#it was looking nearly all the one length on tuesday which nearly always means she is on the verge of getting it cut again

[madamspeaker]

News: House Minority Leader Hakeem Jeffries and former Speaker Nancy Pelosi are in San Francisco today, where they’re fundraising and meeting with donors together before jetting to Los Angeles to do the same.

This is notable for many reasons. California – specifically San Francisco – is Pelosi’s home turf. And she’s by far the biggest fundraiser in congressional history, raising more than $1 billion for Democrats during 20 years in leadership, according to her team. 

Pelosi, of course, was never going to disappear completely from the fundraising scene once she stepped down from Democratic leadership. But headlining an event with Jeffries in her backyard and personally introducing him to key California donors is a big deal for the New Yorker and the caucus. 

The California stops are one part of a multi-state fundraising swing for Jeffries and the new House Democratic leadership – Minority Whip Katherine Clark and Democratic Caucus Chair Pete Aguilar.

Each of the “New Three” is holding their own separate events during this week-long trip, which also includes DCCC Chair Suzan DelBene. The three top Democrats are expected to set up “joint fundraising committees” with the DCCC, their campaign committees and leadership PACs to help rake in funds.

For much of her tenure – and especially during the last decade – Pelosi served as the primary fundraiser for both the DCCC and House Majority PAC, the Democratic-leadership affiliated super PAC. Former House Majority Leader Steny Hoyer and Majority Whip Jim Clyburn – who is still in leadership – raised millions of dollars each cycle as well.

But for the DCCC and HMP, Pelosi was the key. Jeffries, Clark and Aguilar – who each have their own “lane” within the party – plan to try to divvy up the effort to replicate Pelosi’s success.

This San Francisco fundraising event with Pelosi is particularly important, functionally and symbolically. As Jeffries prepared to ascend to the top Democratic leadership post, the lingering question among his colleagues was whether he’d be able to even come close to matching Pelosi’s fundraising prowess. Pelosi is doing what she can to help assuage those fears.

The effort began during the last Congress, when Pelosi invited Jeffries and Clark to her Napa, Calif., weekend with big-dollar donors to expose the younger Democrats to her network.

“I look forward to staying in close contact with her,” Jeffries told us about Pelosi. “I mean her schedule will be her schedule. But I look forward to staying in close communication.”

Another key question as Jeffries took over was how would Pelosi comport herself in the Capitol. The California Democrat said she had no intention of being the “mother-in-law in the kitchen” looking over Jeffries’ shoulder, telling him how to do things.

But the House Democrats’ situation is unique, even for Congress. Pelosi led the caucus for two decades, with Hoyer and Clyburn in the No. 2 and 3 spots for most of that time. 

While Jeffries has been in leadership since 2017, Pelosi made many decisions unilaterally, particularly in recent years as some of her closest allies left Congress. When Pelosi relied on outside counsel, it was usually kept to a very small circle, sometimes even excluding Hoyer and Clyburn. When Pelosi held particularly sensitive leadership meetings, invitations were only often extended to Hoyer, Clyburn and Clark, the No. 4 Democrat last Congress.

But Pelosi has been careful to not overstep as she navigates a new role of her own – “speaker emerita” as Democrats deemed her. Still, she is helping Jeffries navigate the new job, but in a discreet way.

The two have started regular meetings in his office suite just off the House floor. Pelosi offers counseling and guidance, according to lawmakers and aides with knowledge of the huddles.

Pelosi’s knowledge of the caucus is encyclopedic, ranging from what committees lawmakers should be on to what bills they should sponsor to which outside groups need to be cared for at what time.

“She’s been tremendous,” Jeffries told us. “And her advice, her guidance and her counsel has been invaluable.”

Jeffries has kept a regular rotation of caucus outreach going since he took over, including the weekly “Crescendo” meetings Pelosi held with leaders of the various factions within the caucus. Jeffries will also hold a weekly meeting with committee ranking members, something Hoyer led as the No. 2 Democrat.

“It’s a situation where I know that role. I’ve had it in every way,” Pelosi told us of her informal discussions with Jeffries.

More from Pelosi:

“I’ve had it with a Democratic president, with a Republican president, as speaker, as this or that role. The important thing is unity. And that is what [Jeffires] has. He has unity and support. It’s wonderful.

“It’s a different role because you’re not in the majority, so it’s not as if you have to produce an agenda. But you do have to make a difference. And his ability to make that distinction in a public role is valuable.”

Pelosi added that she doesn’t want to “give the impression” in any way that she is playing a part in leadership decisions.

“If he asks, I will meet with him,” Pelosi said of Jeffries. “I know the role, I know the person. I think we’re in very good hands.”

[martianbugsbunny]

She Deserves To Have Your Name (A FrankenWolf Fic)

Howdy, dearies! This is my first stab at writing Frankenwolf (squeee!) and this fic is for @stardreamer28, who came up with the idea—hope you don’t mind me borrowing it for a while! It’s pretty soft, bc the premise is “Victor wants to simplify/modernize his last name for a Frankenwolf baby, but Ruby doesn’t want that to happen” and that really can’t be anything but domesticity with a sprinkle of Frankenwolf-typical angst. Read on and have fun!

Victor rested his chin on top of Ruby’s head. Her hair was soft and smelled vaguely of peach; he wasn’t sure if it was her shampoo, or if the diner had been making an unusual amount of peach pies lately.

He had really come to enjoy their Saturday afternoons together in the apartment. Now that Ruby had entered her third trimester, Granny Lucas insisted on restricting her work hours to the mornings so she could exercise or rest for the remainder of the day. In a little while, Victor was sure Ruby would sigh, stretch, and get up to change into her running clothes. She’d taken up running after the Dark Curse broke and swore she would keep it up until she was actually in labor.

Of course, it had been hard for Victor to get his own shifts rearranged, especially considering how few doctors there seemed to be in Storybrooke, but Victor had sacrificed Tuesday and Wednesday nights to the hospital in exchange, and he thought the bargain was worth it.

“I’ve been thinking about names for the baby,” Ruby said. Victor loved how her sharp voice melted into the most gentle tone when she talked about their as-yet-unnamed child. “Maybe Lydia after Granny?”

“She has a first name?”

Ruby shifted to look up at Victor, her face caught between laughing and frowning. “Of course she does! She wasn’t born a grandma.” She settled for chuckling as she draped herself back against Victor’s side. “What do you think?”

“Lydia.” Victor considered it. Names had power, even in his land of origin, and he wanted to be careful not to pick the wrong one for his baby girl. “I’m not sure.”

“It would sound really nice with Frankenstein,” Ruby offered.

“About that....I think we should renovate my surname for her. Frank would suit this world a lot better, and it doesn’t have the same baggage that Frankenstein does.” Victor had been devastated to learn how the Land Without Magic viewed him, and since they had lived unaware of their own magical worlds for nearly three decades, most of Storybrooke had developed a similar wariness of him. His daughter didn’t deserve to grow up with a name that was cumbersome both for its length and for its connotations.

“Absolutely not,” Ruby said. That sweet voice took on a hard edge; Victor knew she meant business. “Doctor Whale wasn’t the man I fell in love with. Doctor Whale isn’t the man I’m having a baby with. Victor Frankenstein is. And he’s also the man Lydia is going to grow up idolizing and loving and trying to emulate.”

“I hope she doesn’t.”

Ruby sat up again, leaning her elbows on her knees. One hand subconsciously went to rest on her now-prominent baby bump. “Vic, she’s going to have problems no matter which of us she wants to be like. She’ll probably be a werewolf, although hopefully there won’t be any boyfriend-eating in her future. And I bet she has all of your big, beautiful brains, and maybe she’ll use them for things other people don’t understand—but that doesn’t mean those things will be bad. Maybe she’ll perfect your science, who knows?”

She took Victor’s hand, twisting the gold band around his finger for emphasis. “The point is, our girl is going to own her heritage, and she deserves to do it with her father’s name as well as his legacy.”

Victor searched the depths of Ruby’s hazel-brown eyes. While he could never decide what exact color her irises were, he could always decipher her mood from them. And he found nothing but sincerity and earnestness.

He had once hoped his name would stand for life. It had been the only goal on his mind. But if Ruby could live with the name Frankenstein, and if she thought their daughter could manage it as well, then perhaps it was time for their name to stand for something else: their family.

“Lydia Frankenstein it is, then,” he agreed.

Ruby grinned (she was wearing her favorite red lipstick even for relaxing at home) and patted Victor on the knee. “Nice to have that settled before the pup is born,” she said teasingly. Victor would be the first to admit he’d dragged his feet, but he wouldn’t have let it get that far. “Now, do you want to come with me on my run?”

The answer was always no; running wasn’t Victor’s preferred method of exercise. He’d seen a lot of forty- or fifty-year-old joggers need joint replacements, and he wasn’t about to join them. Ruby, he figured, had extra endurance from her wolf gene, and probably didn’t need to worry about it.

He did help her off the couch, though. It was old and a little bit saggy, and she was getting rather round in the middle, which was a difficult combination to manage.

Lydia Frankenstein. Victor tried to picture her. She had Ruby’s compassionate eyes, which turned yellow under full moonlight, and slightly-too-sharp canine teeth. She had Victor’s own honey-blonde hair and she was wearing one of his lab coats.

Or maybe she had blue eyes, like Victor, and she had dark curls and wore faux-fur and a waitress’s apron. Whatever combination of her parents she was, she would also be her own person, free to make her own mistakes and gain her own notoriety.

After all, that seemed to be what Frankensteins, by blood or by marriage, did best.

[inthememetime]

An AU in which a young adult Danny inherits a branch of FentonWorks located on Gotham, he does some work as a Ghost hunter, as Phantom, and as the illusive Ghost King.

Then one day he get an odd request; He, Daniel Fenton, is hired to protect the hero Phantom, himself, from the evil ghost king, also himself, at the request of the Justice League.

🤣 I fucking love you, anon. I would credit you if I could. I'm calling this: Fenton, King of the Scams

Due to length, I'm splitting this bad boi in two.

Danny got into the 'family business' mostly due to a lack of other options. Anywhere that would do blood or physical tests would spot he wasn't completely human pretty quick. But, despite working in FentonWorks, he gained a reputation both from ghosts and humans as an extremely fair arbitrator.

He won't destroy your property- unless absolutely necessary- but he WILL sit down with you and the ghost bothering you and figure it out. 90% of the time, the ghost just can't get to the GZ, or needs to talk to a friend/family member one last time. Sure, you're out $25/hour, but the problems are almost always solved without bloodshed.

He's even worked with Constantine a few times! Nobody knows why, but ghosts really seem to respect him. And the JL respects him as well.

News, however, moves slowly in some parts and quickly in others from one side of the veil to the other. The JL knows, now, the Ghost King is up and around permanently. (True)

They know that, historically, the GK is evil. (True- with Pariah. Most of the others were good. There's a reason the former kings kept their names, and Pariah's was changed to...well...Pariah)

And they know Pariah Dark hates mediums and living humans. (True!)

They do not, however, know that the Ghost King has changed; The King of the Damned, Lord of Screams is an unknown, although he does admit- having his Title reflect his ghostly wail means it's a little bit ominous.

Phantom, meanwhile, is known as a superhero- albeit a dead one. He works with the Bats, the JL, and YJL willingly.

No one has, as of yet, connected patient (albeit snarky), careful Danny Fenton with aggressive, often asshole-ish Phantom. Fewer still- outside of Amity Park- have connected Phantom to the Ghost King of the Damned. Or, more commonly in Amity Park- King Phantom.

Danny found this out on a normal Tuesday evening.

"Phantom!" Batman called, and the ghost stopped to hover nearby.

"Hey tall, dark, and furry! What's shakin'?"

Batman scowled. (Victory!) "Phantom, the Justice League has a long-term contract for you."

"Ooh! What is it?"

Batman handed him a folder. "Let me know tomorrow night- same time and place- if you can take it."

"You got it, bats! Good night, sleep tight, don't let the dead bugs bite!" He cackled as he flew away. "Dead bugs. Ooh that was a good one."

When he returned- not home, he knew there was a tracker (it had become somewhat of a game between him and the batfam. Loser bought BatBurgers)- he looked through it. And promptly laughed until he nearly cried.

-

The next day, he- as Fenton- went to the JL's Gotham station. "Hi, Leslie, I'd like to speak with- Batman probably isn't in yet. Constantine? Or someone involved on order 7 GH-1800B?"

The receptionist looked through- she couldn't see any details past level 2, but she could see who to direct him to for questions. "You're in luck, Danny! Batman, Constantine, Superman, Green Lantern, and Green Arrow are all on it. Superman's up top, just take the blue elevator and push the top floor button."

"Thanks!" It said something that he was here often enough to be friends with the staff. He'd never get over the beauty of space. Every time, as Fenton or Phantom, it took his breath away. The way the stars wheeled, the way he could hear them thanks to his obsession.

"Still beautiful, isn't it?" A voice asked. He jolted, then grinned apologetically at Superman.

"Sorry. I was supposed to be finding you, but- every time, it gets more beautiful."

He nodded. "I can understand that. How can I help you, Mr. Fenton?"

"Danny, please. I actually had some questions on this order protecting me from the Ghost King?"

"Sure. I know Phantom's not the most discrete hero," fair, but ouch, "but his power set is best able to combat ghosts."

"Oh, I know that- we worked together a lot, back in Illinois. I guess the question is- why from the Ghost King? The current one isn't bad. I'd say he's pretty good, myself."

Superman smiled a little pityingly. "I know you think the best of ghosts- and usually, you're right! But this guy- we've been looking at historical records, and he's a real piece of work."

"Oh, you mean Pariah Dark," he said, now understanding. Easy mistake.

-

"Exactly. So until we get a few ways to combat him, we'd like to keep our Ghost Expert safe and sound." An alarm blared before he could correct the Man of Steel. "I've got to go- just stay safe, ok, Danny?"

"But Pariah Dark is- aaand you're gone. Ok then."

Maybe it was time to come clean to the JL. Memories of being on a dissection table at a GIW base, turned in by someone he'd trusted, flooded him and he winced. Or he could make easy money protecting himself.

Yeah. That sounded good.

"Did you really have to drop the trackers in a pile of bat droppings at the zoo?"

"You found them! Hey, at least we know it works even if you're-"

"Phantom," he warned.

"In deep-"

"Don't."

"In deep shit."

Batman sighed heavily.

"I'll take it, by the way. I talked to Fenton, we worked together a lot, he's cool with it."

Batman rubbed his temples. "Thank you."

"Sure! Hey, can you even feel yourself through that material? Whoa, that came out wrong. I meant can you feel your head- oh, that's not better."

"Have a good night, Phantom."

"You too! Sorry for the innuendo! It'll probably happen again."

"At least you recognize that." Was that a smile? Double score!

---

"So how's this look?"

"Good, but do we really want to summon the Ghost King?"

"That's the only way we'll find out if this works- it's been months. We need to know if the weapons we've altered with hurt him."

The summoning began. It was a long, tedious affair; generally, if one knew a spirit's title, they could do a summoning in just a few minutes. But something like this? Constantine and Zantana agreed, it was some of their best work. The King wouldn't be able to escape this, and more importantly, would be unable to attack them.

After nearly half an hour, the two magic users plopped on the ground, sweating and exhausted. "Is...something supposed to be happening?" Asked the Flash.

"It didn't work. HOW didn't it work?!"

Superman cleared his throat. "Would it still work if you had the wrong name?"

Slowly, both magic users turned to him. "Explain," the magician hissed, and Constantine pulled out a cigarette.

Superman cleared his throat. "Well. What if Pariah Dark isn't a title, but a name?"

Constantine closed his eyes. "Fuck this. Alright, Supes, what happened?"

"Well- Mr. Fen- ah, Danny came by to ask about the order of protection. He said the Ghost King was an okay guy, and then asked if I 'meant Pariah Dark'. So would that affect it?"

Constantine rose, left the room, and screamed. After a moment, he returned. "Somebody call Fenton, please. We need a nap."

"And a beer!"

"Two beers. Each."

-

"Oh, hey, Wonder Woman. How are you doing? Did your curator friend find another haunted artifact?"

"Well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Pretty good, thanks!"

She smiled. "Good. She does have a few leads, but nothing solid yet. I was wondering if you could tell me about a few ghosts?"

He nodded. "Sure, sure. Want something to drink?"

"Whatever you're having is fine," she replied easily, and sat on his creaky old couch.

He sat across from her and passed over a mug of hot cocoa. "So, who can I tell you about?"

"Let's start with Pariah Dark."

He made a curious noise. "You know, Supes asked me about him a few days ago, but ran off before I could say anything. Are you looking for his powers, history, or?"

"Is Pariah Dark a name or a title?" She asked.

"Bit of both. He became king a few thousand years ago, but was just the worst. When he was stopped the first time, ghosts stopped using his real name, and replaced anything with his name on it with Pariah. Dark was his real last name, though."

She frowned. "The first time? He is no longer the King?"

"About...eh, a thousand years ago, give or take a few centuries, the Ancients got together and sealed him to stop him from destroying the world. Nobody could win head-on, though, so he was king in name. Then, a few years back, he was released, and decided to do the whole destroy the world thing again," he said.

"But the current King didn't want the world to be destroyed, so he, Phantom, and other ghosts held him at bay long enough for him to challenge and win in single combat, then become king. Like I told Superman, though, he's a good guy."

"And do you know this new King's name?"

Oh. Shit. "We're allies, and it's incredibly unwise to share information like that about him," although technically, they already knew it, "but I can tell you that he's known as the King of the Damned, and he's very human friendly, minus a few crazies."

There. They'd be able to summon him with an incomplete title, but bindings wouldn't work without at least part of his name and his full title. It was why beings like Clockwork went by 'Master of Time', or Clockwork instead of their true name.

Wonder Woman's gaze sharpened- she'd caught onto the half truth. Luckily for him, her emergency communicator beeped before she could get out her lasso. Hooo boy. Maybe he needed to lay low in the GZ for a bit.

-

"Phantom, where is Fenton? The person you were asked to guard?" Batman asked.

The other side of the communicator was silent. "Phantom, respond." Silence. Batman turned to Constantine. "Any luck?"

He shook his head. "Turns out he didn't give us a true name. I keep getting images of his female counterpart in Illinois or a weird thermos, most of the time," he said. He sighed deeply. "The rest of the time, there's a ghost way scarier than Phantom in a crown."

"It's my fault," the Amazonian princess said quietly. "I kept pressing about Pariah Dark and the new King. Fenton warned me sharing information about the current Ghost King was unwise- I should've known even speaking about him could get Fenton in trouble. And if Phantom swore to you to protect Fenton, well."

"Hey, you didn't know the guy had a werewolf with portal powers that would just kidnap him," the Flash offered. "Who could? It's nuts."

"I think we only have one choice," Superman said warily, "and I don't like it." Superman had an understandable nervousness of ghosts- they were one of the only things that could reliably harm him without kryptonite.

"Neither do I. But l'll see if Zatanna is free."

In the secretary's desk, who'd had to leave early a week ago and was still in the hospital, was a note from one Daniel J. Fenton. It said, in general, that he was sorry he had to leave abruptly, but he would be perfectly safe with Phantom as an honored guest at the Ghost King's court for the next month.

The interim receptionist incorrectly noted this as junk mail, or perhaps a bit of fanfiction, and let it alone.

-

There was a painful tug in Danny's gut, and he groaned. "My liege?" Fright Knight asked.

"My apologies, I'm being summoned to the mortal realm," he said, then cocked his head to the side. "As King, not Phantom. Hmm. I'll see you all as soon as I can."

"We understand," said Queen Dora, and Danny took his true form.

Phantom looked like a young man, albeit with white hair, big eyes- basically, as friendly as he could while still being taken seriously. His true form was a little more...eldritch. He didn't actually have feet like this, just a long, black tail. His entire body, really, was that of a massive black serpent made out of static- if serpents had four arms with sharp claws, if their coils randomply dissipated into green and black smoke before remaking, and-

Ok. He looked...nothing like a serpent. Danny did, however, have to admit, the black crown, burning in ectoplasmic fire that matched the curling green horns and solid green eyes did make a pretty cool accessory for summonings.

Danny liked summonings- sometimes. More accurately, he liked fucking with people. And this would be a perfect- wait, was that Constantine?

-

At first, John thought it another dud. Nothing appeared in the circle. "Is it just me, or is the temp dropping in here?" The Flash asked.

Batman grunted- as good a yes as they'd get.

"King of the Damned, you have been summoned to this place. Show yourself!"

Constantine, a moment later, wished he hadn't spoken. It was impossible to keep track of the monster before them- its' body kept shifting and changing. One moment, static. The next, a clear view of the milky way. The next, stars he'd never seen before and that no mortal was meant to.

"Y̷o̵u̶'̸l̸l̴ ̴f̴i̴n̸d̶ ̵i̶t̴ ̸e̴a̵s̴i̸e̷r̷ ̵t̸o̶ ̷f̷o̶c̴u̷s̷ ̶o̵n̴ ̸m̶y̵ ̸f̴a̸c̶e̶,̵" said the King, kindly enough. Superman covered his ears and winced.

He- it? Danny'd always referred to it as a he. He was right. Somehow, the massive, green glowing maw filled with giant teeth and solid, unblinking eyes below fiery white hair and massive horns was easier to focus on. He hurriedly looked away from the horns, which were changing shape and size as quick as the rest of him.

"Right. We're looking for a missing persons- two, actually," he said. "Do you know where Danny Fenton and the spirit known as Phantom are?"

Did he know- Danny couldn't help the laugh. "O̷f̴ ̴c̷o̶u̴r̷s̶e̵!̷ ̷T̴h̴e̸y̷ ̴l̵e̵f̸t̴ ̴a̶ ̴n̷o̷t̷e̶ ̸f̷o̵r̴ ̸y̵o̸u̸,̸ ̶r̶e̴m̷e̶m̵b̵e̸r̴?̶"

Batman spoke. "We received no notes."

The King frowned. "L̵e̶s̵l̷i̴e̸ ̷d̵i̸d̸n̶'̶t̶ ̷g̵e̶t̶ ̵i̸t̷ ̶t̷o̴ ̷y̴o̵u̴?̷ ̶F̶e̶n̶t̴o̴n̶ ̸s̵a̷i̶d̵ ̶h̸e̸ ̸l̴e̶f̷t̷ ̷i̸t̴ ̵w̴i̴t̵h̵ ̵a̶ ̸m̵o̷r̸t̴a̴l̵ ̷b̸y̵ ̶t̴h̸a̶t̷ ̵n̶a̵m̷e̴.̶" He tacked on the 'mortal' at the last moment. Man, it was hard to be yourself while playing like you weren't yourself, while acting like you knew yourself a little.

Flash jumped up, and less than a second later, cleared his throat sheepishly. "So, uh. Honored guests at your court?"

He nodded.

"Can we talk to them? One or both?"

[kcthrine]

Stress Relief

Word count: 1.7k

Category: Smut. NSFW

Pairing: Spencer Reid/ Reader

CW: Oral sex (male receiving), hair pulling, head pushing, use of the nickname bunny.

Summary: Reader can see that Spencer is obviously stressed. He doesn’t want to talk about it, so she helps in a way that doesn’t involve talking. Smut ensues. 

———————

Spencer was stressed, to say the least. She could tell by the way he was fiddling with his pencils, rubbing his eyes every five minutes, and tugging at his hair. She understood how he could be stressed out, given everything that had happened in the past week. The case had involved children being kidnapped in broad daylight and sold into a trafficking ring. Cases involving children always took a toll on the entire team's mental health. And as much as Spencer tried to hide it, or even deny it, he was the exact same, these cases hit a soft spot on him.

She knew Spencer very well, so she knew that he wouldn’t exactly spill all of his intense feelings and thoughts to her at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. She also knew how he might not ever be able to completely open up, and she wasn’t going to push him into anything. Which is exactly why, after staring at him from across the bullpen for around 20 minutes, she decided to do something about it. Since he wouldn’t talk to her, she would find another way to relieve him of the stress that was no doubt weighing on his shoulders. She had a plan.

Spencer's head shot up as soon as he heard her heels clicking towards him, a tiny smile spreading across his face. “Hey, what are you doing over here?”

“Actually, I need your help finding something downstairs,” She hummed, watching as his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“The only thing downstairs is the old file room, so which case are you looking for?” 

Shit. She hadn’t planned this far. “Just- it’s an old one. I need your help, come on.” And before he could ask her anything more, she grabbed his wrist and started pulling him towards the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, he started talking.

“Is everything okay? You’re just being sort of secretive, and I hope you know that you can tell me any-”

“Spencer! It’s nothing bad, okay? Think of it as a surprise.” She reassured him, pressing the button to the last floor.

“You know I don’t like surprises! And with our line of work, you shouldn’t like them either.” He stressed. She stayed quiet, staring at the numbers on top of the elevator, watching as they ticked down.

“Trust me Spence, you’ll like this one,” She tried suppressing a laugh, but a small giggle slipped out, causing Spencer to grow even more confused- and a tiny bit worried about his eccentric girlfriend. As soon as the doors opened with a beep, she was pulling him out and leading him to an old room decorated with nothing but cabinets filled with cases that went cold. 

“You never told me which case we’re looking for but I’m pretty sure their in alphabetical order so-” 

“Spencer, you dumb genius! Obviously, There isn’t a case I needed help finding. We’re in here so I can help you.” She cut him off, smirking at the way his brows knitted again, before he quickly realized what she meant, his mouth dropping.

“Hold on- wait, you mean you want to try something… here?” She couldn’t help but smile at how adorable his face was when he’s surprised. 

“Calm down Spence, I’ve just noticed how tense you’ve been lately,” She moved closer to him, her hands moving to the back of his neck. “And like I said, I wanted to help you. As long as you say I can, of course.” 

He brought his hands to her waist, pulling her body flush against his. How could he possibly say no to her? “Okay- I want this. But be quick, I really don’t want Derek coming down here and seeing us. He would never let me live it down,” 

“Good,” She giggled, connecting her lips to his. Their kisses in the past were gentle, filled with love and admiration. This one was quite the opposite, filled with heat and aggression as she backed him up against the door, her hands tugging at his hair. He groaned against her mouth, his hands tightening around her waist. Her lips moved down his neck, leaving gentle kisses until he found the spot that made him shiver, and she started to lightly suckle, leaving a bright red mark that would turn into an angry purple later on. He let out another small moan as she moved back to his soft lips, giving him a gentle peck as she roughly rolled her hips into his, feeling his hardened length press against her. 

“Wow Spence, what happened to being nervous about this? You seem more than a little excited to me,” She laughed as his cheeks flushed a pale pink. 

“Just- please.” He was nearly begging already, and if she was being completely honest- it gave her a small power rush, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. 

“Have I ever told you how impatient you are?” She whispered, quickly unbuckling and unzipping his pants. She gave him one last sloppy kiss, before dropping to her knees in front of him. She quickly pulled down his boxers, wrapping her hands around him and slowly stroking. She looked up to see his eyes shut as he grunted, his hands resting on the back of her head. 

“F-fuck, you have to hurry up. No teasing this time,” She nodded, wrapping her lips around his sensitive tip, hearing his head hit the back of the wall. She kept her eyes on him the entire time she went further down, trying to fit all of him in her mouth. She pulled back just as his hips stuttered forward, almost hitting the back of her throat. 

“I said no teasing this time, be quick about this.” He grunted out, looking down at her as she smiled. He knew this is what she had wanted, for him to be rougher with her, to play into their new dynamic they’d been trying out. After everything, Spencer had jumped at the chance to be in control, even when he knew she really held all the cards. 

“Yes Doctor,” She giggled, stopping abruptly as his hands tightened in her hair. She was about to come up with another snarky remark when he shoved her head down onto his length. He watched in rapt fascination as she took all of him in, her eyes beginning to water from the breach on her throat. He pushed her head down further until her nose was buried against his pelvis. He held her there, reveling in the heat of her wet mouth as he threw his head back, a loud groan escaping. He felt her head strain back against his hands, and he looked down with a slow smirk crossing his face.

“No no, you said you wanted to help relieve me of stress, so do it.” He held her down for a second longer, and maybe her struggle for air excited him too much. He used his grip on her hair to pull her off of him, watching as she took a few deep gasps in. He couldn’t help but stroke her face with his thumbs as he saw the unshed tears in her eyes. He grinned up at him, happy to be able to please him. 

“I’m going to use your face for a while. You can stay still for me, right sweetheart?” His gentle voice heavily contrasted his vulgar words, and it sent a wave a heat to pool in between her legs. She quickly nodded, opening her mouth wide, showing him just how ready she was for him. Not sparing another second, he gathered her hair into a messy ponytail and thrusted into her mouth, the pleasure was almost overwhelming, and his eyes shut again. He began to roughly move in and out of her mouth, holding her head in place with his tight grip on her hair. He vaguely felt her hands come up his thighs, nails digging into him. He felt her attempt to move back for air, and he shoved her head down further.

“Shit- you’re doing so good, just take it.” He groaned out before quickly pulling her back, allowing her to take in some air. “You alright?” He breathlessly asked her. 

“Never been better, Doc.” She beamed up at him, wiping the trail of drool from her chin.

“Good, because I’m about to finish and you’re not going to let any of it go to waste. Do you understand, bunny?” His question sounded more like a statement, but she nodded happily anyway. He stroked her hair, showing her he was still her gentle boyfriend before all moments of softness were gone. He once again wrapped her hair up into a messy ponytail and pulled her head down onto him, giving a few shallow thrusts. She understood how close he was when she felt his hips grow quicker and harsher against her face, so she hollowed out her cheeks, his loud groans coming more frequently. As soon as he held her against him, she glued her eyes to him, wanting to see his face as he came undone.

And god, was she glad she did. She watched his eyes shut, his mouth open, spilling out expletives and his chest heaving, he almost looked like he was glowing.

 “I-I’m so close, fuck.” As if she didn’t know that. 

 Before she could gaze at him any longer, a warm liquid invaded her mouth, shooting down the back of her throat when he held her head down, rutting against her with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His head was once again thrown back, his breathing erratic. He slowly pulled her off of him, and she pulled up with pants, buckling his belt for him. When she looked back up, he was already gazing down at her, a love-sick smile covering his face. He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to her feet. 

“That was- that was amazing,” He cradled her face in his large hands, gently rubbing the excess spit off of her chin. “You’re always so good for me, darling.” 

She couldn’t help but flush, his praise always had an embarrassing effect on her. “Just glad I could help you out, Spence.” She grinned, giving him a chaste kiss to his lips. “But we should get back, I really don’t want anyone catching us down here.” she snickered. 

“As usual, you’re right.” He hummed, taking her hand, leading her out of the file room. As they reached the elevator doors, he held out an arm, stopping her from entering. 

“Just so you know, I’ll be repaying the favor tonight.” He whispered, walking into the elevator. She stood for a few seconds, staring wide eyed at his back before scrambling forward.

“I’m looking forward to it, Doctor.”

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 24

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

June 1999

The air smells wet and woody, birdsongs trilling in the early morning sun that trickles through a sky light. She stretches, then disentangles her legs from the sheets and stands, walking to the window.

There is a giant soaking tub in the corner of the room, flanked by two windowed walls that afford a sweeping view of the Cascade mountains, green carpeted hillsides meeting with a baby-blue sky.

She can still recall her mother’s face when they told her the wedding would be in Washington State. “But...we don’t even know anyone in Washington, Dana,” she’d said with a bemused expression, lamenting the length of their flights with a nine-month-old in tow.

Her mother’s reaction paled in comparison to Mulder’s excitement when she’d suggested the idea; she would spend their honeymoon relaxing with a book in the tub, and he could spend it traipsing through the woods looking for Sasquatch, or ‘squatchin’ as he called it. They would reunite in the afternoon, hiking, making love, catching up on all the conversations they’d missed while in the trenches of parenting a new baby. Mom would stay at the same resort with Molly so they could see her every day, while having precious nights to themselves; something they haven’t done since she was born.

She turns the tap on the bath, a blast of water thundering into the empty basin. When it’s full nearly to the brim, she disrobes and eases in, breathing deeply to inhale the juniper-scented steam, courtesy of the resort-provided bath salts. Closing her eyes, she thinks back over it all; their chance meeting, how she was drawn to him by a force that seemed to be bigger than them both, the anguish of wanting him but feeling like she owed it to Ethan to stay together. Her eyes snap open, a memory long-buried in the recesses of her mind springing forth like a trebuchet.

The day she met Mulder, she’d been planning to take the day off to go to a book signing for an author she admires. The signing was cancelled due to a scheduling conflict and she almost took the day off anyway, but had a last minute pang of guilt knowing that the workload that week was already heavy and Trudy would struggle to manage it all on her own. So she’d gone in, she’d performed that autopsy that should have been on Trudy’s docket, and she’d filled out the paperwork, and she’d met Mulder. How delicate the balance of the universe that such an insignificant choice completely changed the course of her life.

She suddenly misses him acutely, and a bundle of nerves and excitement flutters in her belly thinking about when she’ll see him next. She’d scoffed at the idea of them spending last night apart; they live together and have a child so the performative chastity seemed to be a bit much. He said it was like a fast, that a little time apart would make it even more special when they saw each other at the ceremony, and she ultimately acquiesced.

“Meet me on a mountain top at 4 o’clock tomorrow?” he’d asked as he backed out of her room, pulling away from the desperate kisses she was planting all over his face.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied with a smile, and they said goodnight.

She smiles again, sinking down until the water slips into her ears. She can’t wait to marry him.

———

He sits up and arches his back, his spine protesting the cramped accommodations. Looking over at Byers and Missy curled up in the king size bed, he regrets his decision to crash on the couch here instead of staying with Scully in their room. Not only because he slept like shit with his legs hanging over the end, but also because work takes him away from his girls so often, he’s an idiot to add another day to it if he doesn’t have to.

He stands, hands on his hips as he twists to stretch his angry muscles, and walks to the window, taking in the dense green hills and valleys that surround them. He smiles, because she could have asked to go to Mexico, or France, or anywhere on the entire Earth and he would have given her what she wanted, but she chose the place she knew he wanted to go. Selfless and giving to a fault, his Scully. Soon to be his wife.

He quietly slips on his running shoes and sneaks out of the room, hitting the hard-packed dirt trail the concierge had told him about. The quiet forest is the perfect place to be alone with his thoughts, nothing but the thud of his feet striking the ground and the twitter of waking birds to distract him. He thinks about his life, about being a child who was lonely and alone, with parents who provided food and shelter but not much more. He thinks about Molly, and how she will never know that kind of pain, that there will never be a day of her life that she is not told how much she is loved. He wonders if his dad ever felt about his mom the way he feels about Scully, and he knows it’s not possible that he did, because if so they would still be together.

He comes to a break in the trees and pauses, breath heaving and lungs burning as he watches a hawk gliding through the valley below, hunting for breakfast. How easily he could have missed this moment, he thinks. Even one small change to the trajectory of his life, and he never would have walked into the autopsy bay that day. If the courier hadn’t been sick, if he hadn’t stopped by Kirkbride’s office when he did. Even further back, if he hadn’t stayed with the bureau with the X files were closed, if Valerie hadn’t been there to encourage him, or if he hadn’t met Valerie one random Tuesday at a record store. The path was long and winding, and it led to her. It led to him on this mountaintop in a sweat-soaked T-shirt, smiling at the thought of his baby daughter, his almost-wife.

He picks up running again, the smile staying on his lips. He’s always felt like he was running away; from his painful past, his regrets, his bad decisions. Now he realizes he’s running towards; his future, a thousand opportunities yet unseen, a kind of happiness he never thought he’d know. He can’t wait for the rest of his life to start.

———

He stands in a clearing near the edge of a cliff, the lush green landscape toeing up against the horizon looking like crooked teeth. Frohike stands beside him in khaki pants and a white linen shirt, a leather folio clasped in his hands. Mulder is also dressed fairly casually, in slacks and a blue Oxford shirt, the sleeves cuffed and the top button undone.

Scully wanted this to be as non-traditional as possible, to make it their own. There is no wedding party, no tuxedo, no flower girl or garter toss. No one will walk her down the aisle, as no one but herself has the ownership to give her away. The guests are small in number; immediate family only, plus the gunmen. Monica and Dahlia are house-sitting back in DC, minding Priscilla as well as the dog, King, that joined the family after the purchase of their house in March. Bucking the idea of arranging guests by whose “side” they are on, they all sit in a small cluster, and Scully will enter from the side.

He looks out and waves at Molly, who is standing on Missy’s lap, holding her hands and bouncing up and down forcefully. She squeals and shouts “dah, dah, dah!” which he chooses to interpret as “Daddy” even though Scully told him it’s just a nonsense syllable and doesn’t mean anything.

Langly gets the signal from Frohike and hits play on a small boom box, piping an instrumental version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” up into the branches of the towering evergreen trees. He expected to feel nervous at this moment, but all he feels is excitement as Maggie scurries out from behind a line of trees and takes her place beside Bill, giving him a smile and a wink.

Scully appears from around the same group of trees and he grins broadly. He’s seen the dress, they picked it out together, but the full effect is stunning. Her hair, now grown well past her shoulder blades, is curled softly and pinned half up, brilliant red tendrils shimmering in the midday sun against her porcelain shoulders. Her dress is full length pearl satin, a slim sheath cut with off the shoulder straps. She is holding a small bouquet of pink peonies in her hands, and holding his eye with a playful smirk.

She arrives beside him and before the music stops, before Frohike has a chance to begin, he steps forward and takes her by the waist, kissing her fully. The guests laugh and he pulls away to see a confused smile on her face.

“I couldn’t wait,” he says simply.

They move through the ceremony, exchanging rings and vowing to love each other forever; promises they’ve already made to each other a hundred times. As they near the part that Scully understands to be the end, Frohike goes off script.

“Mulder has prepared some words of his own, he’ll read them now,” he says, nodding toward his friend.

Scully’s eyebrows lift in a surprised and confused expression.

“Mulder, we didn’t talk about writing our own vows,” she whispers, afraid she’s failed to complete the assignment.

“It’s okay, these are for both of us,” he whispers, and then, taking her hands in his, he reads a passage from her favorite book from memory.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love; I have found you. You are my sympathy, my better self, my good angel; I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely. A fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my center and spring of life, wraps my existence about you, and kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.”

The tear that slips down her cheek is borne only of happiness. She looks into his green eyes and sees contentment and love, and desire. It’s not a spark, what they have, nor an ember. It’s a wildfire, a white-hot torch, an eternal flame that binds them together inseparably. They were forged in fire the moment he laid eyes on her in that autopsy bay, maybe even before.

Frohike concludes, “by the power invested in me by the State of Washington, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride…again.”

He wraps his arms around her waist, lifting her up as he kisses her deeply, a gust of warm summer wind picking up pine needles and tossing them in a mini-tornado that surrounds them both. Molly squeals “dah dah dah!” and claps for her parents.

———

She stands at the mirror, brushing her teeth. Her hair is combed out, her makeup removed, the white dress hanging in the corner of the room with the hem now tinged brown from the dirt that served as their dance floor.

Mulder appears behind her, an arm snaking around the waist of her satin nightgown. She smiles at the sight of his newly ring-adorned hand pressed flat against her belly, then leans forward to rinse.

“Ready for bed?” he asks softly, and she nods.

They slip beneath the cool sheets, curling around one another face-to-face; her leg threaded between his, his arms around her back, foreheads touching. She draws in a big breath and lets it out slowly, contentment settling deep in her bones.

“Do you ever think about all the things that had to happen in exactly the way they did to lead us here?” he asks, and she pulls back a little to look at his face.

“Yes, I was actually just thinking about that earlier,” she says with a curious lilt.

“Makes you wonder, huh, what lives we’d be leading if even just one detail were changed,” he says, tracing his finger along her shoulder blade.

“I don’t think it would have mattered, actually,” she says, and he gives her a quizzical look, silently asking her to elaborate. “I know this will sound a little far-fetched coming from me,” she begins with a self-conscious smile, “but I think it was always going to end up this way. Even if we hadn’t met when we did, we would have crossed paths some other way. Looking back over everything, it just seems like this was meant to be the outcome, even if the path to get here could have gone in a lot of different directions.”

He ponders this, remembering a conversation they had over coffee when, against all odds, she reappeared in his life.

“Like there was only one choice, and signs along the way to pay attention to,” he says contemplatively, lifting his hand to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Exactly,” she replies, pressing her lips to his briefly, “it was always going to be you.”

END

[nugnthopkns]

dance me to the end of love (i)

word count: 4.3k

warnings: fem!oc, cursing, potential spoilers for the west wing if you've never seen the show

series masterpost: here

a/n: hi!! i am so incredibly happy to finally be putting this fic out into the world. it means an awful lot to me and i can't wait to share the little world i've created :)) x

Magdalene is content with where she’s ended up.

Denver is wonderful. Her friends are there, her cat is there, and it’s the perfect place for a fresh start. She arrived in the city nearly six years ago – a wide-eyed University of Denver freshman and has stayed put ever since. Her hometown of Aspen holds a few too many bad memories, but is close enough that she can return if an emergency calls for it. So far she hasn’t left, too engrossed in finishing her degree and moving on. There’s a job offer lined up with the university’s library upon graduation that Magdalene is ecstatic about. It means she gets to stay right where she is – where she’s comfortable.

☼☼☼☼

The sun might be shining as she exits her apartment building, but it’s cold for March. Magdalene pulls the thick scarf her best friend Bette got her for Christmas higher up her face and walks as quickly as possible to campus. There’s a brief meeting to attend with her advisor before grabbing lunch with Bette, and then her plan is to spend the rest of the day holed up in the library working on her thesis. It’s due in two weeks, with the defence in just over a month, and Magdalene is incredibly nervous. Though she’d gone through submitting her undergraduate thesis two years ago, presenting her master’s research was going to be a lot harder. She’s heard through the grapevine that the committees are being tough this year and she doesn’t want to fail.

Dr. Williams is waiting for her in his office with a smile on his face. He’s a tall man, with thin facial features and wire glasses that box him perfectly into the intimidating professor stereotype. “Miss Stevenson, please sit,” he gestures to the chair across from him.

“Gerald,” she sighs, “You can call me Magdalene, I don’t mind. Besides, it makes you quite the hypocrite if you insist I call you by your first name but you won’t use mine.” There’s no malice in her voice, just a decent amount of teasing.

The older man scoffs but concedes. “I suppose you’re right. Well then Magdalene, tell me, how are your final edits coming along?”

Magdalene spends nearly twenty minutes detailing all the elements she has tweaked since their last meeting, from the title to the citation style. She’s out of breath by the time she’s done, rambling at an impressive speed, and takes a big gasp of air while the professor mulls over her words. Dr. Williams doesn’t say anything, causing Magdalene to shift anxiously in her seat. “Sir, is there something wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely nothing,” he beams, “Everything is perfect. It’s a shame you don’t want to continue researching. You’d make a fabulous academic.”

The compliment makes Magdalene’s heart soar. It means a lot, especially coming from the person who has seen her cry over the oxford comma. “Thank you sir, but I belong in the practical realm. Someone has to file all the documents you obsessively scan.”

She leaves the building soon after, promising to stop by after she drops off the final draft in a few weeks. It’s a bit later than she expected and hopes Bette won’t be mad. There’s nothing the blonde hates more than poor time management, but Magdalene prays she’ll understand. It wasn’t that long ago and Bette was scheduling her own appointments with advisors on how to graduate. Barn Owl Book Company is located halfway between the school and her apartment, making it the perfect spot to meet. In addition to being a used book store, Barn Owl sports one of the best cafés in downtown Denver. Bette is perched delicately at her friend’s favourite seat, a bay window converted into a small nook, and typing furiously on her phone.

“Sorry I’m late,” Magdalene apologizes, “Williams talked a lot more than I expected him to.”

Bette looks up and smiles, shoving a cup in the other girl’s direction. “As always. How is he?”

Sliding into the booth, Magdalene fills her friend in on what’s been going on in their former professor’s life. Bette graduated with a minor in Classics, and it was Magdalene's major, but the former decided not to further her education and is instead doing full time charity work for the Colorado Avalanche. Her boyfriend Tyson is one of their star players, and the two of them are so smitten it makes Magdalene sick. Conversation quickly turns from school to life, which she’s grateful for.

“So,” Bette says, “Are you in for the trip this summer? I’ve got to confirm the reservation in a week or something.”

“I don’t know Bee, I'm going to be the new girl. Asking for time off like two months into the job would be rude.”

“Linny,” the blonde whines, “Please? I want you to come.”

Magdalene scowls. Bette knows just how much the nickname sours her mood but she chose to use it anyway. “Don’t call me that,” she snaps with quite a bite. “Can someone else take my spot if I decide not to go a little closer to the date?”

“Of course! Gravy said he’d fill an extra spot if one comes up so we don’t lose the deposit,” Bette blabs before trying to switch gears entirely. Magdalene cuts her off.

“Who’s Gravy?”

If her friend is exasperated by Magdalene’s lack of knowledge surrounding hockey, she doesn’t show it. Bette calmly explains that Gravy, who’s real name is Ryan, is a defenceman with the Avalanche and a good friend of Tyson’s. She also makes a point of mentioning that he’s single, to which Magdalene rolls her eyes. Bette has a masterplan for her life – which includes her best friend becoming romantically involved with an Avalanche player so the two of them can live the better half life together. As the best friend, Magdalene is constantly barraged with potential players who are looking to date. Once she went on a few dates with Mikko, but that ended fairly quickly when the two realized they were better as friends. Every time since she’s turned Bette down as gently as possible, not wanting to get involved with anyone. Her life is just starting, and Magdalene wants to be secure before settling down.

The conversation eventually shifts to what Magdalene plans to wear for both her thesis defence and graduation. Bette is fashion savvy, while Magdalene is decidedly not. Her everyday wardrobe consists of collared button-downs and sweater vests, which is supposedly never going to back a comeback, according to Bette at least. The blonde eventually wears Magdalene down, and secures a position as stylist for the graduation ceremony. There was an attempt at the thesis defence, but the other girl insists she needs to be as comfortable as possible on such a stressful occasion.

A glance to the clock on the opposite wall has Magdalene stretching her arms and giving an apologetic glance to her friend on the other side of the table. “I should go,” she says. “I’ve got to put in some serious work on my citations today, and you know Caligula doesn’t like it when I’m gone all day.”

Bette rolls her eyes, but there isn’t any frustration behind the gesture. “I swear to god Mags, your cat has more separation anxiety than I do. Speaking of, I’m supposed to pick Tyson up at the airport and I’m running behind.”

“Tell him I say hi,” Magdalene says as she wraps her arms around Bette for a quick hug.

The two girls part ways on the sidewalk, with Magdalene heading back to campus and Bette sliding into the sleek Audi she shares with her boyfriend. Headphones find their way into her ears, and Magdalene listens to a random comedy podcast. Once tucked safely inside the library she’ll put on her favourite lo-fi playlist and concentrate, but for now she just enjoys the funny anecdotes of stories past.

It’s quiet in the library for a Tuesday, though Magdalene isn’t complaining. Her favourite table, the one she swears up and down is the only reason she ever gets anything done, is open, and she all but sprints to place her bag on the worn leather chair. While setting up her work station a few of the librarians come over to offer their congratulations for her upcoming job. News certainly travels fast around here, Magdalene thinks, but accepts their generosity with a smile on her face. They leave her alone soon enough and the tedious work of double checking the formatting of every single citation in the sixty-five page paper begins.

Hours pass, and Magdalene stays working in the library until as late as she possibly can. Caligula is going to start to worry about the length of her absence soon and his anxiety response of knocking over plants is not a mess she feels like cleaning up. She packs up her laptop and walks the short distance home as fast as possible.

“Little boots, I’m home,” Magdalene parrots in a sing-song voice as she slips her jacket off her shoulders and onto the hanger. At the sound of his nickname, the small cat bounds into the entryway. “Hi darling, did you miss me?” Magdalene gets an obnoxiously loud purr in response that she takes it as a yes. She reaches down to pick up the tiny animal before continuing further into the apartment, scratching behind his ears as she does so. The two of them settle into the respectably sized couch, where they stay for the rest of the night watching reruns of The West Wing before Magdalene falls asleep.

☼☼☼☼

“You fucking did it!” Bette shrieks as she bounds towards her best friend. Magdalene braces herself for the oncoming assault, and manages to keep them both upright after Bette jumps into her arms.

Her thesis defence had just finished, and the committee found Magdalene a worthy candidate for the Master of Information Science qualification. The presentation itself was open to the public, so Bette and Tyson sat in the front row to support Magdalene, but were escorted out for the conversation that followed. The two girls had developed a code so the news could be shared in a subtle way, though Bette threw the original plan out the window as soon as she saw her friend give a sneaky thumbs up when the conference room door opened.

“Congrats Mags,” Tyson says sincerely, doing his best not to add to the growing spectacle, but Magdalene can tell he wants to give her a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you,” she smiles softly, “And thank you guys for coming. It means a lot.” As two of her closest friends, both Bette and Tyson know that her family situation is rocky at best, and having them act as her support system means more than she’ll ever be able to articulate.

The couple shares a knowing look before engulfing their friend in a hug. “We’re always going to be here for you,” Bette whispers, “No matter what.”

Magdalene’s smile is so genuine it crinkles her eyes as she wraps her arms around Bette and Tyson’s shoulders and leads them out the door and into the sunshine. The group continues to the parking lot, where they climb into Tyson’s car and drive off campus in the direction of Magdalene’s favourite restaurant. Though she had tried to convince her friends they didn’t need to celebrate, she failed, and Magdalene soon finds herself laughing hysterically over a plate of carbonara as Tyson tells a story about the shenanigans the team got up to on their last road trip.

There’s a game tonight, and Bette has somehow convinced her into attending. Magdalene knows she should go, expand her social horizons a little, but all she wants to do is curl up in bed and sleep for three weeks. Her one condition is that she can go home straight after the game without being guilted into following the group to whatever nightclub they’ll celebrate the win or drink away the loss in. Tyson has to get ready so he drops the two girls off at Magdalene's apartment complex. She’s in charge of getting Bette to the rink, and she’ll leave with her boyfriend after the game.

Once inside the confines of her home, Magdalene promptly lies on the floor. “Holy shit,” she sighs, “I did it. I fucking did it.”

“You did!” Bette says as she lies down beside her best friend. “I’m so fucking proud of you, and Tyson is too. Even if he won’t tackle you in public to prove it.”

The comment garners a laugh from Magdalene, which alerts Caligula to the presence of others in the apartment. He pads over the rug currently being occupied by two adults, and snuggles into the small space between them. Bette and Magdalene continue to lay there, petting the cat and looking back fondly on all the times Magdalene called her friend in tears because she didn’t think she could push herself any farther. Bette was always there to pick up the slack, editing whatever section Magdalene was working on or to bring over a hot meal. Her support earned her the top spot in the acknowledgements section of the thesis.

Ball Arena is already crawling with people when Magdalene pulls into the small lot for player’s and their families. Normally she parks with the general public, but Bette insists they watch this game from the better halves box, and these spaces are closer to that entrance.

“Stop dragging your feet,” the blonde chastises as Magdalene takes her time cutting the engine. “I want to get a glass of rosé before they sell out.”

Sighing, Magdalene follows her orders. “Don’t you have a special bar in the box?” she asks while locking the car.

“Yeah, but the other girls are absolute fiends. They’ll drink it all before we get there with no remorse.”

The girls climb the stairs to the better halves box, Bette chatting excitedly about the game, but Magdalene stops just before the entrance. She’s met most of the others on multiple occasions and has nothing to worry about, but she can’t help but feel anxious. Her life is so different than everyone else’s in the space, and it feels like cheating when she’s there because she isn’t romantically involved with anyone on the roster. Bette likes to joke that she’s her better half, but Magdalene knows it’s said just to calm her nerves.

“It’ll be fine,” Bette whispers while squeezing her hand, “And if you get too uncomfortable we can find some seats in the nosebleeds.”

Once inside Magdalene’s nerves dissipate. Most of the other wives and girlfriends pay her no mind, but the ones that are especially close to Bette congratulate her on passing her defence. It warms her heart a little, and the small group Magdalene finds herself in settles down to watch the game unfold.

It’s a fairly intense one between Colorado’s division rival St. Louis. Both teams are fighting for first place in the conference, and a win for the Avalanche would put them three points ahead of the Blues instead of one. Players from both sides are amped up, and more than once a scrum at the net has turned into a dog-pile. Colorado is outplaying the other team, but have still managed to find themselves a goal short heading into the final period. At the buzzer Tyson takes the face-off and is immediately shoved by a member of the opposite team. He goes down hard, and Bette squeezes Magdalene’s hand so tightly she fears it will lose blood flow. Silence falls over the arena as Tyson doesn’t immediately get up. The inside of lip finds its way between her teeth and Magdalene bites down hard, worried about her friend. She’s so focussed on Tyson that she doesn’t notice a fight breaking out.

“Holy shit, Gravy is going to town!”

The remark is made by someone Magdalene recognizes as Gabe Landeskog’s wife, and it makes her peel her eyes off of Bette’s worried features and scan the ice for some action. Sure enough, a very tall man is laying right hooks to someone who looks significantly smaller than him on the Avalanche blue line. The referees let the fight continue until Tyson drags himself off the ice and onto the bench before separating the men and throwing them in the penalty box. Magdalene can tell words are still being exchanged from both sides of the glass, but she’s more focussed on the fact Tyson doesn’t make his way to the dressing room – a good sign that allows Bette to drop her hand and let out a shaky breath.

Nothing of great importance happens until MacKinnon ties the game with seven minutes left. It happens while the Avalanche are short handed, and the goal seems to light a fire beneath the team. Magdalene may not know much about hockey, but she’s smart enough to notice the insane amount of energy all the players suddenly have. Time ticks by slowly and before she realizes it, the final face-off is taking place. Luckily it’s in the St. Louis zone and won by Colorado. The puck is tipped back to the same player who got in the fight for Tyson, Gravy, and he one times it right into the back of the net. The buzzer goes off not a second later, and the entire team piles on top of the player who just won them the game.

Bette and Magdalene join in the shrieks of the other partners, jumping from their seats in excitement. Eventually they make their way down to the hallway outside the locker room and lean against the brick while they wait for Tyson.

“You don’t have to stay,” Bette insists, “I can wait by myself.”

Magdalene shakes her head. “No way. I want to make sure he’s okay too. What good is a friend with a black eye?”

The other girl laughs at her friend’s stubbornness but doesn’t shoo her away. Once Magdalene has made a decision it’s hard to get her to sway from it, and Bette knows better than to push. Besides, who is she to deny her friend a bit more social interaction? Magdalene has spent the past six years practically holed up in the library and deserves to stand in a crowded hallway.

The friends chat idly while they wait, with Magdalene sharing some of the most ridiculous questions she got asked in her defence interview that morning. She’s mid story when Tyson exits the dressing flanked by a man dressed sharply in all black.

“Hey guys,” Tyson greets, dipping his head to place a kiss to Bette’s cheek before doing an elaborately goofy handshake with Magdalene.

“Good game baby,” Bette compliments sweetly. She then turns her attention to the boy standing awkwardly on the fringes. “You too Graves.”

He smiles shyly, muttering out a small thanks. It’s then he seems to notice the final member of the group, and offers his hand in greeting. “Hi, I’m Ryan.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Magdalene.”

She puts two and two together on the walk to her car. The Ryan Magdalene just met is the same who will take her spot on the trip, fought someone in Tyson’s defence, and scored the game winning goal. Though they’ve only said a few words, she likes him. He seems genuine, and those people are the rarest to find.

☼☼☼☼

Magdalene is walking across a graduation stage for the final time in two days. However, she can’t find anyone to take the third ticket. The University of Denver has a stupid rule where all graduates must have three guests attend the ceremony. Bette and Tyson are obviously occupying two of Magdalene’s seats, but she’s having trouble filling the third.

“I can ask Tys if one of the guys is free,” Bette shrugs. The two girls are sitting in the window of Barn Owl drinking iced lattes and discussing what Magdalene should wear to the ceremony.

“It’s okay,” Magdalene says, “I don’t want to bother anyone. Maybe I’ll just ask June.”

Her friend’s eye roll so far back into her head Magdalene isn’t sure they won’t stay there. “You can’t ask your boss to watch you graduate Mags! Besides, Gravy owes Tyson a favour and was already looking for something to do. I’m sure he won’t mind wasting a few hours as long as he gets drinks out of it.”

There isn’t a better option, so even though she barely knows the guy, Magdalene agrees. “Make sure he gets this?" she sighs, handing her friend an envelope with a single ticket in it. "I have to go. Caligula should be done at the vet soon.”

“Say hello to little boots for me,” Bette giggles as she waves goodbye.

Hours later, tucked into her couch with a glass of wine in one hand and Caligula playing with the fingers on the other, Magdalene realizes she invited a complete stranger to her graduation and how that could be a terrible idea. Sure, Ryan sounds like a great guy from the way Bette and Tyson talk about him, but he’s only ever spoken three words to her. Since that game she’s gone out with the team a few times, but the man with the piercing stare is yet to make an appearance. Magdalene considers that perhaps he’s more like her than his profession gives him credit for, and she feels a twinge of guilt about being worried he’d cause a scene at the ceremony.

There isn’t any more time for her to fret over the third and final guest on the list. At the last minute Bette decides there’s nothing in Magdalene’s closet that’s suitable for her to wear, so a trip to a local second-hand store ensues. While it’s nice that her friend has taken their carbon footprints into consideration, Magdalene wishes it didn’t have to happen an hour and a half before the ceremony is supposed to start.

“We have to be there in twenty minutes Bette,” she frets, tapping her foot nervously against the tile flooring.

If they can’t find whatever it is Bette’s looking for, Magdalene will have to walk across the stage in denim cutoffs and a faded t-shirt with Neil Young’s face on it, which is something she’s hoping to avoid at all costs.

“Have no fear, Mags,” she says with a knowing glint in her eye, “For I have found it.” Bette holds up a hanger that is holding a beautiful long sleeve dress adorned with a whimsical floral print.

Magdalene can’t help the gasp that escapes from her. “It’s beautiful,” she breathes, “But let’s hope it fits.”

The dress does in fact fit, and the workers are kind enough to let her wear it out of the store. Bette drives at a speed that might not be the safest to travel at in downtown Denver, but she gets to the school with minutes to spare. She shoos her friends out of the car so she can go pick up Tyson and Ryan, and Magdalene checks in with little hassle. The pool of graduates is fairly small, so she chats with a few classmates while they wait for the call to put their gowns on. Time passes quicker than expected, and soon Magdalene is being directed to her seat. She zones out while the dean gives a congratulatory speech and they go through the first few names. At one point she looks backwards into the crowd to find Bette, Tyson, and Ryan all giving her a thumbs up. The nerves she didn’t even know she had settle.

A faculty member signals for Magdalene’s row to stand up, and she smoothes her dress before dutifully following the person in front of her. Giddiness bubbles in her stomach at the thought of being done school forever. A hand from the stage crew give a cue, and Magdalene appears on the stage as her accomplishment is broadcast through the microphone.

“Magdalene Stevenson is being awarded a Masters in Information Science in Archival Studies and Records Management.” It feels so good to finally be finished that she lets a tear slip as she shakes the hand of the staff member handing her the package with her diploma in it.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur, and before Magdalene knows it her friends are approaching to congratulate her. Bette and Tyson wrap her in a tight hug, murmuring praise in her ears. Ryan stands awkwardly to the side before Bette drags him into the celebration. The four of them stand in the courtyard where the ceremony was for much longer than needed. Bette is crying enough to refill Sloan Lake if there is ever a drought and is yet to let go of Magdalene’s figure.

It’s only when the event staff ask them to leave so they can tear down the stage does Magdalene turn to leave campus for the last time as a student. She’ll be back in a few weeks as an employee, but deep down she knows this is the last time she’ll ever feel such a deep connection to the place.

“Victory is mine, victory is mine! Great day in the morning people, victory is mine!” Magdalene yells, quoting Josh Lyman as she skips down the path towards Bette’s car.

Both Bette and Tyson are confused at the sudden outburst, not knowing what she’s talking about, but Ryan responds without missing a beat. “Should I bring you all the muffins and bagels in the land?” His response doesn’t clear anything up, but it elicits a giant smile from Magdalene, who laughs and nods in confirmation.

Sitting in the back of Bette’s Audi, on the way to a graduation party she’s supposed to know nothing about, Magdalene decides that she wants to get to know Ryan Graves better. From what she’s garnered from Bette and Tyson he’s a class act, standing up for friends and giving good advice. He likes The West Wing and showed up to a stranger’s graduation, so how bad can he be?

☼☼☼☼

additional notes: see what magdalene's graduation dress looks like here // the quote from the west wing is from 1.02 if you were curious!

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @scrunchmakar @marcoscandellas @toplinetommy (add yourself to the taglist!)

[naussensei]

AoT Veterans as High School Teachers

Levi made sure to be there early to secure a parking spot. A wide grin grew on his face as he parked on the last available spot. Through the mirror, he could see Erwin waiting in the car behind him, his grip tightening on the wheel as Levi walked out of his own perfectly parked car with a triumphant smile.

But that smile didn’t last long, for as soon as he stepped into the building, Levi was asked to join a meeting that took place during the time he’d considered for lesson planning.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Ackerman,” Pixis said as he walked him towards the meeting room. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. Substitute teachers don’t normally attend.”

Not like he’d given him the choice to refuse, but Levi welcomed him with an awkward smile anyway.

When they entered the room, most teachers were already there; some of them were marking tests while others slept with their heads against the table. One of them offered Levi a coffee, which he accepted right away.

“Hey, you’re new, right?” The woman offered her hand, “I’m Petra,” she said with a wide smile; her treble clef earrings swinging as she shook Levi’s hand with enthusiasm. Levi’s coffee nearly spilled.

“Levi Ackerman,” he said, thanking her for the coffee and following her to take a seat at the long table in the middle of the room. “Let me guess, music teacher?”

“I wonder what gave it away, was it the earrings?” Said another woman who sat beside him with her laptop. Levi could hardly see half her face under her long side-bangs, same shoulder-length as her pixie cut. Levi tried not to stare too evidently, but his eyes constantly deviated to the bright red streaks of hair that matched the flashy outfit under her paint-splattered apron.

“Welcome aboard,” she greeted, her gaze still on her laptop. “I’m Nanaba, art teacher.”

At that moment, Erwin entered through the door to take a seat across from them.

“What happened to you?” Nanaba asked, and Levi could  now see one brow raising as she gazed up with surprise. “You’re never late, Erwin.”

“Someone took my parking,” Erwin grunted, glaring at Levi. Before he could think of something smart to reply, Pixis called for the meeting to start.

“Ok, everyone, cheer up, it’s only Tuesday,” he said, and waited for the agonizing complaints to cease to continue. “As you all know, Mike is on a sick leave for the rest of the week.”

“Tch, sick leave…” Nanaba muttered under her breath, but only Levi could hear her.

“Which means...” Pixis carried on, “I’ll need your collaboration as a team to cover those hours.”

“With all due respect, sir,” said Nanaba, “but it’s rather unprofessional for Mike to give such short notice. And it’s physical education. What are we supposed to do? It’s not like we can have the students just complete some handouts while we watch them.”

“Who cares?” Said a man who sat next to Erwin. “Just make them run around the basketball court or something. Isn’t that what Mike does anyway?”

“Not quite.” Erwin was the only one who spoke up for him.

“Thank you for your suggestion, Nile.” Pixis said. “I was hoping you’d take the first gym hours today, since there’s no French class until noon.”

“Sure,” he shrugged. “As long as I get paid for overtime.”

“By the way, Nile, today’s 10th grade’s turn for sex education.”

“What?!”

A round of giggling and teasing filled the room, and Levi’s back began to sweat just to picture the awkwardness of talking about sex to a bunch of raging teenagers, hoping that his turn for it never came.

“Seriously?” Nile threw his hands up in frustration. “Why is it always me?”

Even the principal was now giggling, and the teasing continued until someone stormed in.

“Sorry I’m late!”

“Good evening, Hange,” Pixis said ironically, looking at his watch.

Without paying much attention, Hange pulled a chair to squeeze in between Nanaba and Levi, whispering endless ‘sorry’s and ‘thank you’s, still catching their breath.

“Oh! Hello! A new face!” Hange’s eyes widened at Levi. “Nice to meet you! I’m Hange. Or Hans. Or Zoe. She, her, he, him, they, them...whatever you feel like.”

Levi was only able to mutter his full name; his brain aching from trying to process all those words thrown at him at once like a machine-gun. He looked at his watch, and wondered how much caffeine would a human being need in order to radiate that amount of energy when it wasn’t yet eight in the morning.

“Anyway, before we go, I’ll let you know we have a field trip next month. Please check the list to see what group of students you are going on the bus with.”

The list was passed from hand to hand, and Levi waited anxiously for it to get to him, wondering if he’d been considered in that list. He was hoping not to, but his name was written there right beside “11th grade”.

“Who did you get?” Hange asked.

“11th grade.”

Hange, Petra and Nanaba all gasped at the same time, teeth visibly clenched.

Levi’s eyes widened with concern. “What?”

“Good luck,” Nanaba patted his back, “you’ll need it.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Hange sighed, “let’s just say Eren and Jean are a handful, but they’re not bad kids.”

Of course it had to be those brats, Levi thought, but he saved his comment for himself as the bell rang, heading to class with his best poker face to survive the rest of the day.

It was going to be a long month.

From: Scaffolding, an Eruri Teachers AU

[dadsbongos]

Greetings! I got this idea for danganronpa AU where Nagito is like ghost "living" (or haunting idk-) his old house and the reader moves into that house and they slowly became closer and yk<3

hi i love this concept :)

Request for: Nagito Komaeda Warnings: nagito’s backstory, slight religious overtones, we breach minor ghost-fucker territory (but no actual ghost-fucking), no-killing game au also ~~~

The house itself was rather nice. Nothing too luxurious for who the previous owner was aside from the obnoxiously fancy chandelier hanging in the den.

The realtor was hesitant to explain that the reason it was selling so comically cheap was, in fact, due to the belief of a ghost. Not just any, however. It was the previous owner’s ghost.

People who even stepped into the house could feel his chilling touch. Hear quiet, shaky whispers in the night. The fireplace would crackle and burst to life at strange times with nobody near it. Visitors and almost-buyers alike would thrust their warnings to stay away upon anybody who so much as looked at the home.

But that didn’t matter much - a house was a house and it’s not like the ghost was malicious from description. Just… annoying. Perhaps a little eerie, but again, not harmful. Everybody escaped without physical injury. So, why not buy it?

Maybe the ghost just needed a friend? Death was probably a lonely time.

Bought on Tuesday. Moved in Wednesday. Finished unpacking… still pending.

It’s not like (Y/n) had anybody to impress anyways. She’d made the move for a fresh start; new faces, new stories.

The bumps began on Friday.

Sometimes they were taps. Sometimes crashes followed by the gentle rapping against the walls, as if to apologize for the loud noise.

She’d stayed through the month, undeterred by any of the ghosts’ activities.

Then the happenings seemed a little more… intimate.

A photo slowly sliding out from beneath the fridge, at first.

Three people in frame. From left to right, there was a figure with shoulder-length pink hair and a smile to make the heavens jealous - then white hair to rival a cloud-marshmallow love child, skin sickly pale and body wastingly thin - finally, brown hair with an ahoge sticking out like an antenna and posture that almost made him taller than the one in the middle. Well, not really, but attempting counted, right? 

“Which one’s you?” she asked the air, whether she was too tired, or simply didn’t care enough, to be embarrassed was irrelevant. 

A single droplet of water, from a leak she didn’t know existed until this very moment, fell from the ceiling before splotching over the face of the one in the middle.

“White hair, heavy eye bags?”

There was no response, but she took it as a yes anyway. What a pretty, pretty face. In a tragic way.

Because he did look rather ill. Frail build and purple hues under his eyes. Pretty but suffering - it made her feel bad. Of course, she already knew he was dead, but even so - suffering should always inspire empathy rather than romance.

And again, he was dead, so the likelihood of a romance between them anyway was slim to none. None. Unless she suddenly dropped dead, there would be no sweet kisses in the morning or gentle hugs from behind as one of them makes dinner. Maybe when she died, he’d be available for a ghostly date while the house gets put back on the market.

(Y/n) chuckled at the sudden thought of lightning cracking into her home, despite the sunny weather, and striking her dead where she stood. Ridiculous, but God liked ridiculous things.

The sudden thought hit her - what if that old photo was old old? Maybe he was eighty when he died and she just subconsciously signed herself up for a date with an elderly ghost?

Shaking her head, (Y/n) scolded herself for the thought. She’d already be dead by then, it wouldn’t matter what age he was...

Then, it was the scribbling on spare papers. Always specifically spares. Double copies she had put in recycling. Scraps. Even on the backs of paper-esque trash. It was an oddly considerate move for a ghost, though to be fair, she’d never met a ghost before and couldn’t tell if it was out-of-place or not for them.

The words always appeared when she was out of the room. Leaving to grab something and coming back to find the out-dated schedule for work out of recycling and on her desk with crayon sprawled over it. 

Hi 

Eloquently said, in her opinion.

“Hi?” she looked around the room, “Can you not talk? I thought people said they heard whispers…”

A bang in the other room drew her out. When there was nothing out of place, she returned to her desk only to be met with more words.

I’m Nagito Komaeda :)

“Dodging the question, huh?”

The process repeated. Bang. Nothing out of the ordinary. Return. New words.

Sorry :(

“Don’t apologize,” (Y/n) shrugged off before moving to her computer, “I’m just gonna look you up.”

A series of bangs - now that she truly listened, it sounded like a fist pounding to the drywall - resonated through the home. She did not get up nor did she pause her actions of Googling the man known as Nagito Komaeda. 

Until a piece of paper flew in from the open door.

Bad idea

“Probably, yeah,” she huffed, moving back to her computer.

Nagito Komaeda, born April 28th, first popped up as the sole survivor in an old plane hijacking report. Both parents, all plane staff, and the hijackers left dead after the plane crash caused by a meteor strike. Then he came up as a survivor of an old serial kidnapper/killer. Then as a boy who’d inherited the entirety of his parents’ fortune and won a large sum from a lottery ticket he’d found in the trash bag he was stuffed in by his kidnapper. Then as a Hope’s Peak graduate under the title Ultimate Lucky Student.

Finally, as a 25-year-old man who’d miraculously survived ten years post-diagnosis with frontotemporal dementia and advanced lymphoma before his death.

“Holy shit,” she nearly choked on her own shock, “You weren’t boring, that’s for sure.”

Another paper, this time written in marker as if he could sense that she didn’t wish to get up. Another strangely considerate move.

Thanks 

You’re not creeped out?

“I mean, it’s more sad than creepy,” her eyes scanned over a single line in the article once again.

“Nagito Komaeda, after all his fortunes and misfortunes alike, died at age 25, after ten years of illness, surrounded by friends who took the place of family. Out of respect, no interviews were conducted, but anybody, anyone at all even from a quick glance, could tell - Nagito Komaeda will surely be missed.” 

Her eyes watered slightly as she clicked out of the Togami Publications, laughing at the pure awkwardness of her situation, “Oh my God, that’s really fucking sad. I’m sorry your life sucked.”

Another paper.

It’s fine

I was just wasting space anyway :)

“No, you were- “ she gestured to her computer screen before covering her eyes in shame of her tears, “You meant so much to your friends.”

She expected memorial posts, maybe not as many as there were, but she saw them coming. What she didn’t see coming, however, was that each and every one would be dearly heartfelt - not a single one was disingenuous or vague in the slightest. She also didn’t see herself crying by the end of her little search.

But there she was.

Something light floated into her lap. A tissue.

“Oh my fucking God,” (Y/n) choked up again, picking up the tissue with a small smile, “Stop, you’re a ghost, you’re supposed to be scary and making me leave, not helping me dry my tears…”

Another paper atop the slowly growing pile.

Was that a ghostphobic remark?

“Oh, I’m keeping that one,” she stood, sniffling as she wiped away her tears, and picked up the last paper, nodding to herself as she muttered, “Yep. This one’s going on the wall.”

~~

Nagito stopped whispering because people ran when he did. His voice was always hideous, he didn’t to be reminded. Besides, (Y/n) seemed to prefer the paper method - she hung up her favorites along the walls of her office and if a visitor teased her about it she would ignore them. It was admirable, how their grins and giggles rolled off her back like water droplets over a duck.

He wished he could be like that.

Could have been.

He still had trouble with that.

Has.

Nagito looks up from his spot at the kitchen table where (Y/n) was cooking for herself. She seemed so at-peace in this house, and he’s glad for that. He never liked living alone and everyone else seemed to hate having him there. Not that he blamed them much.

Even so, he much prefers (Y/n) over any past guest as his living counterpart of the house.

She even leaves chairs open for him at the table; he smiles widely at the thought, patting his thighs and kicking out his legs in his seat- just like now!

She’d pulled out the chair upon entering the kitchen before calling out for him that she’d be cooking. She even knew he liked watching her cook!

It was selfish of him to crave so much attention, but in the end, Nagito was already dead so… did it really matter when he indulged in his wants more than he should?

Divine punishment isn’t real and he likes being around her, so why should he bother hiding himself away in the attic?

(Y/n) moved around the house with little to no liveliness, it made him chuckle. Her shoulders drooped and footsteps heavy, it was fun. To feel like he wasn’t alone.

He hoped she felt the same. That he was a friend… or, undead companion?

He hoped she would stay and not move out.

He hoped they could be real friends one day… if it’s not too much to ask, that once she dies, she’ll meet him. The real him. 

That would be heaven.

[whump-town]

Moments Too Late

In honor of spending too much time on my own Universities quad because of the nice weather (which is promptly going to shit because it’s going to be cold again Monday) and because of @olivinesea college AU I give you...

The false promises of March lure them from the comforts of their dorms. Each morning now a little warmer, the sun beaming down forgiving and loving as it’s not the quiet time for it to swelter down great beams of heat that melts clothes off the skin off muscles off bones. Today it heats the ground, enough to encourage them out of their shoes to feel the still slightly chilled nature of the not yet up to pace earth beneath their toes.

Derek laughs deeply, unabashedly as he chases Spencer along the grass. Seemingly all the more pleased the louder he can get the younger boy to screech in terror as Derek pins his thin arms in contorted positions as they wrestle. The only mediation, the only warnings they get, comes when JJ looks up from her textbook. More often to tuck strands of hair behind her ears than to break from her reading. “Don’t hurt him, Derek,” she warns. Not because she’s afraid he will but to continue these halves of theirs. Where she stands to allow Spencer this idea that she will step in if need be.

“The winter,” Emily says softly. “I think the winter depresses him.” She’s laid out on the jacket Dave spread out on the ground before them. He’d given a little “hmph” of disapproval but not altogether displeasure when she laid herself out on it. Her legs break out in rashes and the shorts she’d chosen to wear leave her too exposed to rest comfortably in it.

Dave rests back on his elbows, chest lifted to take in all the rays of the sun that he can. He cracks open his left eye, scowling over at her as he processes what she’s just said. The raised eyebrow of doubt -- of further need for contemplation and clarification on the generally just vague statement she’s just made -- goes unnoticed as she watches Aaron. Dave’s eyes follow suit and while he might not understand the full complexity of what it is that she means, he might be able to gather what she sees.

“Winter depression?” he whispers. There’s no way that Aaron could be anything but… well, Aaron. By definition, that means dark and spirally with a complexity not a single soul, at least Dave suspects, knows him in his entirety. They are all bound by bits and pieces, half-truths that they have put together like children and those little cheap boxes that are covered half-hazardously in Elmer’s glue and macaroni shells.

Aaron lays out on his back, eyes closed and more relaxed than they’ve ever seen him. Shoulders sinking into the ground and limbs open. His ankles set aligned with his hips and shoulders. Palms up, a sunflower turned to face the warmth. He can feel the heat crawling up his body, nearly too warm with the sweater on his arms and the jeans that don’t quite fit the length of his legs. Softly, he clears his throat doesn’t even bother cracking an eye open as he says, “the word the two of you are looking for is seasonal and I’m not, nor have I ever been, depressed.”

Though Dave shoots Emily a look that says it all -- leave resting snakes to lie, don’t poke a bear you’re not ready to kill -- she sits up and observes him further. Letting his head thud against the dirt, Dave lets her poke that hornet’s nest knowing he’ll be the one to soothe Aaron’s buzzing anxiety and pull the stingers from Emily’s skin.

“You locked yourself in your room for two weeks,” she reminds him. As if she wasn’t the dead girl in the freshmen dormitory wrapped around a toilet and sent to the emergency room where they know her by name. Where they take turns picking her up in the lobby, waving to the doctor’s as she signs out against their advice with her arm still bleeding where she pulled too harshly, too angrily at the IV snaked under her flesh. Who is she to point fingers at his oddity? At least he can go a weekend without visiting the bottle.

The two weeks in question were from hell. He’d been with them Tuesday, present in a way that they reflected on as oddly so. They also thought he’d killed himself, a theory started by JJ too good to pass up so their application might be flawed. For two weeks, there was nothing but radio silence from him. His dorm was empty and they couldn’t even find him in the library, a place they more often than not have to drag him from.  He didn’t show up until Thursday, so he was actually gone for sixteen-days, and looked like maybe he had died and dragged his corpse all the way back to them.

Not yet adults and very much the children raised by their parent’s hips, how could they not think in the extremes that they have known their entire lives? Too young to know the complexities of the life ahead of them but too damaged to ignore it. JJ knows what her sister did and Derek could feel his father’s blood hardening on his hands, could understand and see what JJ was telling them.

One. Talking about wanting to die or to kill oneself; Eyes closed and back sinking further and further into the blankets behind him. Nearly unaware of how close they all are, of the hand on his knee or the shoulder on his hip. “It would be nice… I think,” he whispers. “No stress. No obligations. Like sleeping.” He doesn’t sleep well.

Two. Talking about feeling hopeless or having no purpose; The warmth of his eyes has frozen over, the helpless desperation that he feels bubbling over. The carefully orchestrated faux look he’s spent years building burns at his feet. Leaving behind the broken child that he is at his core, searching for something that makes sense. For a father that loves him and a mother that protects him. “It doesn’t matter what I do,” he rasps. “Nothing matters because all I do is fuck everything up.”

Three. Sleeping too little or too much; He pulls from the hand that JJ gently reaches out with, flinching. “I -- I just don’t sleep well,” he defends, avoiding her eyes when she tries to look harder. To really see how pale he’s become. “It’s just -- just insomnia.” Nightmares are what he means but twenty-year-olds shouldn’t have that kind of horror built up into them so he lies. It’s easier that way.

Three strikes. You’re out but… they just couldn’t find a body. Dave had told them about how old dogs will drag themselves away from their homes to die and Spencer had cried for hours after that. Maybe that seemed a little too on the nose, Aaron being compared to an old beaten dog. They yelled at Dave out of fear but knew he was right.

Then Aaron just showed up to campus Thursday, a lump of human underneath his comforter as if he’d been there the entire time.

“We couldn’t find you for two weeks, Aaron. That’s -- That’s crazy, even for you.”

JJ looks up from her textbook, sees Dave, and looks back down. She’s certain that they’re about to have to deal with one of Emily and Aaron’s nuclear fallouts.  With hindsight, she can see how that’s been festering up. Every semester they have one of these martial spats, bad enough to leave Spencer (who loves nothing more than to be one of their shadows) afraid to be left alone with either for a few days. Rightfully so, Aaron gets a little dark and Emily never pulls her punches, it’s a scary thing to witness.

“My father died.” The group freezes for a moment. Spencer and Derek’s wrestling had died down, both watching Aaron and Emily. He’s sitting up now, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “My father died and it wasn’t any of your business.” Emily opens her mouth but he’s shaking, having opened something not so easily contained. He doesn’t know how to put it all back. “Sean called, what was I to do, Emily? Would you prefer I tell a scared nine-year-old to fuck off?”

He wanted to. Despite how scared Sean had been, how small he’d sounded sucking in little sobs. Aaron lost his father ten years ago but he couldn’t tell Sean that. He’d gone out of obligation and the strange weighted sense that this might be the last time he truly sees his little brother. And he couldn’t know it yet but it’d be the last time he saw his mother too.

“I wasn’t out mixing my name up with Jack Daniels.”

Well…  it was only a matter of time.

She stands first, fist clenched at her sides. “We’re your friends, we would have been there. You’re just too much of an insufferable bastard to notice!” She seethes good and properly angry. Misplaced but firm. “If you spent half as much time locking yourself away, pretending to be someone you’re not--” She pulls in a deep shuttering breathe. “Everyone knows, you know? All of us. We’ve seen the scars.” She’s not sure if it’s what she wanted but he flinches as though he’s been hit and that’s not enough to stop her. “Do you think we wouldn’t notice the flinching? That we can’t touch you? You’re not as good as you think you are, Aaron, and we’re not stupid.”

Silence.

Emily always knows what to say.

“Ex-Excuse me.”

Penelope comes up just as Aaron’s stumbling to his feet, pale as a ghost and trembling. He nearly runs into her. “What’s--” she’s brought them snacks. Little pieces of fruit she’s painstakingly cut for this little snack. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head and mumbles another “excuse me” and tears past her.

Penelope looks hopelessly at them, confused and hurt. She turns, watching Aaron stagger and wipe furiously at his eyes. “What… What did you do?” She looks back and forth, settling on Emily. Penelope watches tears gather in Emily’s eyes, her lower lip trembling.

“Oh God,” she whispers, hands raising to her lips. Emily looks over at Dave and to JJ, Spencer, and Derek still watching in terror. Her own words coming back to her, funneling through moments too late. “Oh God, what did I do?”

[maybankiara]

BAD BUSINESS

3: NOW IT’S TIME FOR ME TO GO

pairing: Rafe Cameron x John B’s Girlfriend!Reader

summary: Breakups are never an easy thing, and this one is no different. The only thing that makes it worse is that when you finally think you’re done with the situation, Rafe sends you a text.

word count: 5k

warnings: mild cursing, cheating

additional: it’s a big one, it features two original characters, and some very tense car situation (like, angst tense).

masterlist | tag list

previous part | next part

Shelley is a good friend. 

  Well, mostly.

  Upon hearing that not only did you sleep with Rafe, but he also gave you food and drove you to her place in the morning, she started to laugh. She called it absurd, and you had to agree. It is absurd. But it’s the truth, anyway, so you told her you needed her help on figuring out what the fuck to do. 

  That’s when she asked the question: ‘What about John B?’

  And this is how, a couple of hours later, you find yourself walking to the Chateau, with no idea what you’re going to say. 

  Shelley tried to tell you that you needed a plan to do this whole thing, but you’ve fucked up enough already – you didn’t want John B to think you rehearsed telling him how you fucked someone the night before breaking up with him. You’re going to tell the truth, because John B deserves to know it, and it’ll come out one way or another. 

  It’s not like you trust Rafe to keep it secret, really. A boy like him has got to spread the news of his achievements, and you’d rather it comes from you than some rando. 

  Then again, maybe you should’ve thought this through, you realise as the road you’re walking on takes a turn and the Chateau peaks from the abundance of trees. The sole sight of the place where you slept with John B so many times makes you squirm.

   am i a monster?

  Your thoughts travel back to the morning, and your and Shelley’s conversation replays in your mind. Once Shelley recovered from her initial shock of you having slept with none other than Rafe Cameron, she asked you tons of questions, most of which you didn’t have an answer to. 

  John B was never going to be the one for you and yes, deep down, you’ve known it from the very start. No, you didn’t go there intending on sleeping with Rafe, but it certainly set in stone any doubts you had about breaking up with your boyfriend. You didn’t know if Rafe had intended it happening any more than you did; you didn’t know what that meant for the two of you; you didn’t know what that meant for the half of your time that you spend not only on the Cut, but with John B’s friends, too. 

  But one thing Shelley never said is that she was surprised with the events. Not with you wanting to break up with John B—a blind man could’ve seen it coming—but not you ending up with Rafe, either. 

  Not even with you not having any regrets. 

  ‘Does that make me a monster?’ you voiced your concerns to your best friend, your legs draped over her sofa.

  ‘A little bit.’ Shelley had never been the one to hold back; it stung a little. ‘But you weren’t happy with John B. Rafe was there. You got your frustrations out. You were going to break up with him anyway.’ She slung her legs over yours and sipped her mojito. ‘I’d say it was worth it.’

   You frowned at her words, unable to understand how you truly felt about the whole situation. ‘I know I should feel guilty. I feel guilty for not feeling guilty.’

  Shelley shrugged with such ease you would’ve thought the two of you were talking about picking one dress over the other. ‘It happened. Mulling over it won’t help. Besides, hooking up with Rafe Cameron on a whim is more like you than being serious with John B.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not a coincidence that the moment you stop thinking about John B and his shitty friends, you do whatever the fuck you want.’

  It was one of those things that Shelley says that sound smart, but she kept sipping on her mojito at eleven in the morning in her mini-mansion, looking like the basic girl who had too much money and too little attention. You couldn’t take her seriously, even if you somehow understood exactly what she meant.

  Not enough to be able to decipher it, but enough for it to hit something in your conscience – the same part that told you whatever happened last night, was okay.

  John B deserves to know, and whatever comes of it, you deserve it.

  The Chateau appears ominous as you approach it. It’s a simple house, built the way all beach houses on the Cut were, and there’s more than a fair share of memories tying you to it. 

  Your steps are heavy. 

  This is a moment you’ve thought about more than once, yet it feels as if nothing could’ve prepared you for the unsettling feeling in your gut. It’s like an open, never-ending hole that’s gaping wide open with its own gravity, suck in everything that gives you courage. To say you feel sick would be an understatement, but you push one leg in front of the other, until your knuckles are tapping against the door. 

  ‘Get out and be a boss bitch,’ Shelley told you. 

  ‘Easier said than done,’ you retorted, and now the words ring truer than ever. 

  John B opens the door with a smile on his face. His hair is shaggy and chin-length, a lighter shade of brown this time of the year, with more texture to it from the sea salt. He’s got the smile that makes him seem reliable and kind, and the dimples and the curve of his Cupid’s bow have always been what made your knees go weak. 

  Now, your knees go weak for a different reason. 

  He goes in for a hug and a kiss, but you turn your head and he kisses your cheek, instead. 

  ‘Hi,’ you say. 

  ‘Hey.’ John B’s hands are still on your shoulders, even when he pulls back with a little wrinkle between his eyebrows. ‘Everything okay?’

  You nod. Over his shoulder, the Chateau appears to be empty. ‘Is anyone else here?’

  ‘Not yet. They’re supposed to come over in an hour or so, I think.’

  ‘Okay.’ You pull your lips in your mouth, scratching your neck. ‘Can I come in?’

  John B tells you ‘of course,’ then steps aside as he lets you into the house. As you pass him, you’re overflown by his scent – sweat and salt and sandalwood, hastily buried under a cheap cologne. 

  The pullout couch, the floor in front of it, the kitchen counters, the bench on the porch, the hammocks, the beds – John B and you have marked each of these spots. A dozen memories rush to your mind, each more painful than the last. 

  As you take a seat on the couch, you try not to think of the last time you were here. But John B sits down next to you, close enough for your knees to be touching, and the memory is all you can see. 

  It was the whole group, that night. It must’ve been a Tuesday, because Kiara was off her shift and so was Pope, and JJ was nearly always here, anyway. The five of you had leftovers from the Wreck, each of you chipping in a small amount of money for Kiara’s dad. John B’s arm was slung over your shoulders and your back was against his chest. 

  JJ cracked jokes as you stuffed your mouth with fries. Pope kept commenting on the jokes, getting JJ all worked up, which made Kiara laugh to the point where she would snort every so often. 

  It was a good time. You like the Pogues, even if you don’t have much in common with them. You might be from the Cut, officially, but your area is somewhere in the middle, close enough to Kooklandia that your family’s financial situation is more similar to Kiara’s than any of the boys’. And you aren’t like Kiara – you aren’t a Pogue at heart. 

  Later that night, John B and you had another fight. It was about something you can’t even recall – maybe about how you were too snappy with his friends, or maybe how Kiara’s gaze lingers on him and he’s not exactly opposed. It could be anything; you’ve had enough arguments for them all to blend into one another. They always end the same, anyway – with both of you at least partly naked, panting, and not having resolved anything. 

  This one was no different. In the morning, you left the Chateau without really acknowledging the boy asleep at your side. 

  Come think of it, you can’t remember the last time you even spoke to him in the mornings, let alone kissed him, or cuddled up to him. 

  You cover your eyes with a hand, running it over your face. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not really having a good day.’

  John B takes this as his cue to put a hand on your back, rubbing what are probably supposed to be soothing circles into it. ‘I can tell you’re hungover. How was the party?’

  ‘It was okay.’

  i need to tell him. 

  The memory of John B at the other side of bed blends with the one from this morning, of Rafe, and a shudder runs through you. You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, and your boyfriend’s hand disappears.

  ‘Hey,’ you hear him say. ‘It’s okay. You can talk to me.’

  The truth behind his words might be the worst part. 

  ‘I’m fine.’ 

  You lean back against the couch. A moment later, you pull your legs up instead, cross them, and lean against the armrest, instead. 

  John B is looking at you the way he looks at everyone else. Innocent eyes, gullible face, and a kind smile. It’s the kind of face that you used to think could give you the safety and comfort you thought you needed. 

  The face blends with another, blonde hair slick with sheen sweat; eyes full of mischief, lips crooked with bad intentions, and bone structure made for boarding school posters.

  You blink it away. 

  ‘You’re a great guy, John B.’ Your voice is dry and empty, and somehow that is even worse than if it were laced with emotion. ‘I’m pretty sure you’re, like, an angel or some shit. It’s not even fair.’

  He chuckles, shaking his head. It’s because of the odd smile on your face that he seems a little unsure of what to do with himself – his hand twitches as if it’s about to rest on your knee, but he puts it in his lap, instead. 

  He doesn’t know where this is going, you realise. Or maybe he does – but he’s not letting himself believe it. 

  It makes you sigh, because it makes you feel all the worse. 

  just fucking say it

  You gaze straight into your eyes, despite the heaviness in the pit of your stomach, despite your heart racing inside your ribcage, despite the room starting to spin a little. You’re going to be honest because John Booker Routledge does not deserve to be lied to. 

  You may not love him the way you’re supposed to, but your respect and admiration for him are endless. 

  So you begin. ‘Last night, I…’

  It’s supposed to be easy, because you know what you need to say, but your brain freezes and the words drift from your tongue, your lips tremble and your eyes can’t detach from John B’s. They’re kind, and caring, and even though he’s probably starting to catch on to what’s happening, he still looks at you as if you matter – as if he’s saying it’s okay, i’m here for you. The corners of his lips tug to the side and you see the earnesty in their curve, and the dimple in his cheek reminds you of all the times he stood by your side when you needed him, when he lent his shoulder for you to cry on, and the softness of his hand that’s now on your knee reminds you of how innocent and gullible he is and you can’t ruin it. 

   Maybe John B was the person you needed at the time because he’s all these things, and maybe you’ve been drifting away from each other for a while, but he doesn’t deserve what you’ve done to him. You see trust in his eyes, despite everything, and in that moment, you hate yourself.

   You don’t have the right to kill that innocence.

  So you put his hand away from your knee as softly as you can, and clear your throat. ‘Last night I was thinking about us. I don’t think we’re happy anymore. Not together, at least.’

   The wrinkle between his eyebrows is back. ‘Are you— What are you trying to say?’

  His name is soft on your lips, your head tilted to the side. ‘You know what I’m trying to say.’

  He takes a moment and you give it to him. 

  ‘Is it because you don’t trust me?’

  ‘No,’ you tell him honestly. ‘I just don’t think this is working. I don’t really belong with your friends and you don’t belong with mine.’ You don’t acknowledge you’re the one who doesn’t deserve trust. ‘All we do is argue.’

  ‘We have good times.’

  ‘We have good times, but it’s not enough to just have them. Spending time shouldn’t be something we both feel like it’s required of us – stop, you know it’s true. Look, you’re honestly a great guy and I wish it could’ve worked out, but it hasn’t and it won’t.’

  You breathe out, for the first time in what feels like forever. The corners of John B’s lips fall as he turns his head away; you watch his Adam’s apple bobble, hear him quietly sigh. His skin is flushed and lips shaking, but he doesn’t look too rattled. You’ve seen him rattled when his dad went missing for a few days – this isn’t it. 

  All it looks like is John B taking a moment for your words to sink in, is all. 

  At last he nods. He glances at you and his face is still flushed, but his eyes are dry. ‘You’re right. This has been a long time coming, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it has.’

  It’s quiet, but it’s comfortable, too. The tension that’s been between you two for a while has been lifted. 

  You want to pull him into a hug, but it’s selfish – he’s not the one who needs it, and he’s not the one who should give it to you. 

  ‘Friends?’ 

  John B looks hopeful when he asks the question. 

  It’s something you’ve thought about before, and maybe if you hadn’t fucked shit up last night, it could’ve been a possibility. Now, you just give him a shake of head and a smile that you hope is soft enough. ‘I don’t think we can go back there again.’

  He understands. Of course he would – he’s John fucking B. 

  You’re out of the Chateau five minutes later, for good. Some part of you wants to bid goodbyes to the Pogues, too, except you know that’s the part of you that made itself believe that you’re one of them. A clean slate is better.

  The walk home takes you through the woods around the Chateau and you walk next to the beach a little, opting for a detour. The combinated scent of fresh air, trees, and the sea has always had the ability to calm you down – one of the reasons why being around John B used to feel good. Sand glides underneath your feet and you glance at the kids playing in it a few feet away, not a care in the world. 

  It’s not that you’re dishevelled or rattled or upset. Okay, upset might be applicable, but overall you’re fine. Like the two of you agreed, the breakup has been a long time coming. 

  the only problem, you think as you kick a red solo cup that’s on the sand, is last night’s fuckup. 

  With John B out of the way, the only thing left to think about is what the fuck am i going to do with rafe? It’s not like you see the guy often, but the idea that he’ll spread rumours about you makes your skin shiver. 

  You fumble with your purse and finally text Shelley it’s been done. She wants to call, naturally, but you make a promise you’d call once you’ve taken a shower, had some time to think, and stuffed some food into your mouth. 

  Miss Dollinger [7:32pm]: fine bitch hmu once you’ve got your priorities sorted

  That’s as sweet as Shelley is going to get. 

  The same solitude offered by the beach that usually calms you, is daunting now. Your home is a little over an hour’s walk from where you are right now, and it’s an hour during which you plan to deafen your thoughts by listening to music, or a podcast, or anything. 

  Like always, the plan is to leave the thinking to tomorrow. 

  It’s about half an hour later that your earbuds are blasting an old Bon Jovi album and you almost miss the vibration from your phone. You take it out of your pocket, click the unlock button, and glance over the text message. 

  Unknown Number [7:59pm]: one of your friends left her phone at Coopers. text me your location and I’ll come give it to you. Rafe

  Moments later, you get another message: a picture of a phone screen with you, Shelley, and your other Kook friend Siobhan on it. Some random guy took this at a party a few months back, during spring break, and you didn’t even know that’s Siobhan’s screen saver. It has to be, though – both Shelley and you have your phones. 

  You sigh, because as much as you don’t want to deal with Rafe anymore, it is important. 

  Throwing a quick glance at your surroundings, you realise you’re almost halfway to your home, currently in the very middle of the Cut. It’s the place with tiny streets, small houses that are all in different stages of falling apart, and a few small local shops that somehow sell the best things you could ever find. 

  Me [8:02pm]: Lincoln St., Danny’s Bakery. Be quick.

  It’s a little past eight and you’ve been to Danny’s enough times to know that he both is open till eight thirty, and sells something you’d manage to find money for in your purse. 

  Rafe texts you that he’ll meet you in fifteen, so you kill time by eating what could easily be one of the best croissants you’ve ever had. It might have something to do with the atmosphere, too – you’re hungover, just back on the singles market, having managed to do a really bad thing the night before, and are currently waiting for the said bad thing to come meet you. 

  this croissant really is the highlight of my last twenty-four hours.

  You’ve got music in your ears loud enough to drown out both the sound of people and whatever thoughts might want to be running through your head, so it’s not a surprise it takes you a while to notice your name being called. It’s accompanied with a hand hitting the car door with an open palm, accidentally—or on purpose—to the beat of Jon Bon Jovi singing ‘i never knew i had a dream/ until that dream was you’.

  The moment you glance to the right, you grunt. 

  ‘Y/N,’ the blond says instead of a greeting. 

  One earbud pops out of your ear. ‘Rafe.’

  The car that’s parked so close it’s almost behind you is an older Ford pickup truck, black and a little beat-up. In the driver’s seat, a little too close for your liking, is Rafe Cameron, with one of his hands hanging out of the window, definitely tapping along to the beat. 

  ‘You’ve got a good taste,’ he tells you. ‘But you should probably turn that down if you want to be able to hear in ten years’ time.’

  It’s not something you dignify with a response, but you do turn the volume down quite a bit. You look around, and people are giving the two of you odd looks – you don’t know whether it’s because of the fact that you’re sitting and talking to a guy in a car next to you, or because the car is very prominently not owned by someone from the Cut. 

  ‘You shouldn’t have come in that,’ you say, only for him to hear. ‘You stick out. People are noticing.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I do. Just give me the damn phone, Rafe.’

  He presses his lips together, sighing as he reaches into the car. He hands you the phone and you confirm it’s Siobhan’s, as her password is the same one she’s had for years now. 

  ‘Thanks.’

  It’s getting quite late and walking to Siobhan’s would be quite a trek. The girl lives even deeper within Figure Eight than Shelley does, so you decide you’ll just give it to her tomorrow morning. She’s got a backup phone, anyway. 

  You notice Rafe’s still parked next to you. He’s still tapping, out of beat now that he can’t hear it anymore. He looks different than he did in the morning – his hair is slicked back the way he usually styles it, the polo shirt he’s now wearing is baby blue, and he looks fresh, somehow. 

  He isn’t looking at you, but it doesn’t seem like he’s planning to leave anytime soon, so you get up from the bench you’ve been sitting on for the past ten minutes and start walking. 

  Rafe catches up with you almost immediately, driving his car at the speed of your walking. 

  ‘Are you walking home?’ he asks. His tone is a little shaky and he sounds a little uncertain, which you find ridiculous.

  It doesn’t make you slow down. ‘Why does it matter? You’ve given me the phone, you can go now.’

  ‘Let me give you a ride.’

  ‘Again?’ you scoff. ‘I’m not your charity case, Cameron.’

  ‘I know, Y/L/N. You’re on my way home, anyway. Don’t be difficult about this.’

  ‘Go away.’

  You speed up a little, fumbling with the earphones’ wire. Rafe speeds up, too, but he’s adamant at staying at your pace, even if his car makes it difficult. At this point, it’s a given people are staring. It’s the Cut – everybody’s up in everybody’s business if it’s out in the open for everybody to see. 

  It’s what Rafe doesn’t understand.

  ‘Shit,’ you mumble, because the earphones won’t untangle, and your hands are starting to shake.

  ‘It would be ridiculous if I let you walk all the way home when I can give you a lift.’

  You don’t see it, but you know the Cut well enough to be able to tell that the eyes you feel watching you aren’t just a figment of your imagination. ‘People are staring.’

  Rafe sighs. ‘Then get in the car.’

  You’re in the middle of the street, but you stop in place anyway and turn to him, hands balled in fists. ‘Why do you give a damn?’

  To give him credit, it’s enough to make him hesitate. Both of his hands are resting on the wheel and the whole situation must appear so absurd that you can’t even piece together how the last twenty-four hours even happened. 

  When Rafe finally looks at you, his face is indecipherable. When he speaks, he doesn’t tell you why he gives a damn. ‘Please, Y/N. I don’t know what’s going on, but at least just let me give you a lift. Please.’

  fine, you think. i’ll be your charity case. ‘Will you stop bothering me, then?’

  He hesitates again and you see his Adam’s apple bobble. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘It is.’

  You march over to the other side of the car, agonizingly aware of all the people treating this as their daily dose of Drama From the Cut. True to his words, Rafe is quiet when you enter. He drives slowly, glancing at you ever so often, finding his way around the Cut even if you still haven’t told him where to drive you to. 

  ‘Are you trying to be my chauffeur?’

  A half-smile for a half-joke; Rafe knows he’s threading on thin ice. ‘I’ve got nothing better to do.’

  With resignation, you give him Siobhan’s address. He puts it in the GPS on his phone and places it on the holder propped up on the dashboard. 

  This time, being in a car with him feels different. You’re more sober and more present, and so is he – the tension between you two is palpable, even though he doesn’t glance at you once. His sole focus is the road in front of him, and you hate the fact that yours isn’t. 

  It’s this car that makes Rafe not resemble the Rafe Cameron that’s the prince of Figure Eight. It’s not the newest brand—he has to connect his phone to it with an AUX cord—and it’s not the sleek, shiny, sports car or something like a Range Rover that you see most boys of his calibre drive. It’s big, yes, nothing you’d see around the Cut, but there’s something about seeing Rafe so relaxed behind its wheel that looks beaten up; depressing, almost. 

  There’s no question about this being his car. In the holder, there’s the sunglasses you’ve seen him wear, a bottle of water, some receipts, and loads of empty candy wrappers. Even the music that’s playing is old rock, not songs like rap or whatever it is that rich boys listen to. 

  He begins humming along to the song that’s playing (you’re not sure, but it could be Led Zeppelin). It’s the first sound he’s made since you left Lincoln St. behind.  

  why are you doing this?

  Looking at him doesn’t give you an answer, only more questions. His left arm is resting on the plastic part of the door beneath the window, supporting his head leaning against it. His fingers are tapping along to the beat of the song, light but confident in the way they hold the wheel. 

  You have to look away. 

  Fifteen minutes later, you place the phone in Siohan’s hands. She thanks you for getting it to her and asks a few questions about last night, most of which you don’t answer. She asks if you walked all the way here, but doesn’t inquire when you say a friend gave you a ride. 

  Calling Rafe a friend is more of a way to prevent Siobhan from raising any suspicions, because Siobhan doesn’t really care about your friends that aren’t hers, too. 

  Damage prevention that’s damage control, really. 

  When you enter Rafe’s car again, he’s looking at you with a calm face, waiting for you to say something. 

  Another old rock song plays from his phone. You’re starting to think that might actually be the music he likes, and that doesn’t sit well with the image of him you have in your head. Nothing he’s done today does. 

  You lock in your seatbelt, glancing at him. ‘I’m guessing you’re going to insist on giving me a ride home, still, so I’m sparing us both from the argument.’

  Rafe turns the key and starts the engine, pulling out of Siobhan’s driveway. It seems as if he’s trying to hide it, but you can see the corners of his lips twitching into a smile. ‘I was going to make sure you’d get home safe.’

  ‘I would’ve been fine.’

  ‘It’s the Cut,’ he counters. ‘Not the safest place.’

  ‘I live there.’

  At this point, you’re tired of arguing. It’s whatever. You’re in the same position that Rafe’s still in, only you’re looking out of the window, watching the Figure Eight pass by. 

  He must notice something’s up, because he lowers the music. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘The Cut?’

  ‘If it’s the Cut that’s bothering you.’ The car takes a turn, onto the main road. Rafe glances at you. ‘It’ll be easier to get it off your chest than keep it in. I’m going back to college in three days, anyway, so you don’t need to worry about me spilling the beans.’

   You sigh and, for a moment, wonder if trying to understand his motivation is worth it. The concern on his face seems as genuine as you’d get from a person you kinda know. 

  Besides, he’s kind of got a point. 

  You look into your lap, feeling your shoulders hunch as you finally admit what’s happened aloud. ‘I broke up with my boyfriend today.’

  Rafe doesn’t acknowledge your words. His face is distorted in a frown and his shoulder high and tense. ‘Is it because of last—’

  ‘No. I was going to end it anyway.’

  He nods, still unable to look at you. ‘Okay.’

  ‘It doesn’t— It doesn’t make what we did okay,’ you say. It’s the first time it feels as if you’re truly acknowledging that you slept together. You feel the breeze on your face, already starting to feel like summer’s warm air, and it makes you feel uneasy. ‘It wasn’t okay.’

  ‘I know,’ says Rafe quietly. 

  When you turn into your street, five minutes later, he still doesn’t look at you. The ease is gone from his face and you’re glad you’ve arrived – the tension is starting to become unbearable. 

  He pulls up at the beginning of the street. ‘Which one’s yours?’

  ‘I’m getting off here.’ You click the seatbelt and it snaps off loudly, plastic against plastic. The music is still too quiet. 

  ‘Okay.’

  You expect him to insist on driving you straight in front of your driveway, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road. 

  It’s something you should be grateful for, because you can only imagine what these houses must look like in his eyes, now that he’s been to two of your friends’ houses. Yours is modest, even if on the high end of the Cut design and architecture. 

  This is the part of you that doesn’t come along with you to parties. 

  ‘Well, um. Thanks,’ you say; you don’t even know what you’re thanking him for. 

  ‘Yeah.’

  You get out of the car without another word. When he drives away, and when you finally arrive at your front porch, all you can think about is his face when you told him you’d broken up with John B. 

  ★

tagging. @jjtheangel @teenwaywardasgardian @thelocalpogue @jjmaybanky @sacredto @chasefreakinstokes @drewstarkey @thatsme-johnbookerroutledge @margaritatimebaybee @outrbank @yourlocalauthor @justawilddreamerchild @snkkat @mynamewontwork13 @sunwardsss @storiesbymads @koufaxx @drewstarkeyobx @ilovejjmaybank @jjmaybanksbaby @mahleeyuh @starkeymarkey @nicolewithasoul @kiarawilliams127 @starlightstarkey @copper-boom @downbytheouterbanks @julialucena5 @country-club

[mxpseudonym]

Your Last Good Pair

Pairing: Tommy x Reader (femme, first person POV)

Summary: Tommy’s wants to make sure his replacement gift fits

Length: 1242 words (allegedly)

Warnings: It’s a spicy PG, like a PG+. A slight hint, a whisper really, of Dom Tommy.

A/N: It feels like a Saturday here, so I felt like writing. I’ll be writing some Sherlock stuff today too. I hope everyone is staying as safe as they can. ❤️ 

I told Esme to go home early. She had a little one on the way, her ankles were swollen, and she was fucking cranky. I all but threw her out of the betting shop, and into the muddy streets of Birmingham.

Not that I minded closing up shop on this Tuesday anyway. It was a bit of work and could take me an hour longer than usual, but I liked it. I wasn't a Shelby, but I'd just finished school the year before and was more than qualified to be the best secretary or bookkeeper in the city. On top of that, I knew numbers, and I knew loyalty. That's what mattered most. 

It was a quarter past 9 pm when I began putting the money in the safe, and when Thomas Shelby scared me bad enough to nearly drop every coin in the bag. He slammed the back door shut and breezed in, clearly with work on his mind, but stopped when he saw me steady myself on the table with a hand on my chest. 

"What are you doing?" He asked, looking me over, then looking around, noticing the open safe. 

"Just closing the shop, Tommy," I told him, quickly recovering. 

"You shouldn't be here on your own," he looked me over again, lingering on my bare calves, then started towards his office. "Finish that up and come see me."

"Sure thing."

Tommy and I had been flirting since I started working there. It was a fun little distraction for both of us. I didn't think either of us was going to do much beyond that. He probably hadn't either. But two months ago he'd offered me a drink after hours, which I wasn't going to decline. He had the best whiskey in town. We talked about horses and school but then spoke about the future. 

"You're going to have a legacy, Thomas Shelby. I'm just glad to be a small part of it while I'm here," I told him. 

Someone having faith in you can be utterly attractive apparently because were kissing against his office door before the night was over. Our in-office flirting became more real and was, quite honestly, sent me into a pent up desire induced state of restlessness in the beginning. Whenever we were alone, we were all over each other. Before graduating, Rachel Wheeler from my old typing class once called me a prude because I wouldn't wear a tacky tin anklet. She'd be surprised to know that I may not have an affinity for anklets, but getting fucked in a safe full of money was all the rage where I was concerned. 

I walked into his office, and he had me close the door. He just looked at me for a moment, leaning back in his chair with a cigarette in hand. He nodded to the table behind me, and I turned to see a box.

"Is this for me?" I asked, not at all hiding my surprise. 

"Open it," he nodded. I did as I was told. Inside was a beautifully wrapped set of stockings in three colors. Two were silk, and one was everyday cotton. 

"Tommy,"

"I'm the one who ruined your last good pair, and I'm the one who needs to fix it," he said. 

This was where many women would tell him he didn't have to go out of his way. But he really did ruin last good stockings when he wanted to be more adventurous during our impromptu trip to his Uncle Charlie's yard on Saturday. When you're kneeling outdoors in a scrapyard, ladies, always check for things that snag like loose nails. They'll do a number on even the finest cotton, and you'll have irreparable runs in the material. Replacing them was only right. 

"These are so lovely," I picked up a pearl-colored stocking. 

"Come," he said, motioning me forward. I stepped closer, but he moved back and made space between him and the desk. That was my cue to fill it, and cautiously I did. With a gentle push against my hip, Tommy made me sit on the desk. "Let's see about trying them on, eh?"

"Sure," I nodded. Tommy moved closer, easily parting my knees. His hand reached down and gently grasped my bare ankle. When he'd discarded my shoe, he asked,

"Is this alright?" 

"Yes, I think so," I nodded. His fingertips skimmed their way to my knee but stopped at the sound of my question-like response.

"You think, or you know?"

"Yes, this is alright, Tommy," I cleaned up my answer to his approval. He always asked if it was alright, and he wanted me to mean it if I said yes. I didn't believe him until I had to say no once. That's another story. But in conclusion, I thought he'd be mad. Instead, he responded then like he was responding today. 

"Good girl," He praised me. He damn well knew what those words did to me. I was top of my class in school and wanted to keep that excellence in everything. The first time he'd said them to me was before we even began our fling. I broke the teacup I was holding out of surprise. Not at his words, but how quickly they made me stir inside. 

"Are you wearing a garter?"

"Yes,"

"Show me," he ordered like he ordered everything in life. And as with the other orders, I obeyed. My skirt was pushed up to pool around the tops of my thighs. My tan garter belt with nothing to hold up was revealed to my boss. I was charged with holding the cigarette while Tommy quite gently removed my heel. He stroked my calf, and I could feel the heat crawling onto my face. The feeling of silk was new to me, and I quickly decided I liked it best when Tommy was sliding it on. My soft gasp, when he grazed the inside of my thigh, made him smirk. He hooked the stocking in place before admiring his handy work. "How does that feel?"

"So nice," I sighed. I felt the material, running my hand over it myself. 

"I'm glad. I try to be a man of my word," he said. It wasn't the exact truth, but neither of us needed to argue that. He stood then, letting my legs be widened by his hips. "Am I forgiven?"

"I wasn't even that upset."

"You've been brooding."

"Brooding?" I tilted my head back with a hum as I thought back to the past three days while my hand idly ran down his chest.

"I've never heard more about the temperature of someone's exposed legs than I have from you in the last two days," he pointed out.

"How was I supposed to withstand the chill until payday?" 

"It's summer," he noted. I rolled my eyes but leaned up to kiss him anyway.

"Thank you." Leaning back, I reached up to toy with the buttons on my blouse. My silk cover foot crept up to brush the front of his tenting trousers. "So much."

"It's my pleasure, love," Tommy said with a knowing smirk. He used it when he'd let me dance around having the upper hand before he took it for himself. I used the word that made him as weak as being a good girl made me. 

"Sir, now that we know what it's like on, maybe we should try taking it off?"

"My thoughts exactly."

[ineloqueent]

do what you are doing

Gwilym Lee x Fem!Reader

synopsis: Gwil had left music behind, too many painful memories for the good to outweigh the bad. until one day, he goes to Boston.

warnings: sentiments of sadness, allusions to & mentions of death

word count: 1.5k

a/n: inspired by this song

see the moodboard here!

⭒

His mother had been a pianist, and a good one, at that. A very good one.

People had come from far and wide to Birmingham, of all places, drawn by the legend of her artistry, the stories she wove through song. She never sang, though. Not in public. Only ever for Gwilym and his siblings, and for their father. She had a lovely voice, too, but it was nothing compared to her mastery of the piano.

When she played, she was lost to the world, and Gwil had always admired her for it. He admired her for how she became part of the music, washed away in the tide of melody, and often melancholy, for there was a sadness to that which she played.

Her eyes were always closed, and when she played, she moved the whole of her body, fluid like the rush of waves, so unlike the rigid, tight-lipped classical pianists Gwil had often seen, the ones that played in the many orchestras his mother had been a part of, over the years.

She had never been meant for an orchestra, though. She was too spirited, long away in the word of the stories that played out beneath her fingers, ever independent. He’d admired her for that too.

But independent as she was, she’d been so to the last, and had never asked for help, even when the choice was between asking for help or dying without it.

And so she had died.

He had never been interested in the specifics of her piano playing, but when she had passed, he’d become obsessed. Obsessed as people become with chess, with seeking traitors and thieves who have not stood their justice, obsessed as perfectionists are with perfection. But Gwil was not after the mastery of a game, nor justice, nor perfection. Least of all perfection.

Quite, perfection was the problem.

He travelled the world, seeking music that would make him feel as his mother had, with the outpouring of her soul onto keys of ebony and opaque polymer, a waterfall of emotion and triumph of self, in a way that made him think there was a purpose to artists, in spite of what so many people said— artists do not help people. If you want to make a difference in the world, become a doctor instead.

His mother had always believed in the magic of artistry, and so Gwil had as well.

But he had never again found anyone who played the way she did.

Until Boston.

Until he came to Boston on a rainy Tuesday night, in the ballroom of a hotel in which he had not intended to stay, at a party he had not meant to attend.

He had been drawn by the music.

The guests of the party had all been dressed rather strangely, or rather, for completely the wrong time period. The men wore three-piece suits with protruding lapels and collars, trousers patterned in tartan and tweed, black and brown pairs of shoes polished to shine. The women were in every sort of sparkle imaginable, from the jewellery to the iridescent pearls that rained down from the hems of their knee-length skirts, and their makeup was equal parts bright and shadowy, like something out of film noir. Their spool-heeled shoes clicked as they walked.

Gwil looked on in wonder from the doorway, feeling as though he had stepped through the very barrier of time. He had not, though; glancing back out into the hall, he could see a woman talking on a modern telephone— touch-screen. You didn’t get that sort of thing in the 1920s.

It was with a most acute sense of imposter syndrome that he reentered the ballroom, out of place in both his manner of dress and his manner itself, because the guests of this party seemed to be behaving in accordance with how social custom of the ‘20s would have dictated. He caught snippets of words and phrases here and there, old idioms that had certainly not seen the light of day, nor of conversation, for decades upon decades. The patrons of the ballroom traded stories and laughter with a sort of sportsmanship, as though even the most unknown of strangers were their friends.

He kept to the edges of the room, and did not engage in conversation with anyone as he passed, though he would normally have. He felt oddly like a shadow in this place, shying away from the light which others actively sought out, electing instead to stroll with the ghosts of memory, for they were as out of place as he.

Gwil was making his way toward the piano. He could not yet see the player, but something told him that this was the artist whom he had been looking for. There was something in the cadence of the music being played, something unusual— and strikingly familiar.

By the time he came to the piano, his heartbeat was no longer his, for its pace was so quick it had nearly leapt from his chest. His breath belonged to the air; it was not his to breathe.

And at last, when a couple had passed by the grand instrument, wrought in wood as black as night, he laid eyes upon the pianist.

Her hair was a halo, like the crimson of the setting sun, and her fingers danced across the piano as though invisible strings had bound her touch to move with the keys, suspended her will in favour of the music, which flowed as surely from her as the light from the candles above. She moved like a waterfall.

She played with her eyes closed.

The gasp caught in his throat, as his heart fell to his toes.

He had never seen anyone play like that. Aside from his mother.

The people around him came and went; they did not notice him, and regarded the music as no more than background noise.

But Gwil was enraptured, and tears pricked at his eyes. He had never thought he would love music again, for all that it reminded him of his mother. Until now.

Until now, he had scorned the melodies she once had played, as they brought him only sorrow. But here was this pianist, this young woman, playing far too beautifully for the world to pass her by. Still, around her, the world did pass by.

If only they could see it, hear it, as Gwil did.

He stayed long after the last gaggle of guests had trickled from the room. She played longer still.

The light of the room was dim, now, only one small chandelier left alight above the grand piano, and Gwil leaned against the wall as the melody washed over him. He knew he should leave, but he could not bring himself to go.

Then abruptly, the music stopped.

“I can see you, you know.”

Gwil startled, and pushed off of the wall immediately. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he turned and walked in the direction of the door, running his fingers through his hair in nervous habit.

“No,” her voice cut through the silence, clear as starlight upon water. “Stay.”

Gwil stopped in his tracks, and looked upon her. “You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t mind?”

She shook her head, her lips lifting slightly. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s listened to me play for the sake of listening to me play. And obviously,” she leaned one elegant wrist over her crossed legs, “it means something to you, the music.”

Gwil glanced downward. “That obvious?”

“Yeah,” she said. Something like laughter flitted between the letters of the word. “You’ve got this… wonder, in your eyes.”

He did almost not dare to say anything, if only to preserve in his mind this moment of understanding which had passed between the two of them. Understanding of this sort was difficult to come by. It enamoured him.

“You play beautifully,” he murmured.

She smiled fully, prettily. “Thanks.” She canted her head in the direction of the piano, shifted over slightly, and patted the empty space beside her on the stool. “Come sit.”

Gwil was hesitant. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable with unwanted attention, of which kind his presence surely was. “Are you sure?”

“I asked you to, didn’t I?”

He found no reason to argue with her logic, and thus did not. He returned to the piano, and sat down at her side.

“Anything in particular you’d like me to play?” she asked when he was seated, when his shoulder had brushed with hers. She did not react to the touch, though Gwil’s own skin grew warm. She did not mind proximity; he was unused to it.

“No,” he said. “Just do what you are doing.”

Her gaze lingered on his, and for a moment, he thought she would not look away, that she would dismiss him, regret allowing him to stay.

But she merely nodded.

“I can do that,” she said, and began to play.

He closed his eyes and let the music carry him away.

But this time, unlike the others, he was not alone.

[lady-salvatore]

Never, Ever (Part Two)

Pairing: Stefan Salvatore x Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

Desc.: After your interrupted wedding, you try to get to know Klaus again and re-examine your relationship with Stefan.

Taglist: @going-insanx

“I told him! I told him not to ruin the wedding!” Caroline was yelling to Bonnie, who had her hands on her temples and her eyes closed.

You, Caroline, Bonnie, and Elena were having an emergency sleepover the night after the wedding. You were supposed to be in Italy with Stefan, but your honeymoon was, obviously, put on hold.

“I just don’t understand how this happened,” Bonnie muttered. “Run me through it again.”

“We knew Nik in the twenties,” you said, your arms curled around your knees. Your eyes were still sore from crying. “I fell for him. Stefan and I knew each other then, but... but we didn’t have feelings for each other. I had eyes for Nik only— wait, should I call him Nik or Klaus? Niklaus?”

“That is so not what you need to be worried about,” Elena said. “What are you gonna do?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m so confused, I mean... I love them both.”

Elena took a sip of champagne she’d salvaged from the reception. “Been there.”

You pressed your hands to your eyes and sighed. “I mean, I’m not even sure which I loved first. I fell for Nik in the twenties— he compelled it away. I fell for Stefan— Nik compelled it all back. I just...”

Caroline wrapped an arm around you. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Then, the door flew open.

“Guess who has a solution?” Damon asked, striding inside.

You looked up. “Damon, honey, I’m not in the mood-“

“I’m serious!” he replied. “I have a great idea. The bachelorette.”

“Huh?” you asked, tilting your head.

“The bachelorette!” Damon repeated, excitement in his eyes. “You’ll go on dates with evil, evil Klaus and my sweet baby brother and then you’ll make a decision!”

Caroline considered it. “That... isn’t the worst plan you’ve come up with.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s worth a try,” Elena offered to you. “But only if that’s what you want.”

You looked over at Bonnie, who shrugged. You sighed deeply, and looked back to Damon. “So, how would this work?”

Damon’s plan was simple, and it lasted a week. You and Stefan would have a date on Monday, and then you and Klaus would have one Tuesday. Until Sunday, when you made your decision, neither man was allowed to contact you.

The plan made you nervous. The dates made you nervous. The deadline made you nervous. But worst of all, Stefan and Klaus made you nervous. How would you face Stefan after walking away from your wedding? And how would you face Klaus after a century of abandonment?

“And why don’t I get to go first?” Klaus asked, lounging in Damon’s chair in the living room of the Boarding House after Damon finished telling him the idea.

Stefan rolled his eyes. “That’s your concern?”

“Calm down,” Klaus said, glaring at Stefan. “You don’t want to mess with me.”

“Actually, I think I do,” Stefan said, glaring right back. “In case you forgot, you ruined my wedding and tried to steal my fiancée.”

Klaus pursed his lips smugly. “Is she really your fiancée any more, mate?”

Stefan stood up, Klaus standing up after him. You ran between them, looking Stefan in the eyes.

“Stefan, baby, please,” you whispered, tears in your eyes. “Don’t let him get to you, okay? And as for you,” you whipped around to look at Klaus. “Stop teasing my fiancé.”

Klaus attempted to look smug, but his eyes betrayed him. Even if nobody else did, you could see the hurt in them. “Alright, love.”

You sighed. You didn’t want to admit that it felt so good for him to look at you like that, for him to call you love. “Good. That’s another rule I’m establishing. No fighting.”

“Added to the list,” Damon said dutifully, grinning like the cat who ate the canary. He was enjoying this all too well.

Stefan smiled down at you, and you felt your heart flutter like it always did when he smiled. It was comforting. Even if a lot of things had changed, the way you felt about Stefan didn’t.

That also made everything infinitely harder.

-

That Monday was your date with Stefan. You were getting ready in one of his favorite outfits on you, a cute denim skirt and a pretty white blouse he adored. You let your hair flow in loose curls and did your makeup just a little fancier than usual.

You went down the stairs to your date.

Stefan was making dinner in the kitchen. It was one of your favorite things to see him do. He was a great cook, and you thought it was so romantic when he did it for you.

He’d set the table with candles and a buffet— steak, lasagna, pasta, and anything else you could have wanted.

Stefan turned to see you, and then looked embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood for.”

You smiled and walked into his arms, embracing him. “Stefan, this is so sweet...”

He laughed softly. “I just wanted it to be perfect. It’s honestly been a while since we’ve been on a date.”

You kissed him. “And hopefully there will be plenty more to come.”

The two of you sat down to eat, and then he sighed.

“I hate that I’m nervous,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“I hate it, too,” you said, holding his hand over the table. “But don’t worry. We’re gonna put all this behind us by this weekend.”

Stefan seemed relieved, but you weren’t. In all honesty, every second you grew more unsure.

The date with Stefan was nice. It was perfect. It reminded you of everything you loved about Stefan— romantic, considerate, kind...

Everything you loved about him was, coincidentally, everything that made this so hard.

-

By Tuesday, you were sick. You couldn’t eat or sleep, only agonize about what was to come.

Klaus was back. Back for you. But then again, he had abandoned you a very, very long time ago.

Klaus texted you, informing you to put on your best dress.

“Well, obviously, this is your best one,” Elena said, pulling a sleek black floor-length gown out of your closet. “I’m jealous, by the way.”

You tried to laugh, but it felt foreign in your throat. “Don’t envy me right now.”

Elena smiled softly, placing a hand on your shoulder. “(Y/N), it’ll be fine. By the end of tonight, you’ll probably know.”

“I’m scared to know,” you blurted out, panic on the edge of your voice. “What if it isn’t Stefan?”

Elena sighed. “I asked myself the exact same question once. And you know what?”

“What?”

“It’s something only you can decide,” Elena said, nodding. “And you have to admit your feelings to yourself, or your decision won’t be true.”

You nodded. “You’re good at this.”

“I’ve been through the ringer,” she said, laughing. “I have advice on pretty much everything by now.”

You got into the dress, and you had to admit it looked great. You’d probably picked it up during the twenties, you thought sourly.

After Klaus had left you, you supposed.

Elena did your hair and makeup for quite some time. Almost abruptly, she stopped.

“Stunning,” she said with a smile. Then, she handed you a mirror. “Look!”

You took the mirror in your hands and looked into it.

Oh.

You couldn’t deny it, you looked amazing. Your eyeliner was perfectly winged, and your lips were painted lush red.

Elena, about to leave you, gave you one last reassuring smile. “Whatever your choice is, you’ll be happy in the end. Remember that.”

She shut the door behind you, and you put on your heels. You figured you’d be almost as tall as Klaus in them.

You exited your room and descended down the stairs, but paused on the staircase as you heard voices.

“Don’t do anything to hurt her.” The voice was Stefan’s, and it was low and tight, scolding. “I’ll kill you myself.”

“Worried, mate?” The second voice was Klaus.

“No, because I know she’ll choose me. When it’s all said and done, I was the one who was there for her, not you.”

Klaus nearly growled. “You can’t begin to understand the relationship between she and I, so bite your tongue, Salvatore.”

“I understand enough to know that you abandoned her for a hundred years.”

“If I never would’ve left, we’d have been happy.”

“But you did leave,” Stefan replied dryly. “I didn’t.”

Tears pricked your eyes. You were putting both of them through so much pain. You couldn’t stand it. Not only that, the pain of the past was all coming back. Klaus left you. Who says he wouldn’t do it again?

You took a deep breath and went down the rest of the stairs, faking a smile. “Hello.”

Klaus turned to you, stunned at the sound of your voice. Then, a small smile grew on his face. “(Y/N). Are you ready to go?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice to betray your feelings. You felt guilty as you noticed how nice Klaus looked in his suit and tie. It reminded you of all those years ago.

You took Klaus’s arm and went out the door, leaving Stefan standing alone in the Boarding House.

He listened as the car engine fired up and drove away.

“The way he looked at her...” Stefan muttered to himself, his heart lurching like a restart.

“What about it?” Damon asked him, downing bourbon. Stefan could tell that he was worried too, even if he tried not to look it.

“With all the adoration in the world,” Stefan said quietly, starting up the stairs.

That was when he knew, even if you chose him, he didn’t have a chance. He never would, because no matter what happened tonight, Klaus would never leave you again.

Never, ever.

-

Klaus held your hand in the car. You didn’t want to, but you didn’t stop it either.

“Stop the car,” you whispered suddenly.

Immediately, Klaus stopped the car and pulled over to the side of the road. He turned in his seat to look at you. “What’s wrong, love?”

The question that had been on your tongue for days finally came out. “Why did you leave me?”

“What?”

“All those years ago, Klaus,” you said, meeting his eyes. “Why’d you leave me all alone?”

Klaus sighed, pulling his hand back into his lap. He looked down, ashamed. “I wanted to protect you from Mikael.”

“Back then, I’d have spent a lifetime running from Mikael if it meant being with you. But you left me, and now you interrupt my wedding-“

“I’m not sorry,” Klaus said tightly, looking back up to meet your eyes with fierce determination.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “How could you not be sorry? You abandoned me.”

“Because that’s what was best for you,” he growled. “It was what kept you safe and alive. I never would’ve forgiven myself if...”

“If what?”

“If something happened to you,” Klaus muttered.

Tears spilled from your eyes. “I’d have died that night if it meant dying beside you!”

“Don’t you say that,” Klaus said, his own eyes shining with tears. “Don’t you ever say that.”

“I’ll say what I want!” you replied, crossing your arms. “I have a right to be honest with how I feel. I gained that right when you left me.”

“I took the pain of it away, what else could I have done?” he pleaded.

“You stole my memories!” you said, grabbing his suit jacket. “You stole a century of me being with you! And the worst part is, it didn’t help at all! A part of me, the part of me that was compelled away, the part of me that loved you, has spent a hundred agonizing years missing you! And you compelled all that pain back!”

Klaus froze. “What?”

Tears were pouring from your eyes now. “I’m feeling it all. Even if I couldn’t remember, there was always a part of me that loved you and missed you... and when you compelled that part back...”

His eyes widened. “(Y/N), love, I didn’t mean to... oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You cried, throwing yourself into his arms. “It hurts, Nik. It hurts so much.”

“I’m so sorry, if I’d have known...” Klaus was whispering into your ear. “I’m sorry...”

You cried for a while before finally regaining composure.

“You should have let me choose my fate,” you said, pulling away from him. “But I know why you did it.”

He cradled your face in his hands, and you felt the safest you’d ever felt. “Every day since I left you has been agony. I never stopped loving you for a second.”

He glanced at the clock, and grinned. “Well, we’ve missed dinner. But I suppose it’s for the best.”

“Not much of a date, huh?” You sniffled, wiping away some of the makeup running down your face. “God, I must look-“

“Beautiful as ever,” Klaus interrupted. “And don’t worry, I think I’ve got a solution.”

He pressed play on his car radio, and soft music started to play. With a fluttering heart, you recognized it— the last song the two of you danced to.

“How about a dance?” Klaus asked, speeding to your door and opening it. He offered a hand.

You laughed, taking it.

As the song played, you danced slowly and caught up on everything for the past hundred years.

“I love you,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “I’ve been dying to say it, every day for the last century. I’ll tell you I love you every day. I didn’t tell you enough back then.”

“I love you, too,” you whispered, the words tumbling from your lips before you could think. But it was the truth.

You looked up at him, into those blue eyes you were feeling a century-long yearning for. And, hesitantly, you kissed him, long and slow. It was like they had never stopped being made for each other.

No matter how much you loved Stefan, it could not compare to how you felt for Klaus.

“I’ve made my choice,” you whispered against his lips.

“Are you sure?” he whispered back.

“Yes,” you replied, staring up into his eyes.

And there was no going back.

Never, ever.

[mrsdobrik]

CHAPTER 4:

The week was going by excruciatingly slow. David had said yes to Y/n’s proposal and they had arranged to go on a date on Saturday that week. Y/n was ecstatic and spent every free second thinking about what she would wear and how she would do her hair and makeup. They had agreed, well mostly Y/n, that since she had asked she would plan the date and pick up David. 

She had thought about what the first date should be, she didn’t want to just go eat somewhere or watch a movie, she wanted something that would truly represent her. 

Finally the day of the date came along. Y/n settled for a lilac knee length sundress which tied at the waist with flat brown sandals. She did her makeup and left her hair half up half down. She gave herself one last look in the mirror before leaving her house.

…

David was pacing up and down his room. On a normal day he would still be asleep but that was the day of his first date with Y/n and he was a little nervous. She had insisted on planning the date since she had been the one to ask him and not being in control for once was kind of getting to Dave. 

The doorbell rang and he rushed to open it. Once again he was left in awe at how pretty Y/n looked, she dressed simply but femenine and classic. 

“Hey!” Y/n said cheerfully 

“Hey!” He replied, still admiring her. “You look beautiful”

“Thank you…” she said shyly, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah, I am ready.” he said and closed the door behind him.

They took the bus all the way to downtown L.A, it was an hour long ride which they spent talking nonstop about their week. He wanted to know Y/n’s stories about being a teacher and she wanted to know about the vlogs and the squad and what he did when the cameras were off. She asked him all the important questions like “Will Vardan ever get his revenge on Alex?” and “How much longer do you think it will be before you finally kill Jason?”. 

They almost missed their stop because Y/n was too busy laughing to realise they were almost there. They got off the bus, walked a few blocks before they finally arrived at “The Last Bookstore”. Y/n grabbed David’s hand and led him inside. 

If you know a bit about David you know he is not really a book person, not in the slightest. But Y/n was and she thought there weren’t people who didn’t like books, just people who hadn’t found the type of books meant for them. 

“Now, I know you are not a book lover but hear me out ok? I’ve always thought that there is a book out there for everyone. I love stories and I know you do too, just like your vlogs tell your story, your friends’ stories, these pages hold amazing stories that deserve to be heard, or read in this case. So… I want to help you find your perfect book, something that you will actually enjoy.” She said with a smile. 

And that she did… She taught David about flash fiction, short stories you could read in about the same time you could watch one of his vlogs, and let's say he was hooked. They spent two hours sitting in one of the couches together as Y/n read for David, they laughed, he asked questions about words he didn’t know and slowly cuddled more and more into each other. They were about to leave when something caught Y/n’s eye.  

“What is it?” David asked as the young girl held the book in her hands, eyes wide with excitement.

“Arabian Nights, or A Thousand and One Nights, it can have any of both names.” she said now lovingly stroking the cover.

“What is it about?” 

“It’s the story of a Sultan who discovers that during his absence his wife has been unfaithful. He kills his wife and all the men she was with and proceeds to take revenge by marrying a new girl each night and then executing her in the morning, making sure he would never be cheated on again. That is until he marries the Vizier's eldest daughter, Sherazade. She tells him a story but leaves it incomplete, promising to tell the ending to it the next night, so he puts off her execution. This repeats itself for a thousand and one nights. It’s also a compilation of all the stories she tells him. It’s an amazing book.”

“Well, what happens after the thousand and one night?” he asked “How does it end?”

“I am not telling you how it ends!! And don’t even think of googling it!! Come on.” She said and took his hand leading him to check out. She purchased both books, the flash fictions one they were reading and Arabian Nights. 

David followed her out of the bookstore and then gave David the flash fiction book. 

“This one's for you, and this one… well, you’ll see.”

And so she led him to the chipotle that was a couple blocks away. She insisted on paying since she had asked him on the date. 

“No, Y/n, please.” he complained. 

“No way you’re paying David. I am sorry to disappoint you. I’ll tell you what, if you want to pay you can totally ask me on a second date.” She said teasingly and winked at him.

They got their food and Y/n could tell he was trying to be polite and eat small bites. It was like watching the Beast trying to use a spoon. She burst out laughing, grabbed her burrito and took a bite so big she couldn’t even chew it. He stared at her with wide eyes before bursting out laughing too. 

“Please eat like you normally would, I don’t want to be sitting here watching you be uncomfortable.” She said after she was finally able to swallow. 

David loved this, he could eat normally (well if you can call the way he eats normal) and she didn’t even mind. In fact she ate pretty fast too and wasn’t nearly as ladylike as she seemed while doing so. 

After lunch they knew they had to leave, David needed to film and there wasn’t much time left before Y/n had to go in for her shift at the diner. During the bus ride to Y/n’s apartment she read him the first story in Arabian Nights, she hadn’t finished the story by the time they got to her house and so she said…

“Well, this is me.”

“Wait! You haven’t finished the story!” he said 

“Yeah, I know, but Sherazade didn’t tell the Sultan the ending to the story until the next night so I am going to stay faithful to the plot.” She answered with a little smirk. “If you want to know the ending I guess you’ll have to ask me out”

And that is when David realized what she had planned all along. He started smiling too. Of course he would ask her on a second date! The first one was awesome, I mean they had Chipotle so… 

“Y/n, would you please go on a second date with me?”

“Hmm… let me get back to you on that” she said before kissing his cheek and going inside. 

David hadn’t even finished calling an uber when he got a text from Y/n.

I’m free Tuesday night ;)

[damienthepious]

time 2 be emotionally fraught baybeeeeee happy LKT!

Going Through Changes, Ripping Out Pages (chapter 10)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ch 4] [ch 5] [ch 6] [ch 7] [ch 8] [ch 9] [ao3] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, (uhhhhh sorta), Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (WE WILL GET THERE…… EVENTUALLY)

Summary: Lord Arum wakes to discover that some things have changed while he slept. Namely, there is a human in his bed.

Chapter Summary: Damien tests his theory.

Chapter Notes: inconsistent chapter length be damned!!! i do what i want! [kicks desk] anyway happy LKT, i love youu

~

They make poor progress with their research, that morning. Arum is-

He is clearly acting grumpier than he feels, a defensive layer of prickliness that Rilla really isn't surprised by, but she suspects that the lizard slept far less than he implied, too. He looks shadowed and tense in a way that reminds her distinctly and unpleasantly of how he looked the first time she stayed here in the Keep, and she doesn't think that's just because that's basically the mindset that he's in. She knows how his tail coils when he's far too tired, by now.

A lot of the problem with their research is that monsters seem to keep their methods of creating curses pretty damn close to the chest, and Arum himself isn't really in the business. His creations have always been a lot more physical. "Practical," in his words, though Rilla quietly disagrees that a decent chunk of his nonsense projects are practical.

Arum knows a few ways to get rid of hexes and jinxes- ritual words, ceremonies of cleansing, magic potions, the sorts of things that usually frustrate Rilla out of her mind with their inconsistency. Rilla's frustration doesn't much matter, though, because Arum is convinced that none of the above would be effective against a curse like this anyway. A magical-herb-infused bath might knock out some minor blight, but this? It's too deep.

... They do test a few smaller ideas anyway, if only to see if they might weaken whatever it is that's locking Arum's memories away (none of them say, out loud, the possibility that the memories are gone, not just inaccessible), but after each minor test Arum only sags further and shakes his head.

By midday they're all... disheartened, to use a Damien word. Arum more than her and Damien, if Rilla's read is correct. Again- it really doesn't help that he's so obviously exhausted. Damien meets Rilla's eyes over the small lunch the Keep brings for them (it's been picking out meals that it knows are each of their favorites, Rilla is sure that it's deliberate- she thinks she oughta take an aside with the Keep later today, thank it a bit more directly, check in to make sure it's doing alright, considering-), and Rilla knows he's thinking of their conversation this morning. Rilla still isn't enthusiastic about the idea, it seems dangerous, for a number of reasons, but-

Arum pulled Damien back to them with a duel, didn't he?

And, frankly, it's not like Rilla has any better ideas. None that don't involve a near-impossible infiltration and- well. Murder, theoretically.

She catches Damien's eye again as they clean up their bowls, and she gives him a nod, and as much of a smile as she can manage.

Damien nods in return, his expression nervous but steady, and then he takes a deep breath.

"I may have an idea," Damien says, and Rilla's heart thuds at the way Arum's face flashes with hope before he buries it in a frown. "Would you mind," he continues, "if we were to retreat to the greenhouse, to discuss it?"

Arum's frown deepens, clearly unhappy not to just out with it right now, but he turns and gestures with a hand for the Keep to open the way.

~

"A duel," Arum drawls, and the little knight does a poor job of hiding the way Arum's tone makes him wince. Or, perhaps he did not intend to hide it at all. "So you wish to do precisely what the Senate wanted us to, then?"

"By no means," the knight says, jerking his head sharply. "It may be a foolish idea-"

"The reasoning is sound," Amaryllis interrupts, firm, and the knight glances towards her with a grateful smile.

"Well- I hope so. I thought, perhaps- we duel often, you see, to keep our skills sharp, to settle inconsequential matters, to-" he cuts himself off, his cheeks darkening, and then he shakes his head. "So- so I thought, perhaps, that if we cannot strike upon a magical means of weakening this affliction, then maybe there could be a more physical method. If your body remembers- remembers warmth enough to trouble your sleep when you are lacking, then... perhaps your body may remember the strain of our physical activities together as well."

Arum frowns, both grateful and furious with the poet for avoiding the mention of what precise heat his body remembers. It is embarrassing in the extreme, of course, but it is almost more embarrassing that Damien seems to know to avoid specificity in the matter. "So you believe that we may... knock some sense into me, as it were."

Amaryllis chokes a laugh, which is oddly gratifying. Damien, for his part, looks mournful again, wide-eyed and worried.

"I have no desire to hurt you," he insists.

"And yet you wish to fight."

"To duel," Damien says. "To spar, if that phrasing is more... acceptable."

"We do this often?" Arum says, doing nothing to hide his skepticism, and then he eyes Damien, unarmed as he is. Arum, on the other hand, is armed. Excepting his time in their room the night before, his knives have been carefully strapped to his person since the Keep allowed Damien to leave, the first morning they woke together. He... believes that they are earnest, now, yes, but he is not so foolish as to leave himself without defense.

"Like, kind of annoyingly often," Amaryllis says, leaning against a thick tree trunk and crossing her arms over her chest, and the poet's lips press together in something of a pout. "I don't really get it, but yeah."

"It-" Damien furrows his brow, and then he sighs. "If you think the idea ridiculous, or if- if you do not trust that I will not hurt you- if you do not agree, Arum, then obviously we will not try it. We can find another thread to pull, for the afternoon. I only thought-"

"I am unconcerned that you will harm me, little poet," Arum says, halfway to a snarl, and Damien stills, his lips pressing together in an expression that Arum cannot quite read. "And I do think the idea is ridiculous. However..." he growls, looking away for a moment. However. The story they and the Keep have told him piecemeal over the last day-and-half still spins uncertainly in Arum's mind, the idea that he and this slight, soft-eyed little human have clashed steel before and matched evenly-

Arum still cannot quite accept it. He believes them, trusts the pain in their eyes if nothing else, but the idea that he would have lost to so gentle a creature- it simply does not make sense. A duel, a contest of skill, now- Arum cannot say if he is at all convinced it may do anything to loosen the grip of this curse, but nevertheless Arum is tempted. If only, he thinks, for the chance to prove himself.

"However?" Sir Damien echoes, softly, and Arum snaps back to himself.

"If the both of you think it may have a chance..." he shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "It is worth exploring, I suppose."

"Again," Amaryllis says, lifting a pointed hand, "it makes sense, but I don't think we should-"

"Get our hopes up," Arum finishes. "Obviously."

Amaryllis' lip curls up, not quite a smile, and then she shoots a look towards Damien. "Be careful, remember," she says sternly, and the poet presses a hand over his heart.

"I swear," he says. "Always."

The look on Amaryllis' face at that leads Arum to suspect that the poet is not, in fact, always careful. Arum frowns.

"How shall we begin, then? I imagine you suggested that we come to the greenhouse because it will give us ample space, correct?"

"Yes." Damien gives a small sort of smile. "The game is to try to pin each other. Despite Rilla's- frequent suggestions, we have... not yet transitioned to sparring with practice weaponry. Bladed combat is your preferred, and I am rather flexible, so typically we duel with knives." He pauses. "Yours, if you would be willing to allow me the use of one. Otherwise- well, I could ask the Keep to allow me to step into Rilla's hut for a moment to retrieve-"

"We may as well do this properly," Arum says, shrugging, and then he draws one of his knives and, on a strange sort of whim, whips it out to sink into the bark of the tree beside Damien's head. The knight does not flinch, surprisingly, though he does blink as the Keep warbles a chastising note. "Oh be quiet," Arum mutters. "The bark is thick, it will be fine."

Damien turns, carefully pulling the blade back out, his fingers curling around the hilt with a reverent sort of delicacy.

Arum unstraps one set of hilts, hanging them from another tree nearby, then draws his remaining blade, holding it unthreateningly at his side as he spares a look towards Amaryllis.

"Your priorities fascinate me, just so you are aware," he mutters. "Though you did not deign to ask, I will assure you as well that I will exercise caution. I will not cause the poet any undue harm."

Amaryllis presses her lips together, nearly smiling. "Appreciate that," she says after a moment, her tone very strange, and then she shoots Damien a look.

The poet shakes his head. "Keep, if you would?"

Arum blinks, but the Keep sings a note of acknowledgment and shutters the skylights slightly, dimming the greenhouse to a more muted palette.

"So no one may claim that the sun were in his eyes," Damien explains with a wry smile, and Arum wonders briefly which of them that particular amendment were made in deference to. "Is there anything else you need? A moment to collect yourself, or-"

"I am fully prepared to best you," Arum snaps, unsettled by the gentle concern in the poet's voice. "Are you ready?"

The poet inhales very slowly, exhales tranquility, my Saint in a breath, and then his lips tilt into a crooked smile.

"I am," he says.

"You are remarkably amenable to the situation," Arum says slowly, stalking closer, "considering that I did, in fact, nearly kill you yesterday morning. I feel I should give you another guarantee, for the sake of your comfort. I will not hurt you beyond what is necessary to beat you. You need not fear for your life."

"You sound so utterly certain," Damien says, a grin flashing across his face despite the pain in his eyes. "So confident that you will be the one of us who needs show mercy."

"I've never lost, little poet," Arum growls, stiff, and Damien glances for half a moment towards Rilla, and then he laughs.

"Ah, I am terribly sorry to disabuse you of that notion," he says, and Arum's scales prickle at the indulgent tone in his voice, "but that is no longer quite true, I should say."

Arum pauses, stewing in that assertion for a moment before he retorts. "He may have," he rumbles, attempting to smooth over his discomfort with cool, patient anger. "I have not."

"Hm," Damien says. "Yes, not to your memory, I suppose. I am sorry as well that we shall be so unevenly matched in this endeavor, friend monster."

"I will not tie two hands behind my back if you think that will make us more even, littl-"

"Oh," Damien laughs, "no, rather the opposite, in fact. It might be rather more fair if we gave you all the rest of your knives to match my one, I think, but I imagine that may injure your pride rather more than you would allow."

Arum pulls his head back, his lip curling over his teeth in a shocked sort of fury. "What?"

"I've a rather distinct advantage, I'm afraid."

Arum's eyes scrape down Damien's body, his lithe frame, his loose, unprepared stance, the knife held so casually in one delicate hand, and then raise up again to his smug smile. Arrogant thing, he thinks, hissing disdainfully. In need of a lesson. Arum should end this foolish little duel before it begins.

Arum darts forward, faster than a human should be able to see, but-

But Damien moves, a breath before Arum does, backstepping around Arum's lunge without even raising his knife.

"Ah," he says calmly as Arum exhales in shock. "So, we have begun, then? Very well, Lord Arum."

In the heartbeat it takes for Arum to regain his senses, the knight shifts his stance and raises his arm, scraping the length of his blade along Arum's own in a fluid motion, and as Arum flinches back Damien takes a calmer step away and assumes a stance-

A stance that tickles familiar in the back of Arum's mind.

A distraction, whether intentional or not, and Arum raises his blade again just in time to block Damien's first quick, testing strike. Arum growls instinctively, and the knight's mouth curves into a small, strange smile as he swings his knife again, an elegant practiced arc, and Arum blocks, catching the blades together.

"I've had quite a bit of practice," Damien says evenly, over the light scraping of metal on metal, "dueling with you, friend lizard." He angles his body, moving his wrist in such a way that he uses their clashing blades to draw Arum's face closer to his own, a molten heat in his eyes that Arum cannot seem to look away from. "Perhaps I should go easy on you, let you warm up a little."

Damien disengages, spinning as he steps away again, his footwork light as the wind, and it is not until he is no longer so close, until he is no longer invading Arum's space with his heat and his musical voice, it is not until he is out of reach that Arum realizes what the poet actually said. He snarls, sputtering as he brandishes his knife between them.

"Go easy on me? Arrogant- absurd, I do not need such practice to simply skewer such a foolish creature-"

"Go on and prove it, then," Damien says, his voice warm and unbothered.

Arum snarls again, crouching lower and watching the human step carefully, edging in an arc around Arum, and then Arum spins, whipping with his tail-

Sir Damien jumps over the tail with ample time, and he does not pause in the descent, swinging his arm down, the blade flashing, and Arum barely deflects the blow, and he needs to roll away to avoid Damien's next two quick strikes.

"Ah, yes," Damien grins wide as he continues to flash his wrist out, relentless as Arum blocks and parries and skips back, trying to get out of range. "It took some time to learn to anticipate that one, I will admit. You've certainly put me on my back more than once with that trick- though you've since needed to find means a bit more clever-"

"Must you-" Arum hisses, ducking, spinning, this little knight is quick, not as fast as Arum in technicality but with each movement Arum makes, Damien aims a blow towards whatever new opening Arum makes. "Must you chatter so, even-" another gasp, and then Arum leaps aside, putting enough space between Sir Damien and himself that he can catch his breath, can manage a sneer. "Not even in this do you cease prattling?"

"If I have breath enough to speak," Damien says, twirling Arum's knife absently between his fingers, "why should I not? I'm quite enjoying my time."

The knight's cheeks are flushed, just barely dark, but his aforementioned breath is even and easy and Arum hisses to hide his own gasping. "Are you?" Arum growls, and something in his stomach twists at Damien's warm smile.

"I always do," he says with a shrug, and then he darts forward, his next set of strikes less swift, but more forceful, more precise. "The exhilaration, the adrenaline of combat, but with the assurance of safety, the knowledge that it will end in laughter, rather than blood- oh, yes, I always take a rather great deal of pleasure in our time together, Lord Arum."

Arum tries to focus on his movements, on holding his ground enough that Damien cannot begin to crowd him backwards again. His words are- distracting, however.

"Is this- your tactic, then? Chattering away, sapping focus-"

"If you cannot focus on your blade and my words at the same time, Lord Arum-"

Arum swings his knife out viciously at that, and Damien grins hard as he spins out of the way. "Ah, there you are-"

His words are distracting- Arum steps back, steps back again, knows that he is losing ground. Damien lashes out, a strike Arum realizes he will not be able to counter, and the lizard throws himself backwards instead, unaware enough of his surroundings that he does not notice the tree behind him until his shoulder collides with it painfully.

"Ah-"

"Oh," Damien pauses, his eyes widening in concern, "oh- are you alright? I didn't mean-"

"Don't patronize me," Arum snaps, ignoring the bruising sting and darting forward. He swings his arm, their blades ringing against each other once, twice, and then on the third blow Damien pushes back enough that they are pressed close, their metal meeting between them with the edges of their blades scraping in a discordant song.

Damien twists his blade oddly against Arum's own, catching the hilts together and wrenching Arum's wrist at an odd enough angle that the lizard needs to lean his body forward to avoid dropping the hilt in pain.

Damien is too close, suddenly, pressing forward at the same time that Arum does, and then he maneuvers his leg just as Arum tries to step away, hooking his ankle behind Arum's and simply allowing Arum's own attempted movement to unsteady him, making his tail swing in a wild arc as he raises his arms to attempt to rebalance, but then-

Damien places his free hand, palm open, directly over Arum's heart, and pushes.

Arum's back hits the dirt before he fully knows what happened, breath escaping in a rush and his knife flying aside with a dull bouncing thud against the ground, and then Damien drops over him, knees on either side of his waist, pinning his lower arms against him as the knight presses his free arm over Arum's sternum like the trunk of a tree, holding him down.

Arum can hardly breathe, not from the pressure but from the surprise, from the rush, from the heat of Sir Damien crowding so exquisitely close, and the knight's eyes are bright and focused and intense. Then, Sir Damien raises his other hand.

The one with which he holds Lord Arum's knife.

Damien swings the blade down, and Arum remembers with self-loathing viciousness the burnt letter from the Senate, remembers the hateful whispery certainty of the hand which wrote the human infection will destroy you-

Arum closes his eyes.

He feels the rush of air on the scales of his face, hears a dull thunk, but-

No pain. No bloom of heat, no pulse of awareness of the blade plunging into his shoulder, his chest, his neck, and his eyes flutter back open in confusion to see how in the name of the Universe the human managed to miss-

The knife is planted in the dirt beside Arum's head; he can see the reflection of his own wide eye in the sheen of the blade. Damien is much closer now- necessary, of course, considering his grip on the hilt, but- but Arum can feel the way his chest moves with his panting breaths, can taste the adrenaline and sweat on the air, can hear Damien's heart, pounding steady, a sturdier beat than the frantic race of his own. The poet stares down at him, his eyes hot and hypnotic, and whatever biting comment Arum intended to make about Damien's aim dies on his tongue before he manages to open his mouth.

"Well, well," the poet says, and his voice is a low, sonorous, strange drawl as he leans heavy over Arum, one hand planted palm-flat to the dirt next to his face, the other (the hand that planted the knife on the other side) trailing up his shoulder, towards his neck. "It looks like the smallest trap is the one you finally fell for."

"I-" Arum blinks. "What?"

"And now," Damien continues, his sharp eyes flicking between Arum's own, "here you are, pinned beneath my claws..."

Damien's hand trails up his neck, his expression far more focused, now, than it had been during the fight, and then he grips Arum's throat, firm and possessive but not hard, not impeding his breath, and Arum- Arum's heart rushes prey-quick even as he understands what Damien is doing.

The words- the nonsense words, not nonsense at all- they must be what Arum himself had said, during one of their duels. Coming from this fierce, surprisingly skillful little creature, they make Arum feel flushed with heat that seems to pulse out from every single inch of his body where Damien touches him.

"A-ah," Arum manages, but not much besides. He cannot even convince himself to struggle against Damien's weight, Damien's hands.

Damien's expression shifts when he realizes that Arum has caught on. He leans closer, his grip on Arum's throat pressing gently to tilt his head to the side, letting him lean closer to murmur in Arum's ear.

"I love to make you panic," he breathes, and Arum flexes all his claws at once. "The sound of your pounding heart makes my stomach growl."

Arum-

Laughs. He cannot quite help himself, despite the fact that his heart is, in fact, pounding, and Damien blinks in surprise.

"Did I- did I really- I said that to you?" he manages, still feeling too hot, too crowded. Sir Damien is... very close.

The poet manages something like a smile, then, though he does not look happy. Arum imagines that he had been hoping... well, hoping that his words would trigger what the physicality of their duel did not. "You did," he says quietly, and his grip on Arum's neck softens, his thumb brushing along Arum's jaw in a way that makes his scales tingle with electricity. "Before you decided not to kill me."

Arum... is not quite certain, about that. Arum knows himself- likes to think he knows himself, at the very least, knows the layers of his lies, and if Damien's words are truly an echo of Arum's in the past, then Arum does not think he could have more obviously begged the knight to acknowledge him, to banter back, if he had outright said so. Could not have said that he preferred Damien alive more blatantly if he had presented his own neck for the blade instead. Perhaps he had not admitted it even to himself, yet, but-

"Ridiculous," he mutters, low and less biting than he would prefer.

Damien leans back, just slightly, his tawny eyes flicking between Arum's own, and his expression softens from his strained smile, going earnest and mournful and strange. He hesitates, biting his lip, and then he lifts his hand from Arum's jaw, drifting his fingers up the scales of Arum's cheek. His touch still feels- hot, sparking, as if the contact were prompting a small fissure of magic at the point they meet, and Arum holds his breath so that he does not gasp, instead.

Damien swallows, his heart beating a little faster, and then his lips part.

"Do you want... to try this?" Damien murmurs, his voice thick with sorrow and desire. "To try... us?"

Arum's breath catches in his throat, and he cannot seem to tear his eyes from Damien's-

He realizes, after a heartbeat, that he does not want to.

"I..." Arum swallows, tries to feel anything besides desperate and wanting. He tries, but- but their eyes, their voices and their tears and their hands- the sound of their hearts- the way the keep reaching for him- "I- I do. I do, Damien, I-"

Arum leans up. He feels- cracked through, his defenses tattered beyond salvage, if they want him- if they truly want him- Arum wants to try, to see if he is capable of earning the loyalty and affection these creatures continue to offer, again and again despite how viciously Arum pushes their hands aside. He wants to. He leans up, because he wants Damien to lean down.

Damien's eyes widen, his breath hitching, his muscles tensing, and Arum realizes with a sensation akin to his stomach falling through the floor that Damien's words were not the true question he assumed they were, not now, not in this moment, they were only-

Another echo. Another attempt to trigger a memory that Arum simply does not have. He was not asking- he does not want-

He does not want me, Arum thinks. He wants back only what he once had.

Arum drops his head, his horns pressing indents into the dirt beneath him, and he closes his eyes. Foolishness- foolishness he cannot even deny, now, and for what? For Damien to flinch away from him, to furrow his brow and pull back-

"Off," Arum manages through his teeth. "You've won."

"Arum, I'm-"

"Get off," he snarls, and when he feels Damien flinch above him he adds, quietly, "please."

The knight pulls away. Arum feels cold, and he hears Damien's feet scuffing in the dirt as he moves to stand again, and Arum forces himself to open his eyes again. He curls up, rolling to sit so he can rub at his shoulder for a moment, pretending to test the bruise to give himself a moment to breathe. His eyes flick up despite himself, just as Amaryllis reaches to grip Damien's wrist, squeezing with her lip twitching in a small, comforting smile, and some of the churning despair on Damien's face eases, and then they both look towards him, and Arum drops his eyes back to the dirt with his insides burning, and he hates-

He wants-

He digs his claws into the dirt and then shoves himself to stand. He brushes off his cape, and reaches down to retrieve his blades to slip back into their sheaths.

"Well," Arum says. "I suppose we should be grateful that none of us got our hopes up."

~

[End Notes: I really don't know very much about How Fighting Works, forgive me <3 ]

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 15 May 1838

6 10/..

12 35/..

rainy morning F56° at 7 10 – breakfast, and off to visiter les travaux intérieurs de la houillère  de Ste. Marguerite at 8 10 – drove there in 6 minutes the staith being just out of the barrier ......... (right) – commodious yard, sheds etc not many coals up – 3 long brick chimneys – for the pumping engine 100 horse power works (pumps) 48 hours per week – the pulling engine 40 horse power – and the air chimney or vent – shewn into the bureau of the clerk or accountant or what? very civil man –expecting us – we had thought of going down in the panier – the clerk evidently for our going down by the echelles – (ladders) – more safe – had known accidents happen the other way – the chain had broken it seemed some onetime or more since the putting up of the engine – perhaps he thought we should feel sick en descendant – for A-‘s sake he was right – we had brought each a blue blouse from the hotel  and A- a casquette and I my velvet travelling cap (my Mt. Perdu cap given by Lady S. de R-) I gladly took a miners’ leather hat offered by the clerk – the gown well tied up right round the waste [waist] under the blouse and a Davy or safety lamp tied with a strongish cord round our middle 2 doll figures (accompanied by a man and intelligent French speaking youth belonging to the establishment and within his old coat and cap) down we set off at 8 ½ by the ladders common ladders but very good and safe – I should guess the steps to be about 18in. long sticks and about 12 in. distant from each other –

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 and perhaps the ladders about 5 yards long? – we got down very well for several ladders till my lamp (quincaille) not being fast enough tied, slipped off and fell down 3 or 4 ladders with a great noise which (poor A- not understanding) rather unnerved her – the lad went 1st then I, then A- and then the man, then George – we could not have fallen down more than 1 ladder even had we slipped for at the foot of each ladder is  a narrow landing as at a, c, e so that we might have fallen without being killed or even very much hurt – but on turning into one of the souterrains at the foot I think the land said the 17th ladder (the depth however = 120 metres = 240 yards +) A- seemed tired and complained of great fatigue in her arms – (she had leaned too much on them in taking hold of the steps as she descended) and after examining the passage where we were (along the last 2/3 of the ladders it had been very wet from the drip of the sides of the excavation) she thought she had better return as we had not descended to ½ the depth – she was right – I put her under the especial care of the man – he returned with her quite safely and I found her just washed and dressed and comfortable on my return home – she said the returning was much less fatiguing than going down and she really did not seem very much tired – however she was poorly sometime afterwards from about 1 ½ till after 4 when we went to see the opening of the exposition of pictures at the musée old church of St. André – said she did not feel quite well on getting up this morning – as soon as I had seen A- well off en route au jour , I and the lad and George set off again downwards – and at 9 20 we were at the bottom  our speed having nearly doubled since poor A- had left us – I felt as if I had got into the habit of going down, and as if sorry that the 140ft. below us could not be visited because full of water – old works – the reservoir for the water in the intervals of pumping –we had arrived at the lading place at the bottom of the shaft at 9 20 – where the men were unloading the little wagons dragged by men the 1st 80 yards from where got up to the Galloway gate where the horses (15 hands high – 4 ½ ft. of this country or France) dragged waggons 4 at a time to the lading place 8 or 9ft. high a sort of cavern where about 4 men had charge of the un-lading and re-lading into waggon holding 2 of the others ready for the pulling up – we visited les écuries – 15 horses – and looked about – then proceeded some way along the Galloway gate – which except in the higher parts every now and then and where the waggons could pass – might be about 5ft. high and 6ft. wide for some distance the roof was timbered by the greater part was quite sufficient to support itself – a close hard smooth scale [widening] cut the right bate of the stone (according to the national cleavage) – it was extremely hot  - and the road a little sludgy – we were soon put into a train of empty return waggons, and went the rest of the way very agreeably tho’ rather joltingly – a distance of 800 metres from the lading place to where the men were working – about ½ dozen in that spot – others working in different places communicating with this main gate – which might be in general about 5ft. high and 6ft. wide – and perhaps 6ft. high and 8ft. wide and sometimes more in the passing places, where the men often changed the horses from the one train to the other – the bed where we descended to the quatre pieds (the lowest working) was not always of so great thickness the ‘veine’called ‘morais’ is the nest above this – In the 4 pieds bed, the bottom steward told me (he joined us on our getting to the bottom and is the father of the lad who had descended with us) that a man would get fourteen of the small waggons a day = seven of the large waggons which might hold perhaps four of our corves .:. a man would get 28 corves a day, working from 3am to noon = nine hours, and reckon the 28 corves = 3 tons for which he is paid 38 sols – or, the bottom steward said, 38 sols a day – and he himself had four florin a day = about 8 fr. 160 sols – but then he has the superintendence of all the workings and altogether about 150 men employed and under his management – I did not learn how many in the 4 pieds – or how many in the marais or next bed above – about 100 men get coal – and he afterwards said about 70 were employed from 12 at noon (I suppose till 9 which would be this shift or time of working) in making and keeping in repair the roads etc. (straight work? etc) Returned dans le panier – the great square box that would hold 2 of the smaller waggons? or more for it held the bottom steward and lad and myself and George very commodiously and was about breast high – perhaps 4ft. or ft. 6in. square and about 4ft. or 4ft. 6in. deep? – I was too much tired up to get easily to my watch but the man said we should be drawn up in 6 minutes and it seemed about that time and I was at the top again at 11 25 – I should think the pit must be about 5 yards by 3 ½ to 4 yards? – I think we passed 4 openings, or workings opening into the pit – very little tubbing and very nice dry shaft – an [apparently] about 3/4in. iron rod from top to bottom pulls (rings) a bell at the top by which means they know when to let down the panier and when not – a terribly dirty figure and my blouse wet, as also my black stuff petticoat all below the blouse – washed my face and hands put on my cloak to cover all, and went into the bureau with my friend the bottom steward to see the plan of the workings – very extensive – but I could make no near guess as to the quantity of ground worked – perhaps double the length of the Galloway gate or main gate by ½ its length in breadth or 1600 metres x 400 =........ gave the clerk 20fr. and he immediately gave the ½ of it in my presence to the bottom steward, the latter seemed exceedingly pleased, the former said his thank-you so that I fancied he had expected more, but on afterwards asking our landlord, I found I had paid handsomely – the carriage was waiting for me – home at 12 and ordered a fire – A- very glad to see me back – I was more wet from heat than from the water that had fallen on me – had everything to change, and so begin getting all my things out and dressing that it was 2 before I was quite dressed again – then got our boiler to make hot wine and water for A- who was now beginning to be poorly and M. Mathiolis’ coming and talking very loud for an hour knocked her up – shewed him our water boiler and he shewed us a coffee-maker – a sort of still heated by spirit of wine – had cost him 40/. and the silver plates for strainers (tin not good for coffee to stand long in) perhaps would be 10/. more – had not paid for them – Madame Mathioli to go with us at 4 to see the opening of the exhibition of pictures at the musée (old church of St- Andrè) – went to the bookseller in the corner of this Place (St. Lambert) Jacques Desoer for ¼ hour

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and bought Granvilles’ Spas of Germany 2 vols. 12mo. 7fr. then with our host and hostess at 4 25 for 1 ½ hour to see the pictures and company – the former not particularly good – the latter the elite of the people in Liège – the burgomaster read a discourse of several pages which lasted about near ½ hour – sitting at a table of green with the governor of the town on his right, and several other gentlemen seated at the table, among the colonel (in uniform) commanding the regiment of Chasseurs now here several ladies seated on chairs ranged at a little distance round the table – unluckily I had not got a chair so that A- and I and our host and hostess all the while – a band of music played at intervals – I was glad of his opportunity of seeing the people – never saw a plainer set of ladies – not one pretty – from the musée M. and Madame M- took us to see the small but very choice collection of pictures at the house of comte d’Outrement (the comte himself at Rome now) – a good Murillo (Madonna and child a Madonna by Guido Remi – a couple of Titians – ditto ditto of Rubens etc. – then looked at M. Mathiolis’ Murillo – would sell it for 1600fr. – a Mr. Alexander Morro had bid him 1500fr. – shewed us his Anglo-French letter – a Mr. William Bolton clericus at Bruges had offered 2000 fr. but on conditions no accepted – shewed us his terribly bad French letter – then went to the bookseller to pay for the Saps of Germany – home at 7 – good dinner (much better than yesterday) at 7 ½ to 9 then A- and I asleep for an hour – had nearly finished our yesterday’s bottle of Hermitage blanc, and drank a demie bouteille of champagne – A- had Oddy – we then set off, and ate 7 oranges a piece after which A- too two pills till 11 20 at which hour F56° - rainy morning till about 9 am afterwards fair finish day