#oh my goodness gracious i love this french man so much i needed to make him somehow worse

[darksidekit-kat]

Incubus! Chamber

I don't know what possessed me to create a being of such sheer power and beauty but i have done so with a sound mind. I will never create anything better than this.

[mearcatsreturns]

15 for Abby/Luka

For reasons ;)

Under a cut because it's long.

July 2003

To: Luka Kovac <“croatdoctor65@aol.com”>

From: Abby Lockhart <“nursefirecracker@yahoo.com”>

Subject: I’m drowning and praying ghosts are real

Dear Luka,

Something about knowing that I’ll never talk to you again is just unbearable. I’ll never laugh at your malapropisms, look into your beautiful eyes, feel your strong hands holding mine, or make love to you again. There won’t be any more jokes about jam and cheese on toast, or you teasing me for my weak but constant supply of coffee. I’ll never hear your amazing, deranged laughter after you prank someone again. No more of your hugs—which are somehow the best hugs in the world. Because you’re gone.

It’s been three days since we got the call telling us you died thousands of miles from home, whether that’s here in Chicago or in Croatia. I didn’t know your dad’s name, Luka. We needed to call him, and I didn’t know. How did I not know? And now I can’t. I mean, L’Alliance told us his name, but the fact that I’ll never learn pieces of your history, of the wonderful man you are, FROM you...how am I supposed to go on and live my life?

For years, I’ve thought medicine was my great thwarted love. I’ve wanted to be a doctor for so long, and I thought I was bitter about having to let go of that dream. Now I wonder. I let obstacles get in the way of pursuing medicine, and it’s made me...well, it’s part of why I was so unhappy. But that makes me think about how I also let obstacles get in the way of us. I was happy with you, you know, until I let fear and my mother and Carter get in the way. God, I wish I could do that over again. We could have had everything, and if I hadn’t gotten in my own way, I’d be happy. I think maybe I could have made you happy, too.

It’s funny. I knew things with Carter weren’t working, and he implied you were part of it. I said it wasn’t, but then five minutes later, I found out you were—are—dead. And I realized you were the reason, or one of the big ones. As soon as Chuny told me, I knew I loved you and had loved you for years. Yeah. Great timing, isn’t it? I keep thinking that maybe I could have kept you from going if I had known or if I had told you. I didn’t want you to go when I thought you were my very attractive friend and ex that I still was fond of. Knowing that I love you—how do I move past that? Knowing that I lost you, first to my stupidity and then to death?

I just...I miss you, and I don’t when I’ll stop, or how to. Susan caught me crying on my last shift, and I didn’t even know what to say. I feel like I’ve been crying or standing still, brittle and stuck in time, since I heard the news. I can’t, Luka. I know I have to keep on moving, and I thought maybe writing you would help. I know you’ll never see this, never have a chance to respond. But the idea that some fragments of your soul linger and can maybe sense...I don’t know. That I’m writing? What I’m feeling? Jesus, this is crazy.

All my love,

Abby

Abby angrily swipes the tears from her eyes. God, what’s the point of writing this? He’ll never see hsi email or her again. Just...without Luka, how can the world be anything but grim and sad and pointless?

She laughs mirthlessly. Maybe it doesn’t matter. No, she knows it doesn’t. Because Abby knows the futility of it, aches with the meaninglessness, she presses send without another thought.

&&&

Three days after that, a miracle occurs. Luka, the Lazarus of this new millennium, comes back from the dead. He’s never been dead, and maybe, Abby thinks, there’s a God above after all. So many people wish for this exact boon, and she—they, the world—gets it. Some higher power believes this planet is a better place with Luka Kovac in it, and Abby is ecstatic.

Until she remembers the email and that they can’t be unsent.

It’s fine. She’ll be fine. Luka is coming back, apparently with a French nurse. Maybe he’ll just delete it without reading it. Maybe it didn’t go through—how does email work for the dead, and how quickly is all that processed?

Abby shakes her head. It doesn’t matter; Luka is alive and returning to them. She can handle a little awkwardness in the face of the sheer joy of knowing the world is a brighter, kinder place. He’s coming back, and that’s what’s important.

&&&

August 2003

It takes Luka almost a week after returning to Chicago to convince Kerry and the other staff to let him go back to his apartment. Even so, they only agree when Gillian assures them she’ll see to his every need.

Abby winces when she hears that, and it makes something flutter in Luka’s chest. Which probably isn’t good for his malaria, but the hope...that is.

It’s another two days of lying in bed before he has the energy to ask Gillian to bring him his laptop. At this point, it’s been months since he’s checked his email, and Luka grimaces at the undoubtedly horrible state of his inbox. He briefly considers never checking again and just getting a new one, but he knows his father struggled to add him to his contacts once already. To expect it of him again would be absurd.

With a sigh, Luka opens his email. It’s just as bad as he feared. He snorts at the myriad messages about Viagra, Nigerian princes, and Russian brides, deleting them without thought. He saves a couple from his dad. He slowly whittles down his inbox, but he freezes when he gets to one email in particular, sent about a month ago.

It’s from Abby, during the time everyone thought he was dead.

Luka considers calling and asking her if someone hacked her email or is sending spam from her account, but the subject line...it looks real. And Abby’s been odd around him lately, seeming both deliriously happy to see him and awkwardly nervous.

His heart pounds, and he clicks to open it. If this is a spammer, they’re probably about to get whatever they want.

&&&

Abby pours herself another coffee, internally swearing as she prepares for the last two hours of her shift. Deciding to go back to school is great; having to coordinate all the details is less thrilling and leaves her tired and cranky.

Frank ducks his head into the lounge, beady eyes narrowing on her. “Hey, Abby. The Croat is on the phone for you. Line 2. Try to get back out there as fast as you can, Weaver’s yelling at the med students about IVs.”

“Okay, Frank,” Abby says, though she flushes and her palms start to sweat. It’s fine. She can always hide the panic and butterflies in her stomach with sarcasm. It has yet to fail her.

Frank gives her one last suspicious look, then nods and heads back to Admit.

Abby takes a deep breath, then picks up the phone. “Hey, Luka?”

“It’s me. Glad I could reach you. How are you?” He sounds...ugh. So good. And eager and happy, and her heart could leap right out of her chest.

“Doing all right. I just have a couple hours left on this shift, and it hasn’t been too awful today. Only one MVA. How about you? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Recovering. Listen, did you want to come over for dinner?”

“Please tell me you’re not trying to cook.”

“What? I’m a good cook, even if you don’t appreciate wonderful, traditional Croatian dishes,” he says with a chuckle.

“Luka, you just got out of the hospital five days ago. You still need to be resting.”

“Abby, don’t worry so much. I was just kidding. I have some sandwiches from Manny’s, and Anna sent me home with lots of matzo ball soup too.”

Abby bites her lip. Of course she wants to go. But the prospect of spending the evening with Gillian cooing over Luka, knowing that she shares a bed with him, is decidedly less appealing. And there’s the email she sent, which Luka hasn’t acknowledged. He might well have deleted it, or he’s giving her a gracious out.

Her conscience twinges as soon as she thinks about bailing, though. Didn’t she promise herself she wouldn’t take life for granted anymore? She’ll go back to med school, she’ll have dinner with Luka when he asks.

“Abby?”

She starts, realizing she needs to respond. “Yeah, sorry. Yeah, I can do that. I can be there an hour after my shift, if that’s okay.”

“Sounds great. Looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me too.” He has no idea how much, even if she wishes she knew for sure that he’d deleted the email.

&&&

Abby rings Luka’s doorbell three and a half hours later. She’d meant to come straight from work, but after a patient vomited on her, she decided to head home, shower, and splurge on a taxi to Luka’s. The poor man is recovering from being deathly ill and doesn’t need County’s fumes making things worse.

There’s the sound of the deadbolt sliding, and Luka answers the door, grinning happily at her. “Good, you made it! Come on in!”

“I did. Sorry it took me longer than expected.” Abby steps into his apartment, looking around. It’s been such a long time since she’s been here, and she notes the subtle changes in the art and decor.

“No worries. I know how it goes.” He places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her inside.

Abby stiffens for a second at how his touch burns even through the layers of her shirt and light jacket, but she relaxes, enjoying the feel while she waits for Gillian to appear and end the fleeting joy.

Luka is unfazed. “Now, of course we can just eat the sandwiches, but if you want to heat up the matzo ball soup, you can. Since you don’t want me standing,” he says with a wink.

Abby smiles back, shaking her head. “Oh, I see how it is. Make the woman who worked all day do more household work when she gets ho—wait, where’s Gillian? Isn’t she supposed to be taking care of you?”

“She’s not here,” he says simply.

Going to the fridge and taking out the containers of soup, Abby places them in the microwave. Is Gillian out for the evening, or is she gone gone? “Shouldn’t you be with her? Or her here with you, whatever.”

Luka is quiet for a long minute, and Abby wonders if he intends to answer. Finally, he breaks the silence. “I asked her to leave.”

Abby’s pulse speeds up. “What? Why?”

Luka takes a deep breath, clearly ready to respond, and—

The microwave dings, and they both jump. Exchanging a sheepish look, they laugh.

“Look, let’s get some food, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Abby dishes up their soup and sandwiches, preparing trays so they can sit on the couch. Luka turns on the television, and Abby’s heart rate comes back under control. They sit together in companionable silence while they eat and watch Thom and Jai and the rest of the Fab 5 whip some hapless lawyer’s life into order. When they finish their meal, Abby cleans up, taking the trays back to the kitchen.

She heads back to the couch at the opposite end from Luka, not daring to get closer when she really has no idea what’s going on.

Luka clears his throat and mutes the TV. “So, yeah. I asked Gillian to leave.”

“Oh. So, um, did you break up?”

“She was never my girlfriend, really. She has a boyfriend back in Montreal, they just…” Luka shrugs and runs a hand through his hair.

Abby is more lost than ever. “Ah.”

Taking a deep breath, Luka continues, finally looking over at her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful she helped me get here and took care of me, but we were never serious.”

Something starts to tug at Abby’s heart, squeezing and twisting and kicking to get free. Is it...hope? “Well, I’m glad she got you here safe, but you should have someone staying with you while you recover, Luka. Malaria is dangerous.”

He gives her a look. “I know how dangerous malaria is. I’m getting better. And besides, it wouldn’t have been fair for me to ask her to stay when things are over because I’m in love with someone else.”

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Someone else?” she squeaks.

Luka nods, swallowing. “Yeah. And I have a reason to think she might be in love with me too.” He slides over to her side of the couch, reaching for her hand.

Abby meets his eyes—those beautiful green eyes that are the best color in the world—and squeezes his hand, incapable of words. Does he mean…?

With his other hand, Luka reaches up and cups her cheek, running his thumb along the subtle arch of her cheekbone. “Abby, if you’ve changed your mind since you sent that email, please tell me to shut up.”

That stupid, ridiculous email might be the best thing she’s ever done in her life. She leans into his hand, licking her lips as she shakes her head slightly. “I haven’t changed my mind. I didn’t mean for you to see it and hoped I could learn how to hack computers and delete it but—”

Luka cuts her off. “I would never forgive you if you managed to delete it. You wouldn’t believe how much faster I healed after that.”

Abby leans forward, sliding into Luka’s waiting arms. “Then maybe I’ll write you some more emails.”

“Emails aren’t what I want right now,” Luka says.

Funny, Abby doesn’t either. Then his lips brush hers, and all her worries and fears fade away. She knows she has to tell him about med school and he needs to finish recuperating, but when Luka deepens their kiss and pulls her closer, Abby ceases to think at all.

She has Luka back, and now they have each other again.

[notyourdayrdream]

Tan Hands and Tan Lines

Day Three, Side A: Ubiquitous

(read it here on AO3)

Nobody wants to spend their summer vacation working. But spending it with your two best friends wasn’t too bad. So when Mercedes told Rachel and Kurt that there were two openings at the retro fifties diner in downtown Lima, they jumped on the opportunity.

Diner in the Sky started out as a relatively slow job. It had just opened a few months ago and the word hadn’t gotten out to much of the city that it even existed. In those early days, Kurt and his friends spent the afternoons and nights singing through the empty store, twirling on black and white checkered floors. Finn and some of the other New Directions would stop by before the sunset and order milkshakes with fries. He and Rachel would not-so-mysteriously disappear for five or so minutes, and Kurt noticed the way Mercedes and Sam giggled around each other. He eventually cornered her during a graveyard shift, and she admitted that they had been dating in secret since prom. It took two days for Mercedes to win Kurt back, after buying him the new Marc Jacobs piece he had been dreaming about.

It was a cute job with even cuter outfits. Until July fourth came around.

The mayor of Lima stopped by that night and made a big show of it all, forever putting the little diner on the map. The appearance knocked out every ubiquitous fast food joint in town. It’s been packed every night since.

“I need a number five without onions!” Kurt hears Rachel scream into the kitchen, followed by the clanging of a few plates. She storms out a minute later, hair sticking to the sweat on her face.

“I hate this job,” she grumbles to him as she makes her way to another table of hungry customers.

Kurt leans his body weight against the counter. The metal is cool against his skin, a nice distraction from the oppressive summer heat. The bar isn’t nearly as packed tonight as the rest of the restaurant, mostly just little kids ordering heart attack inducing malts and ice cream cones. He’s adjusting the stupid rectangle shaped hat on his hat when he hears the door jingle at nine o’clock on the dot.

Blaine Anderson strolls into the diner with his little private smile, pulling his usual denim jacket off as he goes. He’s humming again, a pop song Kurt notices. Probably Katy Perry. He overheard Blaine tell Rachel she was his most listened to artist last week. Not that he was listening to hear if his name came up in conversation or anything like that. That would be crazy.

They meet eyes for a brief second, hazel to blue. Blaine grins before sliding onto one of the red leather barstools. “Hell again?” His cheeks are flushed pink, but Kurt blames it on the heat.

“Yeah,” Kurt replies, sounding breathier than usual. Blaine has a way of doing that to him. With his funny quirks and ability to make restaurant issued bowties sexy, the Dalton Academy junior has snuck his way into Kurt’s heart from the second he started working with him.

There’s a particularly loud crash in the corner of the building, followed by a baby screaming. Blaine takes a moment to sober himself, eyelashes fanning out on the apple of his cheeks. “I better get to work. I mean, I should get to work.” He’s flailing, adorably so. “I mean, I should check that out.” Blaine stumbles. The back of his neck is red as he walks away.

“Remind me again why you won’t ask him out?” Mercedes says with a poke to Kurt’s shoulder. Her hair is still intact, textured curls bouncing at her shoulders. The only way you’d know she had been working was the ketchup colored stains on her baby blue dress and apron. “He’s obviously into you.”

Kurt’s thought about it so many times, and the answer is that he doesn’t know. Competing schools wasn’t an excuse, it was summer. Besides, the Warblers had been so gracious in their loss at Regionals that they invited the New Directions over for coffee at the Lima Bean.

Truth is, he was scared. He’s never had a boyfriend, let alone asked a boy out or even told one they were handsome. This is still Ohio, and being out and proud has its consequences. He knows Blaine is gay at least, so his crushing isn’t creepy.

It sort of terrifies him to care about someone so deeply. When Blaine came in with red rimmed eyes after his fifteen minute break one night in the middle of June, Kurt sat with him as he ranted about how awful his dad was. He’s the only friend Kurt has that likes to watch old black and white movies for fun. Blaine makes him laugh so hard he cries, and everytime he brushes past Kurt during the busy nights, the spot tingles for until he gets home.

Kurt sighs. “I don’t know.” He rests his head against the edge of the soda machine. “Crushes are so damned difficult.” Mercedes hums in sympathy.

“It’ll work out, boo. Even if Rachel and I have to force the two of you to close together like last time.” He can feel her laugh beside him, and soon he’s laughing too. That was a good night.

“Kurt! ‘Cedes!” Rachel all but screams, turning a few heads. After knowing the girl for two years, he’s convinced she only has two settings: Loud and Louder.

Her face is bright pink and there’s a deep crease between her brows. She’s got her Business Face on. “What’re you two doing? This large party just came in, and you guys are just sitting here! A little help would be appreciated!” She huffs, pumps tapping against the floor as she walks to the back at a dizzying speed.

Kurt and Mercedes share an eye roll before going opposite ways. The party Rachel was talking about is huge, five adults and three kids under ten years old. After finding a table large enough so they’d all be comfortable, he pulls out a notepad and asks what drinks he can get them started with.

An older woman starts speaking in rapid fire Italian, gesturing to the rest of the group, who nod in return. Kurt instantly regrets taking up French instead of literally any other language.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, hoping they could understand. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

A younger man with a beard cocks his head and speaks in an incredibly thick accent. How a family of Italians decided to spend a summer in boring Ohio confuses him. “Could we get another waiter?” He stutters through the sentence, and Kurt feels bad to inconvenience them.

There’s a familiar tingle on his left shoulder. “I can help them,” Blaine whispers, side-stepping him to get closer to the table. He says something to the family, who grin back at him. He has that effect on people.

“You speak Italian?” Kurt hisses. This guy is just full of surprises.

Blaine puts his head down and smiles. He shrugs like everyone in America is fluent in the romantic language. “I spent a few summers in southern Italy with my grandmother when I was younger.” Because of course he did.

“Oh,” Kurt offers lamely. “Okay, well tell them I’m really sorry for any inconvenience.”

Blaine smirks at him and turns to the table. He says something to them, laughing afterwards. Kurt watches behind him, amazed at the way Blaine can make anyone feel so important. Not to mention Italian is such a hot language to hear coming out of his mouth.

A kid who can’t be above twelve pipes up, pointing back to Kurt. The rest of the family looks back at him too.

Kurt pulls at the edge of his crisp button down. They’re looking back and forth between him and Blaine, unnerving him beyond belief. He feels called out and exposed even though he has no idea what’s being said about him. So he just returns a wavering smile and turns to leave and prepares to never show his face again when he hears it.

Amore.

That stops him in his tracks. Love? Kurt’s no language expert, but the word is pretty universal in every one of them. He turns around to ask Blaine for a translation, but to his surprise he’s gone uncharacteristically silent.

Blaine eventually stammers through a reply, hands stuck stiffly at his sides. Kurt hears him murmur, “I’ll be back with your drinks,” before walking into the kitchen as fast as he can. He won’t make eye contact with Kurt the rest of the night.

Diner in the Sky closes at eleven every night, and it takes another thirty minutes on a good day to scrub stains from the tabletops and lock everything up. It’s Kurt’s night to close up. Usually either Rachel or Mercedes is on schedule to help him, but since his luck is just absolute shit, he has to clean up the place with Blaine.

Closing up is usually an intimate job. Just two people, the nostalgia of an old diner, and a jukebox. Depending on who you’re with, it’s either heaven or hell. Kurt’s not sure which one he’ll get tonight. The other two times he’s had to suffer through it with Blaine, it’s been fun. They dirtied dishes making vanilla shakes and doo-wopping along to the jukebox tunes.

Tonight feels like purgatory. Blaine avoids him at any cost. If Kurt goes to mop the kitchen floors, he goes to the front room, and vice versa. He won’t speak to him, or even acknowledge him when he accidentally sweeps Kurt’s feet. It’s fine at first, Kurt can handle the awkwardness. But eventually, it simmers to anger.

“Can I talk to you?” He calls after Blaine. He stops like a kid caught in the cookie jar, hand freezing on the light switch. He turns slowly, eyes as big as saucers.

“Yeah?”

Kurt glares at him for a moment before speaking. “Look, I don’t know what that family said to you, but it gives you no right to be so absolutely rude—”

“They said I looked like I loved you.” It comes out as if it pains him to say.

That sentence makes any anger Kurt has, flow out of him and into a pond on the floor. Love?

He scraps up any dignity he has left and smiles to himself. “Well, do you?”

“Do I what?” Blaine snaps, coming to sit on the stool next to him. His leg trembles on the floor. Kurt can recognize now the little tells he didn’t know he ever noticed; how Blaine presses his thumb and ring finger together when he’s especially nervous, the way his eyes seem to light up when he looks at him.

“Love me?” Kurt continues, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. He wants to hear him say it.

Blaine doesn’t answer, instead opting to bury his head into his hands. Kurt hears him mumble to himself. Something about not the right time and tan messed everything up. His stomach flip flops.

“So,” Kurt drags, tapping the edge of the metal counter. “Love, huh?”

“Shut up,” Blaine mutters. They sit in comfortable silence for a little, until the hum of Ella Fitzgerald fizzles off the record. Then, Kurt feels a warm, almost clammy hand on top of his. It’s enough of an answer for him.

[justlookfrightened]

4, 5, or 35 ? Because I’m indecisive as hell and love your writing.

From this prompt list: 4. “If I die, I’m haunting you first.”; 5. “But I’ve never told you that before.” ; and 35.  “Oh honey, I’d never be jealous of you.”

Bitty played hockey and Samwell and went on to be a cookbook author; Jack went directly into the NHL.

Bitty’s eyes traveled up the the shelves of the cupboard, wondering what ingredients he could reasonably expect someone who did not cook or bake for a living to have.

Flour, of course, if they were volunteering to be on a baking show. Most likely all purpose. Sugar (white) and salt (iodized). Butter. Maybe they usually used margarine, but Bitty would not compromise on that. Butter surely counted as a common ingredient. Shortening, too.

What about spices? Most people probably had cinnamon in their cabinets, even if it was twelve years old and devoid of flavor. Would nutmeg or allspice be too much? Maybe.

And this contestant had requested a fruit pie. If they were going for common ingredients, that would most likely mean apple. Apples were nearly always plentiful and cheap at supermarkets, so if this pie was going to use fresh fruit (and it was), it would be apple.

*

Bitty had misgivings about appearing on “So You Think You Can Bake,” the new Food Network show that pitted expert bakers against celebrities. The idea was that the expert would develop a recipe they thought was suitable for an inexperienced home cook.

Then the expert and the celebrity would both make the dish in separate kitchens while being filmed. 

The expert baker and celebrity contestant would have their creations scored anonymously. If the celebrity chef received at least eighty percent of the score of the celebrity baker, they won money for the baker to keep and the celebrity to donate to charity. Total scores counted toward the final competition at season’s end, when the three best pairs would be brought back for the final, competing for a $50,0000 prize.

There were so many things that could go wrong. Bitty could get paired with a celebrity chef with no palate, or no coordination, or even no real interest in winning. Some people could mess up a perfectly good recipe by not measuring accurately, or doing steps in the wrong order, or even mistaking the salt for the sugar. If the celebrity chef messed up, it wouldn’t just look bad for them. It would throw shade on Bitty, whose job, after all, was to explain how to bake in a way that people would understand. Relatable was his brand.

But Eileen, the PR rep who handled his books for the publishing house, thought it would be a good idea.

“This show is literally made for you,” she said. “And the exposure would be great. Think of the campaign for your next book.”

So Bitty agreed. Then he found out who his assigned celebrity was.

“A hockey player?” Bitty asked. “Whose only memorable sound bite is ‘Eat more protein’? Which did not go viral for the reasons he thinks it did. I mean, I wasn’t expecting Beyonce, or even Taylor Swift, but why not a Kacey Musgraves?”

Bitty wasn’t at all bitter that, at 24, he no longer had regular access to an ice rink. He could pay to rent ice to figure skate, but it was hard to find the motivation since he was no longer in competition, and he hadn’t yet found a men’s league hockey team where he felt comfortable.

“I know Jack Zimmermann isn’t who most people think of as a home cook,” Eileen said. “But the producers were thrilled. They think he’ll bring on a whole new demographic.”

“How’d they rope him into it anyway?” Bitty asked, scrolling through interview after interview with Jack talking saying, “We win and lose as a team,” and “We have to protect the neutral zone and get the puck down low,” and “We need to keep our feet moving and have a shoot-first mentality.”

It was like they taught him six phrases in media training and he used them over and over again, in random order.

He wasn’t hard to look at, Bitty would give him that. And the physique -- yeah, his nutrition plan was definitely protein-heavy. Why would he agree to do a baking show? 

*

“My agent said it would be a good idea,” Jack Zimmermann said when he and Bitty had their first meeting. “He said it would humanize me. Actually, he said it would be the beginning of an arc of character development I wasn’t expecting, but that’s just the way he is.”

The actual first meeting was in the green room, waiting to go on-set for the “first meeting” taping. Jack had been sitting in a chair along the wall when Bitty came in, reading an actual, honest-to-God book.

Bitty had to shove his phone in his pocket as he cleared his throat to get Jack’s attention. It seemed like Jack kept reading for a few seconds after he noticed Bitty, which was annoying, because the book would always be there, but Bitty was prepared to be gracious.

“Mr. Zimmermann? I’m Eric Bittle,” Bitty said. “We’re going to be working together. Pleased to meet you.”

“I know,” Jack said. 

Okay. 

“When we start the taping, I’m going to ask you about any experience you have baking, any favorite desserts, things you’ve always wanted to learn to make,” Bitty said. “Anything you want me to steer the conversation toward? Or stay away from?”

“Are we supposed to be doing this?” Jack said. “Talking, I mean.”

“Um, yes?” Bitty said. “It’s not like we’re concocting a fake story. We just want the on-camera talk to go smoothly. So have you baked before?”

“No.”

“Any favorite desserts?”

“I don’t really eat sweets.”

“Well, you’re going to have to eat something sweet,” Bitty said. “Anything you want to make?”

Jack shrugged.

“Honey, don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you here?” Bitty asked.

“Uh, you can call me Jack,” Jack said, then launched into his explanation about his agent, a man with the improbable name of John Johnson.

Bitty shook his head at that, and tried to keep the conversation going.

“You’re Canadian, right?” 

“Dual citizenship,” Jack said. “But I mostly grew up in Montreal.”

“Anything special from back home?”

Then the assistant came to bring them on the set, dressed to look like a home kitchen, each of them seated at a table with mugs in front of them. The mugs just held water, but the audience wouldn’t see that; it was supposed to look like two friends talking over coffee.

Bitty decided to pick up the conversation where he left off in the green room, since it was the only thing he hadn’t struck out on already.

“So, Jack, I understand you’re from Montreal. Do have any memories of classic desserts or baked goods from your childhood?”

Jack paused and looked like he was really thinking, like he didn’t want to disappoint the producers.

“We used to have tarte au sucre at the holidays,” he finally said. “I liked that.”

“Sugar pie?” Bitty said, thankful that at least the cooking terms had stuck from his college French class. “We could do something with that.”

“But I’d like to do something that has some healthy ingredients,” Jack had said. 

“Is fruit healthy enough?” Bitty asked. “Maybe a fruit pie? You might not know this, but that’s kind of my specialty.”

Jack had offered a smile at that, and said, “Good to know. Maybe we can win this thing, eh?”

The taping didn’t last long, and soon Bitty was collecting his things from the green room.

“Wait, Jack, I forgot to ask you, any allergies? I wouldn’t want to kill you for a silly TV show.”

“If I die, I’m haunting you first,” Jack said. “But no, no food allergies. Is there anything I should practice beforehand?”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you that,” Bitty said, starting to feel like maybe Jack wasn’t as wooden as he’d seemed at first. He seemed to relax once the taping ended. Maybe this would be okay after all.

*

Bitty started by making an apple pie, trying to write down the steps as precisely as he could just as he did them.

It didn’t work.

Sure, he could measure and mix the dry ingredients for the crust, and tell Jack to make sure his butter and shortening were cold, but how could he explain the twisting motion for the pastry cutter? When he had to start by explaining what a pastry cutter was? 

And how would Jack know when he was done cutting and should add the ice water? Bitty had read recipes over the years saying the mixture should look like everything from rough crumbs to small peas … which were not the same thing by a long shot. Bitty had learned what it should look like at his MooMaw’s elbow; sure, he’d tried to put it into words in his cookbooks, but there was a reason he always included photos.

Jack had said he’d never baked. He wouldn’t know what it should look like.

Bitty called the producers to ask if he could include pictures in the recipe he developed for Jack.  The answer -- hand-drawn sketches were fine, as long he drew them himself, but no photographs -- was not encouraging.

Bitty started over and this time took a photograph of the dough mixture just before he added the water. He could use that  to write a description, he decided. Then he had to think about how to explain when the dough was wet enough.

Once he had the dough made, the process for making the filling was easier. Peel and slice apples, coat with flour and a little cinnamon and sugar -- and, a last-minute brainstorm for Canadian Jack, a little maple syrup -- and set aside. He toyed with the idea of including maple sugar for the crust, but the studio pantry probably didn’t have real maple sugar. He could boil some syrup down -- but that wasn’t something Jack could (or would) do, probably. Better to just do an egg wash and sprinkle some sugar on for the sparkle.

The instructions for rolling out the dough were simple enough, provided Jack followed them. That was the hard part. Most people couldn’t seem to leave well enough alone with pie dough.

Bitty moved to his laptop and wrote at the top of the instructions:

“A general note on making pie dough. Do less than you think you need to. Don’t work it too much. If you do, it will be tough. So if you’re not sure if you should stop messing with it, stop.”

Then he did his best to put into words what it should like with all the fats cut in (“If you don’t see any powdery flour, it’s probably good”) and with the ice water added (“It should be moist, not wet”).

Then he thought about the top. Normally, people thought of lattices as being hard to do. But if the baker was methodical and followed directions, it wasn’t so bad. And it would be easier to put strips on top of the pie than to pick up the whole top crust and put it on intact. It didn’t really matter if the bottom was a mess; this wasn’t the Great British Bake-Off with Mary Berry and her hatred of soggy bottoms. The pie would be served from the dish, and no one would know if the bottom crust was torn and mended as long it still tasted good.

So, a nice, tightly woven lattice for the top. Bitty set to drawing a detailed diagram.

*

Bitty printed the recipe he developed -- all ten pages -- to bring with him and hand to Jack. He’d already supplied it to the producers to make sure they agreed all the ingredients were things a home cook would have in their pantry, or at least have ready access to.

“Real maple syrup?” the production assistant had asked. “What about something like Pillsbury pancake syrup? That’s what most people use.”

“My baker is Canadian,” Bitty argued. “He’d have the real stuff.”

“Fine, I guess.”

Bitty was dressed for TV in dark skinny jeans, a light T-shirt and a Samwell red button-down over it with red Chuck Taylors. The provided apron, he knew, would be beige with a dark red logo.

Jack came in dressed in charcoal gray tailored slacks and a light blue shirt, almost exactly the same color as his eyes. Yeah, he was good-looking. Bitty wasn’t sure if he would bring in the sports-loving young men the producers were hoping for, but it wouldn’t matter. The women would love him. And the gay boys like him. But no one ever counted them as their own demographic.

When the got into the studio, Bitty handed over the recipe.

Jack’s eyes widened when he saw how long it was.

“Does this take all day?” he asked.

“I can do it in about two hours,” Bitty said. “Counting chilling and baking time.”

“You’ll have three hours to complete the challenge,” the host said. “As long as you finish in that time, any differential in how long it takes won’t count against you.

Jack nodded, a determined set to his jaw. Bitty was almost glad they would be separated so he didn’t have to worry about cutting himself on that jawline.

Then Bitty was escorted to his studio kitchen, where he proceeded to make a pie, narrating each step, just like he was making a vlog post.

He made sure to turn the top of the bowl to the camera when he was done cutting the fats in, and again when he added the water. 

“You see those streaks of butter and shortening?” he said, when he gathered the dough into disks to chill. “You want those to make flaky crust.”

He made sure to slice the apples evenly, and mix them gently with the flour and flavorings, then he rolled his dough out.

He clucked at himself -- but didn’t say anything -- when he realized he’d forgotten to tell Jack to make sure he had the thinnest possible layer of fat on his work surface before he scattered flour over it.

Then, once the pie was done, he actually slapped himself upside the head.

“I never said anything about covering the edges with foil at the beginning,” he said. “Poor guy is definitely gonna have burnt edges. Oh well.”

Bitty’s pie came out of the oven at the two-hour mark, and he donned oven mitts to be filmed carrying it into the judging room.

“You’ve got some time if you want to head to the green room relax,” the production assistant said. “Someone will come get you before Jack is ready to bring his pie in.”

Bitty flung himself onto the couch and groaned. He could have used the $5,000 prize from this stage of the competition to get ahead on his rent for a couple of months … and maybe even rent an ice rink for a couple of hours to clear his mind. He didn’t regret his choice of career -- writing cookbooks, running his vlog, making appearances like this -- but the money tended to come in fits and starts.

He realized he’d never even asked Jack what his charity was. The show must have asked him at some point, so Bitty was sure he’d find out eventually. He hoped Jack would donate to his chosen charity regardless. He could certainly afford it. The only real advantage for the charity to having Jack appear on the show was publicity. Well, and convincing people that straight, athletic young men could bake and enjoy it.

But Bitty forgot to tell him to use foil to guard the edges, so they probably wouldn’t advance, and it would all be Bitty’s fault. Jack -- he had to be competitive, right? -- well, it didn’t matter if hated Bitty. They hardly knew one another. 

*

“Eric? Jack’s pie is done. Time to go to the judging room.”

Bitty roused himself from the sofa, resigned to his fate. If nothing else, he’d learned a lesson.

He took his place behind his pie and waited for Jack and his pie with its inevitable burnt edges.

He was sitting there when Jack came in, carrying his beautiful golden brown pie aloft. Jack set it on the empty cooling rack next to Bitty’s and stepped back.

It was beautiful. The lattice was maybe not quite as straight, not quite as even as Bitty’s, but it was close.

Bitty couldn’t help a pleased grin, first at the pie, then at Jack, who had finished with fifteen minutes to spare.

“Okay, you two. We’re going to break for lunch while Jack’s pie cools,” the production assistant said. “We need you back in an hour in the same clothes, so don’t mess them up.”

Bitty was about to head out when Jack said, “Want to grab a sandwich? There’s a place down the block.”

“Sure,” Bitty said. “I have some questions for you.”

“And me for you,” Jack said.

Once they had their food and settled at a table, Bitty said, “How did you keep the edges from burning?”

“I made foil collars,” Jack said.

“But I’ve never told you that before,” Bitty said.

“You always do it on your YouTube channel,” Jack said.

“Wait … you’ve seen … but you said you’d never baked,” Bitty said. 

“I hadn’t,” Jack said. “That doesn’t mean I’ve never watched anyone else bake on YouTube. When Johnson said you were doing this, it seemed like a good opportunity to meet you.”

“To meet me?” Bitty really had to start thinking of some of his own words instead of just repeating Jack’s.

“Well, yeah,” Jack said. “Someone showed me your videos when you were at Samwell, and I was intrigued by a hockey player who baked. Made me wonder what it would have been like to be on a college team, or whether I’d develop any other interests.”

“Someone?”

Jack actually blushed. “My mother. She went to Samwell.”

It was almost a physical effort for Bitty to push that out of his head. Jack’s mother was … nope. Not going there.

“So you wanted to make pie because you’d see me make it before?” 

“A lot,” Jack said. “But the instructions were really helpful.”

“I thought we’d lost it when I realized I’d never said anything about the foil,” Bitty admitted.

“But I figured you could make a donation to your charity anyway.”

Jack nodded.

“I plan on adding to it even if we win,” he said. “What do you want to do with the money? Bitty was not going to tell Jack Zimmermann that he needed money to pay his rent. Not this unexpected Jack Zimmermann, who for some reason had been interested in Bitty for years. Despite, Bitty reminded himself, being straight. Almost certainly.

“Some of it will buy ice time,” he said. “I miss skating, you know? I used to figure skate before I played hockey.”

“I’m not sure what I’d do if I couldn’t skate every day,” Jack said. “Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t say that. Don’t want to make you jealous.”

“Oh honey, I’d never be jealous of you,” Bitty said. ”I have the job I want. I just want to be able to skate for fun. Like you want to bake for fun, I guess.”

“I don’t know about that,” Jack said. “It was pretty stressful. I kept wanting to make it perfect, but you said not to overwork it. But maybe it would be more fun if it wasn’t being recorded for TV.”

“Maybe we could bake together sometime?” Bitty said. 

“Then skate?” Jack suggested. “On our practice ice.”

“That would be really great,” Bitty said. “Ready to go back? By the way, you never said what your charity is.”

“You Can Play,” Jack said. “I’m thinking of coming out next year.”

[alpacaparkaseok]

Mine

5. Draw me like one of your French girls

Genre: Min Yoongi x oc

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3.3k

At this point, I’m seriously considering commissioning my own fanart.

It all started the next morning at our first press release. Somebody had the bright idea to show me some fanart that’s been rolling in the past few weeks of a certain k-pop rapper and I. Not gonna lie...we look good together.

Too good.

Then again, everything about Min Yoongi has seemed pretty good since I woke up to a couple more texts from him this morning. I passed out after his late-night/early morning apology, but he sent another text not long after.

4:32 MYG: So does this mean I’m forgiven? Bong-cha made it sound like you enjoy holding grudges.

9:02 MYG: Morning. I hope everything goes well with you today...is it alright if I keep texting you?

9:02 MYG: Just so I can keep tabs on everything. I don’t want this to get too out of hand for you.

Obviously the poor man is just as worried about all of this as I am. I couldn’t help but give a sleepy chuckle when I woke up to his messages.

So far, I’ve done a wonderful job of ignoring how nice it felt to wake up to a good morning text.

I’ve also done a great job at keeping calm and breezing past any weird questions from the current press conference I’m in. That is, until a Korean reporter (I have a hunch they’re from Dispatch) pipes up not only with a question, but with visual aids!

“Cara, do you mind if I ask you a question? Would you like a translator?”

Reminding myself to be gracious and kind, I shake my head. “Go ahead. I should be alright without a translator, thank you.”

The reporter nods, shuffling forward until they pull a paper out of their file in hand. She gives me a sickly smile, passing the paper up to our security guard who does me the honor of bringing it right to my outstretched palm.

“This is one of the newest renderings, I was just wondering how you have been feeling about this entire situation?”

I already guessed what this was going to be about, but the picture in my hand confirms it.

It’s fanart.

To be honest, it’s very well done. It’s a watercolor, the artist placed us walking along a rainy sidewalk. Hand in hand, Yoongi’s gummy smile on full display while I look down at my toes.

Sebastian whistles beside me, clearly as in awe of the artwork as I am. Before me the reporter still wears her smile, waiting for a response. I pass the paper down the line, allowing Rhea to get a chance to admire the fanart.

Maybe it’s the boost of confidence I received upon reading Yoongi’s text this morning that has me grinning back at the reporter with a saccharine smile.

“Did you draw this? It’s very well done.”

Not everyone can understand Korean in this press conference, but the few that do start chuckling. The reporter blanches for a moment, smile faltering.

“N-no, but if you could answer the question-”

I’m sure I look very disappointed as I look down at her. She definitely works for dispatch; she practically reeks of it. Maybe that’s what gives me the boldness I need as I realize that I’m not even her direct target; Yoongi is.

Yoongi’s nice. I don’t think she is.

“Oh, everything is going fine. Honestly, I should get in touch with this artist. They’re very talented.”

The reporter’s eyebrows flick up, sensing a new method of attack. “Were you thinking of commissioning your own?”

“Honestly, I might consider it. Maybe it’ll make my aunts quit hounding me every Thanksgiving about my love life.”

With that, the paper is handed back to the security guard, but the reporter motions for him to keep it. Confused, he hands it back to me. I turn it over so I don’t get caught staring at it during the conference. That’s the last thing Yoongi or I need right now.

As the reporter takes her seat again, I can’t help but feel a little triumphant. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

🌙

12:22 ME: I never said you were forgiven, did I?

As soon as we get out of the press conference we are ushered into a van which takes us to another interview. I figure that now is as good a time as any to text Yoongi back, seeing that this morning I woke up late and was too flustered to come up with a response.

“Who are you texting?” Sebastian asks. “Is it your friend that always calls you?”

I consider lying to him for a moment, but realize that it might actually be nice for him to know. He can keep me from being unrealistic when I start to fangirl.

He may also help me to keep that promise I silently made a while ago: to not go so easy on Yoongi. Right now, it’s proving harder than expected to dislike him.

“Nosy.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “You’re grinning at your phone like an idiot, that only happens when you get texts from me.”

“Ha! Right. It’s a secret...kind of. Don’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll try my best not to.”

Taking an unnecessarily big breath, I spill my secret that I’ve kept for approximately 12 hours.

“It’s Yoongi.” When there’s no immediate reaction from him, I backpedal. “Also known as Suga?”

Before Sebastian can respond the ping of my phone pulls my attention away.

12:26 MYG: Oh good, you responded. I was getting worried you were actually mad. So is it alright if I keep texting you? I don’t want to mess with your schedule.

“You’re smiling again.”

I look up to see an annoyed Sebastian Stan. He’s not very good at sharing attention, and it would appear that Yoongi is no exception.

“How strange, I didn’t realize.”

12:27 ME: That’s fine.

12:27 ME: But I am mad!!

12:28 MYG: Hahaha sure

“Cara, we’re here.” Sebastian says as he clambers out of the car. I follow after him, pocketing my phone.

There’s a few cameras outside waiting for us, but we’re able to make it inside the building without too much fuss. Once we make it into the room where we’re supposed to have one of our interviews, Sebastian pulls a paper out of his back pocket.

“What’s that?”

He smirks at me, unfolding the paper. It’s the fanart from earlier. I didn’t even realize that he’d pocketed it.

“Tell Suga I say hi, at least.” He poses with the papers just below his chin, giving the best puppy dog eyes he can muster up. It’s rather convincing, if I’m being honest.

“You weirdo,” I mumble as I snap a photo. I’m quick to send it off to Yoongi, captioning it.

12:37 ME: Sebastian says hello.

Our interviewer is just about to come into the room when I receive a response. Not having the self-restraint to put my phone away, I quickly take a look. Sebastian peers over my shoulder, curious as well.

12:40 MYG: Winter Soldier!!!

12:41 MYG: Hi. Did he draw that?

I cackle, quickly translating the message. Sebastian looks appalled. “I have better things to do than draw fanart!”

“Yeah, like write fanfiction, right?”

He grins at me. “Obviously.”

12:42 ME: No, but he says he’s writing fanfiction.

12:42 ME: We’re about to start an interview rn but I’ll tell him to send you his rough draft later. 😏

Interviews pass, and it isn’t until I’m finishing up dinner that my phone pings with another message from Yoongi. I nearly impale Sebastian with my fork as I lunge for my charging phone; he’d come into my hotel room to eat dinner with me.

“Watch it!” Sebastian grunts, shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming rate. We were promised lunch by Rhea earlier but it ended up just being a small snack as she was whisked away by a long-lost friend. The two of us managed to control our hunger for as long as possible, but Sebastian wasted no time calling up some food for us before we even got back to the hotel.

We barely beat the delivery boy here. He wasn’t all that surprised that we were American. Sebastian had tried out some very choppy Cantonese. What did end up surprising him was that he was delivering a meal to the Winter Soldier. I was able to sneak into my room undetected while the boy’s eyes were bugging out as Sebastian signed his hat.

“Sorry,” I mumble around my food.

9:12 MYG: I’m still waiting for the rough draft.

I translate the message to Sebastian, who cackles and promises to get started on it as soon as possible.

9:14 ME: Sorry, Sebastian said he’s still trying to write it. I’ll let you know when it’s ready!

9:15 MYG: That’s alright. I’ll be patient.

9:15 MYG: I saw a clip from your press conference today.

My stomach lurches as I realize what clip it was that he probably saw. Does he think I’m some crazy fangirl now? I mean, I might be. But he doesn’t need to know that.

9:18 ME: I didn’t get you in trouble, did I?

Sebastian notices my change in expression and shoots me a worried look. “Everything alright?” I shrug.

“Yeah...I just hope I didn’t get him in trouble with what I said at the press conference today. I think that reporter was trying to go against him somehow.”

“He’s a big boy. Did he say anything about it?”

I look back down at the messages even though I already know what he said. My stomach lurches again as I see the three little dots at the bottom of the screen.

“No, not really. He just said he saw a clip or something. He’s typing right now, though.”

9:20 MYG: I thought I was the worrier. No, you didn’t. How was the rest of your day?

“What’d he say?” Sebastian grabs our cartons of food, tossing them into the wastebasket.

“He’s just…”

“Are you blushing?!” My friend stares at me from across the room, eyes wide. “No way! You like him!”

“No! No I don’t!”

“Yes you do, don’t lie to me! You’re so into him!” Sebastians hurries back over grinning wide. “Wow, he must be a good texter.”

That really is helping my blush. “Nooo, he’s not. He’s just nice. That’s it. It’s just fun having someone nice to talk to, you know? He feels really bad about everything and - Sebastian quit it - and it’s just sweet of him to care. That’s it.”

Sebastian stops looking at me with his puppy dog eyes and leans back in his chair, a contemplative look overtaking his features. “I thought I was nice to talk to.”

I pause for a second, breath getting caught in my throat. “Y-you are. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He shakes his head, giving me an award-winning smile. “No, I know. Aren’t you going to respond?”

“Oh! Yeah!” I focus on my phone again. There’s an uneasy feeling rising in me at Sebastian’s comment, but I brush it off for now. He’s always been bad at sharing his friends. He’s the same with Anthony Mackey, I’ve seen it up close.

9:25 ME: True, I’ll let you worry. My day was good, just finished up dinner. How was yours?

“There, I-” I look up proudly only to find Sebastian’s chair empty and the door clicking shut. “...I did it.”

MYG: It was great. Got lots of work done.

MYG: Have you decided if you’re going to come to the festival or not? Also, Bong-cha says hi.

ME: Wow, she can’t even tell me herself. No respect. No, I honestly didn’t even think about it today...but I’m pretty sure we’re all going either way.

MYG: Haha she’s not happy with your comment.

MYG: She’s reading over my shoulder, I promise I’m not reading our conversation out loud. Is your director making you go?

I just miss the chance to respond as my phone lights up with an incoming call.

“Bong-cha, quit reading my conversations you little weirdo.”

“Hey, how’s it going with you? I’m great, thanks for asking.”

“Are you still in the room with everyone?”

“No, just left. You should see Yoongi right now, though.”

“Why?”

“He looks like a kid in a candy store every time he gets a text from you. It’s adorable.”

“Yah!”

My friend’s cackle soars through the phone, and I swat at the air as though I could somehow get her to stop.

“Please tell me you guys are coming to the festival.” Bong-cha’s sudden change in tone has me pausing, chewing on my lip.

“We are. Why?”

“Come stay with me!” Bong-cha shouts. I jump up, a grin already working its way onto my face. “It’ll be just like old times. And, I was looking at the schedule you sent me...there’s a couple of nights where you’re done relatively early. We could go do something fun!”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. My phone is buzzing with incoming texts, but I ignore them for now. “Yeah, that’ll be fun. I’m not sure if I can come stay with you-”

“C’mon,” Bong-cha whines. “I never get to see you anymore. We’ll make it work! Oh, I’ve gotta go, Tae brought Yeontan. But let me know!”

With that, Bong-cha cuts the line and leaves me on the other side caught between excitement at seeing my friend and dread at having to come face to face with Yoongi. Texting is one thing; but actually spending time with him?

“Just be his friend,” I mumble to myself. Settling down, I attack my food once more. The space where Sebastian sat before makes me furrow my brows.

What’s going on with him? I mean sure, we’re really good friends. But we still see each other constantly, why would he be so possessive?

It’s probably all just in my head. My phone light up with the texts I received a couple of minutes ago while I was still on the phone, and this time I physically cannot restrain the smile that comes through as I realize Yoongi is still texting me.

MYG: Really no pressure about the festival. I know Bong-cha really wants to see you, but please don’t feel like you have to come and hang out with us.

MYG: We’re not even that cool, anyways.

MYG: Are you just hanging out with Sebastian tonight??

I stare down at my phone for a moment, the smile being wiped from my face. Plopping down heavily on my bed, I close my eyes and power off my phone.

Yoongi is nice. So nice, apparently, that I can’t even tell now if he’s trying to get me to stay away. The fact is simple: he’s a nice man who has a reputation to uphold and is trying to keep everyone happy. That includes me.

He’s nice for texting me and trying to make sure I’m doing alright. Any decent human being would do that. But there’s also the fact that I’m new to this game in the spotlight and I know that I’m not going to be able to keep my feelings out of this.

I take a moment to breathe, forcing myself to push away the impending panic that sets in. This is no way to live, and I know that I’m only setting myself up for heartbreak when someday I don’t wake up to a good morning text from Yoongi.

It’s only been one day of communicating and I can already feel myself getting too attached.

Powering on my phone again, I flinch at the new texts.

9:17 MYG: Bong-cha just told me her evil plan. 😩 Did she tell you about it on the phone?

9:31 MYG: Sorry if you’re busy! Just text me back when you can. Let me know about your plans for the festival, too.

Even though I’m itching to text him back and waste away the rest of the night talking to him, there’s another more pressing matter I have to face. Quickly getting up and leaving my phone there in order to fight the temptation, I grab my room key and head a few rooms down. A quiet knock and a few seconds later and Sebastian is opening up his door.

He looks down at me warily, and I feel almost like we had a fight because of the way he’s looking at me. Emitting a loud sigh, he shakes it off and grins down at me in a way that makes me question if I even saw the previous expression at all.

“Hey,” I mumble out weakly. Moving past him into his room, he follows silently behind me.

“Hey…?”

Without another word I land face first onto his bed, the action pulling a laugh from him. Good. His laugh reminds me that this is real. This friendship is real, and Sebastian for all his annoying teasing, is a true friend.

Bong-cha is miles away and busy. She’s also biased. So Sebastian is the next best thing.

“I’m freaking out,” the pillow muffles my words but I know he hears me loud and clear. The mattress dips on one side as Sebastian settles onto it, and a moment later a hesitant hand begins kneading the flesh at my shoulders. I let out a satisfied sigh.

“What’s going on?” His tone is gentle, and the sound of it nearly tugs some tears out of my eyes.

“I’m pathetic, Sebastian.” I clutch his pillow and bury my face farther into it. “I’m so pathetic! I’ve literally never met the man before in my life, and I’ve spent the last 24 hours sending a few texts back and forth and I already feel like I’d jump off a cliff for him!”

Sebstian’s hands pause in their kneading for a fraction of a second before continuing on. “I told you you liked him.”

I turn to look at him, and again I catch that wary gaze before he drops it. “Really? ‘I told you so’? Rude. I need help, Sebastian. It’s never going to happen, he’s just being nice, and I just need to be cordial and get through this. Right?”

He nods, contemplating a bit. “Sure. He seems like a great guy. But at the end of the day, the two of you are just caught up in a weird media frenzy and that’s it. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I guess.” I huff, flipping onto my back as I stare up at the ceiling. “Why do I like him though? Am I just desperate?”

Sebastian stands up and laughs. “No way. If you were desperate you would be falling for me, not some inconvenient, crazy famous kpop star.”

Somehow his words make me laugh, the feeling easing the panic a bit. “You’re right, I guess.”

🌙

I end up passing out in Sebastian’s room only to wake up at 3 am and find myself a little too close for comfort to my co-star. Gently untangling myself from his mess of arms and legs, I sneak out of his room and back to my own.

Half-asleep and looking the part, I groan at my reflection in the mirror as I try to brush my teeth. Pointing at my reflection with my toothbrush, I give myself a pep talk.

“You are not pathetic,” pause to spit, “you’re not desperate,” rinse out the brush, “you’re just friendly. You’re practicing making new friends, and Yoongi as well as all of BTS are a part of that. That’s it.”

So when I finally settle down into my cold and very empty bed, I don’t feel very guilty sending Yoongi a late-night text. He never texted me again after the last one I saw, and I easily brush off the feeling of disappointment and replace it with relief.

3:13 ME: Yeah, we’re going. No, I have no idea what the evil plan is. Do we need to come up with a counter-plan? And sorry I never responded...I was busy annoying Sebastian and left my phone in my room. Good morning! This is payback for your late texts last night!

I fall asleep easily after that, double checking that my phone is on silent before snuggling deep down into my pillows.

Honestly, what do I even have to worry about? Everything is going great with promotions, the movie is finished and should be well received, and in a couple of days I’ll get to go see Bong-cha and make new friends!

Into the silence, I can’t help but laugh. I’m not dumb enough to believe that everything will go as planned.

Especially not as my dreams take over and the only thing I can dream of is a man in a black suit, turning around to greet me over and over again. I can never quite see his face, but somehow I know him.

Even in my unconscious state, I lie to myself and say that it’s not Min Yoongi.

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Taglist is open! Ready to head to Seoul next time?

taglist: @taylorroe3 @eusticenatalie @agustneeds @oceandeep​ @prdshobi​

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 58 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Katya found out she might be pregnant, the assistant network caught on to BDR’s latest paramour, and Violet was ordered to go home and rest.

This Chapter: Gigi’s new look gets the reaction she’d hoped for, the twins enjoy some one on one time with their respective partners, Courtney has a rain-soaked nightmare, Pearl looks (but doesn’t touch) and Katya stresses.

***

Courtney knocked softly on Ivy’s door, a smile on her face that had been there almost all day. Fame had thankfully left early, she and Patrick spending the evening at some fancy opera event at the Met, leaving Courtney to get ready for her date in peace.

Her first official date with Bianca. It was almost too exciting for her to comprehend.

“Hey Courtney, what’s up?” Ivy asked, looking up from her computer, beckoning Courtney inside.

“Well, I have a date tonight...and it’s really important and I need to look hot and...I thought maybe I could borrow something from the closet again?”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine. Um...let me just finish this email and then I’ll help you. Feel free to go have a look around, though.”

“Thanks.” Courtney bit her lip, sensing that Ivy was decidedly less enthusiastic about this than the last time she’d helped. She was probably in the middle of something important, maybe anxious about her own Friday night plans. Courtney felt bad, and would have told her to forget it if she had literally any other options. “I promise to be quick!”

“Yeah, no worries.”

Courtney kept her promise, pulling a short, royal blue dress with a high slit and a pair of strappy aqua shoes.

“Are you sure you wanna wear those shoes, Court? It’s kind of horrendous outside,” Ivy said, but Courtney shook her head.

“It’s fine, I’m just gonna be going into a cab and then inside. Thank you so much for your help!”

“No problem,” Ivy said, always gracious even when Courtney was obviously annoying her. “I hope you have a good time.”

“I’m sure I will!” Courtney exclaimed, taking the dress and shoes back to her own office to change, already feeling giddy with excitement, wondering what Bianca’s idea of ‘wining and dining’ would be like.

She took her time getting ready, freshening her hair with a curling iron she’d stashed in her desk and giving herself what she hoped was a sexy smoky eye. She kept an eye on the clock, knowing that Fame expected her to be in the office until 7:30. She chose a berry-colored lip gloss from the samples that Alaska had given her, and then stepped into the bathroom to get dressed, thrilled that the dress fit perfectly. She checked her phone and computer one more time before signing out, making sure that there were no last-minute requests from Miss Fame, and then made her way downstairs to grab a taxi.

She’s just settled into the backseat when a message came through that made her heart sink.

FAME: Dogwalker sick. Need you to walk Charles ASAP.

Courtney groaned, tapping on the glass partition to redirect the cab driver, and then texting Bianca.

COURTNEY: Still dealing with a work thing. I’m so so sorry, I might be a little late.

BIANCA: No rush. We can always push the reservation.

COURTNEY: I’ll tell you the second I’m on the way.

BIANCA: XX

Courtney knew that dog walking was an occasional part of her job, although it hadn’t come up yet before. However, she’d carefully read the 7 pages of instructions Violet left about him, knowing that Charles was Fame’s treasured companion and she would be toast if anything ever happened to him, and prepared for the time when she’d have to step up. She wasn’t terribly worried--after all, she loved dogs, and her own family had German Shepherds, so a big dog shouldn’t be any trouble.

But Charles wasn’t just big. He was massive, outweighing her by a hefty amount, first fighting her as she tried to put on the raincoat that he apparently hated, and then dragging her down the street so fast that she slipped on some ice, falling to her knees on the corner, immediately cursing herself for not listening to Ivy about those stupid shoes.

“Charles, sit!” Courtney was terrified that he would run into the street without her and get hurt, rain and sleet pummeling her face as she sacrificed her umbrella to grip the leash with both hands. As she tried to stand, a bus drove by, sloshing icy gutter water all over her. “Fucking shit!”

Charles, of course, paid no attention to her predicament, still single-mindedly bound for the edge of the park where he was trained to do his business. Courtney got up, shivering, and took him across the street, finding herself soon faced with picking up a steaming, human-sized pile of shit in the pouring rain. By the time they got back to Fame’s mud room and Charles properly toweled off (with him stepping all over her chest with muddy paws in the process), she was soaked to the bone and shivering like crazy.

She glanced at herself in the mirror, wincing at her soggy, lifeless hair and smeared eye makeup, knowing that there was no way she could show up for a date looking like that. She got out her phone, dialing Bianca’s number with shaking fingers.

“Hey, sunshine,” Bianca answered, and Courtney closed her eyes, cringing at how wrong that nickname was at the moment.

“Hi. Um...I don’t think I can make it tonight,” she said, trying her best not to cry.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just...I had a situation with Fame’s dog and I’m soaking wet and I look an absolute mess and I can’t-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa...are you okay? It’s freezing outside!” Bianca exclaimed.

“Yeah...I just...I should go home, I can’t-”

“You’re not seriously thinking about getting on a train to the Bronx right now, are you? You’ll die of hypothermia. I can hear your teeth chattering, for fuck’s sake.”

“But I can’t go out, I look-”

“Okay, then we’ll stay in.”

“But you wanted to go out, and-”

“No, I wanted to spend time with you. I’m starting a hot bath right now. Get a cab, come over, I’ll see you in ten minutes,” Bianca instructed, and Courtney couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief that someone else was taking charge of the situation.

***

Gigi couldn’t stop staring at herself in the hallway mirror, her fingers gliding through her silky soft hair for the third time.

It was the most gorgeous deep auburn red, the color bringing out her freckles and playing up her grey eyes.

She looked like a completely different person, and she loved it.

“Looks like someones been to Juju’s.”

Gigi turned to see Symone leaning against the doorframe, a smile on her face, the adorable gap between her white front teeth stupidly charming.

“What gave it away?” Gigi giggled, throwing her hair over her shoulder.

“Just wait til you go shopping.” Symone grinned, her jeans slung low on her hips. “The underwear I have now is more expensive than any other clothes I have ever owned.”

“You got new underwear?” Gigi felt her eyes widened. “With like… With Sutan?” She bit her lip. Sutan had gone with her to the salon, him and Juju talking quietly while she was getting her hair washed by an assistant. They had obviously made the right choice, Gigi feeling like a superhero, but she couldn’t imagine any man coming with her to a lingerie store.

“Sure.” Symone shrugged. “It’s all ‘foundational undergarments’ and ‘French cut’ this, ‘t-shirt bra’ that. ‘You need a secure adhesive backless’. Where I’m from we just call those chicken cutlets.” Symone smiled. “For my first fitting, he asked me to wear high rise briefs and a seamless bra. I felt like my grandma.”

Gigi laughed, the tiny worry she had felt flare up already gone again.

“Do you want to cook dinner together?” Symone pushed out from the door, and Gigi nodded, this modeling thing already so much better than she had dared hoped for.

***

“Ah!” Violet moaned as Sutan pushed her forward, his body boxing her in and keeping her in place. They were in the kitchen, the counter digging into her hips.

“Hey gorgeous,” Sutan’s voice was low, his lips against her neck, his warmth breath tickling her skin. She felt him grab the edge of her skirt, hiking it up and over her knees, thighs and even ass as he pulled it higher and higher, pooling it on the counter, forcing Violet to hold it herself, his hand guiding her before he let go.

“Please-“ Violet groaned, his fingers digging into the fabric, every move she made exposing herself further.

“Please what?”

She could feel Sutan’s fingers glide up her outer thigh and Violet blushed, her core burning hot, her panties getting wetter by the second.

“Please-“

It felt absolutely filthy, and so fucking good, Sutan in complete control and Violet loved it.

They were both tipsy, their wine glasses and dinner plates in the sink, the dishes completely forgotten when Sutan had given Violet a quick kiss that had developed into so much more.

“Please what lovely eyes?” Sutan’s voice was silky smooth, nothing in his tone betraying the way his fingers danced over her ass cheek, nails scratching on skin, a fingertip sneaking under the lace.

“I-“ Violet swallowed. She felt like she was drowning, wanted to drown, wanted to disappear in everything Sutan was. “I-“

“Tell me,” Sutan whispered, his lips against her ear. “Or I might punish you darling.” He leaned forward, pushing her that little bit further, and that was when it happened.

“Ah!” Violet closed her eyes, a blinding pain shooting through her. “Wait! Wait wait wait!”

Her foot had gotten caught on an angle, and Sutan jumped backwards.

“Wait,” Violet took a deep breath through her nose, the pain already disappearing, frustrated tears welling up in her eyes. “Fuck-“

“Everything okay?”

Violet turned around to see that Sutan had taken literal steps back, his trousers still tented, his dick obviously hard underneath the zipper.

“Mmh,” Violet nodded, the delightful embarrassment from earlier replaced with something that felt a lot more like shame, her eyes focused on Sutan’s feet. “I-“

“Can I touch you again?”

Violet’s head snapped up, Sutan looking at her, a glimpse of insecurity in his eyes, almost like he was the one who had done something wrong.

“Please-“ Violet opened her arms, and seconds later she could bury her face in his neck, his arms around her, holding her tight, kisses pressed into her hair.

“I’m sorry,” Sutan murmed, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to-“

“I know-“ Violet smiled, the apology so unnecessary it was almost comical. “I know.”

“Good.” Sutan pulled back, a hand in her hair tilting Violet’s head upwards so he could look at her. “Good. I shouldn’t have-“

Violet leaned forward, shutting him up with a kiss, her arms going around his neck as she held him tight.

***

When her cab pulled up in front of Bianca’s building, the doorman immediately rushed forward to open her door. She was fumbling with her credit card, fingers still stiff and cold, but he gestured for her to put it away.

“Ms. Del Rio is taking care of that,” he said, handing over some cash to the driver, then covering her with an umbrella and walking her to the lobby, where she was sent up in a different elevator than last time, directly to Bianca’s second floor, right outside her bedroom.

Courtney clutched her soaking wet jacket, trying to get her bearings when Bianca appeared around the corner, looking at her with concern and dismay.

“Omigod, baby, come here…”

Courtney barely knew what was happening as Bianca rushed her into the bathroom, helping her strip off her wet things.

“What the fuck are you doing in these shoes in this weather? And this jacket--why aren’t you in a winter coat?” Bianca asked, dropping it to the floor and then unzipping her dress, her voice gentle despite the scolding words.

“Th-that is my winter coat.”

“That’s not a winter coat,” Bianca informed her, pulling the dress down.

Courtney didn’t have the energy to protest, and besides, she was much more concerned with the dress.

“The dress isn’t mine, I think I ruined it-” she began, voice breaking, and Bianca looked it over while she stepped out of her panties and placed her jewelry on the counter.

“It’ll be fine, it just needs to be cleaned,” Bianca promised, leading her, still shivering, over to the jacuzzi tub, where a huge pile of bubbles was waiting for her. “I didn’t make it too hot, because I didn’t want to shock your system. But you can change the temp if you want.”

Courtney sank into the bubbles, the water silky and warm as a hug. After a few seconds, she finally began to feel her fingers and toes again, flexing them under the water, a sigh leaving her. She looked up, where Bianca was setting a remote control at the edge of the tub--which apparently controlled the jets and the temperature and even the lights. Courtney had never seen anything like it. She’d also put out a whole basket of bath products and lit a couple of candles.

“I’ll give you some privacy now,” Bianca said. “I left some towels and a robe on the warmer, and uh...if you need anything else, just let me know, okay?”

“Can you stay?”

It was embarrassing to admit, but Courtney didn’t want to be alone right now. Bianca didn’t make her feel weird about it though, simply took a seat on the ledge beside her, chatting about her trip, the trouble her staff had created while she was away, her voice soothing as Courtney leaned back against the terry cloth pillow with her eyes shut.

After she’d warmed up a little, Bianca washed her hair, strong and sure fingertips massaging the lather into her scalp as the other hand cradled her neck. She then helped her dry off with heated towels, and finally wrapped her in a warm fluffy robe while she ran a blow dryer through her hair. Courtney couldn’t remember ever feeling this cared for in her life, not even as a child, and if it wasn’t such absolute heaven, she’d probably feel ashamed at how much she enjoyed it.

She managed to swallow down a few mouthfuls of soup from the Chinese delivery that Bianca had ordered for dinner before her eyelids began to droop. Bianca noticed immediately, pressing a kiss to her forehead and then leading her to bed. She curled into Bianca’s arms, limbs growing heavy as hands stroked her back soothingly.

“Do you feel better now, angel?” Bianca asked.

“I felt better the second I walked in the door,” Courtney murmured.

“Yeah?”

“I guess there’s not really a door. The second I stepped off your elevator,” Courtney said, making Bianca laugh, her sleepiness causing her to be more honest than was probably called for, adding a whispered, “You make everything better.”

***

Pearl sat at a stool towards the back of the club, nursing a drink while telling herself over and over again that she was doing nothing wrong.

For one thing, she and Adore were over. Actually, fully over. And for another, she had no idea if Dahlia was even dancing tonight. She’d just come by for a casual drink...for the third time in 3 days. Just to see. Just to look.

And there was nothing wrong with looking, right? Even if she had lied to Trixie and Katya about where she was.

Pearl had already brushed off a parade of girls, tipping all of them, but saying no to everything else they offered, since she didn’t want to miss her chance of seeing Dahlia.

She was just about to give up, when one of the last dancers of the night came on, and there, there she was.

Dahlia was just as beautiful as Pearl remembered her, even more beautiful actually, since her costume for the night was the naughtiest sheer black teddy and lace panties, tiny little pink bows attached to the spaghetti straps of her top.

Her brown hair was styled in a delicate mess of brown curls, her plump lips painted pink, her eyes heavy and sultry, Dahlia looking like a sex kitten getting ready to go on the prowl.

Pearl swallowed as ‘Kiss It Better’ by Rihanna started playing, taking a big gulp of her drink.

Pearl hadn’t known if she wanted Dahlia to notice that she was there, hadn’t really thought this through at all, but when Dahlia dipped down on the pole, her ass beyond perfection, their eyes met across the room.

Pearl watched as Dahlia’s lips parted for a second, her eyes widening, but then, she smirked, throwing her hair over her shoulder.

***

“Mmh,” Raven moaned, her fingers in Raja’s long dark hair, her fiancée's lips on her neck, one of her hands up her top. They had been watching a movie on the couch, staying in just the two of them such a rare treat that they had even made popcorn. “Please-”

“Please?” Raja grinned, her long body on top of Raven’s under their blanket, their movie completely forgotten. “Are you being polite princess?”

“Fuck off.” Raven showed Raja’s shoulder, which only made the older woman laugh. “I’m perfectly polite.”

“Sure,” Raja smiled, shifting her knee so it slid in between Raven’s thighs, her skirt riding up to make room for Raja’s pant covered leg. “That’s what I love about you. How polite you are.”

Raven pulled on Raja’s hair, a surprised gasp leaving her girlfriend. She thrusted her hips, forcing Raja off balance and down in a messy kiss, teeth clacking, their lipsticks smearing, Raven taking charge.

***

“Just a few more minutes.” Trixie smiled, his open palm resting on Katya’s knee, his thumb rubbing up and down, trying his best to be comforting.

They were in the bathroom, Katya sitting on the closed toilet while Trixie knelt on the floor next to her, the elephant in the room the pregnancy test that was lying on the edge of the sink, both of them doing their damndest not to look at it yet.

He could tell she was anxious, knew that from the second she told him that she’d bought the test after work, even before she admitted that she was afraid to take it.

Trixie had always assumed that one day he’d be a father, and he was certain that Katya would be the best mom ever, so in his mind, this news was either amazingly exciting or slightly disappointing.

But Katya was another story, her clear terror making him dampen his own enthusiasm so that she felt safe to express herself. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel guilty for being scared on top of everything else. He knew, also, that there was a chance that she wouldn’t want this potential baby, so he prepared himself mentally to support her in whatever she wanted to do.

“I love you,” he offered softly, adding, “And it’ll be okay, no matter what it says.”

“Mmhmm,” Katya murmured agreement, though her eyes said that she didn’t fully believe him.

“Yo yo yo, where my bitches at?!” called out a voice, the slur telling them that Pearl had been drinking quite a bit.

Trixie assumed that Katya wouldn’t want to be interrupted during this private moment, but apparently, he was wrong.

“We’re in here!” Katya called, and Pearl’s heavy footsteps approached the door, pushing it open.

“This is a weird place for a party, dudes,” Pearl said, jacket hanging off one of her shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“Umm…” Trixie considered how to handle the situation delicately.

“I might be knocked up,” Katya said quickly, and Pearl’s eyes grew large, her mouth falling open.

“Wh-how?”

“Probably sex,” she answered, and all three of them laughed, breaking the tension just a little.

“So…” Pearl plopped down beside Trixie on the tile floor, and a rush of gratitude flooded his heart, relieved for the distraction, understanding why Katya called her in. That is, until she asked, “Have we thought about names? Cause I’d like to submit ‘Pearl Junior’ for consideration.”

“Pearl Junior?” Trixie scoffed. “Why, you’re not the father.”

“Come on! Little Pearlie J. P.J.?!”

“I don’t hate it,” Katya said, and Pearl cheered, giving her a fist bump. “But remember, I might not even be pregnant.”

“True, but you guys are getting married. It’ll be relevant eventually.”

“Not necessarily,” said Katya, gripping Trixie’s hand tighter. He squeezed her back in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

“Yuh huh! That’s why we call you ‘breeders’!” Pearl insisted.

“But I just don’t-” Katya began, but was interrupted by the timer on Trixie’s phone.

“You ready?” he asked, taking both of her hands in his.

“No.”

“Well...remember, sometimes these tests aren’t 100% accurate. So whatever it says, it might not mean...” He reached out, catching a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “Babe…”

“I know. But I...can’t look.” Katya curled into his arms, burying her face in his neck. “You do it.”

Unfortunately, the stick was just out of reach, unless he let go of her, which he wasn’t prepared to do.

“Pearl, can you-”

“Sure.” Pearl snatched the test off the sink, looking at it, brow furrowed. “What the fuck does 11 mean?”

Katya’s head snapped up, reaching for the test while Pearl picked up the box.

“Why would it say 11? That’s so dumb, how do you know if...ohhhh.”

[dontasktheradiodemon]

Star of the Cabaret

Alastor a.k.a. Leal a.a.k.a. Astre @usedhearts invites Alastor a.k.a. Astor to see him at a cabaret show. Astor doesn't know when he arrives that it's going to be Leal in disguise. It's a pleasant surprise.

Naturally the best way to react to this is to run to Leal's dressing room, carrying a bouquet, hollering about how madly in love he is with this singer. For the lulz.

(They stubbornly refuse to think or talk about any of the tense topics they’ve been discussing lately.)

Leal

🩸 Tonight. The Cabaret. Ten PM, on the dot. Ask for Madame.

Astor

🎶 I'll be there.

Leal

🩸 See you then. :)

Astor

Really? See him then? And here he'd thought his alternate wouldn't be available to meet him at the start of the show? Maybe his alternate was joining him later.

Either way, he was there at ten on the dot, asking for Madame at the door. Leal hadn't told Astor he needed to be subtle, so he'd come as himself. If the other guests ran, well, that would be on Leal for not not explaining, wouldn't it.

Leal

Contrary to most of Hell, when Astor stepped into Madame's Cabaret, he was greet not with screams, but with _smiles._ Albeit, they were still nervous smiles, but smiles all the same! The hostess didn't run either, but a bitch still powerwalked to get Madame.

The giant woman sauntered through to the entrance, positively beaming, though there was a hint of confusion in her eyes.

"Alastor? I thought--" She paused, taking a second glance. "Oh! Pardon me, you're not the local, are you? Forgive me, shouldn't assume like that! Welcome, welcome, come on in. I'm guessin' that my good friend invited you to use his booth, yeah, shug?"

Astor

Oh, what was he walking into? He didn't like that confused look; it gave him the uncomfortable feeling that he was walking into a trap. What did Madame know that he didn't?

All the same, he beamed widely. "He certainly did! I've been meaning see your place since New Year's, anyway—and he recommended I see tonight's show in particular. So, why not!" He wasn't planning to sleep tonight anyway, and a show would be a fine distraction.

Leal

Madame chuckled and nodded. "I'm sure he did, he knows the talent well-- he made sure you came on the night one of our headliners goes on! She's a peach, voice like an angel, I'm sure you'll be impressed."

She winked at him and turned to guide him into the Cabaret proper. The time between shows was a loud one, people talking amongst themselves. The house was packed, every seat filled-- save for the large lounge seat clearly meant for Madame herself, and a booth directly to said seat's left. That booth was mostly boxed off from the rest of the audience, but gave a very, very good view of the stage-- someone who sat there would have the best view of everything.

"Here ya are, darlin'. I'll send a girl 'round to getcha order, if'n ya want a drink or some food. We got fresh seafood, all Nawlins fair you could think of-- Al helped with some of the recipes, tastin' and makin' sure they got the right flair, I'm sure it'd be up ya alley."

Astor

"That's what he said! Something about magic tricks, too? I'm eager to see anyone who comes so highly recommended."

Of course, a private booth that would save most of the audience from having to look at the Radio Demon. As he took his seat, he let out a low whistle at the promise of fresh seafood. "I *must* find out who your supplier is."

Leal

"Oh, that, well--" She leaned down, covering the side of her mouth with her hand to whisper. "It's the same supplier that our local Al got. He hooked me up."

Madame winked again. "Now, I'll just be in the seat right here should ya need me for anythin'. The act'll be on in abouuuut--" She pulled a pocket watch from her favorite pocket-- her tits-- and popped it open to look. "Fifteen minutes!"

Madame retreated to her seat, and sure enough, a moment later a waitress approached with a menu. Either she was comfortable with Leal already, or she was an incredible actress, because she seemed completely unafraid!

Astor

"*Ah.* So it's a new menu, I take it." A gracious nod. "I'll let you know if I need anything at all!"

It was a nice change of pace to have the employees *not* run from him in terror. He only glanced at the menu before ordering, "A soda and bitters, and... whatever you recommend for dinner, darling." No doubt this place already knew Leal's tastes, and Leal's tastes were close enough to Astor's.

Leal

The waitress took down the order and the menu before leaving-- and it only took her a few minutes to return, with his drink and a plate of crab eitouffee. She set them before him and left again.

It was right around that time that the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed. The show was about to begin.

A soft light shone down from above, illuminating a lone figure, sitting on a swing high in the air. A woman with long legs clad in fishnets dressed in a tight corset bejeweled with diamonds, swung gently. Her long red hair caught the light as the swing lowered.

"_The French are glad to die for love_," She began. "_They delight in fighting duels._"

The silence between her words was palpable, the entire audience transfixed. The air sparkled with what seemed, at first glance, to be glittery confetti-- but it must've been magic, as the confetti never reached the ground.

"_I prefer a man who leaves, and gives expensive...._"

The audience caught on the trailing sentence as she leaned back sticking out a leg and her gloved arm and whispered the last word.

"_Jewels._"

The swing began to spin, and the band picked up as the number truly began, to cheers from the crowd.

Astor

Astor ate quickly, wanting to get a bit of food in him before he had to stop to pay attention to the show—and a good thing he did, since it started so soon.

He recognized it from the first line—"Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend," a cabaret staple. Although with flashier special effects than in *Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.* Leal hadn't been kidding about her magic—Astor could choose to see through the confetti, like choosing to seeing through a reflection on a window by focusing on the background beyond it, but only because he himself had so much experience with magic. It was the sort of illusion he'd be able to pull off himself easily, if he wanted. Surely Leal could too; Astor wondered if his alternate had helped this performer with any of her tricks, maybe that was why he was so keen on promoting her performances...

Oh, hello. Astor squinted. It took until the performer lowered most of the way before he noticed it, but he could see through the surface of *her,* too. She herself was in a magical disguise. Who was really under there—

—*Ha!*

Leal

The swing swung out over the crowd again, and Leal-- or rather, Astre as she was called in this guise- fluidly dismounted onto the stage when it swung back. Voice ringing out, she sauntered across it, eyes locking onto the booth-- and Astor sitting in it. Good, he was here.

For a split second, the glamour dropped-- and Leal winked at his double-- before it was back up, the performance continuing without pause. Astre shimmied and danced and sang, and the crowd ate it up. No touching though-- unlike the number in Moulin Rouge her ensemble was stolen from. Astre stayed on the stage the whole time.

She planted her feet and stretched out her arms as she belted the last note, the crowd erupting in applause and wolf whistles. Flowers were heaped upon the stage, and Astre snatched a bouquet out of the air, holding it to her chest. She waved and retreated backstage.

And a note appeared on Astor's table, a card folded in half to stand with a lipstick kiss on the outside. Inside, Astor would recognize Leal's chicken scratch saying to meet him backstage-- He'd know the dressing room just by looks.

Astor

Astor's grin was widening even before the glamour dropped—oh, he's got you figured out—and he winked back as Leal passed. No *wonder* Leal hadn't been able to meet Astor at the table.

When the number was over, he applauded until his alternate was off the stage, and then devoured the rest of his étouffée as fast as possible. He wanted to catch his alternate backstage while he was still in costume—ah, and there was his invitation, perfect.

He magically collected a full bouquet worthy of flowers off the stage as he swept out of his seat and headed backstage.

Now, he could have quietly and discreetly gone to his alternate.

That was not what he decided to do.

"*Where* is that WONDERFUL singer?!" Everybody backstage would be able to hear him. Everyone. "That *absolutely* INCOMPARABLE star, the BEAUTY who has STOLEN this HELPLESS BEAST'S heart—!" He's hamming it up for all he's worth. Somewhere along the line he summoned up a teddy bear and a heart-shaped box to go with his bouquet.

Leal

Oh, and heard he was-- other performers stuck their heads out and then quickly back in upon seeing the Radio Demon espousing love of all things. Leal heard him too, his smile widening as he stood, cracking open the door of his dressing room.

"Oh, is it me you're talking about?" He cooed, his current voice matching the one he'd sung with. "Why, you certainly know how to flatter a lady."

He opened the door wider, making sure his glamour was still on, to let Astor in. "Come along now, this lady would like a little privacy~"

Astor

"Oh, there you are!" He shuffled around his many gifts so he could lay a hand on his chest as he leaned against the wall, feigning weak knees. "Apple of my eye, songbird of my heart! I would have given you a standing ovation, but had I stood I would have swooned—!"

Okay, he wasn't going to be able to keep this up without laughing, better get behind closed doors. "You *honor* me by accepting my company." He took Leal's hand, kissed it gallantly, and swept into the room.

Leal

It's a good thing he did, because Leal had been about ready to shut the door in his face. Once it was shut, the glamour dropped to show-- that surprisingly, pretty much only his face and skin tone were the things he changed. The rest seemed to be just...flash and a corset.

And a wig, which he removed, his ears popping up from where they'd laid flat. He stuck it on a wighead and smirked.

"So, what did you think of the show?" He asked, taking a seat to start removing his make up.

Astor

"Oh, quite impressive, indeed!" He offered the bouquet. And the teddy bear. And the heart-shaped box. The box has charcuterie rolled into rose shapes in each little wrapper that would usually hold a chocolate. "Fine work with the magical effects. Flashy without being gaudy."

Leal

Leal took each gift and set them on his vanity, opening the box to take one of the charcuterie roses and eat it.

"Thank you, thank you. You understand now why I was being so cagey about joining you, right?" He chuckled. "I had to keep up the suspense! The drama! I had to have my big reveal!"

Astor

"You could have said you were helping out backstage, at least! I was beginning to think you just didn't want to see me!" He said this in an exaggeratedly woe-is-me tone that suggested he had, in fact, not been thinking this at all—but to be fair, what he *had* been thinking wasn't much more optimistic.

"Well, that's certainly one way to get on the stage without everyone running in terror!"

Leal

Oh, that was a thought, wasn't it? "I suppose I could have! That didn't cross my mind, I think I was too caught up in the euphoria of a good surprise!" He chuckled.

"Oh yes, I started doing it oh....fifty years ago? Madame's the only one here that knows." He pointed at the door. "That stays locked at all times _and_ magically warded, and I leave through portals once I'm done. It's all very hush hush. I've put a shade glamoured to look like me in my booth a number of times to make sure people don't think it suspicious that I'm never here to see one of the top billed stars."

He turned from the mirror to grin at Astor. "So you're just helping my cover, honestly."

Astor

"I was *wondering* how you handled never attending your own shows! Here I'd imagined you were going to pretend to have a feud with yourself."

Leal

"Ha! That _was_ an option I considered! But I figured, easier to put a shade there and have it watch while I performed." A shrug.

"I do all kinds of things, too. Song and dance, yes, but I mix it up. Our era, modern stuff, Broadway. I picked that number tonight just for you, you know! Had to pull out one of my best for myself!"

Astor

"I'm touched! And quite well done with it!"

Might as well get comfortable. He stole a chair. "My goodness, if you're one of the star acts—you're more or less a regular employee, aren't you? How much time *do* you spend here?"

Leal

"A fair amount-- less now than in the past, which is why it took so long for me to be able to put on a performance you could see." He took a breath and kicked up his legs-- still clad in fishnets and heels still on.

"I don't perform often, _that's_ one of the main draws of my acts. I'm aloof, a rare occurrance. It makes it all the bigger spectacle when I _do_ show up. Madame and I have a Deal: I get to perform whenever my little heart desires, and I get her things with my connections upstairs. Like fresh seafood."

Astor

"Oh, a Deal! So she'd fire you if only she could, but she can't lose the only shrimp dealer in Pentagram City, is that what you're saying?" He laughed. "I received quite the treat, then!"

Leal

"The Deal was really to get my hoof in the door, once I showed I could bring in the money, Madame was more than happy to let me do whatever I wanted." He snorted.

"But yes, I _am_ the only shrimp dealer." Leal winked.

Astor

"That's one way to get past the dreaded first interview, isn't it! And here I've been wearing disguises to rehearsals!" He laughed.

Leal

"It sure is! An exchange of favors can work wonders." Leal chuckled.

"Now that you know though, it goes without saying to keep it under your hat." He winked as he put a finger over his smiling lips.

Astor

He summoned up a shadow hat and plopped it on his head, where it promptly disappeared again. "Am I *really* the only person you've told besides Madame?"

Leal

"Valera knows." He shrugged as if that would be obvious. "I told her a bit ago and then she came to watch the other day, while I was doing other numbers to warm up for the big ones-- for you and Alexa. Yours was Sparkling Diamonds. Alexa's is going to be Applause."

His smile widened. "So, after that, it's just going to be the three of you, plus Madame. I'm going to surprise Alexa like I did you."

Astor

"I won't say a word," he vowed. "Not that it's likely to come up, but."

Leal

"Exactly! That's the beauty of it, though-- no one expects the Radio Demon to be crossdressing at a cabaret!" He cackled.

"It would never even cross anyone's minds! Which makes it the perfect avenue for performing!"

Astor

"You know, when I do drag, most of the time I don't disguise myself—I don't even wear a wig! And do you know what the most common comment I get is?" He winked. "'Has anyone ever told you you look a little like the Radio Demon?'"

Leal

"It's amazing, isn't it? How changing just a few things about us makes everyone suddenly seem to forget what we look like!" He flattened his ears again, taking the wig and putting it back on. He adjusted it and the picked up a pair of large sunglasses from the table, sliding them on.

"I go out like this and people don't even think it's me. They think I'm Astre! Of course, I _have_ spent a lot of time making sure that's what they think-- but the point still stands! I don't even have to use the glamour other than to just--" A ripple and his skin color changed-- back to something that looked more like his tone when he was alive.

"Just for consistency's sake."

Astor

"Can't have the big stage star looking half dead, after all." He huffed. "I met someone who thought I could do a spectacular impression of the Radio Demon in drag, can you imagine? Sometimes I'm half tempted to try it out, just to see how many people still can't imagine the actual Radio Demon would openly crossdress.

Leal

"They seem to think we live and die in pants." He snorted, letting the glamour drop, and taking the wig and glasses off. "This isn't even a skirt! It just shows more leg than pants does!"

He gestured to himself, still in the stage outfit. "And yet they don't understand who they're oogling!" Leal couldn't help but laugh again.

Astor

"I don't know what *you* were doing on Christmas Eve, but *I* died in pants!" He laughed. "That's the benefit of our usual look, isn't it? It's all a blur of red. Nobody looks at anything but the smile. Simple wear a different color and suddenly you're unrecognizable."

Leal

"Honestly, I've been on stage in our brand of red before and still! Not a soul thought a thing of it! And that was in my early days, too!" He laughed and shook his head.

"It's like if it's anything but a red suit specifically, people don't even see us. I swear, I could go out in a carbon copy of our suit, but in say, green, and people wouldn't recognize me!" He paused. "Okay, maybe they would, but the point stands!"

Astor

"Well, *now* I want to experiment! Throw some gold in there and you've got a Mardi Gras look! See how much we can push the envelope before someone works it out."

Leal

"Now, that WOULD be interesting wouldn't it?" He stroked his chin. "What if we changed our hair to go along with it? Just matched the color? That'd be funny and also might help."

Astor

"Fine, but I'm calling dibs on gold! You can go with green or purple." He patted his waves daintily. "What do you think, would I look nice as a blond?"

Leal

"I think Mimzy would try to kill you for stealing her look!" He laughed. "Alright I'll go with purple-- I like that better than green."

Astor

"She can dye her hair red for the day, it's only fair. Red hair's always hot. And it's not like I'm using it!"

Leal

"It certainly is!" Leal gestured to his wig, now back on its wighead. "I'm sure it'll only take a few minutes to whip up a colorswap glamour, wouldn't you say?"

Astor

"At the most! The longest part would be picking the exact shade!"

Leal

"Oh yes, absolutely, there are so many! How to choose..." He tapped his chin in thought.

Astor

"Any time I change something's color, I always have to slap it on first and then adjust it by eye. Unless I'm matching a photo." A wry smirk. "A while ago Angel sent me a picture of one of his blonde wigs to copy, but the photo must have been taken in cool lighting, because it looked like a sort of lavender gray—so that's what I walked around in all day. I didn't even realize I hadn't really matched it until he pointed it out."

Leal

"Oh, the one you wore for the audition! I remember, I did like the way it looked." He moved in front of his full length mirror-- and in a blink was in his normal clothes. And with default Alastor hair-- that was part of the glamour.

"I think I'll try it your way, let's start with primary solid purple." Annnd there he was, but now purple.

Astor

"Try making a few strands lighter and darker. That always helps save me from looking like I escaped from a poorly colorized picture show." Leal probably already knew to do that, but was that going to stop Astor from shouting out his hard-learned tips and tricks? No, it was not.

Leal

"Hm, good idea!" He started to card his fingers through his hair, strands changing at random. Then he swapped the normally black parts at the base of his ears and the end of his hair to a dark purple instead. His other colors shifted, too, some becoming lighter or darker, until it was a more natural look.

"How's this?"

Astor

"Quite convincing! Why, if I didn't know better, I'd think you're a natural violet!"

Leal

Leal chuckled, moving to sit back in his chair.

"Alright, hot shot, your turn then! Show me those metallics!"

Astor

"Let's see here! What about..." He flicks his finger against his hair. *Ting.* It instantly looks and shines like it's been sculpted out of solid gold. "What do you think, is it going to convince anyone?"

Leal

"Think maybe that sheen is a bit too on the nose! Tone it down a tad." He hummed, static filling the air briefly as he did.

"I just realized, you're probably going to look like one of those living statue fellows! Or some Las Vegas performer!"

Astor

Alastor laughed. "What, like this?" He snapped his fingers and now all of him looked like he was solid gold.

A laugh, and he snapped his fingers again and was back to normal. This time his hair actually looked like hair. Unusually shiny hair, but still hair. He examined himself in the mirror. "Well, it needs work, but we're in the ballpark.

Leal

Leal snorted into a laugh, nodding his head. "Yes, just like that!"

He considered Astor, tilting his head. "The blond is harder to work with because if it doesn't look natural, it just looks overly processed or completely fake. Whereas my purple seems fine with less because purple is inherently an unnatural color."

Astor

"But if it looks natural, then it doesn't look like gold." He tried to shift it more toward what he thought a "normal" blond looked like—and it just looked kind of bad and yellow. He tutted. "I might have to browse a wig shop for examples, this is going to be a difficult color."

Leal

"Oh no need for a shop, come over here." Leal stood moving to a door that was very much not the one that lead back out to the hall. He opened it and snapped, the light turning on.

"I don't just wear red wigs, darling." He smirked.

The room was almost as big as the dressing room itself, filled with all manner of costumes and wigs and accessories.

"Have a look, blondes are over there." He gestured to a bunch of blonde wigs on heads.

Astor

"Does Madame really let you take up this much space, or is this *your* property?" He tried to feel as he stepped through the for for any shift in the atmosphere that would indicate he was magically moving to a different place.

"This is quite a collection!" He started going through the blonde wigs for any that could be properly called gold-colored. "I've always done my hair with a liberal application of pomade and shapeshifting. What got you into wigs?"

Leal

"The dressing room is mine, but any extra space is just a little spacial distortion, nothing fancy." He shrugged, like it was a normal thing. But to his alt, it probably was.

"Doing my performances actually. I started out using my real hair, but it ended up not being practical when I wanted certain dos and it was just too short. So I started collecting. I've got a wide variety now, one for every occasion in an engenue's life." He laughed.

Astor

Seemed normal enough to him!

"What young lady's wardrobe is complete without a variety of hats!" He picked up one head to squint closer at the color. "I rarely venture outside the flapper bob. When I do, I usually just magic that up too—but I suppose you don't want to risk something distracting you and breaking the illusion mid-show, do you!"

Leal

"Exactly! The less things left up to my concentration the better!" He laughed.

"Any striking you so far?"

Astor

"What do you think, does this look gold to you? Properly Mardi Gras gold-gold?" He held it out.

Leal

Leal inspected the wig, light shifting to be a more neutral white instead of the yellow of most of the usual bulbs. His head tilted, eyes narrowed.

"I think if you take that and the up the saturation a tick or two, you'd have it."

Astor

He silently mouthed the words *up the saturation...* After a moment of thought, he ran his claw tips through the wig and made the yellow a little more vivid. "Like so?"

Leal

Oh, had that been confusing for his alt? Hm, he'd note that. "Yes, just like that!"

Astor

He wasn't exactly a visual artist. "Hm." A squint, did that look gold? He didn't exactly have a gold brick here to compare it with, did he? "Let's try it out!" Back into the main dressing room, so he could hold up the wig to act as comparison in the mirror while he adjusted his own hair color.

"There! I wouldn't call it *my* color, but I'm sure I'd be wearing a mask with it anyway, wouldn't I? Of course, by next February, I'll have to do this all over again." A wave, and both the wig and his hair returned to their usual colors. "Did I ever ask you how your Mardi Gras went? I don't know if I did. It's such a busy season, and then right after that rehearsals started."

Leal

"I don't recall if you did or not either! It was a fine time, I collected a lot of beads on my antlers." He chuckled, the purple fading from his clothes and self-- and then a blink and they swapped back to the outfit he'd been wearing, his costume from the show. Sometimes, one just wanted to be covered in diamonds, it seemed.

"I got absolutely sloshed, three sheets to the wind and then some! It was a good time-- I don't remember half the night!"

Astor

"Oh yes, I remember seeing you say that! You'd mentioned the beads." He returned the wig where it belonged. "I suppose you don't do the courir? You've never mentioned any Cajun family."

Leal

"Oh no, no Cajun. Always liked seeing them running around though." He chuckled.

"No, my father's side was more..." He sneered briefly. "They were Northerners. Carpet-baggers. Did I tell you that before?"

Astor

Oh, so he'd seen the courir! Astor's eyes brightened a bit. Outside of Louisiana—and sometimes even inside, depending on who you were talking to—nobody had ever so much as heard of the courir. The fact that Leal at least knew what it looked like was something.

"No, I don't think so. From the way you talked about them, I figured they were some old plantation family."

Leal

"Oh, no, I think I would've died sooner if that had been the case." He seemed much more serious about that comment than the phrasing would imply.

"No, my Father came down from up north, New York, wife already in tow. Wanted to make a fortune down south and did so." His smile turned sadistic. "His wife _loathed_ it, the heat and humidity, the bugs, the bayous, everything. The little time I spent with that woman there wasn't a moment of it she didn't complain. And that was after nearly thirty years of living there!"

Astor

Astor certainly didn't take it as a joke. "Mm, fair. I'd prefer the carpetbagger to the plantation owner myself."

He laughed dryly. "Doesn't she sound like a peach. Just think! You very nearly could have had *her* for a mother!"

Leal

Leal shuddered. "I'm certainly glad I didn't! Not with how her own children acted-- only my youngest half-sister was tolerable, and even then, I hardly would say I _liked_ her! Could you IMAGINE if I'd had grown up with the New York Carpet-bagging Catholics?"

He shuddered again and laughed. "Then _I'd_ be the white alternate!"

Astor

"I still don't know how that happens," he muttered. The multiverse was always baffling but sometimes it found particularly uncomfortable ways to be so. "You know, I'm sure I knew at least a few Catholics whose families moved from New York after the war—in fact probably more than I think, I just don't know it—and they seemed... well, less insufferable than *your* people. So, decent enough. But I wonder if I ever crossed paths with yours."

Leal

"It's possible! If you ever came across a carpet-bagger with an insufferable wife, a douchebag of a son, and two daughters, only one of which was tolerable, then maybe!" He snorted.

"I _do_ wonder if you killed my cousin like I did, though."

Astor

A sigh. "Unfortunately for this little thought exercise, whenever I come across people as insufferable as you make them sound, I try not to stick around long enough to find out details like how many children they have, much less which state they lived in a few decades earlier." Unless they were the fun kind of insufferable, but from Leal's testimony they didn't sound that way.

"That depends! Did he like deer hunting?"

Leal

"Don't know! Never had so much as a conversation with him before I killed him. He tasted alright, though." A shrug.

Astor

"That's no help, I don't know how any of my victims tasted. Well! If he didn't, I didn't; and if he did, I might have. I had a very narrow niche of targets."

Leal

"I suppose we'll never know!" Cue an melodramatic sigh and pose.

Astor

"Well, if you ever run into him, tie him up and call me over and I'll let you know if he looks familiar." His grin stretched wider.

Leal

"I'll be sure to!" His own matched his alternate's.

Astor

He cocked his head, listening for sound outside the dressing room. "Say, aren't there usually more acts on after yours? I was told they go into the wee hours." He tilted his head toward the door. "Do you usually have plans after your performance? Or would you like to stir up a little controversy by having the star performer spend the evening in the Radio Demon's private booth?"

Leal

His grin turned devious. "Oh, I'd _love_ to. The tabloids are going to go _wild._ Give me two shakes to get into something more appropriate-- and I do have another performance later, but it's the last show of the night, so no worries there."

Astor

With mock surprise, "Why, my dear other! I was told that's when they put the raunchiest acts! What sort of a performance am I in for?"

Leal

"Oh don't look at me like that, I don't go nude! Just some more....scandalous dance moves." He chuckled.

"I do this every time I perform, because if there's another showing of Astre at the end of the night, more people stay through the rest-- which means more money for Madame with all the drinks and food they have to order to stay put." He winked as he headed to his closet. A minute inside and he reappeared, this time in a sparkling red evening gown. He got his wig and put it back on, letting the glamour drop in place on his face.

"I figured I'd wear your color, darling," He cooed in Astre's voice.

Astor

"Why, my darling, you look simply *ravishing* in red!" He offered an elbow and a wink. "In fact, you look *just* as good in red as I do."

Leal

Astre laughed, taking his arm with a curled, clawed hand. "I think so too." She winked back. "Shall we?"

Astor

"Let's!" He opened the door with a gesture, and out they go. "I recommend the étouffée tonight, my sweet. It's simply divine!"

Leal

"I'll have to give it a try!" And with that, they exited back out into Madame's, alighting rumors everywhere.

[pseudofaux]

Tracassin {Comte/MC}

Nothing scandalous, but the desire is heavyyyyyyy. Kinda angsty. Please enjoy if that sounds like your thing! This gripped me in one of those creative MUST DO MAKE WORDS WRITE LONGING fevers. It’s been awhile, so I was happy to let it happen!

“Is it... Marcel?” she murmurs, back to the game they have been playing for weeks, always with much more space between them.

Rumpelstiltskin, Tracassin, she had suggested in the garden on one of her first happy days in the mansion, if you will not tell me your name, then let me guess! He had agreed, so eager to indulge her and feeling some relief that the game put him in the villain’s place. He could be her entertainer and friend, and of course he would protect her. But he could not orbit her like a lover would. They’d smiled companionably over their cups from the fine set of Limoges, the brilliant white space in the pattern reminding him of her unpointed teeth. He had been confident she would never guess his name. And he had thought it such a neatly-arranged way for her to pass the time, close but not too close.

She is being shockingly bold, but moreover needy, she is needy over his body there in the chair in the hourglass room, and she has said her need is for him, good Lord—

“Comte,” she whisper-whines, plump lips moving softer than her word over his cheek, his jaw. He would have sworn before this moment that he knew what it was to suffer, in life and in lust. Of course she would be the one to show him better. She has revealed so many of life’s joys to him already, clarified tastes like lemon juice in jellies and lifted cloche after cloche off the delights of Paris he may never have found without her. How could she do anything but make his despair a sharper, deeper cut? What will be left if all his rules bleed out of him through the split she is making in his heart? That is the true and most dangerous question.

Because it is so dangerous, he will resist her, he will gently extricate himself from the chair and he will get up and usher her out or leave the room himself. He will... he will remember his plan as soon as she moves her mouth from his jaw, the very second she stops sowing a soft line of kisses there, so precise that the gardeners of the Grand Trianon would weep to see the elegant devastation she is working against him. He has not felt flush on his own skin in such a long time but it is there now: inelegant, blotchy, lurid. A mockery of mortality. It makes him nervous in a way that is juvenile, as he remembers the first time he ever courted, the fumbling declarations, the warmth of love in youth, tender and unwise. Her face interposes itself between memories of learning to dance and kiss. He wants to groan but worries if he makes a single sound, he will break more than his own silence.

“Is it... Marcel?” she murmurs, back to the game they have been playing for weeks, always with much more space between them.

Rumpelstiltskin, Tracassin, she had suggested in the garden on one of her first happy days in the mansion, if you will not tell me your name, then let me guess! He had agreed, so eager to indulge her and feeling some relief that the game put him in the villain’s place. He could be her entertainer and friend, and of course he would protect her. But he could not orbit her like a lover would. They’d smiled companionably over their cups from the fine set of Limoges, the brilliant white space in the pattern reminding him of her unpointed teeth. He had been confident she would never guess his name. And he had thought it such a neatly-arranged way for her to pass the time, close but not too close.

She is quite close now, the expanse of her skirts allowing the knee she has put on his chair to cage him in. The wingback could hide them from the world, if they were really lovers. Her body leaning to his, the sweet honesty of her seduction, these things have stunned him.

She pauses for his response, but before he can use the time to gather himself and move, she moving herself, shifting over his lap and making another guess. “No, not Marcel. Adrien?” She exhales a little laugh. The sound blooms from her throat, below the blood place. He can smell it, precious as butter and salt, and he is grateful he has never needed to see Lear’s folly to know the value of these things. Le comte de Saint Germain knows what makes a table and a feast, and though he will not have it, he knows exactly what he wants spread out before him on the lacquered rosewood surface where the mansion takes its meals.

There is a kindness to her hum, a milky sweetness, when she lifts away from his skin. Only far enough away for the lonely beast in his heart to yelp pathetically for her return, please, anything, go far away or come closer and truly ruin me and it is all silenced with her words. “I don’t think that’s a yes,” she says. “But you are not giving me any real answers at all...” And she returns to kiss his jaw again, her bold but ever-gentle hand cupping the other side of his face. He is surrounded by the feminine pressure of her, but he cannot surrender and he absolutely cannot allow his thoughts to list toward any consideration of feminine pressure.

He feels her arms under his hands, the slight supple muscle of her upper arms tense from contact that has surprised them both, and he is grateful his body is faster than his mind. Her name is a warning on his breath, but it is so heavy with his own need he must yet again keep himself from groaning. If he heard her say his name with as much passion, nothing would keep him from her.

“No more guessing tonight, ma chèrie beauté,” he begs her as he pushes her away. “You must rest.”

She is looking at him with an assessing sort of fire in her eyes, but still she is kind. She has kept her hand on his cheek even as he moved her to stand on the floor in front of the chair.

“Will you tell me?” she asks with transparent, honest hope. If timeless ones had her grace, their lives would not be ones of melancholy.

“I would not take away your game,” he says. Her gaze becomes reproachful.

“It is our game,” she whispers, and she moves to lean in again, has even closed her eyes. But his hands hold her. The hurt in her face wounds him. He wishes it only wounded him. He is not good enough to receive her, let alone reject her-- that is why he must lean on the crutch of this farce and play at disinterest. He releases her arms to pat them and the second time manages to make it more of a quick touch than a caress.

“Shall I call Sebastian to take you to your room?”

He hates himself. For a moment she looks like she hates him, too.

“Non,” she says with emphasis, suddenly French to her toes, and it is a new torture not to smile at her. He tries to focus on not moving forward as she finally draws her hand away, fingertips sliding over the muscle in his jaw that jumps to maintain contact with her. He wonders if even she has limits to her grace, if she is doing this on purpose to twist the knife in his heart.

It is there as a plug, that yelping animal whines, craving her understanding as much as her self. It is there to keep you safe.

She does not look at him as she walks away, but at the door she turns. She is reproachful and a little prim, but no longer angry. “In my time, women take lovers,” she tells him. “If you do not want me for one, it is courtesy to tell me so.”

“I have told you I do not want you for a lover,” he says immediately, and the syllables are so wooden and lame he can see every way her face transforms from pique to victory.

“Goodnight, Monsieur,” she says softly. The door traveler is gracious in her laurels.

He bids her the same, and asks her to forgive him for remaining seated. She only nods, sparing him further ruin. When the door clicks closed, he counts her slippered footsteps as they soften to silence in the hallway of his home. At twenty, he allows his hands to destroy the rests of his chair, splintering the fine frame underneath leather and stuffing.

Rouge and Blanc are both in reach, and both completely unappealing. He shakes the dust from his palms and undoes one cuff. Cleanly, he rolls the sleeve to his forearm, cream against his skin. He thinks of going to find Leonardo for company instead of being so maudlin, but decides against it. Melancholy men find one another eventually, and he’s convinced the other man loves her, too. They all do, damn them. For tonight, he’ll keep his hurt and his blood and his regard for her to himself. He has a terrible sense of dread that these things will see sunlight long before he would like.

She did not touch his sleeve, but her scent is unmistakable over his own, perhaps haunting the air around him. Butter, salt, lemon, lilacs, life. He sucks it in through his nose as he pierces the vulnerable skin inside his arm. The adoration for her is too strong to even imagine biting her and he can taste his own blood so it would be useless to try, but the smell of her stays with him as he punishes and soothes himself. She is the golden light of summer, unavoidable as midday sun. If hers could be the only sunlight to see how weak he is for her, he might dare to reveal himself. She will burn him if he is not careful, and oh, she makes it so hard to be careful. But without her in the room he is cold, and desires her warmth like a winter beggar, even more than when she was there.

[rikumorimachisgirl]

So, I started writing this Mystic Messenger fic last year but lost the inspiration to continue. I finally finished it today, so I hope you like it.

Oh, and I commissioned this lovely artwork from @hydeine last year, too. I said I'd tag her when I finally post the fic. I suppose today's the day. Here we go...

Title: Strawberry Pancakes

Pairing: Jumin Han x OC (Iris)

Genre: Fluff

Word count: 2,665

Author's notes: Some of the scenes were faithful to the game.

Disclaimer: I do not own Mystic Messenger, but I own the idea of this fanfic.

It started with pancakes. Those thick, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth fluffy stove-top cakes that both of them - apparently - were both fond of. 

The first time they talked about it got him into a spot of trouble. Over an utterly dull lunch date with his father and his latest conquest, amidst the rich ambiance of the Michelin star restaurant where only the who's who in society were spotted, Jumin Han chose to indulge in a little tête-à-tête of his own at the RFA chat room with her. 

Her. Iris  - RFA's accidental member, unofficial party organizer, everyone’s cheerleader, and about the only other person who resonates with him. Jumin quietly as he waited for her to respond to his last message. Over the last twenty minutes, they have gone from talking about Elizabeth the 3rd’s grooming habits to his favorite breakfast food.  

| ‘I like chocolate chip pancakes.’  He felt his lips stretch sideways as he read her message. It was strange, he thought, how he's been joining the chat room more often since she joined. In the two weeks that they've been chatting, he felt closer to her than he's ever been with anyone in his life. 

| ‘I figured you would.’ He typed and sent.

|’Huh?’

|’You seem like the type who'd indulge in something with high sugar content early in the morning.’

|’That was a lucky guess, Jumin.’

|’But I don't believe in luck.’

|’Oh, and I suppose you think you've got me all figured out already? If you're so smart, tell me what I’m thinking at the moment.’ He smirked at her cheeky response. 

| ‘Iris, I'd like to remind you that I’m a businessman, not a fortune teller. If you’d like me to infer based on our conversation though, I'd say you're thinking that I like buttermilk pancakes, to which the answer is no. I prefer strawberry pancakes.’

Silence. 

| ‘Am I really that predictable?’ Her message finally came in two minutes later. He chuckled. In his mind, he imagined she probably would’ve pouted as she replied. 

“You seem rather amused, son. Did something happen?”

The sound of his father's voice snapped him out of his daydream. The young executive silently cursed himself for carelessly dropping his guard. Clearing his throat, Jumin straightened up and ran a hand through his dark locks. 

“My apologies, father. I had urgent business to take care of.” He tucked his phone in his pocket while wishing that Iris would understand why he hadn't gotten back to her. 

“Judging by your smile, I take it that business is going well?”

It took all of his willpower not to roll his eyes at his father's new girlfriend. Glam Choi was it? And what was it that she did? Judging by how she managed to turn heads, he deduced she must be some kind of celebrity. Nothing special, he thought; after all, his father, the Chairman of the Board of C & R International, seemed to have dated them all - socialites, celebrities, models, beauty queens - some of whom were even a year or two his junior. 

“Jumin? Are you all right, son?”

He silently cursed himself once more. While he was silently judging his father’s new girlfriend, he had once again dropped his guard and gave the older man the opportunity to call him out. 

“My apologies.”

“That's twice you've apologized. My, what an interesting day it is indeed, ” the stately older man said curtly. “Is our company not to your liking, son? Please just bear with us for a few minutes more. After all, your assistant told me that you won't have an appointment in the next hour or so.”

Jumin took a deep breath and sighed. If he had only known his old man’s agenda was to introduce his new girlfriend, he would’ve begged off right away. God knows he’d much rather be eating pancakes with her now than having a full-course meal in this place. He shook the thought away for a moment. Now wasn't the time to dream of her. Fixing his grey eyes at his father and the young celebrity he decided to date, he feigned a smile. “Very well, father, you have my full attention until then.” 

OoOoO

The second time they talked about pancakes was more of an afterthought. It happened right after their first kiss. 

Their first kiss. The very thought of it still made his heart race. He remembered every little detail as if it were yesterday. He had Assistant Kang to thank for arranging everything for him. Thanks to his efficient employee’s quick thinking, he was able to meet Iris a week earlier than the rest of the RFA members, although if he had a chance to do it over, he wouldn't be as flustered as he was when he first laid eyes on her the night before.

He watched in awe as she stepped into the foyer. She was everything he’d imagined - slender and graceful, her brown hair cascaded down her back, and her dark brown eyes looked back at him with the same level of wonder. 

“Jumin, i-it's so nice to finally meet you.”

He swore he’d never felt his heart beat faster than it did at that exact moment. ‘Get a grip, ’ he scolded himself, as he schooled his emotions before it got the better of him. He must not lose his footing, after all, he was Jumin Han - businessman, philanthropist, future CEO.

“You’re beautiful.” The words slipped from his mouth quite naturally, and he immediately regretted it when he saw her cheeks turn several shades redder. 

“I’m sorry, ” he cleared his throat. “What I meant to say was that I hope you traveled safely. If I had known Assistant Kang was going to ask you over, I would’ve sent out my driver to pick you up.” 

And then she smiled, and he knew right away that he was going to do whatever it takes to keep her. 

“Who is this woman and what is she doing in your house?”

Jumin gazed at the shameless woman his father had been forcing him to marry and resisted the urge to throw her out of his penthouse himself. 

“Sarah, please don't be like that. I'm Jumin's friend -”

“And what kind of friend comes a man's house alone? By the looks of it, you probably stayed the night, too!”

If Iris was the least bit upset at the insults hurled at her, she did not let it show. Unfortunately, he was far from being gracious. 

“This is dragging on far longer than I expected. I'm actually quite surprised I hadn't thrown you out the door the minute you showed me that fake cat picture. My security will show you out.”

“What? No, you can't do that. I'm your fiancée,” Sarah cried out incredulously. 

“Oh, please,” he said haughtily. “If you think that we'd  gotten engaged just by exchanging a few words, you're clearly delusional.”

“So, you're choosing her over me?”

“I don't know why you're even asking,” the dashing Chief Director of C & R International said, as he turned his attention to the willowy brunette who stood quietly in the corner. Something about the way she looked at him urged him to come closer to her. With each step he took, the answer became clearer. He stopped in front of her and smiled. She was a good head shorter than him, and she looked adorable gazing up at him with those big brown eyes. 

“It wasn't like I had another choice to start with,” Jumin finally said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Iris,” he whispered, as he lifted her chin and closed the gap between them. He could've sworn he felt a shock wave run through his body the minute his lips touched hers. Suddenly, the sound of Sarah's protests faded, and all he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat - or was it hers? He really couldn't tell - but every single one of his senses zeroed-in on the beautiful woman in his arms.

Her lips were the softest he’d ever kissed - not that he’s had lots of experience - as a rule, he only kissed women because he needed to close deals with them and the kisses they shared were always cold. This, however, was different. As his mouth moved over hers, again and again, all he could think about were two things - how her kisses taste like strawberry pancakes, and that he could never get enough of her. 

OoOoO

The third time they talked about pancakes was a memory guaranteed to make her blush almost immediately. He remembered vividly - Provence in July, a month after they'd gotten married. He promised to take her on an unforgettable honeymoon anywhere she wished. He thought she'd choose to go to Paris, Santorini, Milan, or even Ibiza, and he’d be happy to take her there; but instead, she chose to go to his newly-purchased winery so he could still oversee their daily operations while spending time with her and Elizabeth the 3rd. 

That's so like her. 

He woke up alone in bed one Sunday morning. Frustration marred his beautiful face as he ran his hand over her now-empty side of the bed, and found it still warm. She couldn't have been gone for long, he thought. And Elizabeth the 3rd, who usually enjoyed sleeping late, was not in the room as well. Still half-asleep, he forced one eye open to glance at the clock on her nightstand. 

‘Six-thirty, ’ he groaned silently, as he rolled on to his back. What exactly could his wife be up to this early? Sighing, he rolled out of bed and left the room in search of the beautiful woman who disappeared from his side before he even got to kiss her good morning. 

The house was quiet except for some movement coming from the kitchen. Raising an eyebrow, he quietly made his way to the large French country-style kitchen his wife loved so much and found himself entranced at the sight of the lovely brunette he now called wife, stirring something in the mixing bowl while their pet sat on the counter, looking curiously at her. 

"I hope I get this right, Elizabeth the third, " she told the cat softly. "Jumin's pancakes always taste good, so I hope he'll like these."

Her innocent declaration made him gasp. She was making pancakes for him. And that realization made him pick up his feet and head over to where she was at. 

"I see you both are up early."

"Jumin -, " she cried out in surprise, as she felt his arms wrap around her waist from behind. "Good morning, my love. I didn't expect you to be up so early."

"I could say the same about you, especially after we made love several times last night, " he responded, as he planted soft kisses on the side of her neck. Her cheeks turned red at the thought of their passionate night together, and he smiled, knowing how embarrassed she was. "You're blushing."

"I can't help it…, " she murmured. "And I think you've disappointed Elizabeth the third." 

He watched their pristine white cat jump off the counter and saunter out of the kitchen. "I think she's just giving us some privacy. Don't worry, she'll be fine, " the dashing young businessman said as he stopped kissing her, but kept her in an embrace. "So, tell me what you're up to." 

"I was going to make strawberry pancakes for you, " she started, her face still flushed. "But I'm not sure they're as good as the ones you make."

"Is that so?" He unwrapped his arms and moved closer to the counter where the mixing bowl was. "I suppose there's just one way to find out." 

She watched in silence as he dipped his long and slender finger into the bowl and scooped up a tad bit of better. Carefully, he brought his finger near her lips, while watching her gently. "Say ahhh…, " he said and laughed at how dutifully his wife complied. "Well?"

"It's sweet…"

Cocking his head to one side, he smiled at her wryly. "Is that so?"

"Why don't you taste for yourself?" 

His eyes twinkled with excitement, as she failed to realize how enticing her offer was. Cupping her face with his hands, he leaned forward and whispered, "I suppose I will, " before he ravished her mouth - and all of her body - over and over just like the night before. 

The pancake batter was left untouched until later that day. And as she had placed ointment on the scratches she had left on his back, he feasted on the strawberry pancakes she had made just for him. 

OoOoO

The fourth time they talked about pancakes was on Valentine's Day - the first of many they'll be spending together. He thought of many ways they could be celebrating this together and spent a lot of sleepless nights thinking of the perfect present for her. Never once did he think they'd be spending the day spooning her in bed, with one hand caressing her swollen belly. 

Thirty-eight weeks. She had been carrying their first child for nearly nine months, and despite her growing belly and her slight weight gain, she continued to look even more beautiful. 

"I really want pancakes, Jumin."

His hand stopped moving, and he raised an eyebrow at her upon hearing her request. "Darling, I asked you what you wanted for Valentine's…"

She snuggled closer to him as she felt his low voice vibrating on his chest. The gentle sound of his voice always soothed her and the baby, and she wanted to hear more of it today. "And I told you I want pancakes."

He frowned, feeling a little upset at her answer. In truth, she could have anything she wanted - jewelry, cars, all the designer items a woman could get her hands on - but all she wanted to for Valentine's was his home-cooked pancakes. "That's all you want?"

"That's all I want, " she hummed. A few seconds later, she felt the baby kick and the sensation made her giggle. "See? Even the baby wants pancakes."

"But the doctor said you should lay off sweets…" He should have known better than to speak those words because no sooner had he said them, she immediately turned to him with sad puppy eyes. He sighed. He knew at this point that he had lost to her once again - after all, he could never resist her - but he wanted to make her victory a little harder. "As I was saying, the doctor said…"

"But Jumin, I haven't had anything sweet since we found out I was pregnant, " she said, pouting. "And I'm really craving the strawberry pancakes you make."

"Will that make you happy?"

"Very much so."

Sighing again, he untangled himself from her and rolled out of bed. "All right. I suppose I can alter the recipe a little bit. You just lay there and rest, okay? I'll be back with your pancakes."

Elizabeth the third jumped from her bed and walked beside Jumin as he stepped out of the room. "How long do you think before she rolls out of bed and follows us?" He asked, glancing sideways at their precious feline as she mewled her response. "Ten minutes? That's too generous. She's been too fussy lately, but something tells me you're spot on, so we need to move fast."

And true to form, a very pregnant Mrs. Han waddled out of their room ten minutes later, enticed by the mouthwatering scent wafting from the kitchen. 

"Those smell heavenly, " she said excitedly, as she made her way beside her husband and stood on tiptoes to give him a kiss. "Thank you, Jumin, " she whispered before she waddled towards the cozy little breakfast nook she had designed for them. 

He smiled, as he watched her walk away from him. She had no idea how happy she's made him, how lucky he was that she came into his life, and how thankful he was for all the many things that brought them closer together. Especially strawberry pancakes.  

The end. 

[rosesisupposes]

Other Half

hi i was haunted with the idea of subverting a soulmate trope after a chat with @potestessemagishomosexualitatis and it evolved in like a day on discord so here y’all go!

relationships: brotherly prinxiety, QPR moceit, romantic royality, implied/eventual anxceit

content tags: musician roman, techie/sound-guy Virgil, deaf Patton, QPRs, amatonormativity, soulmates & lack thereof, happy ending

word count: 2,847

read on ao3

Roman has half a soulmark, waiting to make skin contact with his Soulmate to finally be completed.

His brother, not so much.

Context: In this world, soulmates have half a symbol somewhere on their skin, each with one half. When soulmates have skin contact for the first time, both marks complete. The amatonormativity (prioritizing romantic love) is very strong, despite the fact that soulmates have frequently been platonic, not just romantic. It’s still a rather progressive idea, similar to gay marriage, and the traditions and stories are all centered around that romantic ideal. In that vein, some people have thirds or fourth of a mark would need to contact all their soulmates to have a complete mark. Marks are very much for One Person (or, occasionally, Two or Three Specific People), and so not everyone meets their mate. Not everyone has the means. They could be anywhere in the world! But unfortunately, there's still an idea that even if you're with a partner, you'd leave them if you met your soulmate, and that other relationship are just settling.

⁂

Enter two brothers.

Roman goes starry-eyed over stories of meet-cutes and surprise soulmates. He wants to know if he'll feel it, as his mark completes. Someday, when he meets his Someone™️!!!

And then his brother, Virgil.

Virgil... doesn't have a mark. He's not sure he's heard of that before. He has some freckles, but those fade with the seasons. Soulmarks don't fade.

Roman has half a circle, and it either has petals or rays around it. A flower or a sun, he thinks. It's right on his bicep, so he frequently goes sleeveless, and greets new people by taking both their hands in his every time. Just in case.

Lots of people do that- but it makes Virgil uncomfortable. Even if he knows he'll never be the one to trigger someone's mark, he hates knowing that's what everyone expects. He'd rather keep his hands to himself. He wears his big baggy hoodie to avoid the expectant stares of people looking for his mark, and avoids skin contact as much as he can.

They grow up in a family without a ton of resources, so neither can afford to take the 'Soul Year' some teens do where they travel before going into higher education. But Roman's determined that his career will help him meet hundreds, no, thousands of people, and he will find his soulmate!

Virgil really doesn't love the whole soulmate thing, the obsession with it, the constant reminder that he doesn’t have one and will never have one. But he does love his brother.

He tries, sometimes, to temper Roman's excitement just to make sure it doesn't hurt too much if he never finds The One. But mostly he just listens as Roman waxes poetic about his hypothetical love.

Roman, for several years, went silent, assuming Virgil wouldn't want to hear it. But Virgil has just kinda accepted it, you know? He's basically like everyone who never ends up meeting their mate, except he gets to skip the years of doubt and worry that their mate might suddenly appear at any time. He knows from the get-go. He’ll never have to look back with regret or sorrow, never have to worry about disrupted relationships, never need to mourn that his hypothetical mate might have died before he could meet them. It’s fine, really.

Roman becomes a singer and songwriter, and acts on the side. Virgil does his cover art and helps him with the sound-mixing. They're a great team - and they always have been.

Virgil makes friends with the roadies and techies, happy to leave Roman in the spotlight. He dates, sometimes. It's easier when they go on tour- a short international stay means no promises, no uncomfortable conversations about the future, no intrusive knowledge of a partner's Someone™️ out there.

After years of touring, Roman is internationally known and recognized. But he's also starting to lose hope.

He's lost count of all the meet-and-greets he's been to, how many hands he's grabbed from the stage into the crowd. He makes sure to at least high-five every roadie and tech, every opening act or announcer. His songs range from fantastical to domestic, from sweet and bubbly to sorrowful and yearning, and he loves creating, he does. But he knows there's someone out there for him, and he wants to meet them so, so badly.

They're in Paris for a show, and Virgil and Roman are strolling along the Seine. It's Spring, Roman's favorite time of year, and all the trees are in bloom. It looks like something out of a Hallmark movie.

Roman sighs heavily.

Virgil bumps him with an elbow. "Hey, no moping. That's my aesthetic, no stealing."

"Vee, what if I don't ever meet them?"

"Ro-"

"I know I should keep hoping, but- I've touched so many people and still haven't found them, what if I never will?"

"Then you'll be like most of us, Ro. Find love & companionship the new way: with hard work and dating apps."

Roman nods, but sighs again. "I just... really wanna, Vee." His voice is small, like a pouting kid. 

"I know. I hope you do."

They keep walking, but Roman's practically shuffling. On the one hand, he is a fucking drama queen.

On the other hand, Virgil wants him to feel better. 

Rolling his eyes, Virgil orders ice cream from a vendor in clumsy but serviceable French and presents Roman with his sprinkle-covered cone. Just like he knew it would, it perks him up immediately.

"Chocolate! My favorite!!"

"How are you possibly older than me. You are five."

"I just have childlike wonder, not a well of ennui!"

"Fuckin' dork."

"Edgy poser."

"Prima donna."

"Nerd."

Distracted, Roman walks straight into a man looking off at the river. He stumbles and trips and they both fall.

"Oh goodness gracious, forgive me, excusez moi, je suis desole! Pardonnez-moi!" he rattles off.

The man smiles, and his hands dance. Virgil realizes he's signing. Sorry, I didn't see you there!

 Luckily, Virgil understands it - he’s taken classes in ASL, just for kicks.

Roman knows very little sign, but he learned a couple of phrases. Sorry!

Virgil adds, It was our fault, we weren't watching.

Virgil recognizes the starry-eyed look on his brother's face. It's yet another Infatuation At First Sight, where he throws his whole heart into hoping. 

"Vee, Vee, ask him his name please?" he says, smiling for all he's worth at the curly-haired man in front of him.

Before Virgil gets a chance, he sees the man's eyes flick up and past them, and he breaks into a sunny smile. (Virgil might actually understand his brother's infatuation, for once)

Another person comes over, holding two ice creams. Virgil does a slight double-take. Like him, this newcomer chooses not to show very much skin. But they've covered even their hands. Ice cream somehow looks funny in a gloved hand.

Handing one to the first man, they start signing with one hand, far faster than he can follow. He catches a couple of signs he recognizes - gestures to himself & Roman, are you okay, something that either is we're late or shoo.

The first man is still smiling, though, and whatever he says must be okay, because the newcomer turns to them. They speak with a lilting accent, something not quite Parisian. "Please forgive my barging in- I can't exactly call for Patton from across the walkway.  My name is Dante. And you are?"

"I'm Roman, and this is Virgil, and it is wonderful to meet you!"

Virgil signs along with his brother's words, and sees Patton's eyes crinkle happily as he greets them both.

Roman has clearly also noticed Dante's gloves, but turns to Patton. With a slight bit of hesitation, he speaks and signs at once, "May I shake your hand?"

Virgil is sure he's not imagining the minute pursing of Dante's lips, but Patton's nodding and reaching out and so is Roman.

Roman is clearly holding his breath, and Virgil is too, both braced for opposite outcomes. But Patton's small, tan hand is wrapped in Roman's larger one and both sets of eyes are huge. 

Virgil's eyes flick to Roman's bicep, exposed as always, the white mark a stark contrast to his dark skin, looking like a sun or maybe a flower and-

"Holy shit-" Virgil breathes.

Roman, however, is not looking at his arm. He's staring directly into Patton's dark eyes with a smile that looks confused and elated all at once, and their hands haven't parted. 

Patton's eyes are just a huge, even huger thanks to his glasses.

"It's you," Roman says, wonder in his voice. Patton seems to read his lips, because he smiles somehow even bigger than before and signs It's you! back.

And sure enough, the mark on Roman's arm is a full circle, a full sun or flower, and Virgil's head is reeling.

Virgil's not sure what to say- the two soulmates seem content to keep staring and smiling and holding hands. But Virgil's just... nervous. Soulmate or not, this ‘Patton’ is a stranger, but Roman looks like he might never move from his side. Fuck, they can't even communicate both ways, Roman knows practically no sign and he just used up the only full sentence he’s ever learned.

He looks nervously at Patton's companion. Dante is staring too, seemingly unaware of the ice cream dripping down their glove.

Dante starts to sign something, realizes Patton can't see them, reaches out to tap Patton on the shoulder, then stops before they can touch, hand falling to their side. They look down and finally notice their ice cream, and blanch, pulling out napkins to clean their glove before it stains.

Virgil digs into his knapsack and pulls out a wet wipe and offers it. "This might help more."

Dante looks up, staring at Virgil without a shred of comprehension until Virgil waves the wipe once more. They take it with a quiet, "Merci."

They turn away, wiping off their glove and tossing the rest of their ice cream into the trash. They wiggle their fingers, clearly uncomfortable with the damp fabric. 

Virgil shifts awkwardly. He should say something, but what do you even say in this situation? He has no idea what their relation is to Pat- oh fuck, what if they were dating and Roman's just swooped in and ruined it?

In his tried-and-true method of awkward small talk with new roadies in new cities, he says, in French, "So, Paris, yeah? Know any good cafes near here?"

Dante shakes themself a bit and turns to look at Virgil. "Ah, yes. There's a patisserie just on the next block. Shall we relocate them and stop blocking the tourists?"

Virgil nods and looks over at his brother. He weighs his options of interruption, and decides on flicking Roman in the temple.

"Ow! Fuck! Vee!?!"

"You're blocking traffic, dumbass."

"I'm having a moment."

"Well come have a mocha. You can keep having your moment and I can have coffee. C'mon." 

He sees Dante signing to Patton too, explaining the plan but much more politely. Roman and Patton continue holding hands, but follow them down the block.

They get Roman and Patton sitting at a table in a picturesque cafe, and walk to the bar to order. Virgil orders his go-to of a double shot and gets Roman his mocha. Dante orders themself a latte and a vanilla cappuccino for Patton. Sitting at the bar waiting, Virgil looks over.

"So. That lunkhead over there is my brother."

Dante nods. "And Patton is my. Well. You might not know what it means, so don't immediately freak out, okay? But it's called a queerplatonic partner."

Virgil can feel the nervousness melt away. "Oh, phew. Yeah, I know what it means. So Roman's not homewrecking by being a discovered soulmate?"

"Well. I certainly hope not. But I know not everyone really, uh. Gets it. Especially with the soulmate sh- stuff. Things."

Virgil grins. "You were about to say soulmate shit, weren't you."

"...No."

"You're a terrible liar."

Dante winks. "I might surprise you."

Virgil raises an eyebrow. "Oh that's how we're gonna play it?"

"I don't play, monsieur. I just win."

"Okay then, here's a test. Why the gloves?"

Dante automatically goes to adjust them, and looks up at Virgil. Their eyes drift down to his hoodie and back up. "I think you know exactly why."

"You don't have-?"

"Nope. I don't have one either."

"I thought I was-"

"The only one?"

"Apparently not."

Virgil looks over at Patton, sitting with Roman. They don't seem to be even attempting to talk still, just staring and holding hands.

"With the QPP- are you aromantic? Do you think that's why?" He gestures vaguely at their whole body, but he’s never been quite as elegant in his gestures as Roman is.

Dante opens their mouth to speak, but stops, and sighs. "That's what I've been saying. It was easier, to say maybe this was for a purpose. And I do love Patton with all my platonic heart and I will kill your brother if he hurts him."

"The feeling’s mutual."

"But, no. I'm not fully aro. I still have romantic attraction and all that, I've just been guaranteed that even if I want it, I'll always be someone's secondary love so. Might as well lean in, right? Make the system work somewhat in my favor?"

Virgil opens his mouth to respond, to object, when the barista calls out their drinks, and then they're carefully carrying full mugs across the cafe and finding a table next to the couple.

Patton appears to be teaching Roman how to sign his name. Roman is even managing to pay attention.

"I get that, uh, reluctance. The playing-it-safe thing," Virgil says quietly, so only Dante can hear. "We travel a lot. That's a good excuse to avoid the whole fucking system. No conversations about who'll leave who when the mark shows up, because I'll be leaving in a month, tops. And people looking for hookups barely poke you to check for the mark before just... getting on with life. No expectations, no holding their breath or unrealistic disappointment."

Dante smiles weakly. "Well, good to know for when I need to start dating. I think I'm about to have a lot more free time."

"Until Roman needs to travel on again. We're here for three full weeks, but-"

"What is it you do, that you both travel so much?"

"You know Sun Prince, the singer?"

"Yeah?"

"You're looking at him," Virgil says wryly, tipping his head in Roman's direction.

Dante's eyes go wide. "Oh, that's why he looks familiar."

"So Patton probably didn’t recognize him either?"

"Nah, he tends to like EDM and electronic things the most, for the bassline. Clubbing with a deaf partner is great - the priority is just feeling the music, and we don't have to yell to hear each other."

Virgil and Dante continue to chat quietly on casual topics, but Virgil's leg is bouncing. He wants to ask the bigger questions, but it feel like prying. It's none of his business, really, right? 

But it's Roman's happiness on the line. And Virgil will do anything and everything to protect his brother. Even if it means awkwardness.

"So, uh. Did y'all have the Conversation™️ before now?"

Dante raises a questioning eyebrow in response.

"The 'what happens if he meets his soulmate' conversation. Don't tell me Pat's the only one you've ever dated?"

Dante blinks in a way that implies that were they a lesser being, they might have blushed. "Actually, he is. But yes, we've had that conversation. I'll never get in the way of Pat's romantic love and his soulmate… destiny, ou comme tu veux. I just want to still have a part in his life."

They're tugging at their gloves again, even though their face remains smooth. Virgil recognizes a nervous tic when he sees one. And god does he recognize the sentiment.

Not that any of his past partners had ever wanted to stick around in return. Why would they? He wasn't their soulmate. They hadn't decided to "settle" yet.

"I can't speak for him, but- I think Roman will be open to that," Virgil offers. "He loves performing, so we'll probably still be traveling a fair amount. But I mean. I think he'd understand that you two are a unit the same way me and him are. Like, yeah, we're brothers, but we've been each other's lifeline our whole lives, and that's not about to change. Even if he's finally found his Other Half."

Dante looks up gratefully. "I can tell you love him. And- I hope you're right."

"I should be. If Roman's a dick about it, I'll smack him upside the head."

That surprises a laugh out of Dante. They finally pull off their glove entirely, shaking it out and letting it dry on the table. "I won't interfere with them, you'll encourage Roman to not interfere with us. Do we have a deal, then?"

They offer their bare hand to shake. For once, Virgil doesn't hesitate, but takes it immediately.

Skin hits skin. Virgil finds an agreeable little shudder running down his spine as he appreciates for the first time how attractive this person is. Elegant chestnut curls, heterochromatic eyes that are dancing with delight, and disarming smile. 

Dante winks as they withdraw their hand. "What, not going to check for your completed mark now, just in case?"

Virgil grins back. "No, but I can help you look for yours later, if you want."

"Is that a proposition? Monsieur, goodness, you move fast," Dante replies, fluttering their eyelashes.

Virgil shrugs. "It could be one. You know, we're clearly gonna be around each other a lot. They found each other the old fashioned way. Maybe we could try something a bit... less traditional."

Dante smiles. "I'd like that a lot, Virgil. Should we break into cloud nine over there and ask them about the future now?"

Virgil nods. Soulmark or not, the future's looking pretty good.

tag list: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt ​@thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty @max-is-tired @almostoveranalyzed @hawthornshadow @mariniacipher and obligatory royality tag @notveryglittery and anxceit tag @vintage-squid

[twocupsofsuga]

His Treasure || Part 12

Pirate!Baekhyun x Reader - Series

Summary: It’s either on your knees and beg for your life or your walking the plank.

Absolutely NO plagiarizing my work. Moodboard by @byunfirstlady

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“The library?”

Nodding furiously, you gave the butler who was just passing by an eager look.

“Ya, a library. I'm sure you folks have one around here somewhere. This is a castle so…. Royal library maybe?”

The butler made a thinking face. “Ahh, yes. His Highness Jaebum’s private library. It’s quite magnificent I have to say, a grand area filled with many wonders. Only thing is that he doesn’t allow anyone inside.” He sighs. “Shame really.”

Your smile falters at this. “What?”

The butler nodded, motioning you to follow him as the two of you walk together down a long hallway. 

You had woken up this morning with quite a headache. Last night sure was something to sleep off of. As soon as you got dressed and ready for the day, you had decided to just aimlessly walk around the castle when you suddenly came across a butler who was doing his own thing. You had just asked him about the library and were a bit disappointed with the answer.

“If you want a way in His Highness Jaebum’s personal library, you need permission from himself first. Only he gets to decide who goes in and who doesn’t.”

You nodded, albeit frustrated. This would surely take some work.

“My lady?”

You and the butler both stopped waking when you heard a foreign voice. Turning around, you both were greeted by a castle maid who bowed when she stopped a few feet away from where you stood.

“Please excuse me if I’ve interrupted anything.”

You shook your head, offering her a small smile and letting her know that she wasn’t interfering with any important talk.

The maid straightened up and nodded. “Well, Prince Jaebum has requested to see you. He is about to have breakfast and was asking if he could eat it with your presence.”

You looked at her slightly stunned.

Oh yeah, you forgot that all of your meals would be with him from now on. Nonetheless, you gave your approval. You left the butler with a polite goodbye, one that he happily returned and walked away from you, off to perform his own duties.

The maid leading you made you follow her to a floor lower from where you previously were to the ground floor. You grew confused when she turned around and began to eye you up and down.

Asking her what was wrong, she shook her head, telling you that she was just seeing whether if what you were currently wearing was appropriate for breakfast or not.

‘Goodness.’ You though. ‘They even fuss over what clothes to wear while they eat?’

“I’m fine with what I’m wearing.” You told her. “Don’t worry about it.”

The maid gave you a nonchalant look before looking forward as the two of you continued your way.

“I’m sure the lady is comfortable with what she is wearing.” She replied. “I was only thinking about pleasing His Highness.”

“Why’s that?”

“Lady (Y/n) is going to marry the Prince, are you not? You will need to look your best at all times for him. It’s nice to make the Prince happy. It is also by His Highness Jaebum’s orders to make sure you always look nice, despite whatever may be happening or event be occurring.”

You deadpanned. Wow. You had completely forgotten about that detail, the whole main reason why you’re even here.

“Oh uh... of course...”

As you reached a set a set of large doors, the maid stopped and knocked on it twice. Once the two of you heard a faint cheerful voice saying, “Come in!” The maid gently pushed the doors open and you walked in slowly, seeing Jaebum seated at a long table that was flowing with delicious looking food.

Your stomach grumbled softly, and you blushed, hand unconsciously coming up to rest against it. While you were too busy eyeing the food, you didn’t notice Jaebum smile.

“Why don’t you join me (y/n)? As you can see, I’ve got plenty to share.”

You blushed and your eyes went up to meet his. “Th-that would be nice. Thank you.” You stammered, and slowly walked over to the table.

There were many chairs around the long table, so you were a bit unsure on where you should sit, but Jaebum stood up before you could ask him anything.

“Here.” He said, standing behind the chair that was on his front right and pulling it out for you. “I would like you to sit next to me.”

Nodding and sending him a small smile, you walked up to your chosen seat and stood in front of it, sitting down on it once the prince pushed it forward. You felt chills when he placed his hands on your shoulders ever so gently.

“I hope you’re not starving too much my dear.” He said as he walked back to his seat. “I suppose it took the maid a bit of time to search for you. But please,” he motioned to all the food that was laid in front of the two of you as he shot you a charming smile. “Take whatever your hearts desires.”

Your stomach growled softly once more and you nodded at him, deciding to eat something before your stomach starts doing loud sing offs.

You grabbed a nearby piece of French toast, slowly bringing it to your mouth and taking a bit out of it.

Jaebum watched, smirk growing as he watched your eyes widen at the first taste, and instantly digging in to more food around you. He watched as you tried to remain proper while doing so, but he knew that because of the cooking from his best chefs, it would be hard to do so.

He noticed you taking a bite out of some freshly baked soft bread and then your eyes accidentally making eye contact with him. Slightly embarrassed, you brought the bread away from your mouth and bashfully looked to the side.

The prince just chuckled and went back to eating from his plate. “Forgive my staring.” He said with a laugh. “It’s just that it’s been a while since I've had company on the dining table. I haven’t enjoyed a meal with a presence since my last bride. I hope she’s at peace…” his voice trailed off, a sad look adorning his face now.

Oh, that’s right. Prince Jaebum still thought you were with number three and has no idea that you were actually option number four. Looks like you have to keep up the act for more longer until Seulgi finds a proper suitor for him.

You looked back at Jaebum. “I’m sorry.” You muttered, though loud enough for him to hear you. “It must be a bit hard to see me sitting where she should have. I don’t really expect you to open up much to me. We did just meet two days ago.”

Jaebum shook his head and looked at you. “No no my dear.” He said, waving his hand in a carefree manner. “Fret not over it. Besides…” he suddenly stabbed his piece of fruit in a harsh manner that made you jump.

“She was clearly a wrong choice.”

You looked at him in shock, watching him as he continued to eat. His sudden shift in tone made you confused and a bit wary. Why did he… talk like that, almost in an angry tone over someone who had passed away?

You shook your head, resuming your eating as well. ‘This could probably be his own way of mourning. I can’t really judge him much right now…’

There was a few seconds of awkward silence, but Jaebum soon broke it.

“It appears to me that I still do not have much knowledge of your interests my love.” He spoke, catching your attention as you looked up to meet his gaze that suddenly looked calm and nice. “So please, tell me of the things that you like to do in your spare time.”

You had to think about this for a bit. You could just tell him of the things you liked to do back on your own island.

“Hmm, I usually like to go on small strolls around the village. I have a pretty good knowledge on medicine and healing herbs so I tend to try and help whoever’s injured whenever I have the chance. I love to sing, dance and listen to music. Oh! And one more thing…”

You hoped that what you were about to say worked…

“I really, really like to read. And I’ve found out that lately, I haven’t been able to do so as I was a bit… busy with a few things and haven’t been given the time to catch up on any reading of the sort.”

“Really?” the prince spoke. “Well, so do I! I'm glad we have a similar interest to such an activity!”

You were glad that you seemed to peak his interest. You shot him a smile as well.

“I’m glad we do too. But there’s just one thing…”

You decided to play a little dirty. You were going to get access to his library if it’s the last thing you do.

You twirled a lock of your hair between your fingers and looked at him with what you hoped looked convincingly enough to be as innocent.

“Do you…” you continued. “Have… I dunno… a library or anything that I could visit? I’m sure you have a nice one around here somewhere. A man of your class and knowledge should have one. Correct?”

Jaebum brought a hand forward and rested his chin on it. He hummed. “Well, I do have one actually. But I'm afraid it’s off limits. You wouldn’t be able to have easy access to it too I’m afraid. I had the library custom made in my room. ”

Your hope deflated. “Oh…”

Jaebum must’ve seen the expression on your face, because he suddenly changed the topic.

“Oh, I nearly forgot!” he nodded at you, as he took a sip of water from his glass.  There is a celebration taking place at the village today. I would like for you to attend it with me, if you could. I assume you haven’t seen the village square properly yet? Seulgi told me that you’re from the island north from here. Are you… from The Foredoomed Islands?”

Your eyes snapped at him in shock. “N-no! Not from there! Goodness gracious.”

The Foredoomed Islands. The islands in which claim was crawling with witches and wizards. People whom society had deemed unworthy, failures, and deadly. No one goes out alive if you went there, is what rumors said. Not many have visited the island, but those who did, no one cared enough to know about it.

People said that when you take a single step on the shore of the island, you’ll feel your insides begin to burn, and they say that just a few mere hours on the island can turn you mad, because the outcasts who live there have cursed the whole island and everyone who visits it. That whole island screamed go away.

You decided to just tell him where you were really from. No harm in telling him you supposed.

“I’m not from that place. And I’m not sure from which direction it is from here, but I’m actually from Dayrose Island. I think Lady Seulgi gave you wrong information.”

‘Damn you Seulgi! Next time confirm things with me before you say anything to this man!’

“Ahh, I see. The island a few days South from here. Pardon my misunderstanding.” Jaebum said, nodding his head. “But Dayrose Island you say? Interesting. But I thought that the last royal family member died many years ago? Leaving the island to self govern itself?”

‘Dammit. This guy knows his stuff.’

“Uhhh. Y-you’re right about the self govern part kinda. I’m uh… the last bloodline to the royal family. There’s a lot of responsibility on my part, so I gave my people a bit of freedom to self govern themselves. Which works out perfectly since our island is a peaceful one.”

That last part of what you said was true. Your home was really good at maintaining peace between those who inhabitant the island. Not many problems broke out there but whenever there was any, the people always managed to overcome and solve them in the end.

The only thing that they couldn’t handle though, were pirate attacks. And with the attack of the EXO pirates being the second attack, it was obvious that no one on the island knew how to handle them, since attacks on island were sometimes common on other islands and peninsulas, but very rare on yours.

“Sounds like a nice place. Maybe I should visit it some day.”

You tried your best to mirror Jaebum’s smile. ‘Please don’t.’

“As I was saying before.” He continued. “The village is having a celebration late this evening. I’ve never attended once, but Seulgi’s adamant that you will enjoy it and wants me to take you. She thinks you will have a good time.”

You pondered over this. A celebration in the village? While the idea sounded good, you were a little hesitant because you knew that Baekhyun and his crew would be lurking around there somewhere. Your meeting with Baekhyun yesterday near the restaurant confirming your fear.

But, what could you say to this prince without raising any suspicions about you? You couldn’t tell him that you were associated with pirates. You just couldn’t. it was a fact that whoever was in contact with pirates, bad luck was to follow them wherever they go and that they are untrustworthy. Because pirates always meant bad business.

But seeing how Baekhyun was scared off Jaebum, seeing that he ran away when he appeared that night to save you, you figured that you should be safe next to such a high person. Also, it would be hard for them to do anything to you without alarming the villagers and in return, them notifying Jaebum of whatever happens to you.

You sighed. “Ok, I’ll go.”

Jaebum clapped his hands.

“Excellent.”

And from that moment, light conversation occurred between the two of about small matters. Once you were done with breakfast, both you and Jaebum got up and headed outside the dining room.

“I must part ways with you here now my dear.” The boy next to you said. “I have business to attend to someplace else. I’ll see you later tonight.”

You looked at him surprised. “Really? Where are you off to?”

“There’s something I need to do at the conference hall. It’s located at the end of the island. I’m not sure if you noticed it or not.”

“I haven’t. Will you ever show it to me?”

Jaebum froze for a split second, but relaxed instantly, although you noticed it already.

He made a small face. “It’s not really much to be honest.” He said. “A little boring even, if I must say. But I promise to show you anything else, if you ever wish.”

“Your Highness.”

You both turned around to see a butler approaching, him stopping to bow once he reached you two.

“Sorry to interrupt. But your carriage awaits you outside.”

Jaebum sighed and nodded. He turned to shoot you another charming smile. “Well, I must bid you goodbye now my dear. I’ll meet you when you’re ready at the entrance of the palace gates at around eight o’clock. The maids will help you get dressed. Have a pleasant day until then!”

“Farewell Prince Jaebum.”

You waved after him as he departed from your side.

Once he disappeared from your sight, you huffed and turned around, walking to god knows where.

“Ok.” You said with a determined look.

“Let’s find that library.”

“The Prince’s room should be at the end of that hallway my lady.”

“I see, thank you!”

The maid you had randomly stumbled across nodded and gave a small smile before walking away downstairs.

Looking back at where she had pointed, you stared at the hallway. There was a turn going left at the end, and you assumed that when you turned that way, you would find Jaebum’s room.

You walked slowly forward, pace gradually picking up the pace, until you were fully on sprinting. Turning left, you took a few more steps forward and stopped.

When Jaebum told you that the library was built for his own desire in his own room, you thought him to be crazy.

A library, in his own bedroom? Yeah right.

But he was rich. He could do so if he wanted too. And that arose a bit of suspicion in you. If it were a normal library, then for sure he would’ve been fine with having it built outside of his room. But the fact that he had it made it so that no one else but him have access to it, you couldn’t help but wonder what it was exactly that he was hiding.

Now that you stood in front of his huge bedroom doors, you began to grow nervous. Maybe coming here was a little too risky.

But you ignored your thoughts. You were already here, so might as well get it on with. Who knew when you could have this kind of chance ever again?

You listened for any footsteps that might be coming this way. But when you heard none, you took a step forward and pushed down the door handle, sighing in relief of the fact that it was unlocked, before quickly slipping in and closing the door behind you with a small click.

Your eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets once you did a once over after taking a good look at Jaebum’s room.

He had his normal looking bedroom on the side. Well, what was expected of a typical prince’s bedroom to look like. A king sized bed, huge walk in wardrobe, a big balcony, and another door which you believed led to the bathroom, all placed on one side of the room.

But the view of the library was what blew you away. On the wall in front of you, was an arch-like entrance that led to a separate room, the library.

Walking and going through the arch, the sights of all the books blew you away. It’s been a while seen you’ve been in a room with so many books lined neatly along the shelves. Some were even stacked on a few small tables here and there.

When you were fully in the library, you noticed a huge map plastered on a board behind a big chair and desk.

As you walked up in curiosity towards it, you took note of the many places market by little tacks on the big map and how the all seemed to be connected by string. The tacks that were scattered were in random places, on random islands. But when you followed all the tacks, you noticed that at the end of each rope, they all stopped at one place in the ocean.

“Dead Man’s Home? What’s the prince got to do at that death place?”

Dead Man’s Home, a.k.a the most deadliest places knows for all sailing ships. No expert sailor could sail past the jagged, sharp shaped rocks that were littered all over the area. There was a huge cave on an island directly in the middle of the big mess. Some sailors have tried to go there to explore and see what new things they might’ve been able to find, but their boat always seemed to crash from the deadly rocks or just bad weather that was always present there. No one ever really came back with a peace of mind. Those who did never wanted to go back ever again.

Looking down at the desk, you spotted a big brown, leather book placed neatly in the middle.

Looking at it in wonder, you went to stand behind the desk and picked up the book. The first page you saw after opening the cover, was a bit of writing.

Im Jaebum - Pirate discoveries, activities, secrets, and whereabouts.

...

What?

You raised a perplexed eyebrow at this. Why was Jaebum studying and searching about pirates?

Before you could give it any thought, you heard the door of the bedroom being opened, and in panic, you threw the book down on the desk and dived down to hide behind it, heart beat suddenly picking up.

Who the heck was it?! You didn’t even find the courage to take a peak to even check where it was, until you heard a voice, causing you to freeze.

“Imbecile of a maid. Forgetting to bring my coat in this particularly cold day. Honestly.”

….

Shit.

It was Jaebum.

~Masterlist~

Please re-blog if you liked it!

[taylorroger-s]

heartsick.

a/n my first (kinda) deaky fic!! IT’S A LOVE TRIANGLE LADS!!! i just kinda needed to write this? it has been a work in progress since february and i haven’t found the push to finish it until recently when i looked through my google docs and started finishing some wips. this is wild as hell man. kinda sad i cut it off right before THAT japan trip tho… part two anyone??

masterlist here! 

people who asked to be tagged: @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​​ @johndeaconsgf​ @cowparsleys​

warnings : angst, curse words, some partying, briefest suggestion of infidelity, the whole shebang. 9.1k words baby

enjoy :)

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john had always loved your smile. the way your eyes crinkled at the edges and your dimples showed. the hint of white teeth behind your plush lips. he would walk heaven and earth just to make you happy. 

now you were smiling that beautiful smile, but it wasn’t for him. it was for your newly minted fiancé. 

you had met john the first day of secondary school. you were placed in the same french class, seated diagonal to him. the first time you heard his voice was about an hour into the lesson when the teacher said something you couldn’t remember, and deaky muttered a dirty comment. you snorted out of laughter, drawing his attention. when your eyes met his, john knew he was a goner. 

from that day onward, the two of you were ingrained in each other’s lives. from birthdays to holidays, sickness and health, he was there for you as you were for him. it took it an almost ridiculous amount of time for him to realize his feelings for you.

the kicker was that he couldn’t tell if you felt the same. you were almost inhumanly hard to read, with a devilish grin and sharp wit. you treated most with the same cool attitude, same suave confidence that drove him insane. it didn’t help that you were also devastatingly attractive. 

every time you showed interest in him his heart would race and cheeks flush, stumbling over his words to find a response somehow as witty as you. you were unafraid of eye contact, able to make deaky crazy with just a smirk and eyebrow raise. 

for years, john had convinced himself that you were harboring feelings for him just as he was for you. it might have been true, you were always quite affectionate towards him and particular, giving you an unproportional amount of attention when around other people. but sometimes that would flip, and you would ignore him all together for hours. that didn’t stop him from twisting each bit of witty banter into a sign that you were in to him. only you knew your true feelings, but that didn’t stop deaky from speculating. from what he could tell, you were also horribly oblivious and most likely didn’t have a single inkling of his feelings. 

despite this, your friendship was still good and sincere. john could put away his feelings to keep that alive, tiptoeing around the idea of being something more.

through either a strain of luck or misfortune you ended up going to the same university, growing even closer through shared classes and drunken nights. by then, deaky’s feelings had only intensified, while yours stayed a closely guarded secret. who knows? maybe you did have feelings for him. you sure as hell wouldn’t admit anything, and neither would john. so the two of you stayed in that limbo for ages. 

until john joined queen. your world and, by association, his flipped upside down because of a certain blond haired drummer. 

his first official queen gig. july 2nd, 1971. it was a college gig in surrey, and the first time deaky introduced you to his bandmates. he had joined the band in february of that year, but hadn’t let you meet his new bandmates quite yet. when the day finally came, you dressed up much more than you would for a typical rock concert. when you rolled up to deaky’s flat, john swore that his jaw hit the floor. 

distressed leather jacket and tight black skinny jeans, with a low cut, patterned tank top. you wore high heeled, stained white combat books and silver stud earrings. your smoked out eyeliner just added to your addicting mystique, as did your blood red lipstick. compared to you, deaky looked like a broke college student, which he was. you looked even more like a rockstar than he did. john could barely believe his luck when you ran up and gave him a big hug, confessing how excited you were for him. it assured deaky that you were still his.

right?

you chatted excitedly during the ride about one of your various passions while he stayed quiet. it wasn’t like he was bored, quite the opposite actually. deaky could listen to you talk for hours and hours. he adored the way your voice changed pitch as you got more excited, the way you acted out your thoughts animatedly with your hands, and that goddamn smile you would offer him after pausing for breath. your eyes would show that rare glimmer of emotion. and it was all for him. 

once you reached the venue, john was having second thoughts. he didn’t want to share you with everyone, which he was embarrassed to admit. he knew that the magnetic nature of his bandmates would draw you away from him, which was almost debilitatingly terrifying. he wouldn’t be able to stand growing apart from you. so he devised a small scheme to hold off the inevitable. 

“hey y/n? how about you stay out here. i can meet you backstage after. i think it would be better to experience it from the crowd.” your face fell slightly. you were excited to be part of the behind the scenes experience of a rock band, it was one of the few things you had yet to do. but you understood his concern. it made your heart flutter just a bit. you gave him a quick embrace and kiss on the cheek before going off to find some alcohol.

he breathed a sigh of relief as he watched you weave your way in between the crowd. he still had you to himself, even if it was just until the end of the gig. shoving down his feelings, deaky made his way to the backstage space where his bandmates were lounging around, going through their pre-show rituals. 

roger was sitting on a drum case, a cigarette hanging precariously from his lips. his thin fingers tapped away on his thighs, cycling through the drum patterns he had memorized. brian sipped from a half empty beer bottle, eyes trained on the ceiling. freddie was hunched over a mirror, fluffing his hair with a frown on his face. 

freddie turned to john, looking at his outfit with lips twisted in a look of disapproval. freddie was dressed quite extravagantly, while deaky had opted for a simple t-shirt and jeans.

“dear god deaky, what are you wearing?” john frowned, looking down at his outfit and then back up to freddie.

“uhh, clothes?”

“oh no, that won’t do.” he shook his shoulder length curls, waving a black nailed hand at deaky’s gig attire. 

“please tell me why it won’t.”

“it’s so… plain. we’re queen for god’s sake! we have to look the part!” freddie waved his hands dramatically, showing off his tight leather jumpsuit, one leg in white and the other in black. his dark eyes were lined with smoky eyeliner, making his strong features pop even more. deaky just had his hair brushed, wearing a ‘the who’ shirt and bell bottoms. 

john had to admit, he looked quite plain compared to the rest of the band. brian was wearing a sequined black top with batwing sleeves, and tight leather trousers. roger opted for an open floral blazer, with zebra stripe patterned trousers for no discernible reason. john looked more like a concert goer than a rockstar. but he wasn’t about to back down. 

“i’m alright with the plain then.”

“one day… i will change your mind, mark my words.” freddie said with a mischievous grin. john just rolled his eyes, trying to suppress a smile. though he had only been a part of the group for a few months, they already felt like brothers to him. 

deaky walked over to his bass, resting it on his lap. he absentmindedly plucked away to a random beat, letting the music cycle through him and calm him down. his eyes fluttered shut. he fell back on a memory to soothe his nerves. he thought of you, sitting with your head on his shoulder as he strummed softly on his bass. he could almost feel your hair tickling his cheek as you shifted to sit up and look at him. 

“that’s beautiful.” you had said, toying with the ends of deaky’s long hair. your chin was rested on his shoulder, nose just barely touching his jawline. 

“think it has potential.” your closeness drowned out any rational thought he could scrape up, but each brush of your skin against his brought him back to earth. you were a drug that sent him reeling with his head in the clouds, heart pounding at every sly look and smile. he was far, far gone for you.

“that’s some grade a bullshit john.” you pulled his hand from the bass and laced your fingers with his, tracing small circles on the back of his palm. that was his favorite memory of you. you were so relaxed and peaceful, which made him feel the same. it was always the last thing he thought of before he ever had to confront a crowd. 

“you alright deaks?” roger asked, pulling john back from his memory into the gritty reality of the cramped backstage in that tiny pub. he nodded, taking off the strap of the bass and resting it against the arm of his chair. roger offered him his cigarette and deaky gave him a gracious smile, taking a long drag before blowing the smoke out through his mouth and nose. after a couple more puffs, they got the signal that it was time. john took one last pull before stubbing the cigarette out and picking up his bass. here goes nothing. 

the small main room was packed, people standing shoulder to shoulder to watch them play. it was flat out electrifying. they cheered raucously as brian strummed the opening note of liar, freddie joining with vocals not long after. john scrunched his eyebrows in concentration during his solo, skilled fingers rapidly plucking away at the four strings of his bass guitar. after his part ended, he looked up, searching the crowd for you. 

after just a moment, he caught a glimpse of you near the center of the crowd, dancing and singing along wildly. your face almost immediately brightened when you caught him watching, and you shot him a bright smile with some enthusiastic thumbs up. it made john’s heart swell, and he returned your smile. soon freddie’s iconic line “mama i’m gonna be your slave” and deaky rushed to his side to sing the “all day long” line.

every time he sang, he locked eyes with you, which gave him just enough confidence to sing in front of the crowd, especially since he had always considered himself a bad singer. you had always vehemently disagreed, saying that you absolutely loved john’s singing voice, but he couldn’t really tell if you were humoring him or not. for the record, you weren’t.

but only one song later, when john had nothing to play, he looked back at you, hoping to see you smile one more time. but you weren’t focused on him. you were focused on the drummer right behind him. deaky whipped his head around, stomach twisting when he saw the look in roger’s eyes. one that he had seen during practices whenever he would bring along a groupie. a lustful, dangerous look now aimed entirely at you from across the cramped stage, you being barely close enough for roger to see you with full clarity (he had atrocious eyesight). and you seemed to be returning his coy smile, even grinning and breaking his gaze when roger gave you a cheeky wink. john was so busy looking between the two of you that he almost missed his cue. this was going to be a long evening. 

the rest of the show passed in a blur, one filled with sly glances and flirtatious gestures from across the room. but they weren’t for john, on the contrary. they were all for roger, who you were basically eye-fucking from the crowd. and he was certainly enjoying it. deaky was decidedly not. he could feel the regret pooling in his gut. you were just too irresistible to deny, and when you begged to go to his first gig, he couldn’t say no. 

but now you were completely enamored by that blond casanova, one of john’s closest friends. that was when he knew that it was the beginning of the end. he could feel you slipping through his fingers. and it was absolutely terrifying. you had been by his side for so long, that a world without you next to him was unfathomable. 

after the show, you came straight to deaky, almost jumping into his arms. he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, placing a hand on the back of your head to hold you close. that was the same position you had been in after your highschool boyfriend broke your heart, or when your grandma died. deaky had held you close and let you weep into his jacket, whispering soothing words. 

“deaks! you did so amazing!” you pulled back a little, placing a hand on his cheek. he melted into your touch, consciously aware of the goofy grin he must be sporting. you had such an intoxicating effect on him. 

“i’m very proud of you, don’t you forget it.” your thumb slowly moved back and forth across the skin of his cheek, leaving a trail of warmth in your wake. john pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around your back. he wanted to drink in that moment for as long as possible. but he felt you start to back up, and he knew exactly why. because over his shoulder came a cloud of cigarette smoke and expensive shampoo fragrance, and john let you go, even though it felt like you were being ripped away instead. 

roger clapped john on the back, startling him. deaky looked over his shoulder and saw roger looking you up and down with a dangerous look in his eyes. he glanced between the two of you for a few moments, heart rate steadily increasing as time went on. 

“you must be y/n, i’m roger, the drummer.” he took your hand, raised it to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back of your palm. you were frozen in shock for a moment before responding. 

“nice to meet you roger.”

“so you’re not a myth?”

“what’s that’s supposed to mean hm?”

“well, john always talks about you like you are some sort of goddess. we didn’t believe him for a long while, but now that you’re standing here? he certainly wasn’t exaggerating.” roger looked you up and down, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. you smiled, genuinely smiled at his words. john had never seen you so instantly smitten. roger had you, you of all people, in the palm of his hand. 

“well aren’t you a flatterer.” you gave him a sly smile, giving roger a quick once over and a cocky eyebrow raise. deaky felt his heart crack just a little more. the two of you were so charismatic and confident that it was almost unfair. two people that bewitching should be forbidden from flirting with each other, in john’s opinion. 

“only with gorgeous women.” john’s stomach flipped and churned, and he felt lightheaded. seeing you so clearly enamored with his best friend sent deaky reeling. he and roger had always had a special connection being the two youngest members of queen. they were extremely close, and roger was john’s best friend second only to you. john couldn’t imagine having both you and roger separate from him. it would break his heart.

while deaky was silently spiraling, roger had taken a step closer to you, nudging john just a little bit further away. as if he was no longer inhabiting his body, john took another step back, though every cell in his body was screaming to take you by the hand and head to his flat for one of your impromptu movie nights. but it was too late, even though john had yet to accept it. 

after a few more minutes of lip bites and silver-tongued words, freddie waltzed over, announced there was an after party at the nearby pub, and pulled john to his side for the walk, leaving you next to roger. the door swung open as the small posse walked out, high on post-show adrenaline. john was standing in front of you, harnessing all of his willpower that wasn’t swept away by the cool summer night to not look over his shoulder, because he knew he wouldn’t like what he saw. 

from what he could hear over freddie’s rapid story about some debaucherous party in his uni days, you and roger were pulling each other in ever so slightly as the seconds passed. every time he heard your airy laughter deaky could practically see the gorgeous smile that would adorn your features, the way your eyes would crinkle at the edges as the conversation drew on. 

soon enough, they reached the pub, all primed and ready to get drunk in celebration of their first queen gig together. that would surely take the edge off of john’s steadily growing headache at roger and yours closeness. when he turned around, what he saw made him want to down at least three tequila shots to purge it from his mind.

you were bundled up in roger’s plush fur coat, despite the mild temperature. his arm was slung dangerously low across your back, nimble fingers tracing circles along your hip bone as you strode through the pub’s creaky wooden doors. you were laughing at something he said, a painted nail trailing down his chest. it was almost like no one was in the room. 

what really hurt deaky’s heart was your myriad of traditions the two of you shared on every night out ever since his eighteenth birthday, that you had decided to ignore. one shot of cheap tequila, then a gin and tonic for the both of you. but while john was walking toward you with two shot glasses in hand, you were leaning into roger heavily while he whispered something in your ear, a glass of whiskey and a cigarette in one of his hands, the other on your thigh. 

before you could see the hurt in his eyes, john turned, downed the shots, and walked towards the dance floor, determined to forget your awe-struck eyes as you looked up at roger. and it was just his luck that the song playing was “how deep is your love” one of your’s and deaky’s favorite songs to dance together. yet by some cruel twist of fate, he was alone, shuffling to the beat while stealing brief glances at you whenever possible.

two gin and tonics later, he had nearly forgotten about you and roger just across the bar as he bobbed his head to the music, sipping his drink every now and then. he was so distracted by the music that he barely noticed a tug on his long wavy hair, a habit you had picked up to draw his attention since he was a good few inches taller than you. it was clear to see you were a little tipsy by how heavily you were leaning against the bar, one hand gripping deaky’s bicep. 

“deaks, i’m gonna head. it was a long night, and i really need some… rest. but i can’t tell you enough how proud i am of you okay? you are an amazing best friend and i am so happy for you. good night johnny-boy.” your words were a little too airy for his liking, and as he bid you goodbye, he could see why. 

wrapped in rogers fur coat, you smiled as the drummer whispered something in your ear. john nearly dropped his drink, but instead stood back and stared as you left the bar under roger's spell. he could feel you slipping away, into the embrace of his best friend and bandmate. 

that was the beginning of the end.

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“whatcha thinkin bout deaks?”

“huh?” john mumbled, eyes closed as your fingers slipped in between his wavy hair, forming a long braid against his back. he always loved when you played with his hair. it calmed him down immensely, which was desperately needed. he had tried to ignore that you were at queen’s recording sessions more often than not, cooly ignoring him- or at least in john’s mind - in favor of watching roger. 

he could only hold on to the sick, twisted hope that you would see roger’s youthful promiscuity and let him go, sending things back to how it was before. but john was kidding himself. it felt like he had been from the start. 

“you seem a little… distracted,” you mused, resting your head on his shoulder as your gaze shifted to the quiet tv program inching by on your beat up box telly. there was a stillness in the air, sharp and cool, sticking to your skin. 

“‘m busy, that’s all. band is getting more popular, starting ideas for an album,” he murmured after a minute or two, placing his head against yours as an olive branch to break the alien tension surrounding the room. john couldn’t get the image of you in roger’s coat from his eyes, a smile he knew so well etched on your lips. 

“that’s amazing john. i am not kidding when i say queen might be the greatest band ever conceived.” he just laughed, nudging your shoulder playfully. the same old pattern reborn once more. 

“even more than the bee gees? marvin gaye?”

“okay, maybe not gaye,”

“you wound me, love.” you just smiled, slowly untangling yourself from the pile of blankets, tip-toeing over to the record player tucked in your bookshelf. john shifted to watch as you flipped through the impressive vinyl collection filling the empty shelves. you quickly turned once the needle was gently placed on your chosen song, holding out a hand to deaky with an eyebrow raised. after a few seconds, the song started playing, and john matched your soft smile.

listen baby, ain’t no mountain high

ain’t no valley low, ain’t no river wide enough baby

he pulled you gently into his arms, with one hand in the center of your back, the other gripping yours so tightly as if he was holding on for dear life. you either didn’t notice his desperate hold or declined to mention it. you just kept on whispering the words, slowly swaying back and forth to the relaxed beginning of the song. 

‘cause baby there ain’t no mountain high enough

ain’t no valley low enough 

john drew back, twirling you along with the rising tempo. your smile only grew, growing more goofy as your dancing continued. he could barely register the music, focused solely on the feel of your warm hand against his, the sweet scent you carried everywhere you went. you giggled at his dance moves, mirroring the exaggerated slow dance 

ain’t no river wide enough

to keep me from getting to you babe

without warning, john dipped you, fingers intertwined. a beat passed as he simply looked at you, eyes scanning your face hungrily as if he would never see you again. you were so close, his warm breath tickled your cheek. your heart skipped a beat, and he could only hold tight as the song spiraled to its end. you cleared your throat and flicked your gaze from him to the record player. getting the hint, he slowly, deliberately lifted you back up onto steady feet. 

deaky watched as you hurried to the record player. he could feel his stomach drop to his feet at your quick change in posture. did he make a mistake? did he overstep his boundaries? with each hypothetical his doubt and anxiety rose, rooted to one spot, incapable of moving while your back was turned. you cleared your throat, head lifting with you still facing the records. 

“you should…”

“yeah, see you later then?”

“goodnight johnny-boy”

“goodnight” 

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deaky was on his knees in the crowded backstage, various screws and wires around him as his deft fingers worked on adjusting his amp, making sure that everything was just right for the last show of their very first american tour. there were supposed to be more, but brian contracted hepatitis so the tour was cut short. 

may eleventh, 1974, just under three years after john’s first queen gig, and your first time meeting the band. meeting roger. things had continued as he had expected. you at every gig, on rogers arm whenever free, often disappearing and returned some time later looking noticeably disheveled. time had made the pain less sharp, but the ache was still there. the ache for you to be by his side instead of roger’s. 

john missed being close to you. they were across the atlantic ocean, muscling through long rehearsals and, as the evening before played out, two gigs in one day. in his distraction, a sharp edge scraped his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood that glistened under the lights. he muttered a soft curse, considering wiping the blood on his pants before hearing freddie’s voice in his head. “go change deaky, we can’t have you drawing too much attention!” john smiled to himself at the thought, winding his way through the faceless crew, searching for the dressing room. once he reached the door and reached for the handle, a noise came from the door that caused him to draw back his hand as if the handle was a thousand degrees. 

it was a name. roger’s name. high and giggly, and certainly not in your voice. deaky wanted to throw up. he knew it. roger was like a brother to him but he couldn’t shake the wave of anger that coursed through his veins. john expected this to happen, though he knew it was wrong- so very wrong- to think the worst of his bandmate. your tear stained face filled his mind’s eye, bringing with it crippling waves of guilt. he didn’t want to get involved, it was your business. but goddammit john wanted you to see the truth.

his internal debate was cut short when you rounded the corner, absolutely stopping any brain activity in its tracks. you weren’t supposed to be there. they were in new york for god sakes, and you weren’t supposed to be there. his internal monologue snapped back into action, keenly aware of the activities most likely occurring behind that closed door. 

“deaks!!! i’ve missed you! how has america been?” john barely registered the action as you threw your arms around him, squeezing him tight. every muscle in his body was tense with anger, guilt, sadness, that squishy feeling your presence always brought him. you loosened your grip after noticing his lack of reciprocation, but john quickly moved to pull you close, burying his face in your hair. 

“missed you too love.” you drew back, bright smile on your face. but your focus was clearly no longer on john, eyes scanning the hallway behind him for a certain someone. a certain someone who deaky suspected wasn’t being as faithful as you. 

“hey where’s rog?”

“he’s uhh… look, love, i think he might be with someone else right now. through that door. i’m so sorry. i’m here for you.” he had to force the words out. they scorched his tongue and hung in the air like thick, harsh smog. his heart dropped as your eyes widened, hands coming up to cover your mouth. some sick part of john was almost joyful at the prospect of your relationship with roger ending. you would certainly come to him for comfort, you would hang out more, and then his highschool fantasy would finally play out.

right?

“are you… but… john…” the way your voice wavered hammered a crack in his heart. a sharp stinging picked at his guilty cheer, slowly dragging him down to earth. this wasn’t anything to be excited about. 

“i’m so sorry love.” deaky stepped forward, arms open to embrace you, but your hand went up to stop him. your other hand was clutched tight to your chest. it was dead silent in your small section of the corridor, save for your irregular breaths and deaky’s heavy ones. your gaze was focused on the crack at the bottom of the door, breath hitching as your bright eyes followed another shadow. there weren't many words he could discern through the dressing room door, but that uncertainty only made the doubt worse. what could have caused the sudden quiet?

“don’t. i need to see him. right. now.” your spine straightened and you held your chin high. though you still sounded shaky, john could tell that your temper was about to boil over. 

“alright, i’m right here if you need me. that menace doesn’t know what you can do.” he watched your expression as you took a shuddering breath, slowly lifting your eyes from the floor. tears clung to the corners of your lashes, stubbornly refusing to fall. deaky reached out a tentative hand, and you waited a moment before taking it. your shoulders relaxed as his fingers intertwined with yours, and john felt his heart swell just a little. maybe there was hope for him yet. 

“thank you john, i mean it. you are the only thing i can depend on, apparently.” your weary tone made his hand squeeze tighter. deaky brought your clasped hands up and pressed a soft kiss to the back of your hand. the soft smile that appeared on your lips gave him another boost. you were strong enough to not be broken by roger, and even if you were hurt, john would be there to hold you. with another deep breath, you reached for the door knob and pushed the door open, ready to see what john had been anticipating. 

both of you were wrong. 

freddie fucking mercury stood in front of a sitting roger, eye pencil in hand. they were both laughing, freddie clearly mocking some critic or interviewer he encountered. freddie stepped back, taking hold of roger’s chin as he admired his handiwork.

“gorgeous rog, our dear y/n won’t be able to keep her eyes off you.” freddie had a mischievous smirk, everything clicking together as john surveyed the scene. roger’s eyes widened, and he turned towards the doorway where you stood. the fear drained from your eyes and was replaced with anger. anger reserved specifically for john. you dropped his hand, curling it into a fist by your side. 

“love! what are you doing here?” roger immediately hopped off his stool, racing to sweep you off your feet with an excited squeak from you. he held you in the air for a moment before placing you back down, making sure to pepper your skin with feather light kisses while he waited for an answer. 

“freddie flew me out here for the rest of the tour…”

“something wrong love?” roger asked, genuine concern in his soft voice. deaky’s guilt was mounting by the second, manifesting as a dense weight collecting in the pit of his stomach. oh lord. he really messed up now. the look of seething contempt on your face was enough to make his entire world crumble. 

he fucked up. he really, truly fucked up. john's growing fixation on yours and roger's relationship was driving you farther away. in that moment, he felt something break. your trust. 

"nope, just waiting for a fascinating discussion with our dear john here. i love you little drummer boy." roger grinned, leaning down to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. he seemed over the moon just to have you by his side, gazing at you with a childlike wonder. and john selfishly doubted that devotion. though an outsider would shrug off this fumble and move on, the dynamic that formed since you had met roger wrote this severance in stone. 

roger wasn’t oblivious as john assumed when it came to your relationship with deaky. he noticed that john was in love with you, even if you couldn’t see it. so once the drummer picked up on your scorching glare, and john’s palpable guilt, his heart broke as well. there was no need for him to say the words. roger wasn’t mad, just disappointed that deaky would think so low of him. 

“mind if i listen in on this fascinating discussion my love?” 

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you decidedly avoided john until the gig began, and roger followed suit. deaky was wracked with guilt, stumbling through the show. his fingers slipped across the strings without much reason, causing fred to occasionally shoot a glance to get him back on track. the drums seemed a bit… louder than usual, aggressively perfect timing contrasting with john’s fumbling performance. the crowd didn’t seem to mind, but the band members were far from alright. 

after the show, things weren’t much better. brian tried to catch deaky on their way off, presumably to give him an earful about their “god awful performance john, good lord” but he slammed the door to the bathroom shut and locked it before he had to face anymore reckoning. freddie was the next to demand an answer, taking the slightly more conservative route of screaming “pull that shit again or so help me god of rock and roll, i will break every…” and so on. 

you didn’t bless john with your presence, but your absence spoke wonders. roger didn’t show up in front of the bathroom door either. once deaky crept out a vague amount of time later, the boys were far from calm, but there was no longer a threat of being burnt alive from their anger. the energy in the dressing room was horribly tense. brian and freddie seemed clueless to the reason for roger’s anger, both just focused on the show. 

“wanna give us an explanation deaky?” brian muttered, leaning against a wall where multiple mirrors stood. john could see himself reflected in one of the smudged surfaces, brown eyes dark with a storm of emotions. roger was reflected in another, sitting with his elbows on his knees on a beat up couch. his face was a stony mask; completely unreadable. 

“well uh… roger and,�� john attempted to explain, but couldn’t seem to grasp the right words. each time he reached for something cohesive, it slipped through his fingers and he was left at square one. while deaky struggled with his words, freddie was getting impatient. 

“i cannot deal with this sober. you two stay here and work out your fucking problems. better now than tomorrow morning. we’ll be at that bar across the street.” freddie declared, grabbing brian by the arm and pulling him out the door to mumbled protest. freddie silenced him with a loud hush sound, pushing brian out the door and slamming it behind him. 

“so uh…” john started off, still not able to look roger in the eyes. instead, he focused on the reflection, dingy fluorescents shiny on roger’s dirty blond hair. but he didn’t seem angry. his body language spoke more of defeat and disheartenment. somehow, that hurt worse than your harsh words. 

“look, i’m not mad. just disappointed that you think i would ever do that to her. i know she’s your best friend, but i love her and i would never hurt her like that,” roger was so sincere, locking eyes with john through the mirror. disappointment was certainly a word to describe the look in his eyes, along with sadness and just a hint of guilt. roger was guilty because as a younger student, there was a bit of infidelity present, and there was some weight to john’s concern. but he had grown, and he really loved you. 

“i know, and i’m so sorry. you’re also one of my best friends, and i just got ahead of myself because…” john ran a hand through his long hair, gearing up for a confession of what he had known for years, but never had the strength to say out loud. 

“you love her too. i know. i can’t and won’t try to change your mind, because i get it. and yeah, i haven’t known her nearly as long as you, but i love her so much,” roger’s voice cracked at the end, sending a similar crack through john’s heart. roger leaned back on the couch, a distinctly sad smile on his face. this was really all deaky had ever wanted for you. someone who loved you unconditionally, and just wanted you to be happy. someone who would never hurt you. john desperately wanted to be that person for you. but that ship might have sailed. 

“yeah… i- i do. but now i think she wants nothing to do with me.” now it was john’s turn to break. losing you would hurt him irreparably, but maybe it would be the best for you. he wanted you to be happy more than anything. however, john’s selfish side yearned to tether you to him and never let go. 

“just give her time, i’ll talk to her. you still are her best friend, she’ll forgive you.” roger felt weird to be comforting john when he was the one hurt. and it really hurt. because one: you were hurting, two: john, one of his best friends, caused it, and three: said best friend though he was capable of cheating so blatantly in such a serious relationship. roger watched deaky in the mirror as the moment stretched on, mind buzzing with all the events of the day. 

“time… i think she still might be mad at me for breaking her calculator when we were seventeen, what if she never forgives me? because oh boy, she loves you, and i don’t know if she could let this all go…” john began to pace, messing with his hair even more. his gaze was unfocused, eyes sweeping back and forth across the room as he tried to gather his thoughts into some cohesive train. 

“well, i forgive you. this tour won’t get any easier if we are at each other’s throats.” john nearly slumped to the ground in relief. he wouldn’t be able to stand losing two friends. roger got up from the couch, walking over to deaky. without hesitation, he folded him into a hug, clapping john on the back. conversation over, friend forgiven, and now you were the only uncertainty in deaky’s life. 

“now come on, let’s go find y/n and head to the bar. after today’s gig, i need a strong drink or two.” roger sounded relieved and ready to move on from the days events, and john was all for it. but he knew that you would be in no mood to see him, and that would definitely put a damper on the evening. truthfully? he wanted to sleep. sleep, and forget the entire day preferably. 

“you go on ahead, i don’t think she wants to see me right now.” john muttered, roger’s hand on his shoulder after stepping back.

“alright, take care deaks.”

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true to deaky’s word, you were not quick to forgive. it took six months for a major step towards healing took place at their “night at the rainbow” shows in late november, where roger infamously trashed his drumset on stage.

you had decided to accompany them for the uk and american legs of the sheer heart attack tour, so there had been a handful of shows you were present during where deaky was soundly ignored. he did an alright job of ignoring you, no matter how much it pained him. he had adopted freddie’s flair for the dramatic clothing wise by that point. roger was always ready to go all out, and you were almost always up for helping him get ready. john had walked in on you two in compromising positions multiple times, which definitely didn’t help your frosty attitude towards deaky.

but at the rainbow theater those nights, something was off between you and roger. from what he could hear, there was some wild misunderstanding before the first show, resulting in a major shouting match while the rest of the band waited outside the dressing room. some time later, you stormed out, leaving roger alone inside. freddie glared at john aggressively until he got the message to follow you and fix his mistakes.

deaky found you right in the wings of the stage, sitting on a spare amplifier while the roadies were doing a soundcheck. your shoulders were slumped forward, eyes trained on the dust streaked stage while chaos whirled around you. the sad eye of the storm. 

“i know you’re there johnny-boy. and no, i don’t want to talk.” his heart unconsciously skipped a beat when you used his nickname, before plummeting back to earth from the gravity of the situation. you sounded more hurt than angry, and as to why deaky didn’t know. but he had waited so long for a chance at reconciliation, and this was the best chance he had gotten in ages. he wasn’t about to let it slip by.

“that’s alright. i’ll wait.” john took a seat on a box just a few feet behind you, crossing one leg over the other while he waited. he knew you long enough to understand that you would immediately clam up when interrogated. so he waited, letting you relax into his presence. after five straight minutes of silence, you finally spoke.

“he can be so stupid sometimes. all i wanted was to know how long he would be gone tonight, and he just snapped. i know you guys are under a lot of stress, but he was the one who asked me to come. i just want to spend time with him.” you sounded so defeated, but john couldn’t be more excited that you finally decided to really talk with him. 

“yeah, he can be a real arse.” you chuckled to yourself at his response, lifting your eyes from the floor to focus more on the stage lights and various instruments being towed around. 

“you could say that again. but… he really loves you. i’m sure you’ll be alright.” deaky had to force the words out, no matter how deeply he knew them to be true. he still was crazy about you, and jealousy ripped through his body when you mentioned roger.

“thanks for listening john. i know things have been a little… iffy between us. maybe a lot iffy. and don’t take this as forgiveness. but i miss my best friend. i am not ready to let your mistrust go just yet, but consider this… progress.” john’s heart swelled at your… well… acceptance of his mistake. 

“i’ll take anything at this point.” you laughed lightly at his words, going quiet again right after. the moment was over. progress was certainly made, but the conversation just made john miss you more. that evening, roger trashed his drum set, fuming as he walked offstage when the show was done. you were there waiting for him and the two of you made up. the next day, things were essentially back to the way before the rainbow theater. but you would actually talk to john now. you would laugh at his jokes, tease him; progress.

things weren’t truly, totally, alright between the two of you until the very last show of the american leg, right before they went on stage. after the show, things were a little up in the air. 

but before, everything became perfectly mended. john was getting ready in the dressing room, in the back of a venue in seattle he did not know the name of. the rest of the boys were there, goofing off as usual. brian was taking photos of roger posing with ridiculous faces, occasionally calling out directions for how he should look. roger was just laughing, fluffing his hair in front of a tall standing mirror.

john sat on a low sofa pushed against one of the cracked brick walls, you sitting on the other side. there was a tense silence in your side of the room, both you and john doing anything to ignore each other’s presence. they were heading to japan the next day, which means you were heading back home to the uk, and the boys weren’t going to be back until may. 

john fell back to his pre-performance memory of you and him. without even knowing it, his gaze shifted to you. just as beautiful as ever. he could almost feel the soft brush of your hair against his cheek, the comforting weight of your hand in his. your whispered words from that day prickled his skin, sending a brief shiver down his spine.

“something you need from me, john?” you caught john staring at you with a wistful look in his eye, breaking his gaze almost immediately after making eye contact. you focused instead on the soft curls of his brown hair until he responded.

“just… antsy i guess.” john wouldn’t look at you once caught, glancing down to his fidgeting hands, freddie preening in front of the mirror, brian fiddling with his camera. he wanted to avoid a potential blowout, no matter how nice it felt to casually talk with you. 

“you’re gonna do great. you always do great johnny.” he still couldn’t face you, but the sincerity of your words eased his spirit. no matter how much time passed without speaking, you would always find each other. and deaky was pretty sure he had found you once more. 

“well i have my best friends here, i can’t in good conscience give less than my best.” john spoke as casually as possible, gathering the courage to finally look you in the eye. what he saw almost made him melt. you were looking at him with a soft smile that made his world right itself and revolve around you. 

“you’re a good man deaky. and i forgive you. truthfully, i’m sorry as well.” a beat passed before you scooted closer to him, tension slowly building in the shrinking space between you. it was broken by you surging forward and wrapping your arms around john’s neck, inhaling his scent with deep, calming breaths. he fell stiff for a moment before embracing you back, almost shedding a tear as he tightened his grip little by little. the room fell away and it was just you and deaky. 

“never apologize to me, love. i’m just glad to have you back.” john whispered breathily against your neck, closing his eyes for one long moment before he felt you soften your hold and pull back, stolen from the moment by roger taking a seat on your other side. he couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment of rejection, but the feel of you in his arms chased away the worries he might have clung to before the show began.

“so you two have finally made up?” roger said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. you leaned into him, resting a hand on his chest through the open vest he wore. the peaceful, dopey grin john had fell just a tad, but for the moment, just for a moment, he was content. 

“i think we have, my love.” you responded lazily, pressing a kiss to the underside of roger’s jaw. that was john’s que to leave. he playfully ruffle your hair just like he once did to you as a teen, then reluctantly got up, walking over to where freddie fussed over his leather jumpsuit and shimmering wristlet. 

after just a few minutes of having freddie fuss over john’s appearance, the band was called to the stage. you followed them to the door, giving roger a deep kiss and the rest of the band tight hugs. you whispered faintly in deaky’s ear before pulling away, to which he responded by just squeezing you tighter. he heard roger cough, and slowly released his grip around your waist. 

“i’m very proud of you, don’t you forget it.” you smiled after john released you, somehow feeling bold enough to place a hand on his cheek. for a second, a river of unspoken words flowed from him to you, deflected smoothly by your emotional walls. john sighed, taking your wrist between his calloused fingers. he squeezed your hand, then let it fall to your side.                                              

“never. i’ll see you soon.” he waved on his way out the door, sneaking one look over his shoulder just before turning the corner and being rewarded with roger kissing you in one last goodbye. splendid. 

that show might have been the jewel in the crown of sheer heart attack’s american tour. john and roger were shockingly in sync, brian’s solos sounded better than ever, and freddie’s voice was clearer than it had been in weeks. they hit their groove, and the crowd could feel it too. their undeniable energy just raised the band’s spirits, and their last songs were met with cheers for an encore. after jailhouse rock, the second to last song, john was poised to start playing “god save the queen” until brian caught his eye and mouthed an agressive “NO.” note taken, but john shot him a questioning glance. with a huff, brian strode over to deaky, taking him by the upper arm and pulling him to the far side of the stage.

“what the fuck brian?” john angrily whispered, yanking his arm back once they were on the other side of roger’s drum kit. speaking of roger, he was standing by freddie in the center of the stage. you were standing clear across on the other side of the stage, mouthing a similar “what the fuck?” towards john, who just shrugged and looked confused. he was very, very confused. 

“just shut up. you might want to hold on to something.” brian mumbled, clutching his red special a little tighter. deaky was about to bite back until freddie cut him off. 

“before we go lovies, roger has a little something to say. so pretty boy, the stage is yours.” freddie spoke plainly, a teasing lilt to his words. he wriggled his eyebrows at roger, who simply swiped the microphone and stuck his tongue out at the singer. freddie retaliated by blowing a kiss and prancing over to where john and brian stood.

“fred, what the-”

“oh just be quiet and listen. our boy has a lot on his mind.” freddie cooed, still not dropping his playful tone. john was understandably agitated, while brian just stood to the side with the smallest of smiles on his lips. something was going on. just before john was able to demand clarification, roger piped up and handed john an answer on a golden platter. 

“hey lads, so you know me, of course. who doesn’t?” roger joked with the crowd, sending a ripple of laughter throughout the ranks of their adoring fans. john was slow to catch on, still glaring at freddie and brian at equal intervals. both astutely ignored him, smiling at roger speaking downstage.

“but i’d like to introduce you to someone very special to me. y/n, can you come one out here?” uh oh. it all clicked for john. he knew what was happening, he knew what roger was going to ask. he knew what your answer would be. john knew that he was extremely close to running offstage and throwing up. but life had other plans, and life’s name was roger. he surged on, smile brighter than the sun as you slowly stepped onto the stage. 

“this is y/n, my gorgeous, intelligent girlfriend,” roger spoke to the crowd, before turning his attention to a highly confused you. a wall of glass rose up between john and you; he could only stand by as roger got down on one knee in front of their cheering fans, all going ballistic at the prospect of what was happening to their idol, right before their eyes.

“honey, dearest, angel, my love. i was such a mess when we met. university student, head full of dreams and too much shampoo. but john brought you to his very first show with us and from then on, i knew it was over for me,” roger talked directly to you, the room falling away until everyone could only watch one of the most important moments of your life. your hands went up to cover your mouth, tears visible in the corners of your eyes. roger seemed a little worse for wear as well, blinking rapidly to keep tears from falling. john wanted to wake up from this terrible nightmare, but there was no stopping what was already in motion.

“you are the light in my life, my rock, and i don’t know how i survived that long without you. i am so ridiculously, embarrassingly in love with you y/n. and there is no one i would rather share my future with,” roger reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small, blue velvet box. with one smooth motion, he flicked it open, letting the burning stage lights glint off of simple diamond ring. your happy tears finally spilled over, and roger’s soft smile brightened as he spoke his final words. 

“so, would you please accept this ring and, oh, i don’t know… marry me?” you nodded rapidly before he even finished talking. roger started to stand, but you ran into his arms, sinking to the ground with your arms desperately wrapped around each other. the microphone rolled away from the happy couple, squealing with feedback before a roadie came and swooped it up. 

john could barely stand as he watched you hold out a shaking hand to roger. he slid the elegant ring onto your finger, smiling all the way. you pulled him in for a deep kiss, nearly toppling roger over with your excitement. once you pulled back from him, john was nearly in tears himself. he had a tragically perfect view of your tearstained face. and there sat the biggest and brightest smile in the room, one john would march heaven and earth to see. 

except that moment. he wanted to give into every selfish desire and break your heart so you would never want to see roger ever again. but he couldn’t. he just couldn’t. john loved you way too much to ruin your moment. roger’s proposal was something his good heart refused to ruin. but that smile.

that goddamn smile.

⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱⋰⋱

first “deaky” fic (team deaks or team rog??) so yeah. hope y’all enjoyed. i actually liked writing from the boy’s perspectives. lmk if you’re down for a part two ;))))

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: A Little Romance

Dorothy and Blanche are surprised to learn Rose’s new boyfriend is a little person, but Rose is the one really struggling with it.

Picture It...

Sophia is packing for a trip, stuffing clam sauce into her suitcase. She’s supposed to visit her son Phil for her grandson’s college graduation, but doesn’t trust his family to feed her. Rose enters, dressed to the nines for a date, and offers to drive Sophia to the airport. Blanche and Dorothy want to know who her new squeeze is, and she says he’s a psychiatrist at her grief center named Jonathan Newman. She’s strangely evasive when the other Girls ask when they can meet him.

BLANCHE: Dorothy, I’ve just discovered a great new way to meet more men. SOPHIA: More men? You’re gonna need a turnstile in your bedroom.

Some time later, Rose is furious with Blanche, who invited Dr. Newman to dinner at their house without discussing it with Rose first. Blanche says Rose kept putting it off, which Rose denies before stomping out with a scowl. While setting the table on the lanai, Blanche tells Dorothy that how Dr. Newman analyzed her dreams and deemed them “sexual.” What a surprise. There’s a ring of the bell, and Blanche initially mistakes the person on the doorstep for one of the neighborhood kids.

The bell rings again, and Dorothy answers this time. Now the caller gets to introduce himself: Dr. Jonathan Newman. Dorothy’s initially disconcerted to see he’s a little person, but quickly composes herself. Blanche, however, thoroughly embarrasses herself by accusing Rose of hiring a little person to “teach her a lesson.” (Apparently not one in sensitivity.) Dorothy takes Blanche away to collect herself, and Blanche is determined to be a good hostess from then, but flubs it when offering Jonathan shrimp. Jonathan, for his part, says he looks forward to teasing Blanche.

DOROTHY: Why don’t we just start dinner? JONATHAN: Oh good, what are we having? DOROTHY: . . . short ribs.

Later that night, Jonathan entertains the Girls with anecdotes after dinner, and impresses them with his positive attitude. Blanche inadvertently makes another bad joke, and Jonathan teases her about it. He tells her not to be self-conscious in front of him, as he’s perfectly content with who he is. He goes into the kitchen with Rose to fix coffee, and Blanche and Dorothy express their approval.

Sophia unexpectedly returns home: Phil’s son failed, so there was no graduation to attend. Jonathan enters and the Girls introduce him. Sophia says, “I hope this doesn’t sound rude,” which leads to Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy preemptively cringing in horror. But she just says that she’s very tired, so won’t be up for socializing, and asks Jonathan to excuse her. Jonathan departs, asking Rose if they can have dinner the next night. Rose drops the bomb: She thinks Jonathan is going to propose marriage to her.

They ask how she feels about that, and Rose admits that she’s embarrassed about his height, and she’s not sure she can get past it. Blanche tells a story about being in a relationship with a man she was forbidden to date as a young lady in the South. Dorothy assumes Blanche’s date was Black, but no: He was from New Jersey. Rose, meanwhile, still doesn’t know what she’s going to do. She goes to her room, and the other Girls leave her alone. Rose falls asleep.

Cue the dream sequence. It’s Rose’s wedding day, and Blanche and Dorothy go to fetch her from her room. Rose is still not sure about whether she should marry Jonathan. Blanche and Dorothy profess they’ve never noticed Jonathan’s size, while Sophia enters in a priest’s outfit, as she’ll be performing the ceremony. Then someone else arrives (from Rose’s closet, apparently): Rose’s late father. Rose is surprised to see he’s a little person, and Daddy Lindstrom says this is because he’s making a point about love. He tells Rose to follow her heart, as no one can predict the future.

ROSE: Wherever we go, people stare at him. DREAM!BLANCHE: Maybe they’re staring at you, honey. ROSE: At me? DREAM!BLANCHE: Oh, only a good friend would tell you this, Rose, but that color you dye your hair? Honey, that hasn’t existed since they discontinued the Ford Falcon.

Blanche suddenly announces that there’s someone at the wedding who can: Psychic Jeane Dixon, making a cameo appearance. She proceeds to spout some predictions about the future that, as of 2021, are not likely to come true before being hustled offscreen. Jonathan enters, and says that he and Rose can face any problem together. Rose makes up her mind and agrees to marry him. The other Girls come in to wake her up, and she tells them she’s decided to keep seeing Jonathan.

The next night, Rose and Jonathan have dinner at a French restaurant, and Jonathan tells her they need to talk about a problem with their relationship. He says that, while he cares about her, he doesn’t think their relationship can go on without acceptance. Rose protests that she doesn’t care about his height. Jonathan, on the other hand, meant something else: He can’t see Rose anymore because she’s not Jewish. Rose flips out, shouting at Jonathan in view of the restaurant, until he cracks a joke that has them both laughing. She apologizes and says she’s going to miss Jonathan, and he’ll miss her too. A waiter then comes over and asks precisely the wrong question:

WAITER: How was the shrimp? ROSE: Unfortunately, I’ll never know. You see, he’s Jewish and we can’t see each other anymore.

“May I take your height-- HAT?”

Let it be known that, when it comes to episodes of the show that cover minority issues, LGBTQ topics, or people with disabilities, I will do my darnedest to find reviews or analyses of them from people who fall within those categories. For example, there’s a lot of material from the gay and lesbian fandom regarding the episodes that showcase gay and lesbian characters, and I’ll link to and quote their work in the respective recaps rather than attempt to insert my own opinions for the most part.

This is because I realize that, as a non-disabled, heterosexual, cisgender, white woman; I am not in a good position to review any of these issues. My voice on these topics counts for very little.

That being said, I scoured the internet looking for a review or analysis of this episode by a little person, and I couldn’t find one. If you know of any analyses made by anyone with better knowledge on the topic than I have, please send them to me in a DM and I will happily revise this recap.

So yeah, this episode pretty much revolves around Dr. Jonathan Newman being a little person. It’s the sole source of conflict from Rose’s side in their relationship, and it was at the root of most of the jokes. To the episode’s credit, most of it is at the expense of Blanche and Rose, rather than Jonathan himself. If this were made in a perfect world, his height wouldn’t come into play at all, but the episode tries its hardest to mitigate any accusations of ill intent by making him such a lovely character.

Jonathan is surprisingly gracious and good-humored about the Girls’ less than sensitive remarks, teasing Blanche to help put her at ease. While Rose’s concerns about their relationship are portrayed seriously, the episode makes it very clear that she’s the one with the problem, and not Jonathan. I would have liked to have his religion foreshadowed a bit earlier but at least it adds a little depth to his character. Even Sophia, whose whole B-plot this week is basically just “Phil’s family is weird” is polite to him.

DOROTHY: Ma, why are you taking all this food to Phil’s? SOPHIA: Because the only time your brother’s wife goes into the kitchen, it’s to get a cold beer. DOROTHY: Ma, she has no time to cook. She works all day. SOPHIA: Welding. My son married a welder. Too bad she didn’t weld his zipper shut. They got ten kids they can’t afford.

In fact, he’s almost too good. It’s as though, even at the time, the writers wanted to counterbalance the reliance on his height in the jokes by making him one of the most perfect men ever. He’s interesting, funny, positive, well-educated (he mentions going to Harvard), and most importantly, he assuages everyone’s fears about making any comments about his height. It’s as if the writers are giving themselves permission to make the jokes by making the character around whom they are based as wonderful as possible.

That’s not to say the episode handles it subject matter in a completely inoffensive manner. The most tasteless joke of the episode, I think, is the “How was the shrimp?” line, but a close second is probably this one from Sophia, when she comes to check on Rose after her dream and sees Rose clutching her pillow:

SOPHIA: What’s going on? BLANCHE: Oh, Rose has decided to keep on seeing Jonathan. SOPHIA: Fine. *beat* We’re all adults here. Let the man out of the pillowcase. We don’t mind if he sleeps over.

You know what’s really weird? This is not the first time Rose has referenced dating a little person. Remember that pin I put up a few episodes ago? Let’s take it down and address Rose talking about Eddie. While Sophia is the only person to refer to Jonathan by an offensive slur, they use it liberally in this clip, so consider it a trigger warning:

It’s beyond weird to me that they have this whole joke about Rose dating a little person that they play completely for laughs, only to take it seriously a few episodes later. That’s a very specific scenario to repeat -- especially since Rose says she didn’t reject Eddie because of his size at all, but because she couldn’t date anyone in show biz. So what changed, huh, Rose?

There is one thing about this episode that bugs me irrespective of Dr. Newman’s height: Rose thinks Jonathan is going to propose to her even though they aren’t yet seriously dating and (if her last line of the episode is any indication) haven’t even slept together. This is something that I find weird about these ladies’ relationships. Kate got married after only six months of dating, Blanche was prepared to marry Harry after only one week, and now Rose thinks her beau of three weeks with whom she’s only been on five dates wants to marry her.

I mean, were the 80s really that different? Did people really go to the altar so fast that this seems plausible to anyone? I’m genuinely asking because, for all I know, this was common at the time.

I love how weird the dream sequence is in this episode. It made sense, in the way that some dreams seem to follow some kind of recognizable sequence, but there are really weird parts too. The fact that Sophia and Mr. Lindstrom enter the room through Rose’s closet, Blanche and Dorothy speak in chirpy voices, and there’s a weird celebrity cameo. It definitely feels dreamlike to say at the end of the scene, “WTF was Jeane Dixon doing there?”

By the way, it’s too bad none of Dixon’s predictions will come true. It would have been very interesting to see Brooke Shields and Lady Diana in a Broadway musical comedy.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰 (four cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite part of the episode:

You really can’t beat Blanche’s awkwardness.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer II: Chapter 1: The Gentleman

The light colored facade and fanciful decor of the hundred-year-old Hotel Le Royal Monceau in Paris was truly fitting for spring. Principal Hilbert Ron Anjou tipped his hat in appreciation of the sight and at the doorman who greeted him with “Welcome back, sir.”

Master list

“It is truly a pleasure to be back!” He gestured behind him. “This is my new special student.”

The doorman, dark-skinned and appearing to be in his thirties, regarded the teenage girl standing behind him. She wore a white jacket, her shapely brown legs curving out from a pleated yellow short skirt that some men might eye, hoping for a glimpse of a little more. She was less than impressed with the gracious amenities, avoiding eye contact and fiddling with the tassels of her hood strings.

The doorman grinned anyway. “Well, a fine student she is.” He earned himself a tip for remaining cheery rather than concerned about her gloomy expression.

Anjou checked in. Though his hair and beard were white, he didn’t move like a man that old. His spine was straight, his limbs strong, his manner energetic and jovial. His eyes were focused and crisp. His voice was strong, despite his happy smoking of a Cuban cigar.

The hotel staff were clearly smitten with him, losing their stiff professional manner and laughing at his jokes, eyes glittering with mirth. Even though he wore a custom tailored suit that cost more than most people made in a year and wore rings of rare crystals -- some of alchemical make, so rare and so precious, they might as well have been alien -- they treated him as a friend. 

That was Anjou’s charisma.

It wasn’t until they stepped into the gold mirrored elevator that that charisma faltered.

His student looked lost, unhappy, vulnerable, and achingly beautiful. Her slight figure added to her fae-like appearance. Anjou watched the elevator operator’s face flicker on her, his natural empathy and need to protect a fellow human welling up in his eyes.

The man surely had worked in this hotel long enough to know he shouldn’t ask questions. Anjou watched in wonder and allowed the man’s feelings to develop, chuckling internally as the sight of her worked its magic -- just as it did on Caesar on the Day of Liberty.

Like Caesar, this bellhop forgot where he was, forgot his duty, and was drawn into a disadvantageous position, risking his precious prize -- in this case, a tip.

“Uh… are you okay?”

She lifted her head, surprised to be addressed. Her wide eyes were like windows to her soul, easily read, hiding nothing.

“Yes… are… you alright?” He asked again, committing to his error.

She smiled at him. “Just a little sick from the flight. That’s all.”

Anjou’s eyes returned to the bellhop as he suddenly realized his blunder. To his credit, he didn’t apologize.

“I hope you understand sir…”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Anjou’s voice was so warm and reassuring that he might as well have reached over and patted this fully grown man on the head. “And I commend you on your brave spirit and humanity.”

Anjou took out his wallet and produced a tip of three hundred euros. “Here. Spend it well.”

The man let out a wheeze, eyes wide.”Yes. Thank you sir! Thank you… is there anything more I can…”

“I’ll take it from here.” Anjou interrupted, as the doors opened.

His student blessed the bellhop with one more smile, as she left the elevator. The man only broke her gaze after the doors attempted to close on him.

As soon as she arrived in her room, his student fled to her bedroom and shut the door. This was hard on her.  Normally, high ranking students were eager to get off campus and put their education to good use as well as take advantage of the plush amenities their rank afforded them. But she grew up in modest circumstances and only longed for things money couldn’t buy. 

She’d bewitched the other S-ranked student, Lu Mingfei, into a deep friendship with her. She’d drawn the leader of Lionheart into being her lover and lured Caesar Gattuso into practically handing over Day of Liberty to her. Had he not gotten her off campus, he might have found himself without a school.

Everything she had accomplished didn’t apply here, however. She had no friends, no lover, and no influence. As far as she was concerned, Paris was a desert. 

He pressed a key on his phone. The voice on the other end had a slight French accent over the otherwise impeccable English.

“Anjou, a day is too long to go without hearing your voice.”

“And it has been far too long, Capetian. The student and I have just arrived.”

“Excellent! Were there any problems?”

“None! The passport was flawless.”

“And the flight?”

“The weather could have not been better. Let’s hope it remains that way. Paris is making me fall in love all over again!” He chuckled. “Of course, every season is a good season in Paris. Have you located the others?”

“Yes, sir… they…”

Anjou stopped him. “Now, now… brief me tonight at dinner. I would like you to meet our young genius.” 

After a few more loving goodbyes and reminders not to be late, Anjou hung up the phone and went to the bedroom.

She was Charlotte to strangers, Carli to friends, Meixiu to her lover. She was a young woman of many names. He referred to her most often however, as “my dear”. She was dear to him, having come out from the jaws of death and through sands of time to return to his school like a little turtle dove.

Her scowl reminded him, however, that she was actually a hybrid. First Generation, S-ranked, and just as much dragon as she was human. She was not pleased with him. He’d disrupted her plans to spend time in Chizuru with Chu Zihang and made no mystery of her love-sickness. He weathered her glare. “You’re free to stay here and rest while I make arrangements and prepare for the briefing meeting tonight. The mission itself won’t start for a few weeks while we prepare. Try to have a good time.”

She’d taken these arrangements personally and turned back to the window without speaking to him.

After the Day of Liberty, Caesar said that once he’d gotten close enough, she’d drawn him into darkness so forbidding that he thought he had truly died. When he returned to the land of the living, he was breathless, disoriented. She fought him like a wildcat, and then shot him like a dog.

He would savor these moments when she was still under his wing. He got the feeling they would be a memory all too soon.

Anjou adjusted his tie, donned his light trench coat and went out, leaving the “Do not Disturb” sign on the door.

He enjoyed his walk around the city, admiring the art and architecture, the comings and goings of tourists and natives. Women pushed strollers dressed in tracksuits, older men sat in the square and played chess. It was this idyll that was threatened. He needed her here, but was determined to make her first mission as pleasant as possible before the coming storm.

Just as he predicted, the rain started as the sun began to fall. He only went to the bar on a rainy night.

His student dressed up for the evening, in a modest designer black gown and a string of pearls. The afternoon nap seemed to have done wonders. She was smiling again. Her eyes were brighter. They made their way to the bar on the hotel roof. 

The city’s sea of glittering lights and those of the Eiffel Tower drew a gasp from her.  He put his umbrella to the side and sat near the window. He smiled at the bartender. “How are you doing this year, my old friend?”

Capetian emerged from behind the bar, a glass on his platter. Thin and aged, his dark eyes weary under folds of skin, he smiled. “I’m well, old friend.”

The booths were lit by low hanging directional lamps between pools of shadow that provided privacy despite the open layout. It was next to impossible to hear what was going on at any other table. Something about the design of the place kept the noise down while at the same time, keeping close conversation clear.

The smell of the mint liquor wafted from the cocktail glass. Anjou raised his to his lips and sighed with nostalgia. His student eyed him, content to sit and watch him be happy. A menu was set before her and she looked it over.

The waiter, also older, and so pale he looked like a ghost in the lamplight, softly spoke. “I will be pleased to see to your needs this evening.”

She once again seemed shocked to be talked to. “Um… I need a little more time. Thanks.”

“I’ll take this year's caviar plate for a starter.” Anjou nodded.

The waiter bowed and faded back into the shadow.

Capetian took his seat next to Anjou, who produced a Havana cigar from his jacket pocket and snipped off the tip with a pocket knife. “The Bombay expedition was successful. We’ve found a dragon palace remarkably preserved under the slums. We are currently making our way through the catacombs. However, the dragon is not making it easy to find its chambers.”

He flicked his lighter against the cigar until the tip glowed. “We’ve never seen such a repository of draconic script. And the entry to the complex is predicated on our understanding of it. EVA has done her best with cataloging the known ciphers and arranging and organizing the unknown ciphers along with their context. But this requires a … human touch.” He let out a puff of blue-tinged smoke. “Have you arranged the safe house?”

His student turned to the waiter, ordering a mushroom risotto with a salad. But she was listening. He could tell.

Capetian described a spacious townhouse on the forested outskirts of Paris. At great expense, he’d purchased it, as well as leased the adjacent properties to provide maximum privacy and security for what was bound to be a long term project. He’d stocked the kitchen, installed a private network with direct access to EVA, and a complete off the grid power, water, and sewer system.

The waiter returned with the caviar platter. Anjou offered it to the student who cringed at the sight of the raw fish eggs. “Come now… you’re here to experience new things!” 

While she hesitantly spooned a bit of the roe onto a cracker, Anjou settled on the Kobe beef tartare for his order.

“Have you contacted any of our agents yet?”

“Not yet, I wanted to make sure that nothing came up at the last minute. We’re spread thin here, almost all the agents are occupied with their own projects, but they understand that none are more urgent and pressing than this one. They are willing and available.”

He smiled and nodded. “Your cooperation is deeply appreciated.”

Capetian turned to the girl, watching her clumsily taste caviar for the first time. “And the girl… is she ready?”

“Charlotte?” This time Anjou couldn’t help but laugh, earning him a surprised look from Capetian. Everywhere she went, this uncertainty about her talents followed. He was shaking with laughter, wiping away tears. “Charlotte is the least of my concerns. My biggest concern is your agents’ capability of handling her.”

Capetian’s jaw dropped, “Pardon…?”

Anjou leaned on one elbow, tilting the ash into a silver tray. “She is the winner of the Day of Liberty, S-ranked, and is an essential asset to this mission. I’ll be assigning Agent Robertson to her care and safety. I’ll expect your agents to guard her with their lives and cater to her every request while she works.”

He drew a long puff from his cigar, relaxing to the flavor, the smoke pooling a moment in his mouth. “She has already killed. She can do so again. If they don’t believe me, then they may see for themselves if they try anything improper.”

Charlotte’s gaze lowered and she lost all interest in the caviar.

Capetian swallowed. “Understood, sir.”

[som3thingcr3ative]

Voluspa Part 5

It’s HERE!!!!!!! I promised a new chapter, and I have delivered. This one is a little slower, but things will pick up veeeery soon, I just needed to get some backstory in, some life in characters. 

(side note, this looks longer on my google docs...the next one will be longer and sooner, I promise.)

synopsis: Astrid is welcomed to the feast and to Kattegat. She meets a new ally and settles into her new home, enjoying the attentions of a certain Viking King. 

warnings: mentions of suicide, drinking, slavery. 

previously: 

“I have seen it,” I say, raising my chin just a tad. My fingers leave Einar’s fur and relax at my side. No fear. “The gods have shown me.”“

“I like this one,” Ivar muses, leaning forward once again, his eyes on me. “You are welcome here, Astrid. So long as your loyalties remain true, you are my honored guest. Welcome to Kattegat!”

PART 1 2 3 4 5 6

That night, I can relax. Old Norse takes no effort for me; it comes as naturally as any language to a native speaker, which allows my efforts to shift toward containing a disturbing number of prophecies from slipping out of my mouth. Normally, if I were to prophesy, it would be in Old Norse around english speaking people- seen as nothing more than a character quirk, but around Vikings, the prophecy would be chilling. I would be avoided at all costs if one wanted to keep their sanity. 

So for the small blessing of control, I am thankful. 

There is good ale (a bit weak compared to beer, but still enough to loosen the tongue), good food (without all of the hormones and hassle of my previous home), and good company. Vikings share their stories of raids and victories- and with enough ale, their defeats. Only once do I think of Damon; of how he would love to hear these stories from living history itself- so I chug the ale in my cup and get a refill from the blushing (and very thankful) servant girl whose arse I’d saved earlier, all thoughts of my brother banished. I learn that her name is Rita, that she was captured from what is to be France, and that by giving her the distraction needed to clean up and act as if nothing had happened, I’d spared her a great deal of pain. 

An idea blossoms. I turn to Ivar who sits to my right. “My king, could I pay you for this servant girl? I wish for her to be my handmaiden.”

Ivar’s eyes barely glance over the girl. He smiles at me and waves a hand. “You are my guest, Astrid. There is no need to pay me for her; she is yours.”

I grin at him and bow my head just briefly. “I am grateful, my King.” He nods and turns back to his food and his conversation with Ubbe while I smile at the girl. 

“Well Rita, it appears you will not suffer any more punishments. From now on, you are under my protection.” 

Rita’s jaw drops. In old french, I add “as my handmaiden, you will be given a great deal of freedom- all I ask is that you do not lie to me or plot behind my back.”

“Yes, my lady!” She replies in enthusiastic french. “Thank you so much, my lady!”

“Go get yourself cleaned up-” I hand her a small coin ‘borrowed’ from a drunken Jarl encountered on the journey here. “And get some new clothes. You are a handmaiden now, it’s best you look like it.” 

She turns the coin over and over between dirty fingers, her eyes wide. Finally she nods to me and scampers off, grinning like a fool. I allow myself a victorious smile and take a sip of ale. 

Only a few minutes pass before Ivar turns to me, at Ubbe’s goading. 

“You are certainly a puzzle, Astrid.” He comments, eyeing me. “I am told you rode here on a stallion with no tack- and then carried your own bags to this hall where you proceeded to single-handedly beat three men.” He glances down at Einar who is draped over my feet, crunching away at a cow femur. “With a wolf, no less.”

“I assure you, my King, it is quite the story.”

“Ivar.” He smiles. “No need for pleasantries, you are my guest.”

Another small smile. A gracious tip of my head. “Ivar,” I correct. “If you have the time, perhaps I could tell you?”

He raises his mug, signalling a servant to serve him more ale. Once the cup is full, he sips at it, eyes never leaving me. “I have all the time in the world.” 

My brows lift. I take a swig of ale, making a show of it. He laughs. 

“It’s one of those stories, is it?”

I grin. “It all started nineteen years ago, when my mother pushed me out of her body screaming and covered in blood…

My childhood was a pleasant one, by most accounts. I had a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food on the table. When I was three, my father died. As the first born, I inherited his ability to sense...things. Things that I shouldn’t have known. Things that, for a while, drove me crazy. I scared people. One man jumped off of a cliff because I told him his wife would die by his hands if he did not kill himself first. He believed me because I had been right before- another man had a baby girl- I told him that he would have an accident and kill his child, but he scoffed at me. One day he was carrying his child through the house when he tripped, sending the baby flying. She landed on her head and broke her neck, just like that. He killed himself two days later. 

We moved away. Packed up everything we had and left. My mother trained me to hold those prophecies in, to keep them from hurting anyone, so instead they hurt me. I look at someone and I know how they will die. I know the defining moments of their life and their worst mistakes. And I keep all of that bottled up inside of me. 

So I started fresh. I turned to animals instead of people. Animals do not expect things of you. They want to give and receive love, they do not judge or place blame. They do not envy or betray. If you trust them and give them reason to trust you, they will be there for you, no matter what. The best part is, I can’t see their whole life mapped out before me. I can’t know exactly what to do to change their whole path, their entire fate. It is a weight off of my shoulders. 

I helped bring Hvardr, my stallion into this world. His mother orphaned him, so I made sure he was fed. I cared for him, and when he grew, I trained him to trust me and only me. He will buck anyone else off of him. If someone tries to restrain him in any way, he will hurt them- maybe even kill them. But not me. 

Einar was barely a month old when I found him strung up in a trap. I helped him heal- and I tried to keep him wild- I really did. He’s stubborn, though, so when he chose me, there wasn’t a thing I could do to say no. Here we are eight seasons later. 

I never found love, I never had those firsts so many women have. I am not like others. I am different. And because of that difference, I see things in a totally different light. This gift is a blessing and a curse- and sometimes I wish I were normal, or that my younger brother had it, not me, but then I realize that everything I am and everything I have is because of what makes me different. 

I would not be who I am if I were the same as everyone else. 

~

Rita finds me in my room that night, shortly after the feast ended. Her hair is in a loose braid, nothing too complicated while still showing her stature. Cleaned up, I can see that she is actually quite pretty, in a youthful way. No more than fourteen or fifteen summers, if I had to guess. 

Her life flashes before my eyes in quick bursts, defining moments and tragedy lasting a brief second longer than the rest until I see her death- and I know instantly how to treat her. I smile at her, eyeing her new dress. She blushes, grinning at the floor. 

“You look beautiful,” I tell her, speaking in Old French. “Like a princess.”

“Thank you, m’lady.” She ducks her head, showing respect. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You can extinguish that torch over there, Rita. I’m quite tired from the day’s events. Oh, and I had them bring in an extra bed. I know it’s not much, but… well it’s yours.” 

Her eyes widen as she looks over at the bed. It has two furs on it for the cold night, a few feet away from my own bed. Our beds take up only about half the space in the room Ivar was kind enough to lend to me. 

“Thank you, m’lady!” She says, holding a hand to her chest as she stares at the bed. I know that it is more than she’s probably ever had- first as a frankish peasant and then as a slave, a bed to her is a luxury she’d only dreamed of. I hope she can sleep, knowing for myself the difficulty of sleeping on a bed after more than a few nights on the floor. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” I tell her, moving to cover myself with a fur. “Good night, and sleep well.” Behind me, I can hear her move to the solitary torch burning against the far wall. Einar, curled against my legs, watches her carefully as she walks to her bed and gets comfortable. He is still wary of her, but is slowly warming up to the idea of another person sleeping close to him. 

tag list:  All Ivar tag: @inforapound​ @amy8220 @sallydelys​ @youbloodymadgenius​ @i-am-a-teenage-dirtbaggg​

Voluspa: @tis-itheapplepie​ @thetwistedqueen @inforapound @wuxiesalt @readsalot73​ @themusingkitten @youbloodymadgenius

[eurynome827]

Why Buy The Cow?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Your enthusiasm for your favorite comedian leads you on a journey with Bucky.

Word Count: 1,535

Warnings: DEATH BY FLUFF, lots and lots and lots of John Mulaney bits (one instance of bad language). The John Mulaney/Bucky Barnes crossover literally no one asked for, but you’re getting it anyway. This is for @omnomsauruswrites 1.1k writing challenge which posted today, and I laughed out loud when I saw the prompt and the whole story flashed through my head. I’m sorry I posted so damn early, I was possessed by this. I am putting my prompt in the story in bold.

*

Bucky stood in front of your treadmill and waved. You did your level best to pull out your earbuds and not fall down at the same time.

"What's up, Buck?"

"Do you realize you're laughing?"

You knitted your brow. "I'm sorry?"

"We're running a training session over here and you are interrupting."

"Oh." You stopped the run program and slowed down to a stop before explaining. "I'm really sorry, I didn't even realize I was laughing out loud. I'm listening to John Mulaney, do you know-"

Bucky waved you off. "Just keep it down." He turned back toward Steve and something in his face made him look back at you with one more word. "Please."

"Sure...sorry. SORRY STEVE!" You yelled over in his direction and he acknowledged you with a much friendlier wave. Suddenly feeling very awkward in front of the recruits in the session, you hopped down and headed toward the gym door. "Grump." Putting your earbuds back in, you missed Bucky's annoyed glare back in your direction as you started giggling again.

"I was once on the phone with Blockbuster Video, which is a very old-fashioned sentence. That's like when your Gram would be like 'we'd all go play jacks by the soda fountain!'"

*

"Was it REALLY that bad?" 

Pepper laughed at your incredulous question. "Oh, honey, did you really not research who you were working for? It was ABSOLUTELY that bad. I had one week where I escorted out a different woman every morning."

"TONY!" You couldn't help laughing at his devil-may-care expression. "You have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair!"

Sam reached toward you for a fistbump. "YES. Love Mulaney,"

Bucky huffed in the corner. "Two peas in a really annoying pod."

"Not my fault you don't have a sense of humor, Barnes!" You tossed him a wink and walked out. 

*

You looked up from your book to see Bucky walking into the kitchen.

"Hey, Buck. Can't sleep?"

He seemed too tired to argue or snark at you. "Was sleeping. Didn't work out for me." He sat opposite you at the table and even managed a small smile. "What about you?"

You smiled back. "I keep telling myself 'one more chapter and then I'll go to bed' but that hasn't worked out for me yet. Want some ice cream?"

He nodded at you. You brought a pint of chocolate peanut butter and two spoons to the table. The two of you ate out of the cartoon in companionable silence until Bucky pointed at your shirt with his spoon. 

"I have to ask. What's that mean?"

You looked down at your shirt and stifled a giggle. "Please don't get up and leave, because I'm actually having a nice time with you."

"Why would I leave?"

"It's a John Mulaney bit."

He actually bit his lip to keep from smiling, which you found adorable. "Okay. What does it mean?"

"It's 'What's New Pussycat' listed 21 times with one 'It's Not Unusual'. They're Tom Jones songs. It's from a bit, one of my favorites." You took a gamble. "Do you want to hear it?"

He hesitated. Who knew what was going on in that head of his (his way too handsome head that you spent way too much time thinking about considering how often you argued with him.....). Finally he answered.

"Sure."

Your face almost hurt from smiling so hard and you scrolled through your phone and pulled up The Salt and Pepper Diner. "Get ready to laugh harder than you ever have in your LIFE."

*

On another sleepless night, Bucky wandered into the media room and found you and Peter munching on popcorn and reciting dialogue back to John Mulaney on the huge screen.

"STREET SMARTS!" You and Peter screamed with glee.

"Let me guess," Bucky droned with a half grin.

"C'mon, Buck, watch with us!" You waved him over to sit next to you. "I promise we'll be quiet."

"We've watched this every night for a month! We know every word!" Peter was practically bouncing next to you.

"Pete, calm down. And no more yelling! Let Bucky listen." You turned to Bucky and offered your bowl. "Popcorn?"

He took a handful and couldn't help smiling back. Gosh, he was so handsome when he smiled at you.

"STREET SMARTS!" Peter screeching broke the spell and you looked away from Bucky's eyes (were they always that blue, good gracious) and hissed.

"PETER!"

"....sorry."

*

You answered the soft knock at your bedroom door and your heartbeat kicked up a couple of notches. "Hey, Buck! What's up?"

"Hey." He smiled at you and your breath caught in your throat. "Are you busy?"

"Not at all! I was maybe gonna watch something. Wanna watch with me?"

"Yes." He answered quickly and you bit your lip to hold in a nervous giggle.

You closed the door after he walked in and realized quickly that there was nowhere else to sit but on your bed. You tried your goofy best to make this less awkward and hopped up to lean against your headboard. "Make yourself comfortable!" You patted the bed next to you and he followed, albeit a little less bouncy. "Do you want to watch a movie or a tv show?" You already had Netflix started and ready and waited for his answer.

"Actually," he paused and looked down before meeting your eyes with his and you almost choked on your own spit at how PRETTY he was. "Are there any more of those shows with John Mulaney?"

"Well, well, well, Bucky Barnes. Did I make you a fan?" You teased before thinking and then immediately got nervous. What if he got offended?

There was no need to worry. "I guess you wore me down, doll."

You forced yourself to look away before your heart hammered straight out of your chest and started rambling like a lunatic. "Well great, good, yay me! Um, there's two more on Netflix. I'll put on....Comeback Kid. Yes. New In Town is amazing too, I promise, but I like Comeback Kid just a tiny bit better."

He just smiled at you while you started the show and took a deep breath. You relaxed as soon as Petunia appeared. 

"All right, Petunia." John looked down at his French bulldog. "Wish me luck out there."

You were able to keep yourself from reciting along until the Petunia bit of the standup arrived and then all bets were off. 

"She always gives me this look of like, “Oh, the things I have seen, you cocksucker. You have no idea. The Gestapo threw my printing press into a river. But, go, tell your fucking jokes." You giggled after the line and then turned to apologize to Bucky but his face was right there and you gasped. The expression on his face was unreadable. You didn't know what was going to happen.

Bucky's hand reached out to brush against your cheek. Your eyes drifted closed as he moved closer and then you felt his lips on yours. You kissed him back gently for a moment but then couldn't stop yourself from throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him as close to you as you possibly could.

Somewhere in the background John Mulaney kept talking about convincing Petunia that he was eating dinner at 4 in the afternoon all the way through meeting Bill Clinton when he was ten years old while you and Bucky kissed and kissed and kissed.

*

"Babe, did you get the pizza?" you shouted from the couch when you heard the front door slam.

"Of course." Bucky entered the living room, put the pizza box on the coffee table and leaned over to kiss you hello. "What are we watching?"

"You pick. Your choices are Kid Gorgeous, New In Town or Comeback Kid."

Bucky actually groaned out loud. "Honey, really?"

"YES. It's our anniversary. How else can we celebrate?" You pouted up at your husband. "John Mulaney brought us together."

Bucky dropped on the couch next to you with a put-upon sigh. "Fine. Comeback Kid."

You kissed his cheek in victory. "Good choice."

By the time crazy Mr. Finch was proclaiming "Too old to be a duckling, quack quack!" you were leaning on Bucky's shoulder in a sleepy haze, full of pizza and wine and love.

"Hey, Buck."

"Yeah, babe?"

"Tell me, is it possible to love two men at the same time?"

Bucky looked at you like he had chewed glass. You kept a straight face for about thirty seconds before you burst out laughing. Bucky pushed you onto your back on the couch, tickling your tummy while you begged for mercy. When he finally stopped he lowered his face and nudged your nose with his, the affection in the gesture nearly doubling your heartbeat. Then he raised an eyebrow at you before asking, "Why buy the cow?"

You melted. "Because you love her. You really do." You kissed your man, once, twice and then again, before making a promise you meant on your wedding day and every day since.

"You'll never be the old man stumbling around looking for loose milk."