s a better nickname. Though he hates when his brother calls him Killy, he never minds when Emma does. 

Once the pizza is cool enough to eat, Emma returns to the oven, using a pizza cutter on the pie. She plates two big slices, one for each of them, and brings them to the counter, sitting next to him. They eat their pizza in silence at first, besides the yummy food noises they make.

“Thanks for helping me. I know it’s probably boring hearing my speech over and over again.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all,” he mumbles through a mouth full of pizza. “I’m just happy to help,” he smiles. His hand pauses midair, still holding his half-eaten slice of pizza as he locks eyes with his beautiful babysitter. He wonders if she feels the same way he does, and normally he wouldn’t think it was possible, but the way she’s looking at him right now makes him rethink everything.

She reaches out to him, and he closes his eyes as she caresses his cheek. His heart slams against his chest and he loses all the air from his lungs. And that’s when he knows he’s totally and completely in love. Her hand feels so wonderfully warm, he wants to spend the rest of his life feeling her touch and immediately gets a chill when she pulls her hand away. 

“All better.”

His eyes flip open to see Emma wiping her hand with a napkin. She looks up at him and smiles. “You had some sauce on your face.”

He chuckles on the outside, but internally he’s berating himself for being foolish enough to think someone like Emma Swan could possibly like him. She’s way too good for him. 

Especially when he’s thirteen and has to wear glasses. As if hitting puberty isn’t bad enough, he also has to sport the most hideous pair of thick-framed glasses. By then, his father said he was too old to have a babysitter, so he didn’t get to see Emma as much. He mowed the Swans’ lawn occasionally, but she was gone most of the time with extracurricular activities and prepping for college. He convinced himself she could never be into someone like him. Someone who was nerdy and awkward and four years her junior. 

Until one day when he’s fourteen and she’s eighteen.

She’s leaving for college and he’s been in his room sulking while listening to It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye for two weeks, not looking forward to her departure. He’s afraid he’ll never see her again. But he’s also happy for her. She’s off to better and greater things, greener pastures as they say. She’s going to Harvard and leaving him in the dust.

He’s on the front porch, sitting on the top step, his chin in his hands and his elbows propped up on his knees as he watches Emma and her parents packing up her things. He wants to offer his assistance, but this seems like a very important bonding moment for the three of them and he doesn’t wish to interrupt. He can tell Mr. and Mrs. Swan are both incredibly sad but also very proud of their daughter, and there are lots of hugs and tears by the time the car is packed. Then Emma says something to her parents and they wave at Killian. He smiles and waves back before they head inside.

Emma walks over to him, and he immediately stands up, making his way down the remaining steps.

“Hey,” she murmurs, smiling at him.

“Hey,” he parrots, offering a small smile. “So, you’re all packed?”

“Yeah, we’re leaving soon.”

Nodding nervously, he scratches behind his ear as he looks away, not sure what to say.

“Look, I’m not a goodbye person, but — ”

“Let’s not say goodbye then,” he suggests and offers his hand. But instead of shaking it, she throws her arms around him. Killian’s stunned, and can’t even move at first, completely paralyzed in her embrace.

Emma’s hugging him.

He slowly molds into her body, his arms wrapping around her waist as she tightens her hold. Her hair smells like strawberries and cream as he buries his face there. He never wants to let her go.

“I’ll miss you, Killian,” she whispers in his ear.

His heart does a little somersault, and he whispers, “Not a day will go by when I won’t think of you.”

He feels her smile against his neck. “Good.”

That one simple word does something to him and he grins into her hair, holding her tighter. 

She breaks the hug long before he’s ready, and he’s still awestruck as she leans in to kiss him.

Bloody hell. 

Emma Swan leans in for a kiss as he springs forward to meet her halfway. Their lips finally connect like they had so many times in his dreams, but he doesn’t fail to miss how surprised she is when a gasp escapes against his mouth. She doesn’t pull away, but he knows he probably should after realizing she was actually going for his cheek. But her lips are so soft and warm and taste like cinnamon and cocoa, and he swears they move ever so slightly against his. He still has his arms around her, pressing her to him, and her center suddenly moves away from him. Forcing himself to break the kiss, he looks down and notices the very prominent and very hard erection tenting his pants.

Fuck.

His cheeks are on fire as he looks up, apology and embarrassment flushing his face. He’s expecting her to either slap him or storm away and never look back, but she stares down at his groin, her mouth agape. 

“Bloody hell, I’m so sorry, love.”

“It’s okay,” Emma squeaks as her eyes snap up to his.

Just then, a ‘69 Ford Mustang pulls up in front of Emma’s house, the music booming through the speakers at an obnoxious volume.

He panics when Emma’s boyfriend gets out of the car and makes his way over to them. Killian forgot Neal was riding with Emma to Harvard, where he was certainly not attending. Neal could only get into a community college.

Killian quickly pulls off the backward baseball cap from his head and uses it to cover his obvious boner. 

“Hey, babe, ready to go?” 

She nods and looks at Killian, a small smile tilting her lips. 

“Bye, four-eyes,” Neal taunts with a condescending sneer as he wraps his arm around Emma’s shoulders.

Really?

Killian bites his tongue as he rolls his eyes. That nickname really gets old. Can’t he think of something more original?

“Don’t call him that,” Emma scolds her boyfriend, swatting his chest. “He has a name.”

“Sorry, I mean Killian,” he says insincerely before turning around and pulling Emma with him.

As Killian watches them walk away, pushing up the bridge of his glasses with his finger, he would give anything to be the one with his arm around Emma, the one leaving with her instead of being the one she leaves. She cranes her neck to look at him as she walks away. He swears she’s looking at him longingly but he’s sure he’s only imagining it. She’s still gazing at him until her parents emerge from the house. Neal doesn’t even have the courtesy to open the door to her parents’ station wagon for her, and instead hurries into the back seat. 

Arsehole, Killian thinks bitterly as he watches the vehicle pull away from the curb. Emma stares at him through the passenger’s window, and their eyes connect. He flashes one last smile and waves. She smiles back at him and presses her palm to the window before she disappears down the road and out of his life, leaving a permanent gaping hole in his heart. 

He always thought not being able to see Emma anymore was the scariest thing he’s ever experienced. But that was before he was inked with part of a swastika tattoo so his cover wouldn’t be blown. That was before he fell from a two-story building and landed in a dumpster. Luckily the trash bags cushioned his fall and didn’t contain any glass or other sharp objects. He hadn’t really thought that through when he jumped. But then again, he didn’t really have time to do anything but run for his life while Marcus and Jaxon were busy trying to figure out how to stop Killian’s phone from recording. Killian took advantage of the distraction and plucked the phone from their hands, sprinting for the nearby window.

His phone.

Killian quickly lifts his hand to see that not only is his phone still in his hand but it’s still intact. He climbs out of the dumpster, his entire body sore, but he lands on his feet. He’d left his leather jacket up there, but it wasn’t even his. Killian doesn���t wear leather jackets, he’s content with his hoodies. He borrowed the jacket from his best friend, Victor. He’ll be pissed, but oh well, Killian will buy him a new one.

Three of the members are poking their heads out the window and Killian looks up at them, throwing the hand that’s still holding his phone in the air. He feels like Bennie in The Sandlot when he finally gets the baseball from the beast and hurdles the fence, still holding onto the ball. The difference is the beast chased Bennie down. The difference is the beast in the movie was not actually a beast at all. He can’t say the same about those white supremacists, though.

“We trusted you, man!” Richard calls out. He’s the one Killian had contacted through one of their social media groups. 

“Sorry, mate,” he says in his British accent, his words lacking any sort of apology as he spins around. “Peace!” he calls behind him trying to sound as American as he can, and instead of saluting the members with two fingers, which is not a peace sign for Brits, he flips them the bird as he goes. 

∞∞∞

“Tonight on Walsh News, we take an in-depth look at Emma Swan, a Rhodes Scholar, a Pulitzer Prize winner and a protégé of President Gold who tapped Swan two years ago to be the youngest Secretary of State in the history of this nation.”

As sore as Killian is from that jump out of a two-story window and as much as he hates that arsehole, Walsh, and everything the media mongrel represents, he lifts his eyes from his MacBook. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and manages a small smile when he sees Emma on the television screen. He knows what he’d done to write his article and expose the White Power group was worth it. He may have lost faith in humanity long ago, but Emma’s passion and ambition and hope have always stuck with him. He wants to believe the support he’d always shown her when they were young has always stuck with her too, but he doubts it. She doesn’t need his support. She never did. She was never a helpless duckling, and even after she lost the student council election to August Booth because of his stupid two prom platform, her wounds healed and she eventually spread her wings and soared high in the sky, leaving Storybooke in the dust. 

As Killian gazes at her wistfully at the screen, he sees the elegant swan he always knew she’d become. While everyone he knows had hopes and dreams they gave up on long ago, Emma is the one person who made hers come true. Well, not quite all of them. She always talked about saving the planet, but he knows her work isn’t nearly finished. She’s only thirty-seven, and even though they haven’t spoken to one another since the day he watched her ride away in her parents’ 1987 Pontiac Safari Station Wagon, he still believes in her. He’ll always believe in her.

∞∞∞

Emma sucks in a deep breath as she twists the knob and opens the thick, wooden door, entering the Oval Office with a little bit of forced enthusiasm. President Gold had been vague over the phone about what he’d wished to discuss with her, but his tone of voice indicated it might be something big. “Good morning Mr. President,” she greets with the smile she had practiced in her bedroom mirror repeatedly that morning. 

“Hello, Ms. Swan.” He rises from his chair and rounds the desk, gesturing to one of the couches. “Please, have a seat.”

She sits down and crosses her legs, folding her hands in her lap as he sits on the couch across from her and rests his elbows on his knees. “Ms. Swan…”

“Yes, sir?”

He blows out a long breath as if whatever he’s about to tell her has been weighing on his mind for quite some time. “I will not be seeking re-election.”

Emma’s sure the awestruck expression on her face doesn’t even come close to how surprised she actually is. “Really?” Did she hear him correctly?

He nods, clapping his hands together. “Look, I know how absurd it sounds seeing as I’m only halfway through my first term—”

“And you’re incredibly popular, sir.” But she knows most of his popularity stems from being a television star before he took office. He hosted the popular game show, Let’s Strike a Deal.

“And I’m going to use that popularity to transition into something more prestigious than the presidency. I wanna make it in the movies.”

Emma blinks, not believing what she’s hearing. She opens and closes her mouth several times, trying to process this. “Yoooouuuu… want to leave… the presidency… to be a movie star?”

“I know it’s tough to make the leap from television to film, but I think I’m going to give it a shot.”

After the initial shock washes over her, she sees this as an opportunity. She had planned on running for president in 2024, but with Gold leaving office at the end of his first term, perhaps she can use this to her advantage. And she knows just how to go about it. Gold may be good at convincing people—he is an actor after all—but Emma not only has far more education than him, her extensive political background has helped her greatly improve her cajolery tactics over the years. After she lost the Student Council election to August Booth in high school, she’s learned that in order to get ahead, sometimes you have to use a little sleight of hand to get there—give the people what they want, so to speak. Or, in this case, help Gold realize just how legendary his presidency could be.

“Mr. President, have you given any consideration as to whom you might endorse? I’m sure you’re probably thinking of Yang or Crowley. Sound choices,” she nods and purses her lips, averting her gaze, a look of contemplation on her face. “It’s so strange because I was considering a run in 2024, and I can’t stop wondering what…” she looks at Gold again, “what it would do for your legacy to endorse the first female president. I mean, wow. ” The word is breathy, almost a whisper. “Now that’s a legacy.”

Gold presses his joined hands to his lips and has a thoughtful expression embedded in his features, but she can’t discern what he’s thinking.

She looks at the floor between them while he ponders her words. 

“Emma?” he finally says after a moment.

“Hmm?” She reverts her eyes to him.

“I would like to endorse you to be the next President of the United States.” 

Her entire body is thrumming with excitement and her stomach is full of butterflies; she doesn’t even care he said it like it was his idea. She’ll even give him credit for it. Besides, trying to convince him otherwise would be like trying to teach a fish how to bark. She closes her eyes and refrains from jumping up and down on the couch. She opens her eyes again, trying to hide the excitement in her voice but fails, her tone coming out unusually high pitched. “I mean, if you think that’s a good idea, sir, I trust you completely. I’d be… I’d be honored.”

He reclines back, wagging a finger at her. “I’ll be pulling for Team Emma. Because you’ve been a great secretary.”

“Of State,” she adds.

“Whatever. You’ve done it well, Dearie.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So stay focused. Don’t make any major screw-ups. Don’t kill anyone. That’s probably not a problem for you. I don’t know what you’re into. Whatever. And before you know it…” He rises from the couch and hums the US Presidential Anthem. 

“I like the sound of that,” Emma says with a jubilant smile as she stands up.

“Hey here she comes, it’s the first lady president,” he chants.

“Thank you, sir.” She heads for the door, Gold following behind her still singing. 

“Who can believe she is actually a woman. She’s got a big brain and a couple other assets.”

Emma opens the door and walks through, not even giving another thought to how incredibly sexist Gold is being. She’s floating high on a cloud as she sashays proudly down the hall and raises a subtle victory fist in the air, whispering to herself, “Yessss!”

∞∞∞

“You’re gonna love this,” Killian raves as he hands the piece to his boss. “I almost died for this.”

Sidney lowers the mug from his lips, swallowing his coffee down. He offers a tightlipped smile as he glances very briefly at the draft before looking up at Killian, a serious expression clouding his face. “Got a second?”

“Of course.” 

“Come with me.”

Killian follows Sydney into his office and sits across from him at the desk, setting his satchel on the floor.

Sydney sets down Killian’s article and his coffee mug, folding his hands together on the desk. “I have some great news, Killian. We’ve just been bought by Walsh Media.” 

Killian pales and his stomach drops. “What?!” Blood bubbles under his skin at the thought of the wanker buying the Storybrooke Advocate. The thought of him owning something Killian has literally put his blood, sweat and tears into. “Bloody hell. Are you fucking kidding me?!” Ever since he was a kid, he’s dreamed of being an investigative journalist, so he’s been nothing but loyal and dedicated to the company from day one. But in the blink of an eye, Walsh has managed to ruin all that for him.

“Look, I knew you would have a poor reaction—”

“A poor reaction?!”

“Killian, this is a good thing.”

“How?! That wanker represents everything we’ve been fighting against since day one. The whole point of this paper is to fight giant media conglomerates. Now we’ve been bought by a giant media conglomerate.”

“I see the irony,” Sydney nods.

“Irony?!” Killian stands from his chair, his voice growing louder with every word. “He’s going to turn us into a giant propaganda machine! And not the good kind!” Anger pulsates through him as he paces back and forth in front of Sidney’s desk; he’s never been this worked up before in his entire life. And that’s saying something for him.

“Killian, we’re running out of options. We’ve been running as long as we can on ads for weed doctors and escorts.”

Killian stops in his tracks and raises his hands in the air. “Then run penis enlargement ads or something!”

“Come on, Killian,” Sydney admonishes.

He sighs in exasperation, trying to calm down, his voice calmer. “This Walsh guy ran fake stories to get Gold elected.”

Sydney shakes his head and raises a finger at him. “No, they couldn’t prove that.”

“We proved it!” He holds up three fingers. “I wrote three articles about it. You published them!”

Sydney nods, lowering his face into the palm of his hand. “I did.”

“The shite that comes out of this guy’s mouth? He said same-sex marriage caused tornadoes! He represents everything that’s wrong with this country!”

“Killian, it’s done, alright?”

He freezes. “It’s done?!”

“They’re upstairs, finalizing the deal right now.” 

Killian presses the pads of his fingers to his temples and turns away from his boss as he tries to process this. 

Sydney stands and rounds his desk, sitting on the edge, pleading with him. “Look, we have to cut two-thirds of our staff.”

Killian turns around, devastation in his features. “Two-thirds?”

“Yes. But we want to keep you on. They want to keep you on. It’s just,” he blows out a hesitant breath, “you just have to tone it down a little bit.”

Killian furrows his brows in bewilderment. “I don’t know how I can tone things down any more than I’m toning them down, mate,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

“Okay look, Killian, you’re a brilliant writer…”

“Thank you.”

“You’re funny, you take risks, you connect with people…”

Killian’s brows pinch in suspicion. “Why am I sensing there’s a big but coming?”

“You have a distinct, authentic voice… but… ”

“And there it is…” he sighs.

“But, sometimes you’re a little too much.”

Killian is taken aback. “I don’t think I am too much. I actually think I’m the perfect portion,” he says defensively.

“Look, you have your job, so focus on that and just toe the line a little bit.”

Killian is enraged. Toe the line a little bit?! He’s not toeing any lines. “I quit.”

Sydney’s face twists with a mixture of shock and disappointment. “Oh, come on, Killian…”

“You should quit, too. Everyone should bloody well quit.”

“No, I’m not quitting, I need my job.”

“I need my job too. I’m broke. But I can’t work for that tosser.”

Sydney sighs. “At least let me fire you so you can collect unemployment.”

Killian slices a hand through the air over his chest. “No bloody way! I want nothing from him. Besides, I want him to know I quit.”

“He’ll never know it, he’s never heard of you. You’re going to destroy your life to spite a guy who’s never heard of you?”

“Yes! You said it best! That’s exactly what I’m doing. Fuck this.” Killian grabs his satchel and walks out of Sydney’s office, closing the door behind him, announcing to all his former coworkers, “Journalism died today, people!”

∞∞∞

“So the headline is, you’re in great shape,” Mary Margaret, the polling team manager, points out as she displays the next presentation slide.

Emma’s sitting at the meeting table between her Chief of Staff, Regina Mills, and Deputy Chief of Staff, Robin Locksley, trying to follow along with the presentation, but it’s difficult for Emma to focus when her stomach is full of butterflies. She still can’t believe she persuaded Gold to endorse her. Her head is spinning.

“Ninety-two percent, that’s good,” Regina comments. 

“It’s very good,” Mary Margaret agrees exuberantly and moves on to the next slide, which shows Emma’s personality traits and how they were ranked. “Your sense of humor is eighty-two, which is solid.” Mary Margaret cocks her head to the side, as though she has to rethink that assessment. “It’s solid, but we wouldn’t mind seeing that number go up a few points… or more.”

Regina leans in to speak to Emma as she takes notes. “I’ll get some writing samples from some funny speechwriters.”

Emma sets her pen down and smiles. “Thanks, Regina.” She rests her elbows on the table, clasping her hands together as she reverts her attention to Mary Margaret and says, “But I’m really interested in knowing how people feel about my accomplishments.” 

“Right, so we don’t drill down on specific policies, and that’s only because people don’t seem to care.”

Well, that’s a blow to the gut.

“With that said, if you could broker a deal that gets you out there talking about something you feel strongly about, that would be really great.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Emma says enthusiastically, sitting on the edge of her chair. “We’ve been looking for an opening to start a conversation about the environment.” 

“That sounds great,” Mary Margaret says with a grin, but Emma’s not sure if she’s being sarcastic and trying to hold back a laugh, or if she’s being sincere. “Now, if I may, onto your romantic life…” The brunette shows a photo of Emma and Graham Humbert smiling for the camera.

Emma refrains from rolling her eyes as she rests her chin in her palm. She doesn’t have a romantic life. One make-out session with a world leader she barely knows doesn’t constitute a romance.

However, the way Mary Margaret gushes as she looks at the couple in the photo, one would think they were actually a couple. “Remember the stir online when you and the Canadian Prime Minister were seated next to each other at the Global Business Forum?”

Emma nods, wishing she were taking a nap right now. She doesn’t care about improving her personality traits or starting a romance that will raise her numbers and appease the public. Although she is quite proud of her two highest scores, elegance and charisma, both ranked at over ninety-five percent.

“A relationship like that,” Mary Margaret points to the photo of Emma and Graham, “could push you into the high nineties.”

“High nineties? Wow,” Regina murmurs to herself, making note of it.

“That brings us to…” Mary Margaret switches to the next slide, showing Emma’s wave.

She knits her brows in confusion. “What’s wrong with my wave?”

“That kind of elbow movement is um…” Mary Margaret purses her lips as though she’s trying to figure out how to put it delicately, but then gives up, “well, it stresses people out.”

“You know what? It’s just an area of improvement,” Robin assures Emma after sensing the offended tone in her voice.

She supposes the movement in her elbow is a bit too much. It makes her look like a robot actually. “Fine, I’ll work on the wave.”

∞∞∞

“I’m not going to a fancy rich person party,” Killian declares after Victor proposed going to the World Wildlife Fund benefit in Philly tonight. Killian had shared the details with Victor and now they’re walking down Main Street discussing their plans for the evening. But Killian thought Vic was trying to make him feel better. Going to a fancy, rich person party will only remind Killian how rich he is not. He had something else in mind, something involving the closest bar and lots and lots of rum. 

“Oh, come on, Jones. Don’t be so judgemental. There will be free booze and pandas and shit. People love pandas and shit.”

Killian shakes his head. “I just lost my job, I’m not really in the mood to mingle.”

“Fine, just sit at home and do nothing. Don’t hang out with your best friend and Boyz II Men.”

Killian’s ears perk up and he stops in his tracks. “Boyz II Men will be there?”

Victor stops walking and turns around, nodding. “Yep. They’re bringing their timeless blend of R&B and hip hop to the party. The fancy rich party doesn’t sound so bad after all, now does it?”

Not at all. He used to listen to Boyz II Men and other popular musicians in the nineties. But mostly Boyz II Men because it’s what he and Emma would listen to when she was over at his house babysitting him. He didn’t know Victor then; they met in college before Victor went off to medical school, but they have similar tastes in music. Which is how Victor knew exactly how to persuade Killian into going to a fancy, rich person party. “Okay, I’m in, mate.”

“That’s the spirit!” Victor pats Killian on the shoulder, and they walk again as Victor sings Motownphilly.

∞∞∞

“I’m starving. Why didn’t you power bar me?” Emma asks Robin as they make their way down the staircase, Regina and her Secret Service agents following behind them.

The Grand Room glitters like something out of a fairy tale, all candlelight and crystal chandeliers and gilt and sophisticated shine. The attendees glitter, the women dripping in diamonds and other precious stones and the men donning suits and black ties. 

“I tried to, but you pushed my hand away,” Robin chuckles.

“Hopefully they don’t have skewered foods. I can’t eat skewered foods gracefully; I always look like a fucking cavewoman.”

“And there are cameras everywhere.” Regina points at a dutiful photographer who’s unobtrusively circling the perimeter of the room, taking pictures of as many of the guests as he can. “That would hurt your elegance score.”

“That’s my best score.”

When they reach the buffet table, Emma’s relieved to find that not all the food is on skewers. But even so, she’s so hungry, she may still look like a cavewoman trying to stuff as much food into her mouth as she can. “Cover me?”

“Of course.”

Regina and Robin both stand behind her like walls as Emma makes her first selection, grabbing a saucy meatball on a toothpick and bringing it to her mouth, being careful not to drip any sauce on her black dress. 

“Oh my god, these meatballs are really good,” Emma mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Graham Humbert is approaching,” Regina warns her. “He’s about nine feet away.”

“Shit,” Emma whispers and shoves another meatball into her mouth before wiping her lips and chin with a napkin. After swallowing it down and discarding the napkin, she spins around, offering a bright smile. 

When Graham approaches her, giving her a once over, Regina and Robin disperse.

“Graham… how are you?”

“Good evening.” His lips twitch in a pleased smile as he takes Emma’s hand and presses a kiss to the back of it. “I am so sorry I missed you at the White House a few weeks ago,” he says in his thick, Irish brogue. He was born in Canada, but his parents are originally from Ireland, so naturally, he took on their Irish accent.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Emma waves off his apology with a flick of her hand. “Maybe next time?”

“Well, I—”

“If I may?” the photographer interrupts, holding up his camera.

“Aye, of course,” Graham turns toward him, and Emma relents, remembering what Mary Margaret said about how being seen with Graham would raise her score. She supposes if she’s going to be running for president, she must endure some things she may not like, in order to appease the public. Besides, it’s not like Graham is bad looking; in fact, he’s rather handsome with his curly brown hair and grey-blue eyes. But her hectic schedule doesn’t allow time for a romantic relationship. 

Graham wraps his arm around her as she places a tentative hand on his back. The camera flashes a few times as Emma and Graham hold their smiles.

“One more,” Graham says, just as Emma’s about to pull away. 

A few more successive shots are taken before Graham thanks the photographer and they break their pose, turning toward each other. 

He inches closer, speaking intimately in her ear. “What do you say we get out of here? Grab a drink somewhere a bit more… private?”

The music changes from something soft and elegant to something more familiar. Very familiar actually. 

Motownphilly.

Emma looks over Graham’s shoulder and her eyes light up when she sees Boyz II Men on stage. “Yeeeessss!”  

When Regina told her about the World Wildlife Fund benefit, she failed to mention Boyz II Men would be performing.

“Yeah?” Graham asks, a big smile spreading across his lips.

While he’s thinking she was saying yes to his invitation, Emma had forgotten his presence as soon as she heard the music. Not that she would’ve accepted his invitation anyway. But now she sees this as an opportunity to avoid the question altogether. “Oh my God!” Emma scurries over to the crowd that’s gathering around the entertainers of the evening.

“Alright, alright, alright, alright. Philly, make some noise. Make some noise!”

The crowd whistles and cheers, and Emma is taken back to when she was a kid again. She was ten when this song came out—when she bought their CD—and listened to it constantly throughout her teen years. 

Graham joins her on the dance floor as she moves to the music, not even caring about her elegance score. She literally hasn’t danced like this since high school, but she feels more carefree than she has in years and she hasn’t even had a sip of champagne. Stuffy music and champagne have never been her thing. But this… this is her music.

“Duty calls.” Graham’s deep voice in her ear makes her jump, and she spins around to look at him. “I’ll take a snow check on those drinks. Canadian for a rain check,” he winks.

“Okay,” Emma says, forcing a small laugh at his joke. 

“Good evening,” he bids her, slowly walking away.

∞∞∞

“I feel very underdressed,” Killian grumbles as he peers down at himself. He’d never thought to change out of his blue jeans, t-shirt and black hoody, and here he is drinking champagne in a room full of rich people who are wearing tuxes and formal dresses.

“Don’t worry, you look fine,” Victor says as they make their way through the crowd. 

Killian knows he’s just being nice though. Even Victor is wearing a dress shirt and blazer, but then again he blends in more with the other rich folk because unlike Killian, he’s not jobless or poor; he’s a doctor who makes more than a decent living.

Killian finishes his champagne and places the flute on a tray when a waiter approaches, and snatches another one, gulping it down like rum.

“Easy, buddy. You’re pounding those drinks pretty hard, don’t you think?” And that’s coming from Victor, who’s at the bar every night he’s not on call.

“I got fired today, mate.” 

“I thought you said you quit?”

Killian’s gaze moves across the room as he turns his head to look at Victor who is standing next to him. “I was forced to quit because—” His words die in his throat, his jaw dropping when his eyes land on a gorgeous blonde dancing.

But not just any blonde. Killian recognizes her. 

It’s the Secretary of State. It’s Emma Swan. His first crush. His first kiss. 

He hasn’t seen her in person since she was eighteen, but she’s even more stunning as a grown woman. And she’s even more stunning than she is on television. 

[accioharry]

daughter | bellarke au | ch 1 

She could hear her mom’s voice in her head, walking her through the shock just as she walked other women through it on the Ark.

The missed periods, nausea, the fatigue…

She’s pregnant with Bellamy’s baby.

read on ao3 | word count: 1.6k

She realizes it twelve weeks after the end of the world, after the end of everything.

Clarke knew something was wrong, she just didn’t know what. She felt nauseous for weeks, couldn’t keep food down (she barely could find food as it was), and honestly just felt terrible. At first, she thought it was part of the radiation exposure, considering it almost killed her when she tried to save her friends. The problem was, instead of adjusting to the exposure, her body just felt worse and worse as each day passed. She’s washing some clothes in the river not far from the valley when it hits her.

Her friends left months ago, she should’ve gotten her period multiple times by now. She didn’t. The first time had to be from radiation exposure, but the second? The third?

Her hand drops the shirt she’s holding into the water as she holds her stomach, her breath escaping her.

No, there’s no way. It was one time, there was no way…

She could hear her mom’s voice in her head, walking her through the shock just as she walked other women through it on the Ark. The missed periods, the nausea, the fatigue…

She’s pregnant with Bellamy’s baby.

“This is ridiculous. I keep making these radio calls thinking you’d hear me, but now more than ever I really need you to listen, okay Bellamy? I think I’m pregnant…well I know I am. It’s hard to tell how far along…but at least twelve weeks give or take. Jesus Christ, we’re having a baby, and you aren’t even here. How am I gonna do this?”

Of course, Madi is overjoyed at the thought of Clarke having a baby. It’s been just the two of them for a little over a month now, and she’s picking up english a lot quicker than Clarke expected. Though she’s only six, she understands that soon there will be a little baby around. She flips through Clarke’s sketchbook before her bedtime in a cabin in the little village Clarke found, and Clarke can’t help but glance to the empty space across the room, a space that will hold a handmade crib in a few short months. She’s terrified of doing this alone, without Bellamy, without her Mom.

Madi talks to Clarke’s stomach every night, even though there is no sign of a bump yet or at least an actual baby bump. Clarke plays along with the excitement for Madi’s sake but finds herself crying every night after she tucks her into bed.

Bellamy and Clarke slept together the night they made the list of the ones who would make it into the bunker. It was a one time, just because the world is ending, type of thing. Except now, there’s a physical, lifelong memory growing inside of Clarke. She’s alone, has no doctor, no medicine, and no idea if the baby is even healthy. She just has to wait, and hope her body does what it’s supposed to do.

She starts showing at around fifteen weeks. 

The bump is still pretty small, but enough that Madi notices. She’s working on copying sentences Clarke had written for her when she notices.

“Baby!” She gets up and points to Clarke, who’s cooking dinner. She runs over and puts her hands on Clarke’s stomach. “I see the baby!”

Clarke looks down at her, at this wild child that she’s come to adopt in the last few months. Madi’s excitement about having a baby almost takes the fear of losing Bellamy away, almost. She smiles and runs her hands through Madi’s hair.

What Madi doesn’t know that after Clarke put her to bed, she went out of the village and screamed into the rain, her hands cradling her tiny bump as she fell to her knees. “Please,” she sobs, “I can’t do this without him.” She sits there in silence, letting the rain wash over her. “Please don’t make me do this alone,” she whispered, because maybe, just maybe, he was still alive.

She never gets a response.

They start the nursery towards the end of Clarke’s second trimester.

She’s worried about so many things, the birth going wrong, the baby not making it, the baby not having nightblood—even though it should. There’s too much stress, and having a distraction makes it a little easier. She moves herself and Madi into a bigger cabin further into the valley, a cabin that has three rooms instead of just one. She’s decided eventually she will change all the cabins for her friends, but that’s for months, maybe years after the baby is born.

There’s no way for Clarke to know the gender of the baby because there’s no way to do an ultrasound. Madi is convinced the baby is a girl and has started throwing names out there, mostly names from the stories she’s heard. Clarke can’t bring herself to come up with a name, boy or girl, because that just makes it feel real.

They use berries to paint the wall of the nursery where the crib will go. Surprisingly, Madi knows more than Clarke expected from the seven-year-old. Her birthday was a few weeks ago, and all she wanted was to meet the baby. She was more excited than Clarke and was fearless about it. They find a crib in another empty cabin, though run down and falling apart. It doesn’t take long to fix it, and Madi puts it under a window in the nursery. She also brings clothes and toys from other parts of the village that had yet to be explored. There isn’t much, but it’s enough.

Clarke goes into labor as soon as she hits 38 weeks.

She’s sitting on the floor, sketching a picture of the baby’s nursery, when she feels the flood of water from between her legs. She tries to stay calm, knowing Madi is asleep down the hall in her own room, but by that morning, Clarke is having her first contractions.

Madi is up by dawn as usual, and she remembers everything Clarke had told her. They had prepared a corner of the cabin for labor, with pillows and blankets and other towels. Clarke refuses to sit there until she knows it’s time to push, which wouldn’t be for a few hours. She spends the day on the couch, timing contractions with Madi, who has decided to write it all down on a page in Clarke’s sketchbook. Madi brings her water and sits with her, but she’s restless and impatient. For once, Clarke agrees.

The baby is born shortly before dinner.

It’s a long thirty minutes of pushing, screaming, and crying from her and Madi until they both finally hear the tiny baby cries they’ve waited six months for.

“It’s a girl!” Madi squeals.

She’s got the baby in her arms, and Clarke tears up at the sight of it. In an instant, Madi grew up before her eyes. She hands the baby to Clarke before cleaning her off with a towel, and Clarke smiles at the big brown eyes staring up at her, Bellamy’s eyes.

She walks Madi through clamping and cutting the cord, even though Madi is scared that cutting it will hurt the baby. Clarke manages to push the placenta out, much to Madi’s amazement. She was so worried Madi would be grossed out, or worse, terrified, but the little girl just watches the baby in amazement as it holds onto her finger.

Clarke recovers in her bed that night, the baby sound asleep in her lap after feeding. She’s shocked that everything went well, that the baby looks healthy, it’s latched with no problems, and Madi was such a trooper.

She looks over when she feels the bed dip to see Madi crawling up to her.

“Did you name her?”

“Not yet,” Clarke mutters, passing the baby to Madi. She gently rocks the baby in her arms before leaning against Clarke herself.

“I have a name,” Madi whispers, and Clarke chuckles.

“Oh do you?” She knows Madi has wanted to name the baby Octavia for months now, even if it was a boy. Clarke considered Octavian for a boy’s name, but that’s all she had come up with.

“Athena,” Madi says, giggling as the baby grabs her finger again. “We name her Athena because Bellamy named Octavia after Augustus’ sister. Athena could be similar to Augustus, maybe?”

It really isn’t, but the sentiment behind it makes Clarke love it even more. Madi has grown into her own person in just the eight months Clarke has been with her, it’s amazing.

Clarke kisses the top of her head, pulling Madi closer to her. “How do you remember that?” Clarke asks.

“I just do,” she shrugs. “So can we?”

Clarke stares at her daughter for a moment. She’s awake now, watching Madi intently with her brown eyes that have the same intensity as Bellamy’s. She wants to honor Bellamy, knowing there’s a good chance her baby will never know her father. She wishes she could share this moment with him, for him to see the miracle they created. He’s not even on the planet, maybe not even alive. Clarke feels her heart break. “Yeah,” Clarke whispers as Athena falls asleep in Madi’s arms. “We can name her Athena.”

“Bellamy, if you’re alive, I did it. I don’t know why I always question if you’re alive, it doesn’t make this much easier. But I did it Bell, I gave birth today, and she’s perfect. Yeah, she’s a girl. Madi wants to name her Athena for you, and I really couldn’t argue with her. She’s got your eyes and I wish you could see her, see both of them. I did the math today, she’ll be a little over four years old when you meet her and Madi will be eleven. If there’s any chance you hear these, and can’t answer, I’ll tell you all about her, about both of them, every day until you get here. I promise.”

[camillemontespan]

her one constant [part eleven: phoenix rising] [drake the bodyguard AU]

Master List

@ibldw-main​​​​ @jovialyouthmusic​​​​ @katedrakeohd​​​​ @moonlightgem7​​​​ @pug-bitch​​​​ @princessleac1​​​​ @burnsoslow​​​​ @notoriouscs​​​​ @dcbbw​​​​ @saivilo​​​​ @rainbowsinthestorm​​​​ @marshmallowsandfire​​​​ @marshmallowsaremyfavorite​​​​ @gardeningourmet​​​​ @kingliam2019​​ @nomadics-stuff​​ @kimmiedoo5​ ******************************

Leo rested his feet on the table as he leaned his head back. His mobile was in his hand and he was waiting patiently for his contact at Trend Magazine -and occasional fuck buddy- Jennifer Taylor to pick up her line.

‘Hi Leo.’ 

Leo smiled his typical lazy smile that made women’s knees go weak; even if Jennifer couldn’t see him, she would certainly know he was smiling the smile she liked so much.

‘Jen, gorgeous, how are you doing?’ he asked her cheerfully, picking at his thumbnail. 

‘Living the dream,’ she replied dryly. ‘How about you? Enjoying being back in Cordonia?’

Leo chuckled. ‘It’s certainly eventful. So, I got something for you.’

There was a silence on the other line before Jennifer spoke eagerly, like a dog gnawing on a bone. ‘What have you got for me?’

Leo rolled his eyes. So predictable.

‘I’ll give you it... but only if you give something to me.’

‘Like what? A blowjob on your yacht like last time before you left to travel to god knows where?’

Lee smiled at her attempt to act casual and non-plussed when really, he knew she wanted him all over again. No woman could resist his charms. It was why he had a roster of women, routinely benching ones who weren’t serving their purpose for him anymore. He was a lethal coach. 

‘Something better,’ he said. ‘You ever spent the night in a royal suite in the palace?’

He heard her gasp. 

‘No, I haven’t-’

‘You, me, my suite in the palace.. Naked,’ Leo said. ‘That’s what I want. You under me.’

Jennifer let out a low groan. ‘Leo…’

He had her. 

‘What have you got for me?’ she asked breathlessly. Clearly, images of Leo on top of her had her feeling a little flustered. 

Leo smiled. ‘The Duchess of Valtoria.’

‘Tell me more.’

Camille was catnip for the magazines. So predictable that Jennifer instantly latched on. 

‘The Duchess of Valtoria and her bodyguard,’ Leo told her. ‘I saw them making out amongst the coats at last night’s ball. Pretty seedy to be honest.. She’s a Duchess, she can’t be acting like that.’

Jennifer let out a cackle. ‘Says you.’

Leo smirked. ‘I know, right? But we’ve got a standard here. Duchesses have to keep to it. She is supposed to be making out with nobles, not her bodyguard. I think the public deserve to know how much of a common slut she is.’ 

‘Bit harsh,’ Jennifer said, her voice not in the least bit concerned. ‘I take it you want to be an anonymous tip?’

‘Yes,’ Leo said. ‘A concerned source, if you will.’

‘Why are you even wanting me to write about this?’ Jennifer asked. ‘Why do you care?’

Leo rolled his eyes and decided to ignore her question.  ‘See you in my suite tomorrow night, gorgeous.’

He hung up on Jennifer and closed his eyes, content with what he had done. Yes, Jennifer, why did Leo care?

He didn’t.

But he didn’t like being told no. Once the bodyguard was forced to resign, Camille would have nothing standing between her and a night with Leo. Because that’s all Leo wanted; he liked the chase. He liked it when new women entered court and he could shamelessly flirt with them. He enjoyed winning them over. He enjoyed taking them to his room so he could introduce them to Cordonian traditions. If they were special, he added them to his roster, skulking back to them armed with roses and perfume and that lazy smile of his that they loved so much. 

It was all fun and games. 

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

 Trend Magazine’s cover story for the following week broke the revelation that the Duchess of Valtoria, Camille Montespan, was having an affair with her bodyguard. 

‘According to our source, the Duchess of Valtoria was seen getting hot and heavy with her bodyguard during a ball at the palace. Following further investigation, it seems as though Camille and her human shield, Drake Walker, are more close than is expected of a Duchess and her employee. Paparazzi photographs often show them laughing together or going as far as to hold hands. Indeed, in one photograph, the two lovers are pictured sharing an umbrella, love in their eyes, as Camille attended a Beaumont Bash. 

This revelation will blow apart the Duchess’ carefully constructed image of sophistication and elegance that she has tried so hard to create in her bid to win approval. Following her rejection of King Liam’s proposal of marriage - which sent shockwaves through the country- it was expected that she would court a fellow noble, perhaps seek a Duke to run the duchy of Valtoria with her, as per courtly traditions. But apparently, the Duchess has other ideas. What is she thinking?

‘If Camille is serious about remaining as the Duchess of Valtoria,’ our source says, ‘she needs to up her game and let go of the bodyguard. It is unbecoming of a Duchess to have an affair with someone she employs; it is unprofessional and makes a mockery of her title. Perhaps she feels affinity with him due to the fact he is a commoner and so was she not so long ago. But she is in a different world now and she should set her sights on someone nearer her station - not his.’

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

Camille threw the magazine down on the coffee table and sank her head into her hands. Drake stood in the corner of the room, too afraid to move. He didn’t know what to say or do. This was all his fault. If he had just been professional, none of this would have happened.

But he was also furious.

Who made up these accusations and gave them to this poisonous rag of a magazine? What do they have against Camille? I’ll kill them. I’ll fucking kill them.

His inner thoughts were broken by the sound of Camille letting out a choked sob. She clenched her hair with her fingers and her shoulders shook as she cried. Drake instantly abandoned his corner of the room and crossed the floor towards her, sinking down to his knees at her feet.

‘Camille..’ he murmured. ‘Look at me.’

She moved her hands away from her face and Drake could now see her tearfilled eyes. He longed to reach out to kiss her and make her feel better but he found it would be too inappropriate given the circumstances. 

‘This is bullshit,’ Camille said, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Complete and utter bullshit.’

Drake sighed. ‘I know. God, Camille, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. If I had just stuck to being the typical bodyguard, you wouldn’t be in this shitstorm.’

Camille let out a shuddering breath. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘I’m not blaming you for this. You are the best bodyguard, you do your job, and I’m not letting you take the blame for something as shit as this. How dare they say such horrible things about you?’

Drake reached out to pick up the magazine. His eyes scanned the words filled with superiority and pretension. ‘But she is in a different world now and she should set her sights on someone nearer her station - not his.’ 

The sentence was like a knife cutting into Drake. But it was true. Why wasn’t Camille dating a noble? She could date Maxwell if she didn’t want Liam. Maxwell Beaumont was the one noble who actually seemed like an ordinary person; he adored Camille and would treat her right. But instead, Camille was kissing Drake in secret - though not at palace balls as Trend wrongly reported. 

‘I’ll quit,’ Drake muttered, his words killing him as he spoke them. Camille’s eyes widened in horror. 

‘Drake, no-’

‘If it makes this all go away, I’ll quit,’ Drake said steadily, his eyes penetrating hers. ‘I don’t want your name dragged through the mud and for the nobles to look down on you more than they already do. I said it from the start that your reputation is important; now we’re a cover story which is so far from what I wanted. So, I’ll quit and your reputation can be restored. You’re the Duchess of Valtoria; you are important.’

He waited for Camille’s reaction. He waited for fresh tears to well up in her eyes and for her to break down again. But instead, her eyes had narrowed and she was scrutinising Drake. He swallowed. ‘Camille? Say something.’

Camille cast her eyes to the magazine. She picked it up and got to her feet, magazine in her hand. She strode across the room, her high heels clicking against the hardwood floor, as she made her way to the fireplace. Without hesitation, she threw the magazine onto the logs of wood, ready to be lit for a cosy night by the fire and a glass of wine. 

She turned to face Drake. Her shoulders were thrown back and her chin raised defiantly, the signature Camille move she adopted when summoning confidence. 

‘I am the Duchess of Valtoria,’ she said with a determined voice, ‘and you are not quitting.’

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

That night, Camille was invited to a dinner party at the Beaumonts. It was to be an intimate affair with only fifty nobles in attendance but she still didn’t want to go. She was sick of nobles. It was a huge irony for her that she happened to be one herself. 

She had chosen to wear a red silk dress and gold heels. Fuck Olivia Nevrakis who didn’t like it when other women wore her favourite colour. Fuck the nobles for thinking they were above everyone else in the world. Fuck Trend. Fuck the expectations set on Camille. She was done. Tonight, she was going to be like a phoenix rising from the ashes and she wasn’t going to show remorse or regret. Let them think she was fucking Drake; he was certainly the best man she knew. It wasn’t an embarrassment for her as everyone believed it should be. 

She was angry about the comments about Drake. That was what had upset her. How the article had basically said that he was inferior to Camille. How he was referred to as a human shield. Camille wanted to shout that he was so much more than a human shield and he was equal to her. Nobody was better that anyone else; what was so hard to understand about that?

Drake’s eyes widened when he saw what she was wearing. ‘You look incredible,’ he breathed. Camille smiled and watched his face turn as red as her dress as he realised he had made an ‘inappropriate’ comment. It took him a while to compose himself. 

‘If I go missing tonight,’ she said with her eyes sparkling, ‘blame Olivia Nevrakis and her obsession with being the only one to wear red.’

Drake chuckled. ‘She’ll be the first person I’ll interrogate.’

They walked out of the manor towards the car. Geoffrey was leaning against the door, enjoying a cigarette. He quickly stubbed it out when he saw the Duchess and the bodyguard approaching. ‘Apologies, Duchess!’

Camille giggled. ‘I’d kill for a cigarette right now, Geoffrey.’

Drake opened the car door for her, again making Geoffrey feel useless but again, he was used to it. 

Drake and Camille settled into the plush seats. As they made their way to the Beaumont’s, Camille chatted easily. It was as if the magazine article hadn’t happened, which to Drake, meant she was on a mission. She wasn’t going to let this faze her.

How could Drake break it to her that no matter how hard she ignored this situation, it wouldn’t go away? 

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

The paparazzi surrounded the car before Camille had even gotten out. The car lit up inside from the flashing and Camille shielded her eyes from the harsh glare. Her hand was trembling.

Paparazzi were still her kryptonite. No matter how confident Camille was trying to appear tonight, she had reached her obstacle. Putting on his bodyguard persona, Drake got out first, shoving past the photographers who were now photographing him.

‘Drake, how long have you been sleeping with the Duchess?’ one shouted.

‘Have you banged her in the car?’

‘Smile for us!’

‘How do you feel about the expose from Trend?’

Drake reached Camille’s door and deliberately used his broad frame to shield her from the cameras. They couldn’t see past his 6’4 muscled body, no matter how hard they tried to push past him to take a picture.

‘I’m scared..’ Camille whispered, her confidence shattering. Why was she wearing red? Why had she been so naive earlier? Why was she such a coward?

‘I’ve got you,’ Drake told her in a low voice. ‘Take my hand and keep close to me.’

Camille grabbed his hand and Drake pulled her into him, holding her close as he shut the door behind her. Her breathing was rapid and she could feel her body shaking uncontrollably. Drake shielded her as he stood in his spot, his eyes looking down into hers.

‘You are the Duchess of Valtoria,’ he murmured. ‘You are strong and brave. You are above these vultures. Don’t let them scare you or they will exploit you for their own gain. Throw your shoulders back, keep your head high and walk into the Beaumont residence like the woman I know you are. I’ll be with you every step of the way.’

Camille swallowed. The paparazzi were still shouting, trying to get the money shot. Drake gave her a terse nod. ‘Ready, kid?’

She looked up into Drake’s face. His eyes were so kind and warm. He had so much faith in her. Camille loved him. She loved him to the point where it felt like her heart was being held tight and she couldn’t breathe. It was all encompassing. 

Be brave for him. Show Cordonia that you don’t care about the story. Walk confidently with him by your side.

Camille took a deep breath and gave him a nod. ‘I’m ready.’

Drake placed his hand on her lower back and guided her away from the car, shielding her from the cameras. He watched as Camille stopped shaking and threw her shoulders back, walking with purpose towards the Beaumont residence. 

She was a phoenix rising. She was fire and steel, burning brightly beside him. Drake felt his heart flip as he watched her transform in an instant and he longed to take her into his arms and burn with her.

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

Drake stood in the corner with Lou, Micah and Thomas. The four bodyguards kept their eyes on their Duchesses who were sitting around the dining table. 

'So anyone gonna mention the awkward cover story about Walker and the Duchess of Valtoria?', Lou muttered from the corner of his mouth. 

Micah sniggered. 'Ironic that he's the only one of us not banging his Duchess and he still becomes a cover story.' 

Drake’s jaw set at that comment. Micah instantly stopped laughing to himself and cleared his throat, knowing he should keep quiet. 

‘Is she okay?’ Thomas asked quietly.

‘She’s fucking upset,’ Drake said in a low voice. ‘But more about the comments made about me.’

They all watched Camille as she sipped her wine and spoke in low tones to Hana who was sitting by her side. Maxwell was trying his best to engage in conversation with Camille but Bertrand kept diverting his attention. Drake was beginning to suspect it was deliberate. So far, only Hana had acted normal with Camille. The other nobles had not.

Aside from a comment about how red didn’t suit Camille, Olivia had ignored her. 

Madeleine wrinkled her nose in disgust whenever she looked at Camille. 

Kiara and Penelope avoided Camille’s eyes whenever she tried to make conversation with them, instead finding the table cloth fascinating. 

Liam wouldn’t even look at Camille, keeping his eyes focused away from the woman he had proposed to just five months ago. 

Bertrand had the waiter serve Camille last. 

Drake watched furiously at the passive aggressive actions that were being performed in front of him. He fought every urge to abandon his post and storm across to Camille, taking her by the hand and getting her out of there. 

But he knew this would happen. As soon as the story made front page news, Drake knew Camille’s standing at court had been ruined. Already, she was being ostracised and no longer viewed as a shiny new thing at court. To the nobles, she was sullied; dirty; not one of them. 

And it was all Drake’s fault.

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

As the night drew to a close, Camille had become more withdrawn at the table as she realised how much the court had turned against her. When Bertrand announced that they could all retire to the drawing room for champagne, Camille stood up and briskly left the room to collect her coat without excusing herself. She wasn’t going to stay for champagne in the drawing room. She had had enough of nobles. Instead, she was going to light the fire at home, watch the magazine burn into ash and drink wine. 

Drake said goodbye to his fellow bodyguards and followed Camille out the door. He had to run to catch up with her. 

‘Camille, slow down!’

‘Fuck them,’ she spat, storming across the courtyard to the car. There were no paparazzi waiting outside which was a first. ‘Fuck all of them. Narrow minded, arrogant, patronising bastards!’ 

Drake grabbed her by the arm; Camille instinctively raised her elbow to jab him in the gut. Drake stepped back, avoiding the blow. 

Camille whipped around to face him, her eyes widening in shock as she realised what she had  nearly done. ‘I’m so sorry!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t mean to use your self defence training against you-’

‘I’m glad you did,’ Drake said, interrupting her. ‘I trained you well.’

Camille let out a breath and looked past Drake towards Beaumont Manor. ‘I hate them all,’ she whispered, her voice cracking. ‘I hate this world I’m in. It’s stifling. I hate that I am part of these people. I’m never going to be one of them and I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be like Olivia or Madeline who look down on others because they feel superior. I just want to be surrounded by people who are kind and good. Is that too much to ask? The only person I have who is the embodiment of those two things is you and now they are trying to pull me away from you. I won’t have it, Drake! I won’t let them!’

Her voice was rising now, almost hysterical. Tears filled her eyes as she shouted and Drake could only listen helplessly as she vented to him. 

‘You’re better than all of them combined, Drake!’ she cried. ‘Fuck them if they don’t see it! They are horrible, horrible people and I hate every single one of them.’

She let out a sob. Drake’s heart cracked open. In an instant, he pulled her into him and held her tightly. ‘Shhh, it’s okay..’ he murmured. ‘I got you.’

Her hands clenched the lapels of his jacket as she cried into his chest. Drake closed his eyes as he held her. ‘Let’s get you home,’ he whispered. 

Camille drew away from him and looked up into his eyes. She rubbed hers harshly and allowed Drake to guide her to the car. They settled inside and didn’t speak for the entire journey, instead thinking about the dinner party, the nobles and Camille’s tirade. 

They got back to the manor. Camille stormed through to the kitchen and brought out a bottle of wine and two glasses, before striding back to the living room with determination on her face. 

Drake stood in the hallway, trying to summon the courage to tell her the one thing that would make it worse. But he couldn’t keep quiet. 

Watching the nobles treat Camille like the shit on their shoes had shown Drake just how much he had ruined her reputation. Nobles were lethal and had no qualms about freezing someone out of court if they did something deemed controversial. He thought about the future; Camille attending these events, continuing to be ignored. Camille soon not being invited and spending every night at home in the manor that was too big for her. Camille becoming lonely. Isolated. Unhappy.

Drake couldn’t have that.

Swallowing, he walked into the living room where Camille was curled up on the floor by the fire.  

‘I’m giving you my month’s notice,’ Drake said, his voice clear and stark in the silence.  ‘I’ll interview potential replacements for you as I know what they should be like. I can’t be the reason for your unhappiness. I can’t stand by and watch as your name is dragged through the mud. I’m so sorry.’

Camille didn’t look at him. But her fingers clenched the stem of her wine glass as his words hung heavily between them. She looked into the fire, willing herself not to cry. She had a feeling he would quit; yet his words still felt like a bullet in her chest. 

The magazine was burning, its pages curling into nothing, the image of Drake and Camille sharing an umbrella, smiling at each other and laughing,  turning charred and black. 

[hoboal87]

What's Mine

Pairing: Dean x f!Reader

Summary: Dean doesn't like see you flirting with other people.

Warnings: one slap to the face, smut, bratty reader, semi-public sex, Dean being rough/kinda an ass (but its cool with the reader and 100% consensual 😉)

Word Count: 368

A/N: written for @cockslut-padalecki's Eleven Sentences Challenge, the prompt is bolded. I am LOVING this Challenge, Lisa!

"I bet you think you're real cute letting them put their hands all over you," Dean huffs as he grabs you by the arm and makes for the exit of the bar.

"What're you talking about," you play innocent, in truth, you knew exactly what you were doing; playing up the drunk girl stereotype, pretending you hadn't been hustling barflys since you'd been old enough to sneak in.

Dean's eyes darken, and the bar becomes eerily silent, all the patrons watching in a shocked silence as Dean hits you with the back of his hand.

"Hey man–" a younger man tries to intercede, bless him, on your behalf, but quickly backs away when Dean not-so-subtly reveals his gun tucked into his pants.

Dean drags you outside, pulling you into the alley and slamming you against the grimy wall, before placing a rough and passionate kiss on your lips, and lets his hand wander under your shirt and gives your breast a squeeze, making you moan underneath him.

Keeping your body pressed against the wall using his, Dean yanks your jeans down just over your thighs, and moves your panties to the side before plunging two thick fingers into your weeping hole. Once he's satisfied your stretched open enough, he release his own cock from the confines of his jeans and swiftly enters you, setting a hard and fast pace.

You're already wound up and it doesn't take more than a few pumps for you to cum hard on his cock, covering him in your slick as he begins to go deeper, and you let him use you to chance his own release.

He cums with a grunt, pulling out to aim his seed into the crotch of your panties, leaving you slightly annoyed that he didn't finish inside, but this is part of the game.

"You're gonna go back in there, and show them boys a thing 'r two, but you better not let 'em touch what's mine," Dean says as he tucks himself away, and you head back towards the entrance of the bar. "If you do you know what'll happen, sweetheart" he warns playfully, "and we'll see how cute you look later when I get you home."

Feedback in fuel! Please let me know what you think!

[sonickedtrowel]

1, 2, 4, 10, 20!!

Tell us about your current project(s)  – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

Oh boy so I’m sure I must have mentioned it at some point but I won’t turn down a chance to ramble about it again: me and @regalpotato​ are working on a Day of the Doctor rewrite and I’m pretty psyched about it!  Basically, Eight is there rather than War (although War does make an appearance!) and also River is there, because Duh, and there are other Things going on that are different from the episode/novel, but that’s spoilers and also still partially cooking in my brain, lol.  It’s at 11k-ish right now but still pretty early in the story, too early to probably say what I will love most.  But I’m having a ton of fun with it, especially the dialogue, and currently torturing Ten in every way I can think of.  You know, lovingly torturing.  For the most part.

That is the really big thing I’m excited about, but I do still have two prompts left from a couple weeks back (I didn’t forget you, anons!) and those are milling around in my head too waiting for inspiration to strike. 2. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

No secret that I love writing multi-Doctor / River stories, and in fact having somewhat recently finished an 8 and 11 / River fic I will have to be on my toes to not repeat myself too much haha.  But I just love getting everyone together and letting them yell at each other for a while - the best honestly - and then later we get Revealing Conversations about Feelings, as well as POV changing chapters.  Not to overhype it but!  I think it’s gonna be fun! Putting the rest under a cut because I am long-winded lol.

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

Hmmm I’ll pick something I like from the WIP that’s all my writing - this is from Night of the Doctor with Eight and Ohila, but it’s diverged from the original script here and iirc pretty much all new dialogue for Eight.  I don’t normally write this sort of Doctor speech because I’m usually doing romance, but I can hear Paul McGann righteously shouting/soliloquizing in my head so I’m pretty happy with it: *** “What would you have me do?” the Doctor hissed.  “What does your broken prophecy foretell?  That I become one more loyal soldier in Gallifrey’s glorious army?  I can join this fight and take a thousand lives, die a thousand deaths, and this war will still go on.  The universe doesn’t need another soldier!” “Not a soldier,” said the Sister, “a warrior, with the power you’ve refused to wield.  You could have destroyed the Daleks before they were even created.” “Yes, I could have done.  And I didn’t, because I have no right!  Whatever it is you think you can turn me into, Sister, you’ll continue to be disappointed.  Because there’s one person who is always needed in a war: a good doctor, willing to help whomever they can.  No matter if they’re despised, or called traitor— no matter who they lose or how many times they fail!  There will always be more lives to save, and I’ll be there, helping, wherever I can.  I only hope I’m strong enough to carry on doing it half as well as another doctor I knew.” ***

(Yes of course we have Liv Chenka references!) 10. How would you describe your writing process? It takes me forever to get ideas, but once I have a sort of general amorphous direction for the story and an emotional starting point for the characters, I just jump in.  And then I keep getting shower thoughts about more and more stuff happening and what was supposed to just be some fun fluff starts growing a plot and getting wildly out of hand and this is just my life.  I am very much not in control. 20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?) Ohhhh this is such a good question!  Definitely going with There is a love I reminisce because there’s a lot going on under the surface in that fic and not all of it stated super explicitly.  So um, huge spoilers below if you haven’t read it!

Manhattan and Trenzalore (both times) are essentially retconned, through a combination of River’s innate abilities and Eleven going around the timeline trying to do better after being confronted with his shortcomings in TNOTD.  How the Doctor survived Utah is explained and it’s not because he was in a stupid robot.  It spawns an implied post-Library reunion with River, Eleven and the Doctor’s oft-referenced and never quantified or named children from Gallifrey.  It implies a different resolution to the Hybrid thing and an alternate series 10.  And of course it uses BF’s far-superior Ravenous 4 plot twist to preemptively annihilate the timeless children crap, and a combination of Ravenous 4 and Doom Coalition 4 to make River basically a time goddess.  But maybe my favorite thing was giving life to this headcanon of mine.  IT CANNOT BE REFUTED!  They’ve never said ANYTHING specific about his family so it’s free real estate baby!

*** “Yes, sorry to harp on about this, honey, but I think we can discuss the regeneration semantics later,” River cut in.  “You’re saying I came back from your future to your distant past and just… stayed?”

“Well… yes, I think so.  There were certain things we couldn’t discuss.  I had always just assumed that I’d reached the end of my last regeneration and you weren’t too pleased with that, so…  You know, describing it now, it does seem very irresponsible.  But I don’t recall having any complaints.”

“No, I shouldn’t think you would.”  River smiled, but her mind was racing.  “How would that even work?  Eventually, we’d come back round to when we first met on your end, and what, I wipe myself out of your memories?  Selectively, for your entire lifetime?  I think you might notice a little thing like that.”

“I suppose you must have had a plan for it, but I can’t remember it now.  I just remember the two of us, together through the centuries.” He smiled fondly and River felt like the ache in her chest would strangle her.  “I remember our family.”

“Our what?” she cried, as the older Doctor had a sudden choking fit.

“Our family.  Our children and…”  Dread slowly dawned on the young Doctor’s sweet face.  “Oh, please, no,” he whispered.  “Don’t tell me they’re…  No, this happened! It happened in both versions of my memories!”  He looked to his older self, panic-stricken.  “Tell me you remember!”

“You had a family,” River soothed, as Babyface stumbled over his own tongue.  “It just wasn’t with me.”

“What?” he laughed incredulously.  “Who else would it be?”

“Your first wife, sweetie.  I’m your second.  Well, the second one that counts.”

“No, that’s— I’m sorry, that’s nonsense.”  He turned to the older Doctor again. “You can’t tell her, is that it?  Because she hasn’t done it yet?  I’m sorry, River, maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“No!” Babyface shouted, finally collecting himself.  “Yes, we— I had a family, on Gallifrey, before I ever left.  River wasn’t there, obviously, because that’s not how anything works!”

“Who, then?” the young Doctor demanded.  “Who was your first wife?”

“I— I— she was—”  He opened and closed his mouth silently, looking increasingly horrified.

“You don’t like to talk about it,” River explained.  “She passed away.”

“Yes, but just between me and myself,” the young Doctor pressed on with an utter absence of tact that made it easier than ever to see this was the same man before her, “who was she?  And your children, what were their names?”

River hesitated, watching as the older Doctor wrestled with himself.  These were details not even she had ever asked him for.  She knew the general outline, of course, and that was enough.  It was a hurt so deep and so impossibly ancient, she couldn’t truly imagine how distant it must be for him now.  No sense in forcing him to open that door and dwell on it again.

“I, I don’t,” he finally muttered, looking almost fearful, “I don’t talk about it.  I don’t think about it.”

“You’ve forgotten them,” the young Doctor said, voice low and furious.  “How could you?”

“S-Susan,” Babyface stammered, wide-eyed.  “I left Gallifrey with Susan.”

A relieved smile flashed across the young Doctor’s face.  “And where did you suppose she came from?”

“No, she… I don’t…”  Chair legs scraped abruptly across the tile as the older Doctor bolted up from his seat, white-faced, and stumbled back from the table.

“Doctor?”  River stood, her hearts racing.  

His eyes met hers for a split second, the strange terror in them sending a chill through her, and then he was gone like a shot.  

“Doctor!”  She made to chase after him, but his younger version was still clasping her hand.

“He’ll be fine,” he reassured her.  “He’s just working it out.”

“Working it out?” she repeated, too stunned to reach out and grasp for the obvious.  She turned to him in a daze.  He smiled, and for a fleeting moment she fancied she could see the long contentment of a life she’d never dared dream of, etched in each little line on his older, younger face.

“I told you, River.”  He laid his other hand over hers, warm and steady.  “It was always you.”   ***