escaped-from

[escaped-from]

just like a hundred dollar bill (folded up and tearing at the crease) pretty little liars/a touch of degrassi; monsterverse. four monsters spencer hastings learned something from, and one she taught something to. contains spencer/aria undertones, because who am i. utterly unedited and not at all proofread, so i apologize for any mistakes.

one.

spencer is fourteen when her family  comes to rosewood, and – it being, ostensibly, their last stop until she graduates – her mother encourages her to make friends with the girl who lives next door. their neighbors make up a well-respected nephilim family, and it pays, as her parents have always said, to have friends in high places.

she doesn’t really know why her family (hunters in general, really) are so supportive of angels and their relatives while being snide and judgmental about pretty much all the other kinds of nonhumans that exist, even peaceful ones, but spencer figures she doesn’t know a lot yet.

melissa drags her over with a plate of cookies (cookies? really? aren’t the newbies supposed to be the ones getting those from the people who already live here?) and makes small talk with the mom while the daughter twirls a golden strand of hair around her finger and smiles charmingly them. she’s all teeth, and spencer feels a little wary – she’s never had a friend who didn’t come from a hunting family before, and is used to thinking of people outside the business as a danger in some way – but she’s nervous, and lonely, and she wants living here to be easy. this is why she smiles back, even if she thinks she must look a million times more awkward and transparent than someone who’s part angel.

when melissa and jessica are washing dishes in the kitchen, ali leans in and whispers, “this is boring. wanna bail?”

spencer’s shoulders unclench a little. maybe she really can be happy in rosewood.

*

two.

within the month, spencer’s been enrolled at the local high school. she’s so relieved to have alison – they’ve really hit it off, and somehow the other girl seems to like her enough to stick by her even though she has a million other people who’ve known her for longer that she could be friends with instead. when spencer asks her about that one time when they’re out trying on dresses, ali rolls her eyes and says, “i’ve known everyone here for so long that it’s easy to see how fake they are. you’re not like that, spence; you’re so, you know, authentic. you don’t bs your way into seeming interesting or talented or smart so other people will like you. you’re real.”

it sounds like the most sincere and loving thing anyone’s ever said to her. so, like a proper hastings, she puts her game face on and walks through the school hallways with a confidence that doesn’t feel entirely performed for once. if alison dilaurentis says you’re realer than anyone else around, you must be.

this is, in an indirect sort of way, how she ends up befriending emily fields.

see, here’s the way it goes for spencer: she comes from a family that expects excellence, not only in how she wields a bow or throws a knife, but in her grades and her outstanding list of extracurriculars, too. so she’s quick to pick out field hockey, the sport of her choice, and since she’s already familiar with it from experiences at her various old middle schools, no one can accuse her of being dead weight or holding the team back. she plays harder and fiercer than anyone, and has soon earned her spot there. it feels natural. almost easy.

then, one day, they get out of practice around the same time as the swim team, and the locker room is thick with the smell of chlorine and droplets of water. spencer avoids getting accidentally hit by a wet towel, and is putting her gear away, when a girl shoves somebody taking off her goggles two lockers down. “did you cheat?” the angry one snaps.

goggles girl flinches back in surprise. “no! i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“leave her alone,” someone says from across the room, but theon greyjoy over here won’t let up. “don’t you? aren’t all of you freaks so special – practically like fish?”

the girl looks wounded, apologetic, and furious all at once. “that’s not how it works. i’m not any different from you when – when i look like this.” she glances, ever so briefly, at the floor with a nervousness that makes spencer want to know what she’s talking about. already, the possibilities are running through her head: naiad? kelpie? siren?

“oh, i’m so sure,” the bully sneers, rolling her eyes. “right. you can turn into a seal, but you’re just a natural talent in the pool. it’s so obvious.”

“actually, it is,” spencer says as she steps forward, surprising herself. “there’s no evidence that – selkie, right?” the girl nods, eyes wide as spencer continues. “there’s no evidence that selkies are significantly more agile or powerful than humans in the water. it’s fairly common to assume otherwise, but there’s no real evidence for it.”

she knows she’s made herself a target now, and the expected response flies at her: “hastings, right? aren’t you trained in how to kill one of those things?”

spencer resists the urge to claw the other girl’s face off and keeps her cool. “hunters only target immediate threats to innocent lives.”

“oh, you’re incredibly frickin’ noble, what an honor--”

“okay, break it up, break it up,” says a coach who’s finally noticed the spat and intervened. spencer’s new nemesis stalks off, hands balled into fists; the crowd of people watching the fight dissipates and everybody drifts back into their own personal bubble. the selkie girl looks at spencer and says quietly, “thanks.”

“you’re welcome. i’m spencer.”

“emily,” she replies, swiping at the dripping ends of her hair with a towel. “do you – are you – i mean, are you new here?”

“yeah. i moved in next door to, uh – alison dilaurentis? do you know her?”

emily seems to freeze before responding, “everyone knows alison,” which makes spencer feel a stab of worry. she hopes that ali hasn’t gone around saying the kinds of things she just heard. emily smiles, though: a little shy and self-conscious, but genuine. “she’s the most popular girl in school.”

“oh,” spencer replies, unsure of how to continue. “…do you guys hang out at all?”

“not really.”

“okay, well, do you want to? i’m meeting up with her once i get home. you’re welcome to come along.”

thankfully, emily doesn’t back away and make hurried excuses; she actually kind of beams and says, “really? that would be awesome! i mean, you know, if she’s okay with it.”

“sure she is.” spencer’s heart hammers against the wall of her chest for some reason she can’t really define, but when she texts ali about it she gets a positive response and a smiley face back, so everything seems to be okay. she walks home with emily, and they talk about bands they both like.

(later, spencer will realize that this is the first friend she’s made without her family’s help.)

*

three.

spencer doesn’t exactly know why alison chooses to bring hanna marin into their group. not that she has anything against her – she seems really sweet – but hanna’s usually the kind of person that ali giggles behind her hand and passes notes about instead of paying attention during algebra. spencer loves her and all, but she’s never understood what it is that makes alison do things like that, or why she now seems to be making a turnaround. it seems like it might be the setup for some cruel prank.

still, alison isn’t big on sharing her inner emotional life, and maybe she feels bad about being kind of mean before and this is her way of making up for it. she seems genuine when she invites hanna to sit with them at lunch and the shapeshifter gladly accepts; when they stop at the table, hanna even says, “oh my gosh, you’re spencer hastings!”

“yes,” spencer replies, feeling mildly bewildered. “i am she.”

“my mom was talking to your older sister at the bake sale last week,” hanna continues assuredly. “she had the prettiest blowout. i wanted to steal every bottle of conditioner she’s ever owned.”

she offers up a weak laugh and smile:  even when she knows better, somehow every compliment melissa gets has always felt like a slight against spencer. their parents have pit them against each other their entire lives, melissa has always come out on top, and she wishes she had some place in her life where she could just get away from all the constant reminders of that fact.

it takes half a second for spencer to process these feelings of quiet shame bubbling up inside her skull; in that moment, hanna continues to say, “the dress she had on was totally last season, though. and everyone’s so over that color.” she stops, squeezes her eyes shut, and then backtracks immediately. “oh! i’m sorry, was that really rude? i’m sorry, i just read a lot of fashion magazines, so i know all this crap no one cares about, i didn’t mean anything--”

“no,” spencer says, a grin spreading across her face. “no, it’s fine. it’s actually really funny.”

“yeah, don’t say that about yourself,” ali comments, casually grabbing one of the fries on hanna’s tray. “spencer’s bitch sister deserves to be knocked down a peg once in awhile, and everyone cares about the stuff you know. you should be a consultant, han.”

a blush creeps up hanna’s neck. “really? you think so?”

“totally. look at emily, for example.” ali holds up her thumbs and forefingers in a rectangle, like she’s looking through a camera; emily ducks her head and somehow manages to look small even though she’s the tallest person at the table. ali keeps going. “em’s cute, but she doesn’t really have a look, you know? like – and i say this with only love in my heart – sweatpants are never acceptable unless you’re grieving over a breakup.”

“i just like wearing them when i’m going for a run later,” emily says softly. hanna seems to think about it, then says, “there are some really cute ones on display at the mall. we should check it out this weekend. i mean, only if you guys want to; i’m sure you have a lot of stuff to do.”

“nah.” ali throws an arm around hanna’s shoulders and winks across the table at emily and spencer. “we’re wide open, aren’t we, girls?”

“yeah, absolutely,” emily says. spencer’s still lost in thought, though – no one ever criticizes melissa except for ali, and it doesn’t really mean anything since ali criticizes everyone.

spencer’s never known somebody who had a less-than-glowing opinion of her sister just based on first sight. and maybe it’s petty and nasty of her, but – knowing that there’s a person who doesn’t automatically rank her as the best, the most polished? it feels so good.

*

four.

aria montgomery is different.

she’s different in the sense that she doesn’t fit in at rosewood high; sure, there are some outsider-y types, but they fit into their little cliques all the same. you’re a nerd or you’re a burnout stoner or you’re a giant hyper-liberal hippie. aria doesn’t seem to fit into any clique, has no defined easy role that she can slip into. people don’t know what to make of her or the pink streaks in her hair.

and sure, of course rosewood has its punk kids – rare and reviled by old-fashioned parents though they are – but aria isn’t really into that scene either. she’s not an anarchist with sixty piercings or a goth with panda eyes in the corner. she’s not mousy and awkward like mona vanderwaal and she’s not smartassed and petulantly geeky like lucas gottesman.

oh, yeah, and the other way aria’s different? she’s a vampire.

spencer’s never been friends with a vampire before. spencer’s never had a civil conversation with a vampire before. and while her family has kept up pretenses of politeness around certain kinds of people before, she doesn’t think they’ll be so tolerant of their youngest daughter striking up a friendship with one of the most dangerous creatures around.

“where do you know her from, anyway?” spencer asks ali when they’re hitting up sephora after school one day.

the other girl shrugs. “just seen her around, talked to her a few times. i think she’s interesting.”

spencer feels an ache in her heart, wonders if aria is so unique and compelling that all of her own supposed “realness” will pale in comparison. she dusts some blush onto her cheekbones and tries not to think about how her sister asked her earlier if ali wants aria as a friend just to piss off everyone’s parents.

next week is winter break and everyone seems to be jetting off somewhere – alison’s vacationing in florida, emily’s visiting cousins in iowa (“they’re really nice. …they’re so weird,” she tells the others mournfully while they help pack), and hanna’s spending the some time up in philly with her grandma. normally, spencer would be going somewhere too, but her parents are away on a hunting trip so it’s just her and melissa, who is also busy with some boyfriend. spencer calls aria and they set up a sleepover.

the montgomery family is…kind of awesome, to spencer’s own guilty surprise. she expects the blood bags in the fridge and the tinted windows that keep sunlight from being dangerous, but she doesn’t expect how sweet and nurturing ella is or the funny university stories byron has to tell. she definitely doesn’t expect mike, who is aria’s little brother and assuredly not a vampire (an adopted werewolf? who ever heard of a coven doing something like that?) and makes snarky comments about their “girl stuff” while aria volleys back good-natured insults in response. it’s really, really nice, and not at all dangerous, and spencer can barely fathom what it must be like to live in a family where your parents encourage you not to be the best but to be yourself regardless of what anyone else thinks. she voices this to aria later, when it’s dark and they’re making shadow puppets on the ceiling with flashlights.

“eh,” aria mutters. “it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. i can’t really be myself when i don’t know who i am. i keep trying to find ways to fit in, but nothing works.”

“still.” spencer makes bunny ears in her beam of light. “i’d like that better than always having to be the best at everything. my parents are so intense about the hunter stuff, you don’t even know. it’s so bad.”

aria goes quiet for a moment, then asks, “are they mad at you for being friends with me?”

“what? no way. i’m friends with a lot of--”

“come on, spence. you know it’s not the same. hunters like nephilim, and selkies are basically the most benevolent monster you could possibly think of, and shifters—” she pauses. “well, the skin-shedding stuff is kind of gross.”

spencer stifles a giggle. “yeah, it is. it totally is.”

“yeah.” aria’s smiles fades, though, and she looks a little wistful. “but, y’know. shapeshifters don’t have hundreds of years of people being afraid of them and thinking they’re all bloodsucking serial killers or whatever.”

spencer doesn’t know what to say. eventually: “well, if it comes to a vampire witch-hunt, we’ll protect you. i know emily doesn’t look like much, but she’s got a mean right hook.”

aria actually laughs at that, rolling her eyes. “uh, thanks, i guess.”

they talk late into the night, and fall asleep pinky-promising something. spencer doesn’t remember what when they wake up, but that’s okay. it wasn’t the important part.

*

five.

when they get back from winter break, it’s ice hockey season at rosewood high, and mike wants to go to the first game because some of his friends are on the team. ali also wants to go, reportedly so they can all discuss whether the team is appropriately hot or not, and so they end up nestled in between rows of other students as a bunch of guys in their uniforms chase after the puck. it’s a good game, and close, but their team loses, and ali gets into some strange combination of flirting and arguing about the match with noel kahn afterwards. hanna and emily watch, their heads going back and forth as outraged snark flies through the air between them, while aria goes to wait outside the locker room with mike. spencer heads to the bathroom while ali and noel’s banter continues and their captive audience seems to be getting bigger. weirdos.

she’s in the process of washing her hands when she hears a muffled noise. she stops to listen, and it happens again. spencer recognizes it as a choked sob.

“hello?” she asks curiously. the noises stop, and suddenly someone – a boy – flies out of the stall, looking panicky as he stammers, “i’m sorry, i’m really sorry, i don’t actually go here, i didn’t mean to– ”

“whoa, whoa, whoa,” spencer cuts in, feeling distinctly baffled. “what do you mean, you don’t go here?”

he sniffs and wipes his face on his sleeve. “i’m – i’m from the junior high,” he says. “they let me be on the hockey team. i’m supposed to be really good, so my coach recommended me to play with the high schoolers.”

“oh,” spencer replies, feeling distinctly at a loss. she thinks she heard something about this: a little half-jotunn kid who’s the talk of the guys’ sports teams. there’s another awkward silence as the boy stares tearfully at her, and then says, “this was my first game. everyone’s gonna be so disappointed in me.”

“what?” she responds in surprise. “it’s one game.”

“yeah, but i was supposed to be good enough to– “

“that doesn’t mean anything.” she shakes her head with a frown. “a hockey team is made up of a bunch of people. it’s not like it’s your sole responsibility to make sure the team wins. what, were a bunch of high school guys slacking off because they expected you to do all the work? that’s ridiculous. if they didn’t pull their own weight, they have nobody but themselves to blame, and if they did, then the other team just played better this one time. it happens. it doesn’t say anything about you.”

“coach believed in me,” the kid tells her sadly. “he thought i could do it.”

“so he wanted to experiment, see how you play at another team’s level. i don’t think he’s gonna be disappointed; i mean, you did a really good job out there. it’s not just about winning or losing; the whole game was neck-and-neck, and you got most of your shots. that doesn’t go away just because the team lost.”

she doesn’t exactly know why she’s giving a pep talk to a distraught middle schooler she’s never met, but it seems to be having at least a minor positive effect. he no longer looks completely frenzied, and instead mumbles, “what do you think my parents will say?”

“i don’t really know,” spencer says, which is honestly how she feels – she certainly knows that what her parents would say is completely different from what aria’s parents would, and she has no clue where this boy’s family falls on that spectrum. “but, i mean…i think they should be proud. like i said, you did a good job. i think it should be okay.”

the boy looks at her for a moment, still sniffling, and just says, “thanks.”

after another moment, she realizes something, and tells him: “you’re welcome, but you should probably leave the girls’ bathroom.”

he scurries out with another apology and a watery smile, unthinkingly leaving frosty footprints behind him. spencer carefully wipes them up with paper towels once he’s gone, and takes a long look in the mirror.

she’s never heard her mom or dad say anything about the jotunn. for some reason, she hopes she never does.

her cell phone buzzes – it’s a text from aria, wondering where she went – and spencer leaves to go find out what her friends are doing.

[escaped-from]

big spoon/little spoon: 

despite the height difference, ruby is the big spoon; she is a gigantic clinger in her sleep and always ends up with her arms wrapped around whoever she’s with. weiss, for her part, is fine with this because she’s incredibly awkward about giving physical affection. plus, it’s nice to feel like ruby wants her there.

favorite non-sexual activity:

sparring – ruby always has some new prototype for a weapon she’s invented this week, and weiss enjoys the chance to hone her technique in battle.

who uses all the hot water in the mornings:

weiss. she has a lot more hair, and anyhow ruby showers fast: she has STUFF TO DO, OKAY, THE REST OF HER LIFE IS WAITING.

what they order from takeout:

it takes weiss a long time to appreciate takeout as a concept – she grew up with an assortment of incredibly talented family cooks (nothing but the best for the schnees, after all) and has very little faith in anything that isn’t a five-star restaurant, plus being terrified of food poisoning. ruby, however, grew up with chinese takeout and has very specific friday night traditions that she refuses to budge on.

most trivial thing they fight over: 

weiss’s emotionally stunted means of demonstrating fondness; ruby’s inability to sit still; the fact that ruby sometimes spends all day in the shop building weapons and forgets to eat; wess’s inability to loosen up; whether or not ruby should have to learn german in order to impress weiss’s family and if weiss should have to learn mandarin as a form of payment.

who does most of the cleaning: 

weiss. she cannot stand a mess.

who controls the netflix queue: 

ruby! weiss was raised to think television and movies were just a distraction, so she doesn’t care; ruby, of course, loves action movies and also devours adventure time voraciously. (weiss thought the latter was too juvenile to be worth her attention, but she ended up getting sucked in during one of ruby’s marathons, and now whenever it’s on she comes over and sits quietly on the couch, enthralled. ruby knows better than to rub it in.)

who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working: 

ruby. much as weiss hates to admit it, ruby has superior interpersonal skills, and she enjoys the chance for casual conversation while she’s at it. nothing wrong with being friends with the person who owns your living space.

who steals the blankets: 

this is a subject of great contention and we don’t talk about it in polite company.

who leaves their stuff around: 

ruby. always ruby. and then when weiss puts it back in a perfectly ordered fashion she can’t find anything.

who remembers to buy the milk:

you’d think thiswould fall to weiss again, but it’s actually ruby – weiss grew up with housekeepers and maids who kept track of that kind of thing, while ruby used to go to the grocery story with yang every week when they were kids.

who remembers anniversaries: 

weiss. ruby is notoriously bad at keeping track of dates, and weiss is a very skilled event planner. ruby doesn’t entirely get what all the fuss is about – she’d rather spend the day sparring with weiss until she pins her to the gym floor and seals their mouths together – but she knows that members of the schnee family don’t put this kind of effort into just anyone, so she’s grateful.

big spoon/little spoon: 

yang, like ruby, is a giant clinger, but blake likes to sleep facing her partners. they usually end up in a kind of loose hug as a result.

favorite non-sexual activity:

blake’s is talking about books, and yang’s is listening to blake talking about books. blake is usually so taciturn and closed off, but when she’s talking about a book she loves, her face lights up in a way almost no one gets to see, and yang enjoys feeling like she’s seeing this piece of blake that’s just for her. a close second is blake hanging onto yang from behind when they’re riding that ridiculous orange motorcycle.

who uses all the hot water in the mornings:

yang. blake’s showers are extremely efficient and take almost no time despite her long hair. yang, meanwhile, loves to hang around and daydream.

what they order from takeout:

outside of chinese food like ruby, yang also loves spicy-hot stuff – indian, mexican, the whole nine yards. blake’s tastes are a little more subtle; she’s particularly fond of pho.

most trivial thing they fight over: 

they don’t really fight – yang is too fundamentally good-natured and blake is very patient and calm and sensible when bringing up something that bothers her – but yang will sometimes whine if blake doesn’t want to go out dancing, and blake finds herself somewhat aggravated when yang picks fights with sexist dudebros at bars.

who does most of the cleaning: 

blake. she doesn’t mind mess, really, but she likes knowing where things are.

who controls the netflix queue: 

this is a frequent area of compromise, because they have extremely different tastes; yang loves ridiculous action movies and gory horror (the shittier the better, in her opinion; yang adores a good terrible movie), while blake enjoys well-crafted procedurals like elementary and luther. they switch off every week; sometimes, blake will do her best to appreciate the je ne sais quois of the fast and furious series, and other times yang will do her best not to get antsy when idris elba is gazing soulfully at the floor. (he’s hot, so that helps some.)

who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working: 

blake. yang is often too distracted to deal with such trivialities – and she prefers, god forbid, finding creative ways to SUMMON heat through sheer force of will and candlesticks, as opposed to actually fixing the problem.

who steals the blankets: 

yang. and she kicks when you try to take them back, too. (blake, luckily, is mostly just amused by this.)

who leaves their stuff around: 

yang tends to leave a greater diversity of stuff, but blake will sometimes leave whatever books she’s in the middle of reading scattered around as well.

who remembers to buy the milk:

blake. blake is extremely responsible about groceries in general, since she remembers a time in her life when food wasn’t always easy to come by.

who remembers anniversaries: 

yang, and she loves making A HUGE GODDAMN DEAL OUT OF THEM, but not in the way where she plans an extravagant dinner – rather, she finds some cool new thing to do or a place to explore or an out-of-the-way bookshop to take blake to. and blake expresses her gratitude, but she’s honestly way more touched than she lets on: she isn’t used to someone doing so much for her, trying to make her so happy, and she wants to give something back. she’s not quite sure what, but she tries, pays close attention to what yang cares about and what she really wishes she could do.

a lot of the time, they just end the day at this spot somewhere out in the woods. there’s a clearing, and past the treetops, they can see every single star.

[escaped-from]

it’s a rare creature indeed (who can satisfy me)

dangan ronpa; high school au; warnings for self-harm/self-loathing/general dysfunction. four kisses that never happened to touko fukawa, and one that did.

i.

You’ve never kissed Byakuya Togami.

You think about it a lot, of course. How it would go, what it would feel like. You’d never dare make the first move, so it’s always him who takes the lead in your imagination. You think he’d shove you against a wall, fingers hard around your shoulders as he sank his teeth into your lower lip. (Togami-sama’s kisses are never kind.) He would press his mouth into yours like he was trying to take something from you without giving too much of himself away in the process. You think he would probably leave bruises on your neck (or maybe you just wish that he would). When he backed off, he would eye you critically and tell you to cover them up with foundation. When you’d say that you don’t wear makeup, he’d scoff at you for being a failure of a girl and shell out the money for a quick run to the cosmetics section at the drugstore.

(At night, you would scratch at the spots until the skin there broke. You could never deserve to be marked in such a fashion, and better you have an ugly scabbed neck to suit your ugly scabbed soul than any visible sign that he wants you.)

But, of course, none of this has ever really happened, because Togami-sama will never kiss you like that. He will never touch you or gaze into your eyes or hold onto you like you’re something precious, and that’s why you love him more than anyone you’ve ever met, because someone who refuses to acknowledge your existence will never care about you enough to hurt you.

ii.

You‘ve never kissed Celestia Ludenberg, and you’re glad of it. She’s like a witch in a fairytale – pretty on the outside, rotted and deceptive on the inside. She is a liar and a manipulator and she’d frame you for vandalizing a teacher’s car as soon as she’d let you borrow a pencil. The only reason everyone’s so nice to her – the only reason she doesn’t get bullied like the rest of the freaks – is because they’re scared of her.

You remember when things were different, though: no one would ever believe you, but she used to be your friend, back when she was Taeko and kept her hair simple and never dressed up and was too shy to talk to anyone. You weren’t close, but you had an understanding. It was the bond of children who have little in common, but are universally mocked by their classmates for being too quiet, too weird, too bookish, too ordinary. Taeko and you would eat lunch quietly, underneath the bleachers (no one ever came up to you and threw dirt in your sandwiches or put bugs down your shirt there).

As the years passed, she drifted away from you and gave herself a makeover, went by a different name, wore extravagant lace outfits and turned her hair into an art form all its own. You envied her, because she was your opposite – where you shrank smaller and smaller, she made herself larger than life so no one could ever treat her like she was nothing again. You let yourself be pathetic, and she turned herself into something beautiful. Passive versus active. Loser versus winner.

Sometimes, at night, just as you’re falling asleep and your hold on your thoughts is loosest, you imagine what it would be like to kiss her. She would delicately place one hand against your face, and then forget it ever happened – or use it as blackmail. It wouldn’t end well for you.

But then you remember that she’s like a witch in a fairytale, and maybe, if you kiss her, you can steal some of her power. Maybe you can be untouchable, too.

iii.

You’ve never kissed Aoi Asahina, the little bitch, and sometimes you think you should just to see if it would shut her up. You don’t know why she keeps trying to be friends with you. You’ve certainly never returned the alleged “favor.”

Kissing Asahina-san would be…strange, to say the least. She would probably be too surprised to kiss you back and you would click teeth and it would feel uncomfortable and wrong. And anyhow, she seems like the kind of girl who would think kissing meant a relationship, and a relationship would mean dinner dates and going to the movies and holding hands on the beach and quick furtive looks in the locker room and bashful blushing combined with genuine enthusiasm when anything sexual happened.

You are not that kind of girl.

So you don’t kiss her.

iv.

You’ve never kissed Chihiro Fujisaki. You don’t really want to, but it seems like a halfway intriguing experiment. At first, during freshman year, everyone expected you to bond instantly and run in the same silly little clique: you’re both shy and ill at ease and too academically inclined for most people to keep up with. Chihiro speaks in binary code and you make your home in the old yellowed pages of library books. It seems like a reasonable match.

But, no – Fujisaki-san is too soft, too kind, and has never meshed well with your sharp edges. Like Asahina-san, she makes fumbling efforts to reach out to you occasionally, but is doomed to failure, same as anyone else who’s ever tried. One time, when you were partners in math class, she asked you (in her gentle, angelic stammer) why you’re so afraid of being hurt or laughed at.

I know what everyone thinks of me, you had snapped, at once relishing and hating the way she cringed back just a tiny bit. They all know I’m an ugly freak. I see it in the way they look at me.

Chihiro had tilted her head, fluffy brown hair bouncing against her chin. I—I don’t know. I bet some of them think about how interesting you are. Maybe they wish they knew you better?

You accused her of lying – of playing a prank – and went back to furiously scribbling out the set of problems. She didn’t say anything about it after that, apart from a mumbled apology almost too quiet to hear.

(If you ever kissed Fujisaki-san, you wouldn’t press too hard. If you did, she’d stumble back and then say she was sorry, and the moment would be ruined. Nothing like the stories you write at all.)

Maybe that’s why it seemed like you should be friends – not because you’re the most bookish and quiet people in the whole school, but because you are both too lonely to survive by yourselves and too awkward and self-conscious to truly be loveable.

(You think her mouth seems soft. Needy. You do what you can to not look at it.)

v.

When you come out of the corner bathroom stall after a crying jag, you see Junko Enoshima putting on makeup at the mirror.

You walk up to a sink and turn on the tap, splashing at your face with water and hoping she doesn’t notice. You already know this is foolish, though, because Enoshima-san notices everything that goes on in this school, and sure enough, she turns to study you critically. “Hey.”

You ignore her on the fragile hope she’ll think you didn’t hear and leave you alone. No such luck as she leans in. “Hey.”

“W-what?” you mutter, taking a subtle step away. “What do you want?”

She reaches out and pokes your arm with a shiny red press-on. “You’re in my English class. What were you crying about?”

Those two sentences don’t seem like they should go together. You swipe furiously at your tearstained cheeks. “Why do you want to know? Are you going to yell about it in one of your little chants while you wave your pom-poms at the next football game?”

Enoshima-san laughs. It’s an ugly noise. “Good idea. I should do that.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” you snap, pushing past her with a glare – as much of one as you dare to give, anyhow.

But then she unexpectedly reaches out, grabs you by the arm, and pushes you against the wall. Her eyes sweep over you with the kind of affection a cat would give a mouse.

You don’t have much time to think of a retort before her lips are on yours.

They have a chemical strawberry taste to them. Her hands slowly slide down to your hips. You think that you should push her away, but your arms are useless and unresponsive at your sides as her mouth works against yours. You have no idea what’s even happening right now, or why.

(You’ll never know why you do what you do next. Maybe you’re sick of feeling weak and powerless. Maybe you hate that she thinks she can just do this and you’ll just let her, that she’s so entitled. Maybe you’ve never been kissed like this, and despite the utterly bizarre context, you find yourself wanting more.)

You kiss back.

You kiss back, and Junko makes a startled, delighted noise in the back of her throat before nipping at your lower lip and pushing in to make it deeper, more intense. Your hands move up to her shoulders before reaching into her soft hair.  Her lips are slick and sticky with a mixture of saliva and gloss. You grasp at her tie, pulling her closer, and feel her grin against you.

She reaches up to start unbuttoning your sweater, and even as you moan into her mouth a little you think she can’t seriously be about to feel you up, and the bell signaling the end of third period suddenly rings harsh and shrill in your ears. Junko jerks back, wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. Even though you know someone will probably walk in soon, all you can do is stare.

She notices it, and leans in close to press two fingers under your chin, tilting your face upward. An emotion you aren’t entirely sure what to call flickers over her face. “Poor little Touko,” she murmurs, and moves in to whisper in your ear. “Your despair tastes delicious.”

Then Junko shoves you against the wall, hard, and sashays out. The door swings shut into place.

You slowly reach up to touch your lips. Maybe you imagined the whole thing.

After all, it wouldn’t have been the first time.

[escaped-from]

here comes the heat before we meet (a little bit closer) + dangan ronpa; high school au; part 1 out of 2. warnings for abuse. kyouko kirigiri isn’t used to taking care of another person. all the same, she does what she can. + kirigiri/mukuro with a side order of unresolved kirigiri/naegi (will eventually become ot3 in some other fic one of these days). + a/n: this wasn’t the fic i meant to write, but it’s the fic that exists. it’s weird and not good and i don’t know if i like it at all, but it wanted to happen, so here it is. oops, or something. unbeta'd and pretty raw; also, i apologize for trying to write with honorifics.

It’s five minutes after the last bell and Kirigiri is putting her geometry textbook back in her locker when the fight breaks out.

She doesn’t pay attention until a crowd starts forming, people yelling and chanting, and a familiar frantic voice yells, “Guys, guys, stop! Don’t!”

Kirigiri briefly wonders just why it is Naegi always takes it upon himself to get involved in disagreements he isn’t even a part of when some teacher is doubtlessly moments away from interrupting anyhow. As she elbows her way through the cluster of students, she takes in what’s happening: Mukuro Ikusaba has Touko Fukawa on the floor, one hand reaching up to capture Fukawa’s wrists while her opposite arm is pinned across the girl’s throat. Fukawa shrieks and thrashes underneath her, crying bloody murder, until the ring of surrounding students parts to let somebody new through – it’s Sakura, who pulls Mukuro off and traps her against a locker. “This is not a becoming situation,” she says in a low, dangerous voice as Mukuro tries to wrench free of her grip. “Calm yourself.”

“She attacked me!” Fukawa screams, scrambling to her feet. “S-she attacked me, I didn’t even do anything, I was minding my own business--”

As predicted, a teacher has finally shown up to sort things out, and Kirigiri decides to disappear before her father gets involved. She doesn’t want to miss the bus, anyhow.

*

Kirigiri doesn’t exactly have a lot of friends. She doesn’t try to be a loner; it’s just not in her nature to socialize, especially when, if you think about it, they’re all going to go their separate ways in a few years anyhow and will rarely see each other in person again, if at all. Kirigiri would rather have a few meaningful relationships, as a opposed to a lot with an expiration date called “graduation.”

Still, group projects mean that it’s good to have a few casual acquaintances on standby, which is why she invites Chihiro and Aoi over to work on their English presentation. After they get a couple of hours’ worth of work done, Aoi says, “Hey, I drove here; does anyone wanna go for donuts? We could use a break.”

This is how Kirigiri ends up at Starbucks listening to chatter about who’s dating who and what the good clubs are this fall and shopping plans, despite none of those topics being things she cares about on any given day. She sips her tea while Aoi talks enthusiastically about homecoming.

“I know Sayaka-chan is really excited about being in dance committee! I’m sure that’ll be cool; I can’t wait for the game, though. It’s gonna be so awesome.”

“Yeah,” Chihiro says as she peels apart one of her split ends. “Listen, d’you think I should try out for something this year? I dunno if I should, I mean, I always chicken out…”

“You should totally give it a shot! We could always use someone on the swim team. And hey, if you decide you don’t want to actually play a sport, you could always be on cheerleading. That would be cool.”

Suddenly – and without even really knowing why, which is unusual for her – Kirigiri asks, “Is Mukuro Ikusaba on a sports team?”

Aoi blinks. “Yeah, she does field hockey. Why?”

“Just curious. I figure she had to get the skill at tackling Fukawa to the ground from somewhere.”

“I heard she takes martial arts lessons,” Chihiro pipes up. “Mukuro-san. Not Fukawa-san.”

Aoi picks at the sprinkles on her donut. “You don’t need to play field hockey or practice martial arts to tackle Touko Fukawa to the ground. I do kinda wonder what they were fighting about, though.”

“D-do you think Mukuro-san will get…suspended?” Chihiro asks, whispering suspended the way one might say thrown into a pit of live alligators.

“No,” Kirigiri replies. “Knowing my father, she’ll get a pat on the head and maybe a mandatory visit to the guidance counselor’s office.”

Instantly, Aoi perks up – more than she was already perked up, anyway. “Does that mean I can get away with slapping Togami-kun more often?”

“I wouldn’t try,” replies Kirigiri, while Chihiro yelps, “Violence is not the answer, Asahina-san!”

*

The next day, Kirigiri has a free period before lunch, so she spends it getting a head start on her homework in the library. At one point, her phone buzzes.

It’s a text from Naegi. Did I leave my calculator at your house over the weekend? I can’t find it.

No, you didn’t. Don’t text in class.

A few minutes pass before she gets a little sad face in her inbox. Kirigiri rolls her eyes fondly.

It’s hard to explain exactly why she likes him so much, but if she has a best friend, it’s probably him. Kirigiri figures that he’s one of the few people she’ll hang onto once she gets out of Hope’s Peak for good – even though Naegi thinks he’s nothing special, she secretly has faith that he’ll go places in life, and she likes to think she’ll get to be a part of it, maybe.

(It’s not like that. Mostly. Kind of. Okay, maybe it is like that. But Naegi has no idea, and so far, Kirigiri has no plans on telling him.)

After awhile, she gets bored with homework and begins idly searching through the library stacks – in her grandest dreams, the school board will eventually quit deeming most mystery fiction “too violent” and “inappropriately dark” to be included, but for now she’ll settle on rereading her favorite book about forensic science. Kirigiri finds a chair in an empty corner (the only kind of corner that should exist, as far as she’s concerned) and settles in to refresh her memory on dactyloscopy.

As she turns to the right page, though, she hears the sound of someone crying.

There’s an uncomfortable moment of muffled sobs where Kirigiri contemplates whether she should go see who it is or not. On the one hand, upset people tend to want privacy, and if she seeks out whoever it is, then she’ll be obligated to try and act as a comforting presence, which isn’t in her repertoire of talents. On the other hand, Kirigiri’s nosiness is one of her foremost traits, and the longer she listens the more she wants to know who it is.

After another minute or so, she curses the damnably persistent sense of curiosity that runs in her family, and ventures towards the source of the noise; it’s coming from somewhere in the stacks. Kirigiri gingerly approaches the nearest aisle – and peers down it to see Mukuro Ikusaba weeping softly into the palm of her hand, eyes squeezed shut in pain.

Well. This is certainly awkward.

Kirigiri doesn’t feel entirely comfortable standing there without the other girl’s knowledge, so she coughs, and Mukuro’s head snaps up. They stare at each other for a moment, Mukuro swiping any remaining tears off her face, and then Kirigiri asks, “Are you alright?”

Mukuro shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”

“In the interest of full disclosure, I’m not altogether sure I believe you.”

A pause. “Just don’t tell my sister. Or, don’t tell anyone who’d tell my sister. Actually, just don’t tell.”

Kirigiri folds her arms and leans against the shelves. “That’s fair. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Mukuro gives her this look – the kind an injured animal in a trap might give someone – and shifts around uncomfortably. “I don’t need you to stay. Like I said, I’ll be fine.”

“Right, sure. You’ll be fine until you flip out and attack someone again.”

She feels a stab of guilt when Mukuro doesn’t reply right away; maybe that was too much. Then: “I didn’t ‘flip out.’”

“Okay. What do you call picking a fight with Touko Fukawa, then? I know she’s not the easiest person in the universe to get along with, but you don’t really strike me as the temperamental type.”

“That’s between me and Fukawa-san,” Mukuro says flatly.

Kirigiri arches an eyebrow. Mukuro eyeballs her impassively. This goes on for awhile, until the million dollar question comes up: “Why do you even care so much?”

“I guess,” Kirigiri says slowly, “because I don’t understand you, and that makes you interesting.”

Mukuro’s eyes widen, and oh, she doesn’t like that very much at all. “You should stay away from me,” she says slowly, “before something bad happens.”

“…Are you threatening me?”

“More like begging.” And then she’s gone, walking briskly down the aisle of books until the entire conversation seems like it might have been a dream.

*

Later, at lunch, Kirigiri considers why Mukuro wouldn’t want her sister to find out she’d been crying in the library.

Everyone knows who Junko Enoshima is. She’s one of the populars, runs in the same circles as people like Sayaka Maizono and Leon Kuwata. She and Mukuro have different last names for generally unknown reasons; Kirigiri would wager that their parents are divorced and split up the girls during some custody battle, though it’s just a guess. While Mukuro isn’t a social butterfly like her twin, she’s not an embarrassment, either. She mostly just keeps to herself, doesn’t have too many friends. Kirigiri was being genuine when she said that the fight with Fukawa seemed uncharacteristic; she’s never known Mukuro to raise her voice or even make a sarcastic remark. Kirigiri supposes she’s never known Mukuro at all, really. She doesn’t think anyone at school has, apart from Junko. They’ve always seemed close, which seems normal enough for twins.

She figures if she wants to find anything out, she’ll have to ask Fukawa. Kirigiri sighs, mentally steels herself to be extra patient, and goes to find her.

Fukawa always sits in the back of the cafeteria, where she is simultaneously far away from everyone and has the best possible view of the center table that Byakuya Togami’s crew of rich kids is always at. Fukawa’s crush on Togami is a thing of legend at Hope’s Peak, and Fukawa doesn’t seem to much care that everyone knows: it’s essentially the only fact about herself she doesn’t mind anyone knowing. The incoming conversation is going to be loaded with delicate pitfalls, and Kirigiri immediately rules out making any statements that could possibly, on any level, be construed as some kind of personal insult.

When she sits down, Fukawa stiffens and glares at her suspiciously. Off to a good start, then. “Hello, Fukawa-san.”

“W-what do you want?” she snaps, in the process of tearing her brown paper lunch bag into tiny pieces. “Are you playing some kind of prank? Are you having Naegi-kun film this conversation so you can put it on the Internet later and laugh at me?”

“Naegi-kun would never do such a thing, and I’m here on my own behalf,” Kirigiri replies with infinite calm. “I wanted to ask about the fight you got into the other day.”

“I didn’t get into a fight! I would never get into a fight; it got into me.” Before she can respond, Fukawa shrilly yelps, “N-not like that! Never like that. As if I would stoop to such vulgar activities in the school hallway! Don’t you twist my words.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Listen, I was going to ask: do you know why Ikusaba-san attacked you?”

“No,” Fukawa stammers, but she’s a terrible liar, and Kirigiri simply has to tilt her head and drum her fingers on the table in order to get the truth. “Alright, fine! I might have said something about her and Junko. But it wasn’t even to her face! She wasn’t part of the conversation! If she’s mad at me, it’s her own fault for listening in.”

“Fukawa-san. What did you say?”

Fukawa glances around shiftily, toying with one of her braids. “Hagakure-kun was mocking my…relationship with Togami-sama. I was only trying to defend myself. I explained that our love was perfectly pure and above the scorn of others, and anyhow, at least I’m not in love with my twin sister. And then that brute assaulted me in broad daylight.”

“Hm. Fascinating. Thank you for your help, Fukawa-san.”

She looks confused as Kirigiri stands up. “What did I help you with?”

“I don’t know yet. Regardless, thank you.”

Fascinating, indeed.

*

She foregoes the bus today in favor walking Naegi home. Kirigiri carries his books while he talks enthusiastically about chemistry class. “I don’t really get most of it, but you should’ve seen what Fujisaki-san did, it was so amazing—“

“Naegi-kun?” she asks suddenly. “Do you know Ikusaba-san at all?”

“Huh? Oh, I don’t know. We’re not close, but we talk sometimes.”

“Has she told you anything about herself? Maybe her home life, or her relationship with Junko?”

“I dunno, maybe. Why?”

“It might be important,” she says, and Naegi seems to realize that there’s more going on here than he immediately gets. He doesn’t pry, thankfully – one of her favorite things about Naegi is that he trusts her to let him in on whatever’s nagging at her when she’s ready. He screws up his face in thought, reflecting.

“Let’s see…I remember she told me that she used to be homeless once. Sleeping outside and everything. And she’s told me before that she wishes she had more…opportunities, I guess? Or freedom. We were talking about our futures and stuff, and she said that she’s always been sure of who she is, but now she thinks that’s what’s holding her back.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, like…I don’t know. I get the feeling she misses having possibilities, since she’s only ever seen herself one way or something. I’m not really sure.”

“Feeling trapped,” Kirigiri muses. “That could be enough to make someone act out, right? Get upset?”

“I guess. Have you ever felt like that, Kirigiri-san?”

Kirigiri kicks at a rock, shifting the weight of Naegi’s books from one arm to the other. “No. I like knowing who I am. It gives me a sense of purpose.”

“Must be nice,” Naegi says contemplatively. “I’ve never really known who I am. I must not be very useful, huh?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re Naegi-kun. If more people were like you, the world would be a better place.”

He beams at her. Her chest aches. “Wow, thanks, Kirigiri-san! That’s really nice of you.”

“It’s just the truth,” she says. Kirigiri’s never been one to flatter.

*

On Wednesday, Mukuro comes to school with a split lip. Most people don’t care, but Yamada makes some crack about her having a rap sheet, and while she doesn’t openly retaliate, she slams her locker door so hard that Kirigiri’s head turns down the hall.

She doesn’t actually mean to confront her again – really, she doesn’t, there’s a thin line between investigative integrity and plain old rudeness, not to mention harassment, and Kirigiri has always been proud of her commitment to staying on the correct side – but when she escapes to the girls’ bathroom during History, Mukuro is there, applying foundation and frowning at her reflection in the mirror.

This would be an uninteresting image on its own, except for how there are also multiple tubes of concealer, and she’s in the middle of smudging something over a black eye that definitely wasn’t there this morning.

Kirigiri stares. Mukuro stares back. It’s a running theme with them.

Eventually, Mukuro finishes covering up the bruise before packing up her things and leaving. She pushes past Kirigiri without a word, and once again she’s gone.

What a strange little rabbit hole this is turning out to be.

*

Aoi finds her in the halls between fifth and sixth period.

“Kirigiri-chaaaaaan,” she greets playfully with a punch on the shoulder. “Do you have a date for homecoming yet?”

“I don’t even know if I’m going, Asahina-san,” Kirigiri replies as she exchanges a couple of textbooks between her locker and her bag. “Besides, I don’t need a date to go to the dance, do I?”

“Well,” Aoi says with a suggestive flutter of her eyelashes. “I don’t think anyone’s asked Naegi-kun.”

“Really? How strange,” Kirigiri remarks, hoping to circumvent the direction of this conversation by being deliberately obtuse. “I know he doesn’t really run with the popular crowd, but everyone likes him; he has friends everywhere. You think someone would have stepped up by now.”

Aoi looks thrown, but quickly recovers. “Oh, sure, but I think there’s someone everyone knows is into him and we’re just waiting for them to be Facebook official, y’know? One of those things.”

“Hm,” Kirigiri says as she finishes packing up her things. “Well, good luck to whoever-it-is. I’m sure Naegi-kun would be delighted to go with them.”

Despite everything, she can’t fight a smile at how Aoi simply stands there gaping indignantly.

*

Once school is over, the afternoon is uneventful. Kirigiri goes home and does her assignments and reheats some leftovers for dinner, since her grandpa is working late again.

(People think she’s a narc, because her dad is the principal and she always makes it her business to know everything that’s going on, but the truth is she couldn’t care less what infractions he does or doesn’t know about. She’s not going to rat a bunch of bored teenagers out to a relative she barely acknowledges and doesn’t even live with. Kirigiri is nobody’s spy.)

Eventually, she runs out of things to do and retreats to her room with one of her beat-up Shimada paperbacks, lying in bed as she traces her fingers over the words.

Tap.

She turns a page.

Tap tap.

Kirigiri frowns, glances up. Are those—

—rocks at her window?

She listens, watching closely. Yes, those are definitely rocks at her window.

Kirigiri gets off the bed and pads over to pull the glass back and peer out the screen. Mukuro’s standing in her yard, holding an armful of tiny pebbles.

She’s frozen for a moment, not really sure if she’s actually seeing what she’s seeing, and then another rock smacks against the window, making her jump. Seems as good a confirmation as anything. Kirigiri starts to turn to go downstairs and open the front door, but then – in a move she’s pretty sure she’ll never forget the sight of – Mukuro runs to the trellis hanging near the window, scrambles up it in a series of fluid movements, and gestures for Kirigiri to open the screen, clinging to the structure of wood and ivy like a monkey.

Well, fine. It’s hardly the weirdest thing that’s happened lately. She pushes the screen away, leans out to grab Mukuro’s arm, and carefully guides her through the opening as she hoists herself onto the windowsill. Kirigiri watches her carefully as she leans against the wall and slides down to the floor, looking exhausted. There are red marks running horizontally along her throat.

After a moment, Kirigiri says, “How did you know where I live? Actually, hold that thought – how did you know what window to throw rocks at?”

“Naegi-kun told me.”

“I have to get him to stop doing that,” she mutters. “It was bad enough when he let Ishimaru-kun know.”

Mukuro frowns. “Ishimaru-kun threw rocks at your window?”

“No. That’s much too unseemly for his tastes. He’s very persistent about knocking on the door, though. It’s quite obnoxious.”

The quiet seeps back in again, with Mukuro gazing at her feet and apparently refusing to give up any information she isn’t asked directly about. Kirigiri sits back on her bed and, after giving what she wants to say some thought, asks, “Why are you here?”

“Because I didn’t want to be at home,” says Mukuro, not looking away from her shoes. “And I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

The questions are practically buzzing out of Kirigiri’s body, but she shoves them into the back of her head for the moment. Now’s not the time. “Alright. Would you…like some tea?”

This gets her a scoff. “You’re asking me if I want tea?”

“I’m not accustomed to classmates I barely know coming to my house because they had nowhere better to be. Does your sister sneak out regularly, too?”

Mukuro flinches at the mention of Junko. “Yeah. I got the idea from her.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“No,” the girl responds flatly, and something clicks in Kirigiri’s head.

“…She’s the reason why you’re here, isn’t she?” she says slowly, putting together. “Why you get into fights and come to school with cuts and bruises. It’s all her, right?”

Mukuro doesn’t acknowledge what she’s said for a moment, still reluctant to make eye contact. “You can’t tell anyone.”

Kirigiri studies her. Thinks about it. “…Do you still want tea?”

“I…like lavender?” Mukuro says it like she’s confused, not used to asking for things. “But—I mean, I’m not thirsty. So…maybe later.”

“Okay.”

They sit there for a long time in silence. Kirigiri’s gut tells her Mukuro isn’t here to talk – at least, not right now.

(Eventually, she watches her leave through the window, earlier actions inverted. Neither of them know what school is going to be like tomorrow.)

[escaped-from]

Everyone always comes back somehow; no one ever really dies. Sayaka is not a believer, and does not know this as she bleeds out on the shower room's floor. Later, after the trial, Naegi is the only one who thinks about where she might be now.

Somewhere else out in the world, a blackbird takes flight.

[escaped-from]

Meg Wyman’s surprise reunion with an old coworker came about in a fashion that was entirely unexpected, yet also somehow completely appropriate, which is to say it was Morgan’s fault. Apparently, he’d made some new friends, and while Meg didn’t usually give a shit about her girlfriend’s little brother’s social life one way or the other, things changed when he invited a few of them over.

One of them was Morgan’s new boyfriend Jack, who was like a loud, annoying puppy. Meg made a mental note to avoid him. The other was Claire, who was cut from the same sour-faced cloth as Morgan himself, and who was also apparently here because she’d been pestering Morgan about getting to read the Blackwood family spellbooks. Tourists, Meg thought with great disdain.

The last of them came slouching in behind Claire, eying the room speculatively. Meg found herself feeling unsettled without knowing why, until the girl made eye contact with her and something slid into place.

Meg didn’t know what her expression looked like, but she was reasonably sure it involved her eyes widening, which she found distasteful (she’d never enjoyed looking obviously caught off guard). Meanwhile, Judith made a muffled choking noise and then tried to look innocent when Claire looked back over her shoulder.

“What’s with you?”

“Me? Oh, absolutely nothing,” Judith replied, making a big show of looking at her nails. Claire – who, for the record, looked entirely unconvinced; apparently she was at least smarter than Morgan, which Meg had to appreciate – made a face at her and reached out to pull Judith along by the arm. Judith allowed herself to be dragged after the others, but not before shooting Meg a sidelong glance and arching an eyebrow upward with great significance.

Meg chose to retort with one of her subtle-yet-distinct I’m going to beat you up faces and went back to planning dinner for that night.

*

Morgan’s posse did not stay long enough to try the (fucking delicious, thank you very much) empanadas Meg had made, for which she was thankful: today had been weird enough for her tastes. Gwen came home from the bookstore and talked about her customers, Kayla regularly provoked Morgan during the conversation, Wesley looked amused and Lamia looked pained. It was all business as usual.

Later that night, as they were getting ready for bed, Gwen asked, “You okay? You seem kind of quiet.”

Meg briefly reflected upon how much she appreciated the fact that Gwen could distinguish such a thing when she was literally nearly always ‘kind of quiet,’ then said, “It’s nothing. I used to work with one of Morgan’s new friends, and seeing her caught me by surprise.”

Gwen frowned and folded her arms. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. I think she was as surprised to see me being all domestic as I was to see her.” Meg paused. “Still. I’ll look into it. Back when I knew her, she was a bit of a…wild card.”

“Okay.” Gwen reached out and gently pulled Meg to her with a soft smile. “Try not to get killed or anything.”

Meg scoffed, standard eye-roll included, before leaning in to kiss her.

*

The next morning, when Morgan dashed through the kitchen and said he was heading over the Carters’ apartment to meet Jack, Meg said, “I’m going with you.”

Morgan turned to give her a look that was somewhere halfway between perplexed and suspicious. Meg snorted. “Don’t be so dramatic. I have an errand to run.”

“An errand at the Carters’ apartment?”

“Yes.”

Morgan, clearly aware that he was getting no further information, gave up on this line of questioning. “Okay, fine, but hurry up! We’re gonna miss the bus.”

“Don’t be so hormonal,” Meg told him, shrugging on her best intimidating leather jacket.

*

Right as Morgan lifted his hand to knock on the door, Jack opened it to come inside. They stared at each other blinking in surprise like a couple of losers for a moment and then Jack yelled, “See? We have a psychic bond!” before flinging his arms around Morgan. Meg momentarily wondered if she was getting sudden onset diabetes before asking, “Is Judith here?”

Jack, still hugging Morgan, pointed upward and said, “She lives one floor above us. 2C.” Meg left them to be ridiculous and generally embarrassing by themselves.

Once she made it up the stairs and found Apartment 2C, Meg hesitated – she didn’t even really know what she expected to get out of this, apart from a newfound understanding as to whether Judith was out of the business and of no particular danger to Meg’s family. It wasn’t like she planned on staying and chatting.

Well, whatever. Meg knocked and waited.

The door eventually swung open, right when she was thinking about knocking again, and Judith leaned against a frame with a smirk that automatically gave Meg a headache. “Hi, Megara. Wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

“Don’t call me that,” Meg responded flatly. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m pretty sure I, like, live here.”

“I mean in my city hanging around my family.”

Judith put on an expression of mock offense. “I could say the same about you, Megs, Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t call me that. Also, you came to my house, so technically you started it.”

“Is this your roundabout way of asking me if I’m still working? Because I’m not. Are you?”

“No,” Meg said vehemently. There was an awkward beat. Then Judith said with a deeply irritating grin: “So, hey, come inside. We can catch up, discuss recent events, make it clothing-optional…”

“I’m not available,” Meg replied, less vehemently but more annoyed by the minute. “Anyway, see you around, I guess, but get Morgan or any of his friends in trouble and I’ll kill you.”

“Wait,” Judith said as Meg turned to leave. She felt her temples throb – why had she decided this was necessary? Judith, for her part, kept talking really quickly, as if she was expecting to be interrupted at any moment (which was, all things considered, an entirely fair assumption because Judith was fucking obnoxious). “Where are you going? Because we should actually catch up, if our friends are going to be hanging out with each other so much; I guess clothing can be mandatory if you insist or whatever, way to break a girl’s heart, but--”

“Why,” Meg asked, “do you even care?”

Judith shrugged. “Nothing better to do. Besides, like I said. If we’re going to be around each other a lot more, there’s no point in being awkward and weird about it.”

Meg, much to her dismay, found that she couldn’t argue with this.

*

To her credit, Judith had an uncanny knack for naming good lunch spots that appealed to Meg’s incredibly high standards. She took her to a tiny Chinese place where everyone spoke Mandarin; one could only assume that Judith was the sole thing keeping them in business. While they were waiting for their orders, Meg was the unfortunate victim of a lesson on new updates in her former coworker’s love life.

“I don’t understand why you and Claire aren’t better friends at this point. You’re both totally mean and scary and neither of you will make out with me.”

“We’re not better friends because I don’t hang out with nineteen-year-olds,” Meg muttered. “Anyway, last I checked you had zero problems finding people to make out with, so forgive me if my reserves of sympathy are low at the moment.”

“But I want to make out with her specifically,” Judith insisted, picking at a spring roll.

“You know, sometimes, when you want to have sex with a person – and I know this might come as a shock – that person may not want to have sex with you back. Which means that the next step is sucking it up and moving on to your next conquest.”

“You’re not listening,” Judith whined. “I know she wants to make out with me! We’ve made out before! She’s just not making out with me right now out of spite. To, like, punish me and shit.”

“Very kinky,” Meg deadpanned, and caught the sugar packet Judith immediately flung at her. “Any other highly fascinating relationships in your plethora of paramours?”

“I mean, there’s Finn, but you don’t want to hear me talk about boys.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, no. There are only so many violations of my personal boundaries I’ll accept in a day.” She took an aggrieved sip of water and decided to steer the conversation in another direction. “So if you’re not in the business anymore, what are you doing?”

Judith shrugged. “The usual. Fight scary monsters, make demons sorry they came up out of the basement. You?”

“Same thing, really. Though I’m only in it because of my girlfriend and her baby brother, who can’t sneeze without attracting the attention of some eldritch abomination.”

After their food showed up and the conversation blissfully slowed down, Meg tried to think of various ways to avoid seeing Judith again. It’s not that she disliked her – no more than she disliked most people automatically, anyway – it was just that Meg’s assassin years were something she preferred to leave in the past with as few reminders as possible. It wasn’t a guilt thing; Meg didn’t do consumed-with-shame missions of atonement. Judith simply knew her old self to a mildly uncomfortable degree, and she’d never liked mixing business with her personal life to begin with.

Besides, if Judith and Gwen ever met, there would be no end to the constant trade of embarrassing stories, and Meg wasn’t about to end up in Morgan’s position. That was downright unthinkable. Clearly, any unfortunate alliances needed to be preemptively stopped.

As soon as they’d finished up with lunch, Meg took the first bus home and, once she reached the Blackwoods’, very deliberately did not tell anyone about her day.

*

Of course, because some cosmic force had it in for Meg, things didn’t quite pan out according to her vision.

“I think we should invite Morgan’s friends over,” Gwen said casually one morning, and Meg would honestly have been more comfortable if she’d confessed her plans to marry Lamia. “You know, for dinner or something?”

Meg stared. “There’s six of us and six of them. We won’t fit in the dining room, let alone at a single table.”

“So we’ll eat out back! It’s summer. We have a grill.” Gwen dropped two sugars into her coffee and smiled coyly. “Or are hot dogs and hamburgers too pedestrian for you?”

“Yes. Also I don’t like Morgan’s friends.”

“You don’t like anybody. Then you get to know them and you’re, like, at least room temperature.” Gwen pouted, which was very unfortunate. Meg was extremely susceptible to Gwen pouting. “Come on, Meg, Alice is more my friend anyway and I promised I’d help figure out the limits of her technopathy anyw--”

“Fine!” Meg threw her hands up in defeat. “Fine. But I’ll be making something more complex than hot dogs, thanks.”

Gwen flung her arms around her and declared her the best girlfriend ever. Meg didn’t bother with trying to give her the cold shoulder; she’d always been bad at it anyhow.

*

Obviously, certain measures needed to be taken in advance, so Meg once again found herself taking a quick bus trip to go knock on Judith’s door.

Before any dirty jokes could be casually tossed in her direction, she launched into the spiel she’d prepared. “We’re inviting you and your posse to dinner tonight – God only knows why the Blackwoods think this won’t end in blood and tears and general chaos, but they’ve always been incurable optimists, so there you have it. Naturally, this means that while you interact with members of my family, you are to not bring up any of our previous experiences in a professional context, nor are you permitted to discuss that one time in Rio. Do you understand, or should I spell it out on a sign in big letters and then break your kneecaps?”

“Settle down, Lady Snowblood,” Judith responded in an infuriatingly patient tone. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and with a single perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched.  Vain little shit. “I’m not going to go out of my way to fuck with you. There are things I wouldn’t want my friends to know either.”

“Well,” Meg said flatly. She hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Good.”

“Great.” Judith glanced at the floor. “See you then, I guess.”

“Naturally.” Meg left, hearing the door quietly click shut. And, well, if she felt a mild stab of guilt as she went down the stairs – no one could prove anything.

*

Despite Meg’s extremely low expectations – or perhaps because of them – the get-together was actually kind of nice. Jack told lots of bizarre stories about his life that involved a lot of swashbuckling and explosions while Morgan made repugnant dreamy eyes at him, and every now and then Finn would narrow his eyes and mutter, “That is a complete lie.” Claire and Lamia got into an incredibly involved discussion about demonic possession while Lilly and Wes watched Alice psychically turn their phones on and off with more fascination than was really warranted. Judith mostly kept to herself, which Meg was completely fine with, until Gwen took it upon herself to try and be welcoming or some bullshit like that.

“So Meg tells me you two used to know each other,” she said conversationally. Traitor. “Any embarrassing stories I should know?”

Meg shot Judith a look that managed to successfully convey ‘If the next words out of your mouth are ‘this one time in Rio’ I will find you in a dark alleyway later.’ Thankfully, the response was an innocent shrug. “If I do, I may or may not be contractually bound to never repeat them. You probably have more than I do, anyway.”

“Aw, come on,” Gwen replied playfully. “Meg could use a little embarrassment.”

Okay, clearly something had to be done. “Watch yourself,” Meg deadpanned. “You’re skirting dangerously close to sleeping-on-the-couch territory.”

“Is it possible for someone to kick me out of my own bed? I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.”

Judith, who had gone past ‘agreed-upon levels of not insufferable’ to ‘suspiciously amicable’ by this point, idly twirled the straw in her glass of pink lemonade and remarked, “She does have a point there.”

“See? Judith gets me. And she’s much less Grinchy than you are.”

“Oh, she could easily out-Grinch me any day. She just prefers to be stealthy about it.” Meg shot Judith another look; she got confused puppy eyes in response and a confused “Wait, wait, I thought the deal was that I wasn’t supposed to Grinch it up–”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Gwen asked. “Are you going around telling people to suppress their inner Grinches?”

Meg threw up her hands. “This is not a real conversation that is happening right now. I’m going to go find more shredded lettuce.”

*

The shredded lettuce was easily discovered, but she didn’t go back outside. Instead, Meg took it upon herself to get some cherry tomatoes, extra hot sauce, and two more bowls of corn chips. She was on her way to filling up a third when someone stepped into the kitchen behind her. “Meg? Did I run over your puppy? Because I don’t have any recent memories of running over puppies.”

“I don’t have a puppy,” Meg said, not looking over her shoulder. She probably needed more salsa, too.

“Are you sure?”

“Well.” She gave in and turned around to face Judith, who was perched on the kitchen island. “In theory, I suppose Lamia could count. But he’s very much alive, somewhat unfortunately, and other than that I don’t have a puppy.”

“Okay.” Judith shifted uncomfortably. “So you can, like, cease with the rage and stuff? Probably? I mean, I know rage is kind of in your job description, but I’m really not actually here to ruin your life and I would be okay with this whole arrangement being in a friend capacity.”

Pause. “Was that your way of offering an olive branch?”

She scrunched her nose distastefully. “Maybe. I don’t know. This is getting kind of gross; I try to avoid emotionally earnest situations.”

“Agreed,” Meg replied quickly. “Fine. I’ll quit threatening you with violence. I guess I apologize for automatically assuming the worst about you with little real cause, or something.”

“Cool,” Judith said, trying not to smile. “So, hey. Your girlfriend’s kind of a catch, dude.”

“Don’t call me that,” Meg said as she picked up a stray washcloth and flung it at her. “And yes. She is. Not that I’ve said more than three words to Claire thus far, but I assume yours is, too.”

“Please. She is so not my girlfriend.”

“A day ago you were complaining about how she wouldn’t make out with you.”

“So? She’s totally not my girlfriend.”

“Fine.”

“She’s not.”

“I said fine. If you’re going to hang around, the least you could do is help me make more salsa.”

She slid down to the floor, eyeing the cherry tomatoes with interest. “I am not even a little surprised that you’re too cool to just buy that shit from a store like literally everyone else, for the record.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “You can help and provide your running commentary, or you can leave. I’m not going to listen to you narrate my culinary efforts without earning your keep.”

“Fine, fine!” Judith reached out to take a paring knife, idly examining the blade. “So, hey, this reminds me. Rio, right?”

Meg thumped her on the shoulder with a cheese grater. “Shut up.”

[escaped-from]

a long way from a firework daze original/ghsc; boys who are bad at feelings having crushes. for @rubikovs' birthday.

It’s apparently necessary he expand his circle of “people who get to know humiliating things” at least a little, which is how he ends up inviting himself on one of Claire’s trips to the mall.

He flops into the passenger seat of her Camaro and moans, “My entire life is ruined.”

Claire looks at him speculatively and says, “Okay. I guess we’re hitting up the food court first.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“They have fake diner bullshit. It’s very comforting.”

Morgan, as it turns out, cannot argue with this when confronted with a strawberry milkshake and fries. He doesn’t even want to shrivel up and die when Claire, unwrapping a cheeseburger across the table, raises a speculative eyebrow and asks, “So?”

“I think I like Jack. I mean, like, a lot. Probably more than I should?”

“What, because you have a boyfriend that you share a brain with?”

“It’s called a soulbond, and that’s not how it works,” Morgan responds aggrievedly. “Also, yeah, sure. Because I have a boyfriend and I usually hate it when anyone so much as eyeballs him in public and here I am being all emotionally slutty or something—“

“You’re kind of talking to the wrong person,” says Claire. “I share my girlfriend with a guy who sleeps with her way more regularly than I do. I don’t think I remember what monogamy is.”

He makes a sour face at her. “Thanks, Claire. You’re a huge help.”

Claire takes a bite out of her burger. “I try.”

“Seriously, what am I supposed to do?”

The silence lasts a couple of sentence but might as well take a thousand years before Claire arches an eyebrow. “Talk to your boyfriend. Then, I don’t know, ask Jack out? Or something? That’s what the ideal situation here is, right?”

Morgan groans and puts his head in his hands.

*

He hopes that maybe just…not being around Jack will cause whatever-this-is to dissolve. Which shouldn’t be hard, since they both have lives and it seems like Jack is out of town half the week anyway delivering smuggled “magic bullshit” (Claire’s words) to assorted Disreputable Types (Alice’s words). It’s not that Morgan’s avoiding him; he’s just making sure that an awkward situation doesn’t get any worse.

Unfortunately, the doorbell rings Saturday morning, and normally Morgan would just let Gwen get that, but she’s at the bookshop today, so he reluctantly gets out of bed (what? It’s the weekend; he likes sleeping late) and goes downstairs to open the door.

As soon as he does this, Morgan immediately regrets his messy hair and unbrushed teeth, because Jack is standing there holding what looks like – is that a combined surfboard and combustion engine?

“Is that a combined surfboard and combustion engine?” Morgan asks while running a hand through his hair in a casual yet desperate attempt to seem halfway presentable.

“I’m working on a new jetboard,” Jack says helpfully. “You know. Like a jetpack, except you stand on it instead of wearing it. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out.”

Morgan blinks a few times, processing the idea that Jack would ever want to hang out with him of all people, and then, to his own horror, replies, “Why?” Loser, loser, loser.

Jack shrugs. “Everyone else is doing stuff. Claire and Alice have work, Finn is off doing something that he doesn’t need my help with, Judith’s probably beating up demons somewhere, and who even knows where Lilly goes? She’s, like, totally a ninja. Or a spy. So I thought maybe you and your friends weren’t busy.”

“We’re not,” Morgan says quickly, then tries to sound at least a little cool. “Totally free. I can call Kayla, see what she’s doing.”

“Cool!” Jack peers around Morgan through the doorway, and then says, “Um, can I come in? I wouldn’t ask, but this is sort of heavy.”

*

Kayla, as it turns out, is no help at all.

“I have plans with Lamia, Morgan. Sexy plans. You wouldn’t have fun.”

“You can’t do this to me!” Morgan hisses with quiet venom into the phone. “Kayla, oh my God, you are not ditching me to have sex while I try to entertain a cute boy by myself.”

“Morgan Blackwood, do you have a crush?”

“It’s not a crush!” Morgan glances over his shoulder; Jack, thankfully, hasn’t heard and is still fiddling idly with one of Gwen’s crystal balls. (She doesn’t even use that shit, it’s functionally worthless, but she’s always claimed to like keeping them around “for show.” Everyone Morgan’s related to is so weird.) “It’s not a crush. It’s just—I don’t—you have to help! You’re better at, like, socializing.”

“I’m better at many things than you,” Kayla informs him airily. “I’ll get back to you in a couple of hours. Have fun!”

Morgan stares at the phone sourly, then goes to talk to Jack before he breaks something. It’s a good thing, too, because Jack’s currently doing some weird thing that involves balancing the ball on the back of his hand and trying to wave it around. “I’m being David Bowie,” he says cheerfully as Morgan approaches. “You know. From Labyrinth?”

“I’m familiar, yeah,” Morgan replies as he carefully takes the crystal away and puts it back on the living room coffee table. Crisis averted. “So Kayla, uh, has stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Boyfriend stuff.” Morgan wrinkles his nose distastefully and asks, “So what do you wanna do, anyway?”

Jack beams. “Laser tag.”

“Laser tag?”

“Laser tag.”

Morgan’s surprise slowly turns to what might, in theory, be called excitement. He’s good at laser tag. “Okay. Let’s go.”

*

On the drive over, Jack proceeds to tell Morgan his entire life story up to the point where he says, “You know, I’ve met angels and demons and a lot of, like, scary monsters and stuff, but I’ve never met a witch. What’s it like?”

“Huh?”

“Being a witch.”

Morgan blinks. “Uh, I don’t know. It’s the same as just being, like…a person.”

“Oh, come on, man! You can set shit on fire with your brain and control the weather and all that crap and you want me to think it’s all totally normal? Who are you lying to protect?”

“I’m pretty sure I can’t do any of those things.”

“What?” Jack looks taken aback. “You can’t set shit on fire with your brain?”

“Nope.”

“Can’t control the weather?”

“Not really.”

Jack leans back, looking extremely miffed. “Wow. I’m offended on your behalf. What a raw deal.”

Morgan knows that this whole conversation is really, really ridiculous, which is why he is so mad at himself when the thought of Jack being offended about something for his sake makes something in his chest twitch.

*

Laser tag’s fun. Morgan wins, because Jack wouldn’t know a stealth attack if it came up and shot him with an actual gun. “Alice always beats me,” he explains afterwards while concentrating on a pinball machine – they’re hanging out in the attached arcade, just doing whatever.

“You guys seem pretty close,” Morgan says, then immediately wants to hit himself in the head with a baseball bat: not only because asking about your crush’s possible-girlfriend is such a loser move, but because this means Morgan will probably have to hear about the joys of somebody’s heterosexual relationship. He tries really hard not to do that whenever he’s away from Kayla and can help it.

Sure enough, Jack gets this dopey fucking grin on his face. “Yeah, I guess. She’s cool.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and despite every survival instinct shrieking NO, Morgan bulldozes ahead – half out of unbearable curiosity and half out of wanting to settle the question of whether he even has a chance here. “Are you…?”

Jack gives him a blank look, then seems to get it. “Ohhh! Uh, I don’t know? Maybe? Kind of? It’s possible.”

Okay, now Morgan’s just confused. “What, are you, like, Facebook complicated?”

Jack waves his hands around, remembers the pinball, and immediately leaps back into focusing on the machine. “It’s not complicated. We’re just, like, in a friendship-type place. Not an ‘is this a kissing book’ place.”

Somehow, Morgan manages to understand enough of that response to know what he’s even talking about and carefully nudges forward. This is getting into dangerous territory now. “So is she, like, the one or whatever?”

“One what?”

“You know. The one.”

Jack frowns and mutters “fuck you too” at his pinball softly before saying, “Like, the one as in the only person I want to go out with?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

Shrug. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I mean, I like her, but I don’t totally get the whole single-partner-relationships thing. Seems limiting.”

Morgan doesn’t know whether he’s cheering on the inside or prepared to absolutely die from horror.

*

As it turns out, despite Morgan’s best efforts, there are some things he just can’t hide from his best friend.

(Which is to say anything. He can’t hide anything from her. But that’s not the point right now.)

“Why are you moping?” Kayla asks suspiciously. There’s a newspaper spread out on the floor as she paints her nails dark blue, and she manages to somehow look extremely critical of him while applying even strokes.

“I’m not moping,” Morgan replies indignantly, flopped over on his bed.

“You are totally moping. Why are you moping? Come on, Morgan. Tell Auntie Kayla all about it.”

He sits up. “Okay, but only if you promise to never call yourself Auntie Kayla again, oh my God.”

Kayla beams at him and blows on her nails. “Done deal! So. You. Moping. Discuss.”

Morgan thunks his head against the wall, a pained expression on his face. “I’m pretty sure I have a crush on Jack.”

“Adorable.”

He throws at pillow at her, and she deftly knocks it aside with her forearm, somehow not managing to ruin her nail polish in the process. Of course. “This is a crisis, okay? What am I supposed to tell Wes?”

Kayla pauses. “You mean you haven’t had the poly conversation? What am I saying; of course you haven’t. Okay, look, here’s how it goes: ‘Wes, I still want to make out with you, but I also want to make out with other people. Are you on board with it or not?’”

Morgan makes a distraught sound that definitely could not be called whiny by anyone with a shred of empathy in their soul. “It’s not that easy!”

She makes her Face of Infinite Patience. Morgan hates that face. “Dude. There’s no way to get around this without, you know, being honest. Unless you just want to be horny and miserable forever. Do you want to be horny and miserable forever?”

“NO.”

“Well.” Kayla shifts around and starts painting the other hand. “There you go, then.”

Morgan has no idea what he did in a past life to deserve this.

*

Incidentally, it hasn’t really been that weird to be around Wes, surprisingly enough – maybe because being around Wes feels like the antidote to all the world’s problems, and however gnawingly guilty Morgan feels elsewhere, all that kind of…melts away when Wes is nearby.

That doesn’t mean Morgan’s ready to tell him.

Much as he doesn’t want to admit it, though, Claire and Kayla are right – this isn’t going anywhere if he doesn’t talk about it, ugh, this whole situation is way too After School Special to really be happening – and so he tries to figure the right way to explain what’s going on. Which is kind of hard, because Morgan doesn’t know what’s going on, and he just doesn’t even know how to start that conversation, and—

“I kind of like Jack,” he says, immediately and out of nowhere, and Wes blinks.

Dammit dammit dammit. “I mean, it’s kind of complicated,” Morgan says, backpedaling furiously. They’re on the roof again, leaning against each other as the sun goes down, and this was so not the kind of romantic evening dialogue he’d been hoping for. “Like, I literally never, ever want to break up with you, that’s the worst idea imaginable, but I sort of want him, too – not like I want you, not even close, obviously, we don’t even know each other that well. I just. Kind of like him.”

Wes studies him for a moment. A painfully-attractive-but-also-kind-of-confusing smile curves its way up his face. “Morgan. Are you asking my permission to go on a date?”

“Maybe?”

“Fine.” Wes snuggles deeper into him. “So go on a date.”

It’s Morgan’s turn to blink, because what the hell. “Seriously? You’re not mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Because I make a completely jealous ass out of myself whenever anyone looks at you for too long and I’m a giant hypocrite.”

Wes shrugs. “So we’re figuring it out as we go along. You don’t need to know everything you want from a relationship the moment you enter it.”

“But you’re my soulbond.” Morgan doesn’t actually know why he’s bringing this point up, but it seems like the kind of thing that demands eternal monogamy.

“Yes,” Wes replies. “Exactly. No need to act as if you going out with somebody else too is going to tarnish the whole thing. I think it’s a little stronger than that, don’t you?”

Morgan looks at him and swallows, thinking about it.

He doesn’t really know what he’s doing. But, all things considered, this is turning out better than he thought it would.

Maybe it’ll be okay.

*

He goes over to the Carters’ apartment the next day. Alice answers the door, which is, uh, kind of awkward, but when he says he’s here to meet Jack she says “Yeah, sure, come in” with a smile. He feels sort of bad that he’s apparently here to steal her boyfriend and then he reminds himself that he’s not stealing; that’s not how it works.

Morgan’s waiting in the kitchen when Jack bounds in, a fresh scrape on his cheek. Morgan doesn’t even ask. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello, hello!” Jack flops into a chair and grins. “So. What brings you to my office, Mr. Blackwood?”

Momentarily distracted, Morgan lets out a snort. “Oh my God, don’t call me that. You make me sound like I work in a cubicle.”

“Heaven forefend,” Jack replies agreeably. “Are we going on another laser tag adventure?”

“Um, no. I mean, I guess we could in theory. But I sort of wanted to ask if you’d, like…want to go out. Sometime. With me.”

Jack tilts his head. “Like a date?”

“Right.”

The pause in the conversation goes on long enough that Morgan starts to get freaked out, but – as if he’s telepathic or something, the incredibly gorgeous weirdo – Jack says, “Don’t worry. I’m just savoring the moment. Boys never ask me out.”

Well, that’s a surprise. Morgan stares. “They don’t? Are you serious?”

“Totally!” Jack says, nodding vigorously. “I don’t know what it is. But you broke my streak and everything, so, hey. Let’s go out.”

Morgan tries, really, really hard not to smile like a dork and fails. “Awesome.”

“Awesome,” Jack agrees, and reaches under the table to lace their fingers together.

[escaped-from]

Sometimes, Alice can feel the world buzzing underneath her skin: a waterfall of information waiting to be twisted and consumed and turned into something real.

She takes a deep breath and dives in.

[escaped-from]

"This was a really good idea," Jack says. "We need to do it more often."

Alice nods appreciatively. "Yeah. You know, I never considered it before, but I look super awesome in a suit."

[escaped-from]

Judith doesn't talk about the year she spent on her own after she Fell.

[escaped-from]

"You know, I still think you should let me step through it."

Morgan, for the record, happens to be this close to flopping into a pile of leaves from sheer despair, and the only reason he hasn't done so yet was because the ground is wet and gross. "Why?"

Claire stops taking pictures for a moment to shoot him an aggravated look. "Because I want to see if anything will happen."

"Dude, fine, whatever, do what you want, but it is so not my problem if you get sucked into another dimension. Or if that thing just bites you in half."

"Nobody ever made progress in any field ever by refusing to deal with a little risk factor."

Morgan whirls around to face Alice and Kayla, who are drinking their frappucinos and watching the whole argument with great amusement. Assholes. "Neither of you are going to help me out here, are you?"

"No way," Kayla replies calmly. "This is funny. And I want to crawl through it, too."

"Yeah, same." Alice licks some whipped cream off her straw. "Besides, I don't know why you're being such a killjoy."

"Have you met Morgan? He literally invented the entire concept."

He gives up -- once again, all this proves is that Morgan needs different friends. A last-ditch attempt at reason, then: "I thought you were supposed to be the normal one. Remember? You and me? United against our completely terrible older sisters and also everybody else we know?"

"You know, I think you're blowing this way out of proportion," Claire responds as she scrapes her hair into a ponytail, eying the sticks with a speculative look. "If I end up in hell, you can send Lamia to come get me."

"Claire, we can't send Lamia to buy eggs without an epic natural disaster happening. No offense," he casually throws over his shoulder to Kayla as an afterthought.

"None taken."

"Besides," Morgan continues, "don't you just not want to go to hell, like...ever? Even if you have friends who can get you out right away, which I'm not saying we actually could? I mean, it's, you know. Hell. I hear gets gruesome sometimes. Just a little."

"You," Claire says flatly, "just don't care about science."

"You're right. I could not possibly give less of a shit about science."

She just raises her eyebrows, as if he's proved her entire fucking point - whatever that even is - and delicately steps through the center hole.

Nothing happens. Morgan sighs in relief. "Okay, can we, like, leave? Right now?"

Claire frowns, looking deeply disappointed, and peers through at him from the other side. "Maybe I should recite Latin. Maybe all of us need to recite Latin."

That's it. He throws up his hands in defeat and spins around to march away indignantly. "I'm leaving. Have fun playing chicken with ancient deadly magic."

"You're heading in the wrong direction back to your house!" Kayla calls after him as Alice snickers. Morgan stops walking, but he refuses to turn back and face them.

It's just the principle of the thing.

[escaped-from]

WELL THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY.

Anyhow: hello, new followers! You are probably here because of the Bella Swan fic below this post that's making the rounds, and I am super flattered that you liked it enough to start following me, BUT. This, as you might have noticed, is my writing tumblr, and I am a student who has a lot going on and is also frequently prone to ignoring her creative endeavors for awhile before picking them back up again, which means that this blog doesn't get updated very consistently! I'm trying to fix that, but in the meantime if you are interested in seeing more things like that fic I would recommend that you actually head over to my personal blog, where I have a Twilight tag that has a lot of me Having Feelings in tags, reblogging other people's meta, and occasionally writing a little of my own. (Hahahaha this post feels like it might be kind of narcissistic but really I just don't want anyone to follow this blog for Bella Swan emotions when most of them get posted elsewhere.)

So! Do as you will with this information! FOLLOW ONE BLOG OR BOTH OR NEITHER AT WILL. And thank you for thinking my stuff is cool. <3

[escaped-from]

1. Offer yourself to the beast over and over, no matter how many times he refuses you. Do not relent. Do not give up. Do not let anyone dictate what your wants and desires should be, even if you don’t have access to them. Do not let go of the wants and desires you have chosen for yourself, no matter the costs they warn you about over and over.

2. Wear your heart on your sleeve like an aching knot of blood and muscle that seeps with every desperate hope you’ve ever whispered to yourself in your room at night, instead of counting sheep.

3. Pretend you need to be saved.

4. Pretend you are fragile enough to be broken.

5. Offer yourself to the roaring winds. Offer yourself to the crashing waves. The storm outside is all that matches the churning inside your soul, and you will not be denied. It isn’t about suicide, but about finding something chaotic enough to match the sting of your cravings.

6. Only let people in who have something to offer you; only let people in who you can offer every broken ugly edge of yourself to.

7. Don’t sleep. If you do sleep, dream. Even your worst nightmares are a reminder that you are alive.

8. Realize that this love is not your greatest triumph, is not the thing that keeps you breathing, is not your revival, is not what you live for, is not why you became a shadow of yourself when he left you. That gift is still waiting for you to come and claim it.

9. Use the memory of air rushing past your face and the embrace of ice-cold water to remind you of what you fight for. Everyone thinks you did it for the landing, but the truth is that you did it for the jump.

10. Practice rescuing the people you love. Everyone still thinks of you as the flower, delicate and easy to crush, even as you throw yourself into danger’s sneering mouth again and again, even as you turn yourself into a weapon. That’s fine. There is time to teach them differently, as long as you keep making sure they stay alive.

11. Don’t lose your ground. Don’t let them tell you what you should be. Don’t listen when they warn you, over and over, about the fate of your soul. They think you’re spiraling downward, when really what you’re doing is soaring up.

12. Pretend that you are a princess, and this is your fairytale. Pretend that instead of slaying the dragon, you let it sink its teeth into your delicate skin. It’s the only way you’ll get your own wings.

13. Pretend you’re excited to accept the crown as you make plans to fly away during the coronation.

14. Believe you can push off into the air, believe nothing can touch you, believe like your salvation depends on it because it does. Know that you are unstoppable, a wild animal racing through the woods, and you have the power to make sure no one ever hurts your family again, let alone you yourself. You are the beast, and even as you’ve become something out of myths and legends, you have never felt more real. There are no restrictions, no suburban neighborhoods, no white picket fences. You are what you choose to be. The dark is wise enough to be afraid of you.

15. Forget the limits of your skin.

[escaped-from]

Deep in the woods, there is a girl who lives in a tower.

*

Spencer grows up the lesser child in a golden family, always a step behind her sister despite her best efforts. If she does one thing perfectly, it doesn’t matter, because Melissa did it first and with extra sparkle in her smile.

(It’s not fair to blame her, Spencer knows – Melissa is no less a victim of their parents’ expectations for being able to wear the pressure more gracefully – but all things considered? Fuck fair. Fair was never the point of being a Hastings.)

*

The tower sits silently in the middle of the trees, a doorless pillar wrapped in thorns. The only way inside is a window up near the very top.

Rapunzel, the witch calls out. Rapunzel. Let down your hair.

The girl always does as she’s told. After all, the witch is the only family she’s ever known: what else is she going to do?

*

Spencer’s an anxious, friendless nerd, too intense and too desperate and too weird for the girls at school to like her much – until she meets Alison Dilaurentis.

When she was little, she used to think Melissa was the most beautiful person in the world; now, Spencer is beginning to realize that her standard for that kind of thing is more about power than looks. Just like her sister, Alison carries herself with a confidence that lets the world know to challenge her is a very poor decision indeed, but in some ways it’s a mistake to compare the two; Melissa’s favorite tools are passive-aggression and avoidance, and while she and Spencer have had some bad fights, it’s nothing that time and some glowering from their parents doesn’t fix.

Alison is different.

Alison backs up her self-assurance with rumors, gossip, and outright lies, but her best weapon of all is the truth. Spencer sees her casually destroy any rivals with well-placed bombs manufactured from humiliating secrets, tearing down the tradition of silence and concealment Rosewood is built on where she sees fit, and every now and then it makes something burn in the back of Spencer’s throat but she doesn’t do anything about it. Until—

as far as i’m concerned, you are dead to me already

—until Alison flits out of her life as quickly and surprisingly as she flitted in, and all Spencer has left are questions with no conceivable answers.

*

One day, a prince hears Rapunzel singing as he rides through the woods, and her voice leads him to the tower. He stays and listens, hidden, until the witch arrives and he learns what the girl can do.

*

Toby Cavanaugh is not the person Spencer expected him to be.

Of course, A has plenty of ways — a talking doll, a loosened bolt — to remind her not to make the mistake of thinking she can just have what she wants.

*

Together, Rapunzel and the prince plot her escape.  It’s not that simple, though: it never is, and in some ways, it was naïve of them to think they could outmaneuver a witch. She has powers they could never dream of, after all.

(Rapunzel does not grieve for her hair when the witch hacks it off before forcing her out into the wild. She’s more afraid for the prince, who lacks the mercy of an enemy that’s grown to care for you even as they hurt you.)

*

It happens like this: Spencer loves Toby, Spencer hides things from Toby, Toby is perplexed and bewildered and, with time, angry. Round and round the carousel goes, until he snaps that he’ll find out what she’s hiding himself and leaves.

When he returns, she does not ask him what happened, where he’s been. She doesn’t dare examine or distrust her good fortune now, not when Toby is here and real and alive and unhurt and he loves her loves her loves her

It takes a lot for Spencer Jill Hastings to not ask questions, which speaks to the magnitude of the relief that’s hammering against her heart. She’s just—she’s grateful that he’s back, alright? And, all things considered, Spencer is tired of looking over her shoulder, of challenging every good thing that happens to her. It isn’t wise, considering the literal life-or-death game of deceit and manipulation she’s gotten accustomed to playing, but she just wants one space in her life that isn’t made up of paranoia. Of loss.

*

After months of life apart, Rapunzel and the prince reunite in the wilderness; as always, her voice brought them back together. He’d confronted the witch himself and had blind, wounded eyes to show for it – those thorns were so very sharp – but she was able to heal him with her tears, and so they traveled back home to his kingdom where their happily ever after was waiting.

It’s a comfortable ending. An easy ending.

People like a story where true love comes out on top, after all.

*

Spencer has spent her whole life feeling caged, one way or another—by her family’s ambitions, by Alison’s taunts, by A’s schemes—and she is constantly staging a prison break in the tiniest of ways. A laugh shared with Aria, a study session with Emily, retail therapy with Hanna. A kiss from Toby.

If she tenses her shoulders when her phone vibrates, well. Some things can’t be helped, and it’s not as if she’s just going to lie down and take it. They’ve already proven more than once that if A expects them to submit, take all of the accumulated embarrassments and incidents and threats without fighting back, then it doesn’t know them nearly as well as it boasts.

(Spencer’s mistake has never been cowardice. It’s much more about how she believes that even if she doesn’t know who holds the keys, she can still see all the bars of her cell.)

She closes her eyes, and leans over to rest her head on Toby’s shoulder. 

[escaped-from]

Weirdly enough, it’s Maya who decides ice-skating should be their thing.

(Maybe it’s not that weird, all things considered. After he gave up hockey, Cam thought he’d never want to set foot on the ice again and didn’t even consider it a potential ‘date night’ opportunity, but Maya thought maybe it would be a way for him to feel less sick. Sick from missing home, sick from all the pressure of being the team’s not-so-secret weapon, sick from everything.)

At first, Cam isn’t sure, but it turns out to be one of her better ideas – not least because she’s so goddamn bad at it, and Maya, as a general rule, does not often insist on doing things she’s bad at.

“Okay, but seriously, everyone wanted you to make a career out of this?” she whines, stumbling on her skinny legs as she tries to find the right balance. It’s late, and apart from a couple of other people at the other end of the rink they have the place all to themselves.

“Yeah,” Cam says playfully, gliding past her with a smoothness that she eyes jealously. “I know, right?”

Maya lets out a shriek as she stumbles, landing hard on her hands and knees; he grabs the railing and turns to reach down and help her up, expecting her to more or less say that she regrets this life choice and ask if they can bail for the movies or a diner somewhere instead, but she’s laughing when she carefully stands up.

“Oh my God,” she snickers with a little eyeroll. “I’m glad Katie wasn’t here to see that. Can you imagine what would happen if she still insisted on chaperoning?”

“Katie,” Cam replies as he laces his fingers with Maya’s, “is miles away at school, and even if she wasn’t, we’re old enough to be out on our own.”

“Yeah.” Maya scrunches up her nose with a smile, as if she can’t quite believe it. “We sort of are.”

(It’s still weird to think about: after every bizarre, dramatic thing that’s happened at Degrassi, let alone to them personally, they’ve managed to stay together, happy and functional and okay in each other’s orbit. Cam used to feel like he would never, ever genuinely belong anywhere without having to give something up, lose all the parts of himself he actually liked, but things have changed.)

But back to this moment, here and now: Maya’s back to skating carefully as she clings to the rail. She’s getting a little better at it, following his lead as her tiny, tentative steps turn smoother, more natural.

“You know,” Cam says with a tiny smile, “you could just use magic.”

“Never,” Maya insists with a little snarl, pushing off the wall to coast toward the center of the rink. “If I’m going to be good at this, it’ll be because I actually had to put some muscle into it. I hate it when people think witches always take the easy way out; that’s not what magic is for.”

Cam thinks of Maya’s flat, irritable expression every time Tori has ever begged for some kind of good luck charm right before a test. Paying attention to that kind of thing is the only reason he hasn’t asked for a boost in chemistry himself; she probably wouldn’t speak to him for a week. “If you could only cast one spell for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

Maya spins to a stop, clumsily but successfully, and bites her lip. “I don’t know. I think I’d pick…flight, maybe. Is that boring?”

“No way.” Cam skates in circles around her, looking at the scratched ice instead of her face when he talks. “Flying would be cool. You could just…get away from everything.”

She frowns. “Are the hockey guys still hassling you about leaving the team?”

It’s kind of a relief to hear someone use the word leaving instead of quitting. “No. I mean, maybe a little. But it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.”

Cam glances up and sees Maya gingerly move towards him, grabbing onto his hand as she whispers, “Good.” They hug, careful not to slip, and she kisses his jaw lightly.

(He still doesn’t know where he is in relation to making out – sometimes it feels right, but other times it’s like something he has to remember how to want, and it’s hard to know what to do with that. But this: the feathery press of Maya’s lips against his cheek, his throat?)

(Cam figured out how much he loved that a long time ago.)

They skate for a little while longer, just looping around the link and giggling about random stuff, until they both start to feel achy and tired; it’s only when he’s shoving his sneakers back on that a lightbulb goes off in Cam’s head and he says, “Hey, have you and Zig talked about putting WhisperHug back together at all lately?”

Maya blinks. “I mean, we’ve mentioned it a couple times, but nothing that serious? It’s been sort of tricky to figure out since we lost both Mo and Imogen.”

“I don’t really know anything about music, but I dunno, maybe I could try drums or something? I could learn. I want to learn. I mean, you’re learning about ice-skating, so—“

She reaches out to touch his shoulder. “Hey, don’t think like that. You don’t have to do things for me just because I do them for you; we’ve talked about this.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Cam says quickly, because he really, genuinely doesn’t. “It’s just – you saw something that used to be special and then got bad for me, and you made it okay. Better than what it used to be, honestly. And I wanna do that for you, you know? Make this thing that mattered to you real again.”

Maya just looks at him for a moment before breaking into one of those face-eating grins and Jesus Christ she’s so pretty that he doesn’t know how he was ever lucky enough to find her. She pulls him forward by the front of his jacket to press her forehead against his; their faces are so close and neither of them can stop smiling. Maya lets out a breathless little noise, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and says, “I just really love you. I want you to know that.”

Cam kisses her, and yeah, this is definitely one of those times when it feels right. “I just really love you, too.”

(When they walk home, their hands are clasped together, and even though Toronto is lit up bright, Maya whispers a few words so they can see the stars.) 

[escaped-from]

The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they’re only a few steps behind you.

Richard Siken

Snow and Dirty Rain

(via lothroxx)

Becky finds that lust is the sin she takes to most easily.

She regrets it less than she thinks she should.