#Grooming could maybe be a side gig one day if I can get good enough and figure out how to get training

[pawsitivevibe]

I dunno why everyone says they hate grooming and hand stripping dogs. I find it so soothing. I would probably go for hours if Arthur didn't let me know he was done with it.

[just-here-for-the-moment]

Claire...may I request a lil' writing? I'm thinking of Javi maybe post Columbia and he builds up a routine. He goes to the same coffee shop every morning on his way to work and of course picks up the same order. You're a barista at the coffee shop and eventually, you can pin down his arrival to the minute so one day, you make his drink for the exact moment when he gets there, with your number written on the cup cause screw it, he's damn hot. What would happen? <3

Oh Maia, this was FUN to write for you!!! I hope you enjoy it! :D

Exciting update!!! GIF and media genius @nicolethered made an amazing video for me to go with this fic!! Go give her big love!!

Second exciting update! I was challenged by @quica-quica-quica to play the POV game for this piece (where someone Asks you to rewrite a piece from a different character's POV). So now there is a companion piece to this from Javier's POV, called: "Coffee Shop Girl". Enjoy!

For Now

Word count: 3900+

Rating: explicit, 18+ only

Outline: Javier Peña x “You” (Austin coffee shop barista; cis/het female reader; “blank canvas”/no physical description/no name/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: slow-burn; oral sex/F receiving; vaginal fingering; protected P/V sex; cigarette smoking

Ten days. It took ten days between the first arrival of the handsome stranger and you ending up in his bed. A new personal record for you, given how reserved you normally were. But it was nothing to be ashamed of, as long as you were careful. It was the 90s now after all, there was zero reason to have to keep your knees closed until marriage, as long as you used condoms and got tested regularly.

You liked the coffee shop well enough, situated on the southern end of downtown near the warehouses and a few clubs. It drew a full spectrum of Austinites: college kids closing out their club nights with breakfast tacos and pastries before going home to crash; early morning construction workers, employees from the big post office around the corner; and the usual boring lawyers and office staff who started streaming in around 7:30 every weekday morning. You could do the job well enough, even considering the odd hours: waking up early enough to open the doors at 5:30, serve the slow trickle of early morning customers with patience and ease until a co-worker joined at 7:00 for the morning rush. And the barista and food service parts of the job were physically but not mentally demanding. It was a job, and certainly less hassle than your bartending gig some weekends. At least here you only had to throw drunks out once a month.

And then one Tuesday in early June, at 7:47 a.m., he appeared. Tall, neatly groomed mustache, dark eyes, a sheaf of bangs swept to the side over his forehead. His navy blue blazer and tie said ‘accountant’ or maybe ‘state employee’ and his sideburns were just a little out of date. You pegged him at about 40, probably one of those men who visited the same barber their whole lives, not bothering to keep up with fashion trends as long as they looked neat and clean. When he reached to take his to-go cup of black coffee from you, you noticed that his ring finger was bare, and you liked that his fingernails were clean and trimmed. He offered you a nod in thanks, and you smiled at him a little more warmly than you had with your other customers so far. He held the door on his way out, pausing just a moment to let two women enter… and then he was gone, out into the bright sunlight and foot traffic and morning rush. You hoped you would see him again.

On Wednesday he came back again, a repeat of Tuesday except with a different tie, deep red today instead of navy. Black coffee to go, leather portfolio tucked under one arm, clean hands, eyes as dark as the coffee you handed him. This time rewarding you with a gruff and gravelly, “Thanks,” instead of just a nod. You relished the accidental brush of his fingers on yours as you handed the cup over, another flash of him imprinted on you, along with yesterday’s vision of him going golden as he stepped out into the morning sun. This time you watched him through the big glass window until he was out of sight, admiring his strong nose in profile, the curve of it perched over that mustache. Two extra seconds of handsomeness poured into your morning before you had to turn back to rinsing mugs and making change. You hoped that he’d come again on Thursday, making it three visits, a genuine pattern instead of a fluke.

On Thursday he reappeared, same time as the previous two days, waiting patiently in line behind two wake-and-bake potheads who were taking their sweet time staring up at the food menu. Today he was dark gray instead of navy, wearing a charcoal blazer and a sharp black tie. You waved him over with a smile, letting it melt all the way up to your eyes instead of flashing the tight, brief, closed-mouth thing you used on most customers.

“Black coffee, right?” You watched his face, taking in the dark eyes, the hair, the brief smile that made a surprise dimple appear in his cheek.

He nodded, “That’s right. Thank you.” He slid a rumpled bill across the counter. “Keep the change.”

You bit your lip as you turned away, preening at his thanks and seven whole words as if they were genuine praise. His voice was deep and rich, landing with a rumble in your own chest, like the remnants of thudding bass from a passing car. You poured the coffee and secured the lid, brain scrambling desperately for something clever to say. To make him come back, to talk to you more.

You turned and handed him the cup, and as he reached for it you again let your hand be in just the right spot to feel the brush of his fingers. Your eyes locked on one another, and for the briefest moment you forgot to let go of the cup. You wanted to swim in those brown eyes forever, get lost and let him drown you whole. He paused, and you thought you saw the briefest twitch of his mustache, a pinprick in his calm exterior before you drew your hand back. He inclined his head, a single nod, and then he turned to leave and your attention was swept back to the register and the next customers.

Friday he arrived “on time” and you met his eyes as soon as he opened the door. Today he was warm earth tones, a dark red shirt under a brown tweed blazer and no tie, a nod to casual Friday. You turned and prepared his coffee, tightening the lid and then holding it up to him across the room, smiling and tossing your chin up in a friendly greeting. He walked up and slid a few bills over the counter to you.

“Thanks.” He winked at you and something in your pelvis fluttered. “See you next week.”

You watched him go, stepping out again into a halo of golden sun, pulling a pair of aviator sunglasses from his pocket and putting them on before striding away. You suddenly felt lost, facing the many hours between now and Monday.

Your weekend passed in a blur of extra bartending shifts and catching up on sleep. You were forever napping at odd hours, trying to reconcile the slightly staggered rhythms of early morning coffee shop hours and late-night bartending. It wasn’t the hardest you’d ever worked or the worst schedule, but it wasn’t fun. At least, it hadn’t been fun until now. Now you had something to look forward to.

Monday morning you opened the shop and kept an eye on the clock. At 7:46 you poured black coffee into a to-go cup. Thirty seconds later, he appeared on the other side of the plate glass window, the navy suit and tie again, blowing out a long stream of cigarette smoke before dropping the butt and giving it a quick twist under his foot. He took off his amber-lensed aviators and tucked them into the pocket of his blazer, then pulled out his wallet. At 7:47 on the dot, he opened the door, met your eyes, and saw you holding up his coffee. And there went that smile again, the dimple, the wink.

You smiled as he approached the counter. “You psychic or something? Or am I just that predictable?”

“Both, maybe.” You grinned and wiggled your eyebrows.

He opened his wallet and passed a bill across the counter, larger than what was strictly necessary for a to-go coffee and a reasonable tip. “Great service, keep the change.”

You thanked him, giving him the full-watt smile and wishing him a good day as you opened and closed the register, putting the change into the tip jar. Thankfully there was no one else in line right now, so you could give his handsome figure your full attention as he left, watching how the navy blazer hugged his shoulders.

He went out the door, turned right like he always did, and then he turned his head and his eyes met yours through the glass. You should have felt embarrassed that he caught you staring, but you didn’t. Mostly because you realized that he had stopped to look back, too, which meant you weren’t the only one hoping for more. He nodded and lifted his cup in a gesture of thanks. Then he was gone.

Tuesday was the same, only with the charcoal blazer and the dark red tie this time. The wink, the flutter in your gut, the over-tipping. The glance across the counter as his fingers brushed yours around the cup. The aviators slung on as soon as he stepped out the door.

Wednesday, again, the navy suit and tie, another brush of the fingers, a smaller tip but a bigger smile, gracing you with that dimple again. Another gravelly, “Thank you,” that sounded warmer than he had to date. The handsome profile and a quick meeting of the eyes through the glass as he left again.

Thursday was the same, only better. You used a permanent marker to write something on his paper cup before you poured it precisely at 7:46 a.m., watching, waiting. He did not disappoint. At 7:47, precisely on time, you caught a glimpse of his profile as he came into view through the plate glass window. Charcoal again. He turned and saw you inside, then opened the door, holding it again for a woman exiting. You pointed at his to-go cup on the counter and smiled.

“You trying to get rid of me? In and out so quickly?” He smiled and twitched an eyebrow at you.

You smiled back, “Depends on how long you were planning to stay. We close at 1:00 a.m. after open mic tonight. After that you gotta go somewhere else.”

The handsome man chuckled and pursed his lips. “And what time do you get off, after the morning shift?”

“Depends on who’s asking.” You winked and immediately regretted it, it felt too bold, it wasn’t your normal mode.

He met your eyes and said simply, “I am.”

You felt your face split into a wide smile. “I finish at 1:00, after the lunch rush.”

He nodded. “Good to know. I’m Javier, by the way.” He stuck his hand out and shook yours. You gave him your name and a warm shake of the hand.

He fished a few bills out of his wallet. “Can I maybe stop by after your shift, take you to lunch sometime?”

“You can do me one better than that.” You rotated the paper cup so that the writing was facing him. “My phone number’s on the cup.”

His eyebrows popped up, and then he gave you an appraising glance, like he was impressed. You saw his tongue shift up under his lip to suck a tooth and you suddenly wanted nothing more than to see how that tongue felt on you. You flushed hot, tingling with desire.

He arched an eyebrow at you. “You do that for all your customers?”

“Just the best tippers.” You winked at him and laughed.

He stuck his hand out once more and you gave him yours. He lifted it and kissed the back of your hand, mustache sweeping ever so briefly over your knuckles before he gently released it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” his voice was low and something in it went straight to your groin, making your pelvic muscles clench. You watched him pick up the cup and go, smiling at you with that dimple through the glass as he left. You stood for just a moment, hoping, hoping, hoping. Maybe he would call you after work?

At 1:00 you finished your shift and handed the register off to Mike. You were just untying your apron and hanging it up when you saw a familiar profile sweep into view outside the window. Javier. Your stomach flipped over and a million little butterflies flew out.

He ducked inside the door and searched the shop for a moment, smiling when he saw you coming out from behind the counter with your bag slung over your shoulder.

“Hey,” you stood for a moment and hesitated, suddenly shy.

Javier slipped his sunglasses off and tucked them into his pocket. “Hey, I’m glad I caught you. Are you busy, or can I take you to lunch today?”

“No, I’m not busy. I’d love to go.” You smiled. “There’s a sandwich place around the corner, and a park we can go sit in.”

He smiled, wider than you’d seen him do so far. “That’s perfect.”

He let you lead, walking him across the street and around the corner to the sub shop. You made small-talk on the way there, finding out that he was from Laredo but new to Austin, a former DEA agent consulting for the state. You picked up your food and walked a block over to the small city park, where you told him about your roommates, your cat, your wish to go back to school and finish your degree. By the end of lunch you were both smiling, feeling that spark, the little magnetic pull that had started over his coffee orders. At 2:00 Javier said he had to get back to his office.

“... but I’d really like to see you again. Can I take you to dinner? Tonight if that’s okay, since you’re working tomorrow night.” He stood close to you, looking warmly into your eyes.

“Yeah, that would be great.” You felt that flutter again, that twitch of interest from looking into his warm brown eyes, seeing the way they crinkled when he smiled. You were so busy looking at his eyes that you didn’t see him reach his hand out, sweeping it around to circle your shoulders and pull you in for a kiss. You kissed him back, as urgently as was proper for the time of day and the public setting. When he pulled away to walk back up the few blocks to his office, you stood there dazed. Wow.

You went home and napped, then showered and changed into datewear. Javier picked you up at 7:30, and you were relieved that the little spark was still there. You had half-worried that it would wear off in the few hours between your lunch date and now, or that it was a localized feeling limited to a small radius around the coffee shop. But dinner was fun and warm, and by the end of dessert and coffee you didn’t want to leave him yet. You decided that you would be bolder than you normally were.

“Listen, my roommates are home, but do you want to go back to your place?”

Javier looked surprised for only a moment and then smiled, “Yes, let’s go.”

You kissed all the way back to the car, ran your hands lightly over the back of Javier’s neck as he drove, kissed all the way from the car to his apartment door, and tumbled inside together, feeling for buttons and zippers and helping each other out of your clothes. His erection felt warm and solid against your hip, and when he finally got naked you were nearly moaning at the expanse of his broad shoulders and golden skin. He was beautiful.

Javier walked you backwards to the bedroom and paused only to pull a wrapped condom out of a drawer and turn on the bedside lamp to chase away the dark. You lay back and watched him as he tossed the foil packet onto the quilt next to you and then knelt beside your legs. He looked at you as he ran his hands up and down your naked thighs. Then he butterflied your legs slowly apart and ran one warm hand up to your pussy, teasing you with his fingers, dipping them in and out between your labia and running them up to tickle your clit.

“Can I eat you out?” He asked almost shyly.

You nodded, a breathy “Yeah,” issuing from your lips. Javier dove down and licked into you with a rush. You gasped and threw your head back, clawing your fingers down into the blankets. Javier worked you open on three fingers and used the tip of his stiffened tongue to flick your clit rapidly from side to side while his fingers slipped slowly in and out. You moaned and fought the urge to close your legs while he curled and stroked inside of you, finding the spots you could never quite reach yourself. Within a few minutes you were cresting the wave of release.

“Oh God, I’m gonna come! Keep- keep going,” you gasped, “Just like that!” Javier kept his pace steady, working you along as you huffed and breathed faster. He curled his fingers just right and you sped off the edge into oblivion, gulping and grunting and making noises that were almost embarrassing, that didn’t sound like you, but you felt too good to even care. Javier stopped licking and slowed his fingers as you clenched around him, using the broad flat of his tongue to swipe a long, comforting stripe up the outside of your labia. When you were finished coming, he pulled his fingers out slowly and sat up on his haunches, smiling like a prizewinner.

He wiped one broad, flat hand down his mouth and chin, and then crawled up the bed to lay next to you, stroking you from hip to breast with his thick fingers. “Was that okay, cariño?”

You groaned out a chuckle, “Oh yeah, that was good.” You rolled onto your side to face him, and drew him in for a deep kiss. You loved the mix of how he smelled and tasted, your own salty musk blending with his spicy cologne and the smoky phantoms of cigarettes past and his after-dinner coffee. As you kissed, his hand came up to stroke a trail of goosebumps on your shoulder, and you reached yours down to stroke his cock to attention. The heft of him was thick and warm in your hand, and within seconds he was hard and throbbing. You ran the pad of your thumb up the bottom of his head and over his slit gently, and you giggled as he shuddered and reached down to pull your hand away.

“You keep going like that and I’m not going to last long.” His thick fingers wrapped around yours, and he pulled your hand up to place a long kiss to the inside of your wrist, blowing warm air out through his nose, the feel of it on your skin sending a thrill up your spine. He reached for the condom and opened it, rolling it down his proud length. He put his hand down and stroked your thigh before hooking one hand behind your knee to pull your leg up and over his hip. He held himself so that his tip was buried just at your entrance, then he thrust up and into you in one swift motion. You inhaled sharply and hooked your leg tighter around him, letting him set the pace. He nudged your jaw, nosing up into the crook of your neck and kissing you from ear to chin and back again.

His hot words sent chills down your neck and your nipples stiffened into sensitive buds. “Baby, you feel so fucking good, so hot and wet. Fuck, you’re amazing.”

You kissed him and shushed him, then you pressed an open palm to his chest, “Wait. Roll over. I wanna get on top.”

Javier grinned in the dim light of his bedroom, then he wrapped his big hand around your lower back and pulled you over with him. You shifted and settled into place, and the feeling of being speared on him, of his cock hitting deep inside, of his coarse curls rubbing against your clit was almost to the point of overstimulation. You whined and fell face down into the crook of his neck, smelling his warm spiced fragrance and going limp at the ‘too much’ of it all. He planted his feet flat on the bed and kept his arms wrapped around you, thrusting up, up, up into you over and over. He made the most delicious noises, sounds that might have been words or not, but which conveyed all of his pleasure in little grunts and groans.

You decided you wanted to watch his face, so you sat back up and braced yourself on your knees, rolling your hips in rhythm with his and helping him chase his high.

“God, you look so fucking good on my cock, cariño. So beautiful.” He started to turn glossy with sweat, tiny golden beads reflecting the single lamp beside the bed and making him look surreal. You followed a drip of sweat as it appeared on his neck and then ran down to pool in the hollow at the base of his throat. You tipped forward once more to lick at it, to taste the salt and the smoke of him and nip one tiny bite into his neck before moving up to lick and nibble at his earlobe.

Javier suddenly tensed his legs, giving one big thrust and then hissing out a “Fffff-” between his lips as he came. He thrust again and then stilled, relaxing back into the bed, but keeping you close against him. You let him hold you, your breaths slowing together until you were back, calm again, heartbeats back to center. He released you and held the base of the condom as you lifted off and rolled onto your back. He went to the bathroom, and you heard him run water before he returned with a wrung-out washcloth. He offered it to you, and you declined with a weak wave. He turned and tossed it into the bathroom sink and then motioned for you to scoot off the bed so he could turn the covers down.

He picked up a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, gesturing at you with a raised eyebrow. You put a hand up, “Not a whole one, but I’ll take a drag off yours if that’s ok.”

“Sure thing.” He lit one and passed it to you, and you took a deep drag before handing it back.

“Thanks.” You blew the smoke out in a blue stream.

He crawled into bed and patted the mattress next to him. “Stay,” he looked at you with a smile. “If you want to.” He parked the cigarette back between his plush lips.

You smiled warmly and crawled in next to him. “Okay, just for a little while.” You checked the digital clock beside the bed. “I gotta go home and change, and then get to the coffee shop at 5:00. Can you set the alarm for 4:00?”

He nodded and picked up the clock, pressed a few buttons and slid a switch into place. Then he raised his arm and settled it around your shoulders, and turned off the lamp. You watched the cherry of his cigarette glow and then turn faint, bobbing in the dark as he moved to flick ash into the ashtray on the nightstand.

He murmured low, into the quiet room, “You know, I’m only here for the summer. The consulting job ends in August.” He paused to take the final pull of his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the ashtray. “After that, I gotta go back to D.C.”

You yawned and nodded. “No problem. We can have fun this summer. I’ll take you to Barton Springs and Mount Bonnell, give you the real Austin tour. We can just have fun for now.”

He kissed your forehead, moving down your nose to land soft kisses on your lips. “Okay, summer girl. I’m all yours… for now.”

---

Just-here-for-the-moment’s masterlist

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[wordsfromthesol]

Replacement (1/2)

Author: @wordsfromthesol​ Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader Warnings: Language, violence Word Count: 2.2k Requested: @beebosclique​ A/N: Thanks for the request because I’ve been on a real Tim Drake kick lately. Which is probably why this story is so long (not sorry). Also (not) sorry for reusing superhero names in my stories…I’ve only come up with like 2 that I like. Also also, thanks for the love 💛💛

Part Two

You had no real memories of your life at the circus, you were only three years old when Bruce Wayne took you in. He and Dick were the only family you knew, well until Jason came into the picture. Jason, unlike Dick, realized that you could take care of yourself. In fact, Jason often sparred with you and secretly taught you as Bruce and Dick taught him. When he died you begged to take over the Robin mantle. You knew there needed to be one, Bruce would go too far, you were even worried Dick would go to far. Tim becoming Robin was the final punch in the gut you needed. They would never allow you to be in the family business, no matter how prepared for it you were. The day Tim passed the gauntlet was the same day you finished your costume. That day Eclipse was born and she quickly made a name for herself, all while avoiding Tim Drake, both at home and in the field.

Jason returned and the Robin mantle got passed once again. You didn’t even ask for it this time. Your silence is what led Jason to discovering your secret identity. You had to admit, it was nice to finally have someone to talk to about it, someone to patch you up if you ever got too injured.

**

“Y/N/N, I don’t get why you won’t just tell them.”

“Because Dick would murder me. He wouldn’t let me be Robin, you think he would be okay with me going out there solo?”

“Yeah, but it would make my life way easier, especially when you need your shoulder reset.” Jason shook his head and mumbled, “can’t believe you waited until morning to come to me.”

“You know if you tell him, he’ll kill you.”

“Hm, well I’ve tried that. Didn’t like it too much, so I guess I’m stuck.”

You nodded at Jason, bracing yourself for the pain. “Shit…” you mumbled as you felt the joint jolt back into place.

“You do remember that I’m your older brother too, right? I don’t like you going out by yourself either.”

“Yes and I have you on speed dial every time I’m out there.” You sighed, trying to give him some reassurance. “Plus…if my vitals drop below a certain point, my suit automatically sends a message straight to Dick and Bruce explaining everything. I can’t override it.”

“Still doesn’t make me feel great, especially since you probably have the settings set to when you’re dead.” You just stuck your tongue out in response. “So I didn’t hear Tim or Damian on that list…”

“Well, I barely know the demon brat. It’s been like a year since he stumbled into our lives, plus he’s a child.”

“Fair enough. You know you can’t blame Tim.”

“I’m not…blaming.”

Jason threw his hands up in defense, “If you say so.” Jason peripheral vision caught Tim’s figure and a smirk grew on his face. “Hey Timbers!” He shouted as you whipped around, hoping Jason was just joking. He wasn’t. “Y/N here could use a sparring partner. Someone to teach her the ropes.” You looked back at Jason, an angry glare in your eyes.

“She…uh…she wants me to teach her…?”

“Well I would love to Timbo, but I promised…uh…Dick that I would help him out.” Tim eyebrow’s shot up, clearly not believing his brother’s lies, before he turned towards you looking for clarification.

“That would be great Tim.” You gritted through your teeth, trying not to sound sarcastic. “Let me just go change.” You shot daggers back at Jason before scampering off. Tim waited until you faded from view before speaking again.

“You know she hates me, right Jay?”

“She doesn’t hate you. She hates what you took from her.”

“I didn’t take anything of hers.” Jason looked at his brother, solemnly.

“Tim. This…” Jason gestured around him, “has been her whole life. Don’t you think she wanted to be Robin? To prove that she belonged in this family.” Jason quickly dropped the serious demeanor. He was never very good at it anyways. “I think once she sees the real you, not the Robin you. She’ll come around replacement!” Jason’s eye caught you in the doorway. He jogged up next to you, “Remember to see past Robin.” He winked at you before leaving the two of you alone.

“Well that was weird.” Tim commented, gesturing you towards him.

“Eh. Jay only pretends not to care about family.” You brushed off the comment as you took your stance.

**

Hours went by, and your shoulder was well beyond it’s limit…something Tim noticed and used to pin you down one final time.

“Alright, I think you’re done.” He clamored as he held out a hand to help you up. A hand which you denied. “What did you do to your shoulder anyways? Need me to look at it?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” You swatted his hand away.

“Y/N/N!” You heard Dick’s voice in the distance.

“Don’t tell him anything.” You mumbled to Tim, before turning to greet your brother. “Dickie! Tim was just showing me some new moves.”

Dick stopped at your side, “Tim…you let Tim teach you?” Even Dick was in disbelief. You just shrugged, not offering a response. “Well I was looking for you to let you know I took the night off! I don’t have to leave after dinner.”

“Ohh…” You stammered, “I…uh…I have plans. With Ellen. Mo…movies.”

“Awe, can’t you cancel? I need time with my little sister.”

“I…I so would. But she’s going through this tough time. Her, uh, her boyfriend just broke up with her and…I just I need to be there.”

“Fine,” Dick whined out. “But we’re still on for the diner, right?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.” You pressed a kiss to Dick’s cheek before running out of the room. You were never good at lying to your brother and thankfully, due to his nightly activities, you rarely had to. Grabbing your phone, you quickly sent Ellen a text, just in case Dick decided to fact check you. Only it wasn’t Dick you needed to worry about. Dick would never believe that his baby sister was lying to him, Tim on the other hand witnessed the entire train wreck.

“I got a case to work on…” Tim gestured towards the computer before leaving Dick standing in the training room alone. Tim went back and forth in his mind, but ultimately decided he would check your phone just in case you were in trouble. That’s when he saw the text message. The one you just sent to Ellen.

Hey girl, used you as a lie to Dick. If he asks we are going to the movies and you just broke up with your boyfriend.

Man you really didn’t want to hang out with your brother tonight.

Yeah, well I already had plans and didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!

That doesn’t say much…

😜😜

**

You were finally able to ditch your brother and were posted on a rooftop, just outside a supposed new drug den.

“What are we looking at?” The sudden voice made you jump. You quickly regained composure, striking a defensive stance. “Relax…” Red Robin came out of the shadows, “I only want to help.”

You huffed at the sight but attempted to contain your discontent, “You don’t normally patrol tonight.”

“Just wanted to keep the criminals on their toes.”

“I’m sure they’re shaking in their boots…to answer your question, I think it’s a new drug den. Followed someone here a few days ago.”

“Well, why aren’t we moving on it?”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

“And that would be…?”

“Someone who still has a choice. If you’re staying, I’m on channel 3.” You commented before dropping into the alley below. Red Robin moved to follow but stopped once he heard your voice come through his comm. “Stay there. We move when I say.” He looked down watching you corner someone.

“Jake.” You calmly called out towards the man. He spun around, realizing he was now stuck in the alley. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…I need money. My baby girl…I don’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice. I’m about to give you another one.”

“I can’t –” You cut him off.

“I’m not asking for anything regarding those idiots.” You gestured towards the drug den. “This is a choice for you. You can leave right now and trust that I’m going to help you. Or you can go in there and warn them that I’m coming. Maybe they’ll overpower me and maybe you’ll be rewarded for the tip. But think about the life that that leads to. You’re better than that life.”

“How…how would you know that?”

“Because I saw the desperation in your eyes a few nights ago. Then I did some digging. That was your first deal.”

“My daughter.”

“I always thought I never had a choice. I was groomed for this life and then it was held just beyond my reach. I was stuck until I made a different path for myself. Now I try to give that opportunity to others. People who thought they had run out of options.”

Tim was stuck in a trance as he watched this Jake character run the opposite way of the drug den. Eclipse was you; you had just made that painfully obvious. Though he wondered if you intended that or if your mind was set on helping Jake.  Suddenly he was shaken from his mental state as your voice came over his comm yet again. “I’m going in the back door. Meet me there if you still want to help.”

You didn’t wait for his response, but noticed a shadowy figure following just above you. The two of you got to the door at the same time, Red Robin spoke first. “I’ll take left.” Tim wanted your sore shoulder exposed as little as possible.

**

“Your shoulder looks pretty bad…”

“It’ll be fine.” You tried to ignore the searing pain as the two of your waited for the police to come round up all the men.

“Do you want me to take a look?”

“No.”

“Do you at least want some high strength pain killers? I can bring some by –”

“Why are you insistent on helping?”

Red Robin shrugged, “Guess us vigilantes gotta stick together.”

“Right. I’m more of a solo gig kinda vigilante.” You saw a smirk graze his face as you heard the sirens approaching. “And that’s my queue.” You gestured towards the sound and bounded out the door. This is Tim. Tim Drake. He stole Robin from you. The words resonated through your head as you tried to forget tonight. It felt different. Or maybe Jason was right…

Once you got to your secret apartment, you showered and attempted a self-evaluation on your shoulder. You jumped upon hearing the sound of tapping against the glass. Shit. You raced into the bedroom, grabbing your discarded mask and throwing it on before sauntering into the living room.

“What do you want?” You questioned Red Robin’s presence as you opened the window.

“Thought you might want these.” He said, tossing you a bottle of pills. “Also, it would probably help if you wear this for a couple days.” Tim held out a sling.

“Yeah, can’t do that.”

“Hm. It’ll take twice as long to heal if you don’t.” He walked over, inspecting the bruising already forming on your shoulder. “This definitely didn’t happen tonight.”

“It was reset this morning.” You glanced at the time, 3:20am, “Well I guess yesterday morning. It’ll be fine.”

“Alright alright,” Tim held up his hands in defense before reaching into one of his pockets. “Well I know you’re a solo vigilante and all…but if you need me.” Tim placed a card and sling in your hand. Before you could respond he was out the window.

You decided it was probably best to wear the sling. Now all you needed was a lie for why you weren’t staying at the Manor.

**

It had only been a few hours before you woke up clouded in smoke. A fire raged around you. Maybe Tim wasn’t the only one who had followed you home. You shot up, immediately donning your mask and throwing your suit into a nearby duffel bag. Running around, you attempted to start collecting your equipment and paper trails as your phone dialed Jason. No answer. You then tried the comm in your mask, no answer. Shit. I’m going to have to call Tim.

“Eclipse?” The voice sounded groggy on the other end.

“Yeah so…I may be in some trouble.”

“Shit. Your apartment?”

“Yeah.” You jumped out of the way as the kitchen beam collapsed.

“What was that?!”

“Just…let me know when you’re here.”

You ignored his plea to stay on the line and focused on fastening everything to your body. This is going to hurt. You freed your arm from the sling and stepped onto the window ledge. Unfortunately, you were right. Tim was not the only person to follow you tonight, and this person wanted you dead. They were waiting for you to leap from that window. You didn’t even make it to the pavement before you heard the gun fire.

[stonecoldjerseyfox]

Jersey on my mind (part 19)

Mila’s feet dangle in the air as she sits on the edge of the guard post, while looking out over the surroundings. Next to her on the floor lies a bottle of vodka, in case she gets bored. She turns her eyes to the flickering flame of the oil lantern, the only source of light. Besides the lantern its pitch black. The darkness is wrapped around the surroundings like a heavy blanket. No lights are on in the houses. 

Before she put on her jacket, hid the vodka bottle in the inner pocket and went out to the guard tower Mila tucked Juri in for the night. She helped him choose a cassette tape to fall asleep to, made sure he had all of his ‘friends’ also tucked in; the brown dog named Jeff (Mila had no idea why), his soft bunny named Bruce after Bruce Springsteen and the teddy bear that goes by the name Eddie, after Eddie Vedder. But Mila hasn’t been able to figure out Jeff. Who’s Jeff? Instead of asking him about it, she kissed Juri on the forehead and left for guard duty. Daryl wasn’t at the guard tower when she arrived, so Mila made herself comfortable. 

She taps her fingers towards the floor and hums the tune to “Hungry heart”, starts to sing faintly. Springsteen makes her think of the summers in New Jersey. Driving around on hot summer days, the long days at the beach in Point Pleasant, eating tons of ice cream and drinking Pepsi Cola, riding around Atlantic City with Darya and Laura in Darya’s dad’s convertible-    

“You sing well.”

Mila looks up. Daryl has joined her, finally. In one hand he holds the crossbow and in the other two bottles of water. 

“You’re late.” 

”You’re easy prey, sitting like this.” Daryl sits down besides her, lets his legs swing over the edge next to hers and gives her one of the bottles.

”Wolves are gone. Walkers don’t jump.” Mila removes the lid and takes a sip of water. “I think I’m fine.” 

”You’re really good.” Daryl looks down at his knees. “I mean, singing. Your accent disappears when you sing.” 

”Yeah. I’ve heard that.” Mila laughs and puts the water bottle down, next to the vodka bottle. ”It would sound even better if I had a guitar and a cowboy hat.” With a smile she grabs the Vodka bottle from the floor, unscrews it and takes a bountiful sip, before offering it to Daryl. ”I’ve heard you should drink at least one liter a day.”

”Thought that applied to water?” Daryl lifts an eyebrow and brings the bottle to the mouth and drinks, lets out a cough as he lowers it. ”Gotta get you a guitar then, Jersey.”

“Yeah I wouldn’t worry too much about that.” She replies. “It sorta’ feels pretty pointless now. I haven't played in forever.” she meets Daryl’s gaze. “I was engaged to this guy, before- It’s because of him I play the guitar, and sing in ‘American’.”

Daryl stiffens up at her words. It’s barely noticeable, but Mila notices. 

“He’s dead anyway, so it doesn’t matter.” Mila takes a sip of vodka. “My father hated him for encouraging my interest in music. Said it was a waste of time. He didn’t understand the phenomenon ‘hobbies’.” Mila tries to remember what her dear papa yelled at her through the glass. It was hard to hear exactly what he yelled, since he banged at the window, but she could make out some of it. ”Eto chepukha, Milena, chepukha!” she repeats. “Nonsense.”

“Seems like a charmer.” Daryl replies. “Ain’t a waste though. I like it.”

Mila glances at the broad archer next to her. Somehow he reminds her of Jim; tall, broad shoulders and muscles. Jim had brown hair and beard, a bit more groomed than the Southern archer, but still- 

The first time Mila laid her eyes on Jim was during a gig at a bar in Brooklyn. She was there with her friend Laura. Jim played guitar in the band and halfway through he pulled his shirt off. Milas eyes were glued to his bare chest during the rest of the performance. Even a blind person would have noticed such an intense stare down; as did Jim on stage. Afterward he asked her over to their table, and she fell like a paw for the big Oklahoma native, with the pretty eyes and the kind smile. Jim was big as a bear and kind as a puppy. He was warm, had a boisterous but contagious laugh, he was friendly and charismatic. Everybody around Mila adored Jim, everybody except papa, which made sense. Papa hated everyone, except himself.

Physically, Daryl reminds her of Jim somewhat, but their personalities are like night and day. Jim was able to entertain an entire room full of people, and happily did so by telling stories or playing the guitar. Daryl would probably never even think of entering such a room. He’s encased in armor, a hard shell no one seems to be able to break. She hasn’t heard an ounce of bursting laughter from him and he barely talks. And yet she likes his company. When she saw him walk down the street into the Safe-Zone last night it felt like a ton of brick was dropped from her chest. Of course she was still angry with him for some unimportant reason she can’t really remember now, but she was happy for having him back.

“Where’s he by the way?” Daryl asks. “Your old man. Ya’ said ya’ came here together.”

“In prison.”

The statement doesn’t seem to surprise Daryl significantly.

“What for?” 

Mila hands him the vodka bottle again. Daryl looks puzzled at it. 

“If you want to hear about it, you might need it.” Mila explains and doesn’t take her eyes away from his. “There’s a legit reason why I have alcohol problems.”

“Haven’t noticed.” the archer winks at her over the bottle and drinks. “Why’s he locked up?”

“Murder. And for kidnapping me.” 

It might be so easy to say it because she feels some kind of connection to the man sitting next to her, or maybe it’s because the whole world went to hell and papa, Mila’s perdition, her Achilles heel, probably is dead by now. 

Mila was the only child. Her father, her papa, wanted to have a son. Instead he got Mila. Her mother, who loved her more than life itself, couldn’t bear more children and Mila was punished for that her entire life by her father. Papa was stern on her from the start. Sergey Yuruchenko’s offspring wouldn’t be a weakling. Her sole purpose in life would be to make him proud. Like a show dog. He hardened Mila like steel; dragged her out on the frozen river Volga during the winters for an ice bath, a procedure to ‘man her up’. If Mila hesitated or began to cry she had to stay longer in the water. Eventually she stopped crying. He taught her to fight, games that often resulted in cracked lips and black eyes. Sometimes Mila began to cry because it hurt and she felt scared, but he assured her it was a fun game, and she believed him. He coached her in sports, to make sure she would win. Second place was never enough. Mila could’ve easily become an olympic marathon athlete, if she would have had the choice. But he had already set out her entire future. 

”My mama loved me with all of her heart and papa made sure that I never forgot how he grieved the son he never had. It was my burden and my responsibility to prove that I was worthy of his affection. I was a wreck emotionally. Thrown between boundless love and emotional abuse.” Mila pauses and takes another mouthful of vodka. “I got respect from him for the first time when I was fifteen. He firmly argued that if a man couldn’t hit a soup can fifty yards away with a gun after drinking a whole bottle of vodka, he was a wimp. He didn’t count on me, a fifteen year old girl to even dream about trying.” She raises her eyebrows at Daryl. ”But I passed the test and he eased the leash.”

After that summer, Mila had a great year. She was ‘allowed’ to be an ordinary teenager in all its meaning. She went to parties with her friends, dreamed of Leonardo Dicaprio when she kissed her first boyfriend Dima for the first time and she was convinced that life would continue like that.

“Then one day he asked me to come with him on a trip abroad, for work. It was just the two of us at home that day and he was so different. Friendly even. It felt odd, but he was so convincing. He asked me to be ready in an hour with a bag. I felt so excited. Not until we walked through the gate at the airport I understood where we were going. I couldn’t believe it. We were going to America! He made the whole trip sound so exciting. It felt like we were friends for the first time. That I finally had a father.”

Mila pauses. She’d thought about that moment many times since that plane ride. How it all was just an act. How he used Mila’s cluelessness to save his own ass. In reality he didn’t feel like that at all. He didn’t care about her. 

”We were arrested as soon as we got through the passport control at Newark. We were separated, put in different rooms. I panicked the entire time, fought and cried. An interpreter and two policemen came and told me that he was arrested. I tried to convince them that it must have been a misunderstanding. But it wasn’t. I was kidnapped and papa was internationally wanted for murder in Russia by Interpol. Or serial murders, I think it’s called, in the case of more than three victims.”

“How many?” he asks. 

Their eyes meet through the darkness. The only sound that’s heard is the chirping cicadas, the wind rattling in the trees and the thudding sound of the walkers crashing into each other on the other side of the wall. Well, he hasn’t run away yet, Mila thinks.

“Including the policeman he killed at the station the day after we arrived; ten.”

Daryl doesn't even try to hide his astonishment. 

”A woman disappeared in Moscow in- gosh, I don’t even remember the year. Anyway, she was found under a bridge, two days later. Then another woman was found a few weeks later, under a viaduct. Seven women and two men around Moscow. One woman was completely beheaded. I was fourteen when they found her, and my father told me to ’be safe’ when I walked home from gymnastics practice.”

Mila remembers almost all of them by name. They were read out during the trial in New York, while images of them were displayed on a projector. Mila saw their bruised faces, the dead eyes in the pale, straight faces. No matter how awful it was, she couldn’t look away, like passing a car accident. Mila had to watch, to understand that it was her papa, who worried when she would go home alone from gymnastics, he who always urged her to beware of boys in a group (or boys in general), that had done these horrible actions. The youngest victim was eighteen and was found in a shallow part of Volga. They had to identify it through dental cards. In court, sitting on that hard bench in between Ellie and Joe Galka, Mila desperately tried to meet her father’s gaze, wanted him to turn around where he sat, with his back against her. When he finally did, Mila didn’t see a trace of regret or empathy in them.

”He kidnapped ya’ to- what, to save himself?” 

“It didn’t seem suspicious if he traveled with his daughter. I was his ticket out of it. If he did get caught, he could use me as-” Mila fiddles on a thread in her jeans. “-Yeah, I haven’t figured out that part yet. He really knew how to inflict maximum damage to his advantages. Because of his position, working for the state, which is... corrupted beyond imagination, he could change my documents without anyone asking, making himself my sole guardian. On paper, I no longer had a mother. It was- He was so split. On one hand, a well regarded worker for the state, modest and punctual. And on the other hand, emotionally disturbed, a psychopath. A monster.” She sighs. “The same day we were arrested he overpowered a police officer. He killed him, granting him life in prison here, not risking being extradited to Russia. Social services took care of me and I ended up at the Galka’s. The first six months I visited papa in prison weekly. It really fucks you up in the head, being pulled back to the root of evil, to one's perpetrator. In my case, it was the same person. Perpetrator and father. Evil impersonated and the only person I felt I had some connection to here. And yet, I never got an explanation to why he did what he did. Eventually, thanks to the Galka’s, I stopped visiting. He didn’t like that, being out of control.”

Mila had never revolted, but when she had to acclimatize to a new culture and language all on her own, that changed. She could just as well have ended up dead behind a dumpster from drugs, but instead she went on to study at Columbia University. When papa found out that she studied to become a dental nurse, instead of a ‘real dentist’, or ‘the president of all dentists in the entire world’, or anything equally grandiose, he went all mad and had to be dragged out of the visitors room by the guards. A few days later he made a phone call and yelled at Mila for three straight minutes, until the call broke. When Mila paid him a much involuntary visit a few weeks later he’d calmed down a bit; he’d been in solitary confinement since that lash out. 

”Of all professions...” Papa snarled into the handset. ”Dental nurse? A servant! Milaya, why are you causing me this pain?”

Mila pulls herself away from the memory of Southport Correctional facility’s visiting room, back to the present, to the cool, calm night, where she shares a bottle of vodka with the archer.

“As far as I’m concerned I don’t have a father.” Mila meets Daryl’s gaze through the faint, warm light from the lantern. “I moved on. I made it. I got pregnant while in uni and tried to commit suicide. That was a nightmare. Once again I had to... switch on survival mode. I felt so defective. How could someone with a father like mine, someone who’s been hurled between motherly love and fatherly abuse, possibly be a good parent.” Mila takes a sip of vodka. The bottle is almost completely empty by now. “I haven’t had much space for making my own choices in life. Until recently.” she says. “I did some stupid choices on the way here. But at least I turned out... fairly good in the end.”

They look at each other in silence. Nothing is heard but the walkers collected hissing breaths, like a choir of rotten asthmatics, gasping for air, while pushing up against the wall. Sometimes a thud, like flesh against metal, is heard when the ones in the back push the ones in the front extra hard into the wall.

”Ya’ think he’s alive? Or they?” Daryl asks, husky. ”Your parents?”

Mila shrugs her shoulders; she doesn't know. After a while in the weeks following the outbreak, the phone calls to her mother in Russia stopped working. Her father can’t be alive. It would be impossible, just as impossible as it is to escape a high security prison like Southport. 

”What about ya’ foster parents?” 

”I don’t know.” Mila bites her lower lip. ”When the two of us came back to Jersey the Galka’s were gone. So we left, me and Juri.”

”Ain’t too bad, though.” Daryl says, in what Mila thinks is an attempt to cheer her up. “He’s a great kid.”

”He is.” she smiles. ”I never thought I’d make it, being on my own with him like this. He’s my everything, the better person of the two of us; wakes me in the morning, cheers me up and is always happy. I don’t know how he does it. He’s three!”

”And a half.” Daryl smirks. 

“Touché.” Mila looks at him. “Gosh. I’m surprised you haven’t ran away.”

”Why would I? Ma’ old man was a boozer, an ass.” Daryl replies, and his eyes suddenly shift from almost warm, to dark.  “I hadn’t much of a mother. Smoked herself to death, burnt the entire fuckin’ house down at the same time. Ma’ brother went in and out of juvenile. Died, as everyone else.” Daryl hesitates, but then he continues. ”I’m a nobody. Always been. I don’t have anything to run from.”

Mila lays her hand on top of Daryl’s, that rests against the floorboards. He twitches by her sudden move, like a stray dog that has never felt a friendly touch. 

“You’re not a nobody.” Mila says, emphasising every word. “You saved my life. Heck, I think you saved more lives than my sorry ass. Do you always push those who care about you away?”

Daryl becomes silent.

”Sorry.”

”Don’t be.” Mila says. “Honestly, It’s like you don’t think you deserve anything; people being kind to you, that people care. That’s not healthy. No wonder you’re so peevish. Just let the guard down once in a while. You do so much for everybody here, who are so thankful for it and want to show that to you. Let them. You need it. Let people in. Have you never done that?” 

”Never had a chance.” he answers. ”It’s always been bloody knuckles and shards of glass.”

”But does that mean that the whole world is dark and evil? I’ve had a bumpy ride too and I’m not all stiff and irritated with everything.”

”Well ye’ ain’t me.”

”And thank god for that.” Mila smiles a little. ”No matter what your life was like before it doesn’t have to continue being like that.” she gets silent, before she meets his eyes again. ”Have you ever just sat down and thought about what you want? Not what everybody else needs, or what they tell you to do, no matter what you think. Have you?”

”Never gotten that chance either.” Daryl grunts, and continues to look at his shoes.

“Well, do that.” Mila holds up the bottle of vodka in front of her. It’s empty. “Crap...”

“Ya’ haven’t had enough of that?”

Mila puts her head to the side and smiles dazzling.

“I told you I have problems.” Mila smirks and puts the bottle down. “But I’m workin’ on fixing that. Not tonight though.”

The corners of Daryl’s mouth curves slightly upward and he chuckles faintly. They sit quietly for a moment before he once again turns to her. 

“Ya’ really a dentist?” 

“Dental nurse.” Mila corrects. “What, are you surprised?” 

“Not at all.” Daryl replies. “How’s that like?” 

“We'll take that one another time.” Mila adjusts herself on the floor. “I have to save some cock-and-bull stories about tartar and teeth extractions for later.” 

“Can’t wait.” Daryl smirks. “If ye’ want to sing something, I don’t mind.”

Mila smiles. They sit next to each other, watching the night turn into early dawn. Mila sings faintly, to avoid unnecessary attention from the walkers, dangling her legs in the air, while Daryl’s eyes rest on the horizon, wearing a pleasant smile upon his lips.

[devourer--of--books]

if you’re not the bride (deluxe version)

So you may be wondering why is it you're seeing this. Hello, it is I again. If you're here, maybe you're familiar with the original "if you're not the bride', which I posted about three years ago. In case you're not, then, hello, welcome, when I was 15 I wrote a story under this same title. Then forgot all about it. But every so often someone would come across this story and I was reminded of its existence. Then, back in september 2019, I decided to read it again, correct some grammar and call it a day, you know, just so I could rest assured I hadn't written something horrible. Turns out, it got a bit out of hand and I decided to rewrite the whole thing. However, due to the fact that college is the worst, I never finished it and, well, forgot about it, again. Now, as quarantine came around, I found my rewrite from 6 months ago and since I got the time why not, right? This is now more than double the size of the original and has a lot more of backstory than intended. You can still find the original with some corrections here on AO3 and , and the cursed unedited version somewhere on tumblr for the sake of nostalgia. Warnings: There's cursing, some drinking and good old make outs. July 2020 edit: here I am, re-edting this thing again. This all said, welcome folks, to the deluxe version:

"You're going to what?!" Agatha raised her voice, tightly holding her phone to her ear. Surely, she must have heard Sophie wrong. Her friend did have a reputation for being over the top, but this was beyond absurd.

When people said that being friends with Sophie was…an exotic experience, they weren't completely wrong, per say. Being friends with Sophie could be a lot like being friends with a hungry animal. She was ruthless, dangerous and not trustworthy about 60% of the time. Sophie would do most anything to get whatever she wanted and absolutely would step over you in the process (sometimes for no reason other than because it amused her to do so). It wasn't personal, mostly. It was simply her nature.

For her, there were two kinds of people: her friends and her enemies. It was very easy to go from one category to another and anything in between simply couldn't be processed by her brain.

Sophie was a difficult person.

Agatha could tell you in more detail, she would know. Being Sophie's best friend wasn't exactly a dream come true. It had its perks of course, and when all was said and done, Sophie was an okay-ish person and a mostly good friend, but you gotta give it up to Agatha; it was no task for the weak-hearted.

They had been friends since kindergarten and were as different from one another as it gets. Had they met later in life, Agatha is certain they would've never become friends at all. Sophie was a loud, gorgeous (and kinda mean) blonde bombshell and Agatha was a grumpy, average-looking mostly nice girl (she wouldn't call herself kind, really, her niceness was more of a subproduct of her aloofness than anything else). The two of them disagreed in most anything and had not that much in common. Yet, it somehow worked. They argued a lot, as in, a lot, but it was always fixed within a weeks' time, in a coffee shop, over a good old vanilla latte and some black tea.

An odd pair, to say the least.

Which was fine by them. Sophie… was a work in progress. She was trying.

Nevertheless, every once in a while, something like this would happen. Because Sophie was still Sophie and her head worked in mysterious ways.

"I'm getting married, Aggie," Agatha could practically hear the blonde rolling her eyes on the other side of the device, "people do that all the time. It's, like, a thing."

"Sophie, you're not even done with college yet! Getting married with what money? As far as I know, your modeling barely pays your rent and don't even get me started on your student loan and credit card debt! And getting married to whom? Last time I checked, you weren't even going out with anyone!" She tried to cool her head, catching her breath while trying to recall any possible groom Sophie could have taken. "Unless… Are you marring Hort?"

A disgusted groan was heard.

"Ew, no. Not Hort, for God's sake. What do you think I am? Desperate?"

A bit, but Agatha didn't dare say it out loud.

Hort was a guy who lived at the apartment just below Sophie's, in a tiny complex downtown. They've known each other for quite a long time now. It was practically common knowledge that Hort acquired the biggest crush on her the moment he first laid eyes on her. It was all the old ladies from 1A and 2C ever talked about.

Over the years, he became quite easy on the eyes, even Sophie had to admit it. No longer the scrawny awkward kid that helped Agatha drag Sophie's couch upstairs (while Sophie flirted with the trucker, trying to get free shipping for her mattress, which, by the way, she got), but a fully formed man, completely jacked, and with a growing bank account to match, due to his fitness-program-thingy taking off. Agatha didn't really know the details of that, but she knew it was going well, mostly because Sophie told her so.

Anyway, he claimed to not want anything to do with her friend nowdays.

Yeah, right.

Agatha felt bad for him, she really did.

Loving Sophie was like loving a hurricane. Violent, brutal and downright painful.

She had initially assumed it would go away with time, that he would eventually see that they weren't compatible and let it go.

However, it was a bit more complicated than that, as most things in life tend to be.

She knew he and Sophie had hooked up, in fact, she knew that they did so often. Sophie hadn't told her, but she didn't need to. Agatha knew. The aftermath was never good, and for the sake of keeping things short and lighthearted, Agatha shall spare you the angst and just say that, as mentioned above, Sophie was fantastic at getting whatever she wanted and disregarding other people's feelings.

Honestly, Hort could say he wasn't into Sophie all he liked. At the end of the day, he was still living at that shitty apartment (even though he could probably have moved somewhere better a long time ago), hadn't seriously dated anyone since meeting her and was responsible for at least half of Sophie's modeling gigs, which were her friend's main source of income. Agatha had warned him, several times, mind you, but all you can do is all you can do. The heart wants what it wants, she presumes.

"If not Hort, who then?"

"Oh, you don't know him yet," She could practically see Sophie twirling a golden lock on her fingers, a mischievous smirk on her face.

"Clearly," Agatha rolled her eyes and put her phone on speaker to be able to look around for her keys more comfortably. Reaper, her cat, had a bad habit of hiding them in the weirdest places. "Why didn't you tell me you were seeing someone last time we went out for coffee?"

"Because I wasn't seeing anyone at the time," the blonde-haired woman sounded a bit annoyed, seemingly not understanding why Agatha was having such a hard time believing her ludicrous story.

"Sophie."

"Yes, Aggie?"

"That was literally three weeks ago."

"It's true love, Agatha. I can feel it. This is my real-life fairytale. I found the perfect guy for me. He's so different from anyone I've ever met…" Agatha tuned her out, finally realizing what was going on.

For Sophie, everyone she dates is her one true love. She was intense like that. There were lots of "perfect guys" on the list, too many, and eventually Agatha grew tired of counting them. Neither did she remember their names. Why bother, when Sophie would grow tired of them soon enough?

Her friend's drug of choice just so happened to be was serial dating with lots of love-bombing on the side.

Parents got divorced? Look at this cute basketball player that will probably cheat on me.

Bad day at a shoot? Oh, that barista is so sexy, bet he'll hook up with me anyway.

I have no idea where my career is going and hate my major? Why not call Hort up, right?

But getting actually married? That's new.

Agatha sighed, picking up her keys from the pot of her balcony plant. Time to be the be the grown-up. Again.

"Sophie, are you 100% sure you want to get married to this guy? Can't you wait a few months at least? How about you guys move in with each other first?" If Sophie doesn't tire of him, that would terrify the poor thing into ending this madness. Again, Agatha would know. She had to stay at Sophie's for a few weeks once, back when she had split with a partner whom she had been living with; it was hell on earth.

"Weren't you hearing, Aggie? We. Are. Soulmates. He is very serious about me. He's so in love with me, he would never hurt me, and I need to tie him down before he runs away. Isn't this what people always say?" Her friend's voice was getting snappy. Oh, no, not good.

"Sophie, I just think you should be more careful and reasonable…" Agatha tried to pacify, tiredly.

Did she not own any clean jeans? Damn. Why does she keep forgetting to do her laundry? The blue skirt she wore to work would have to do.

"It's always reason, with you, Agatha! You never listen to your heart! I thought you would be happy for me! You're always telling me just how much potential I have! He brings out the best in me! What do you even know about relationships anyway, you always end up ru-"

"SOPHIE!" She interrupted, before her friend could say something she'd regret and crush whatever good mood was left in Agatha's body. "I'm just surprised, that's all. Tell me about this guy…?"

Fuck it, she decided. Agatha was in currently in a hurry and this could be solved later. She wasn't going to be able to win Sophie over the phone. Maybe she could sit her down on sunday, have one long talk about red flags in relationships, again. Convince her to stay engaged for a bit longer, just enough for her to get bored and then call it all off as soon as the new whats-his-face walks through the door.

Now was not the moment to be arguing, especially if she wanted to be on time.

"…And he's so great and wonderful, he's tall, has these hypnotizing eyes, they're so intense, it's like they suck you in, Aggie! His hair is just wow, it's a very uncommon shade of blonde, the undertone is beautiful, so expensive-looking... but it's natural, he swears. And his skin is so soft, you wouldn't believe, his name is…"

Agatha tried to listen. She really did. However, all she could hear was "bla, bla, bla, perfect, bla, bla, bla, handsome". Lord, not this again. Did it get worse every time...?

The brunette stuffed her wallet in a handbag, grappling to close it (it had been a present from Sophie, and as such, probably hardwired to annoy her and look good at the same time), and gave herself a look over in the mirror, before frowning. Oh, time for her limited make-up skills to be of use.

Damn, she looked rough. She left in hurry that morning, so her bare face stared back at her in its full sleepless-racoon glory.

It has been a long week of nothing but late nights trying to get her workload done. She couldn't believe she was saying this, but she missed college. At least back then she didn't have to worry about rent. Oh, to be young, broke, dead-inside and living on a dorm. The wonders, truly.

Concealer, blush, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick. There. Done.

Kinda?

"… So, are you up to it?"

What.

"… Hm, sure?" She responded, still trying to evaluate if her liner was acceptably symmetrical. It wasn't. It never was, but it wasn't always this bad. Really, not her best work. Maybe she could fix it, somehow?

"That's amazing, you'll look so pretty, the dress I picked is perfect for your undertone, you'll be the best maid-of-honor ever!"

Oh, god, no. No way. What has she done?

Should she do that red-flag-talk now?

"How… nice of you to say that," Agatha replied, barely contained horror coming across in her tone. Not that Sophie paid her any attention.

"I set the date for the engagement brunch-party for tomorrow around 10am. At the terrace. And speaking of dates, I must introduce you to someone, he's great, Aggie, and I think you guys could…"

No. No. No. Agatha is drawing the line here.

"Oh really, cool, hey I have to go, callyoulaterbye-"

Agatha throws her phone on the bed, groaning loudly. Reaper stirs in her pillow, but is otherwise unbothered by the conversation, unlike his owner.

Of all things… getting married. Agatha was now her bridesmaid. Engagement brunch…?

Sophie, why. Why?

Agatha was now an accomplice of this crime against good judgement, wasn't she? Should she call Sophie again…?

Ugh, you know what? She'll sort this out this later. Sophie could wait a few hours, Agatha earned this night out.

…This totally is going to come back to bite her, isn't it?

Well, too late, Agatha's leaving. Because, unlike Sophie, who clearly had too much free time in her hands, Agatha had things to do and couldn't just waste her precious friday nights on this kind of bullshit.

.

.

.

"You're late," is the first thing Hester says to Agatha, not even lifting her gaze from her phone as she approaches their table.

It was the usual one, right by the wall, perfectly placed so it was far enough from the dance floor but close enough to the bar, so it was still socially acceptable to be seated but not too "loser-zoned", in Hester's own words.

Hester herself looked the same as always. Dressed head-to-toe in black and showing off an impressive number of tattoos per square inch of skin, she made quite the intimidating sight. The only tip to her actual day job was the discarded white blazer and sleek suitcase lying on a chair beside her. Back in school, Agatha used to find it hard to picture Hester being anything but a witchy-biker or a badass-tattoo-artist, but she supposed scary-lawyer suited her friend just fine.

"Nice to see you too, Hester. I've been well, thanks for asking," Agatha sits down, annoyed. She knows she's late. She missed the "early-comers, free entrance" time, and damn if the isn't pissed that she's now 15 bucks broker then she already was. "Anadil, Dot, it's great to see you guys too"

Both women acknowledge her presence quietly: Anadil nods,before getting up from her spot and leaving to god-wishes-he-knew-where and Dot hugs her briefly, headed to the bar.

Hester rolls her eyes and repeats herself.

"You're late."

"Shut up, I'm here, aren't I?!" Agatha snaps, before she bit her lip and propped her elbows onto the table, head in her hands.

The gesture makes Hester lift her eyes from the phone, finally.

"Well, someone's had a bad day."

"Look, I'm sorry. It's been one looong horrid day. Have you ordered any drinks? Or are we going for beer tonight?" Agatha asks, going over the familiar menu, even though she has every beverage price there already memorized.

"Okay, slow down," Hester yanks the menu out of her hands. "Have you eaten? I'm not going to take care of you if you didn't."

Yes, she would, but that's not relevant.

"Yes, mom," Agatha rolled her eyes. "I'm tired, tomorrow is gonna suck, let's drink."

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow's saturday, loser, sleep to your hearts content," Hester reminds her, but at seeing Agatha stare back at her in misery it occurred to her what, or rather, who, this was about.

"Blondie has been texting me non-stop about brunch. At 10. What's up with that?" She lifts a brow, her judging eyes scanning Agatha's expression. Agatha in turn, lets her elbows drop and bangs her head onto the table, harder than originally planned, a whimper leaving her lips.

Hester sighs. She loves Agatha to the death, but when it comes to Sophie, she has always been way too forgiving. Agatha was not Sophie's mother, she shouldn't have to look out for her and bend over backyards to help her. Personally, Hester and Sophie didn't get along very well.

Which lead to: Sophie never invited Hester anywhere, unless she wanted to rub something in Hester's face.

"...Apparently, she's getting married in, like, two weeks?" Hester's brows lift in surprise. "...To some guy I don't know?" Higher. "...And I'm a bridesmaid?" Almost disappearing into her hairline by now.

Awkward pause.

"Okay," Hester breathes in and out, "what the actual hell?"

"My words exactly."

"She'll be over it in a week," the tattooed woman deadpans.

"No doubt," the other replies.

Three more seconds go by, and it's far too long for Agatha, whose leg starts to twitch under the table.

"You're doing it again," she states.

"Doing what?" Hester asks, crossing her arms, lying back at her chair.

"That thing."

"What thing?"

"You know," Agatha vaguely gestures at Hester's face, "that thing your eyebrows do when you're being judgy."

"I am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"I so need a drink right now," she tells her before leaving the table.

.

.

.

At the bar counter, Agatha sits down on a stool and waits for the bartender, Chaddick, to show up, ignoring Hester's glare on her back.

Now for some unnecessary backstory, in case you're interested: Agatha and Chaddick had a bit of history (read, beef) long before this club, The Woods, opened and even before Agatha and Hester started to have their monthly night-out there.

Chaddick was a jock whom Agatha went to school with, all the way from sixth grade to senior year of high school. To be brief, he was the worst ™. He made fun of her, tormented her days, spread rumors about her (including one that she was witch, which lasted for years) and even stole her stuff once. In senior year, he had even developed this habit of showing up with his friends at the tea place her mother owned, where she had worked a few shifts from time to time, ordering not a single drop of fucking tea, being loud and annoying for hours and only leaving when closing hour neared.

Agatha was sure that if you googled 'jackass', his picture would turn up. He'd been so full of himself, all because he had some cash, was athletic and was "cute", you know, in that white-upper-middle-class-way that most school-aged popular boys tended to be. But then, flash-forward: Chaddick now worked wednesday to saturday as a bartender at Agatha's favorite club. Apparently, his parents went bankrupt or something during college. Agatha felt kinda bad for him, but not really? She supposed he wasn't as terrible of a human being nowadays, but she was not about to go ahead and call him her friend, no matter how many times she had to make small talk with him for the sake of bar etiquette.

"So what's it gonna be today?" The bartender asked, not quite politely, but she lets it slide, for she could tell he was as thrilled about this conversation as her.

Chaddick, too, looks the same, to no one's surprise. He looked more tired, but still douchey enough that Agatha didn't feel too horrible of a person for not feeling as sorry for him as she probably should.

"Surprise me. I've had a very bad day."

"Is Sophie actually up to something then?" He asks while grabbing some bottles, "I hear there's going to be a brunch-party tomorrow…?"

"Who told you? Reena?" Chaddick dismisses the name casually with his hand. "Gisele?" 'no', he denies with his head. "Beatrix then?" he nods, uncharacteristically shy, and Agatha nearly felt pleased, before she remembered what they were talking about before. "Bingo. But yes, there's a brunch-party tomorrow. An engagement brunch-party."

He hands her a cup, wide-eyed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Engagement? Do I even wanna know w-"

"You don't. Trust me on this," Agatha cuts him off, taking a sip of the beverage. She doesn't recognize its taste, which makes her wary. She knows her alchool. "What did you even put here?"

"It's a secret, tonight's special," he winked mockingly, before hurrying on to the next client.

Agatha briefly wonders if she should drink the rest of it, eyeing the cup curiously. It didn't smell bad and she kind of liked the taste. Should she trust Chaddick? Probably not. Then again, Agatha needed a drink tonight.

It would be fine. She is no lightweight, Hester is here, tomorrow's saturday. Right?

Another thing that would probably bite her later. So, she braces herself and downs the cup in a few large sips, heading back to her table.

Bring it on.

.

.

.

Two other cups of who-knows-what and an hour later, Agatha was back at the bar, now sitting in different stool, as far from Chaddick as she possibly could be, when a body drops on the sit next to her.

It's Dot, giggling loudly like a high school girl on heavy drugs.

The giggling persists for quite some time.

... It's kinda creeping Agatha out.

"Penny for your thoughts…?" She tries, taking a sip of her drink.

No response.

Giggle.

More silence.

"Hm, Dot?"

She continues to stare at her joyfully, still smiling like a madwoman.

Agatha found Dot adorable and friendly, which was a surprise since she was one of Hester's best friends. The two of them weren't really that close themselves, but she did enjoy her company. Being friends with Dot was as easy as it was harmless.

"Don't look, but there's a really hot guy right by the pool table who hasn't been able to take his eyes off you for the last fifteen minutes."

Agatha's eyebrows shot up in Hester-like fashion and she fights the instinct to turn around and check if Dot isn't messing with her.

She knows she is not the most attractive female in the room. Agatha tends to think of herself as more of an acquired taste, truly. Yet, every blue moon someone would come over to try their luck with her. Sometimes they're cute, sometimes they're funny and sometimes they're just desperate. So far, "hot guys" haven't really been her target demographic.

"So what? What's the big deal?" She tries to keep her nerves out of her voice, mostly succeeding, but Dot's smile only grew more and more mischievous, as if seeing right through her.

"Turn around. I dare you not to remember him. Pretty sure Sophie told you about how she met him again a few weeks ago, at that event she went to? The one sponsored by Camelot International?"

…Okay, so Agatha might be a bit of a bad friend. She didn't listen to 90% of Sophie's rants about guys or modeling events, so most likely she had told her about him as Agatha did something else. Something important, really.

…Like playing games on her tablet.

She worked a lot, okay? Can't have people hogging all her free time. Even if it was Sophie. Her best friend.

Shit.

Agatha's face must have betrayed her because Dot laughed even louder than before.

"You seriously don't?" she managed to ask between giggles, as Agatha blushed, frowning.

"I should?"

"Most likely yes. Sometimes you're way too funny, you know?" Her smile was dangerous. Stop smiling at Agatha like that, woman.

It was at times like this she could see why Hester and Dot were such good friends.

"Thanks, I think?" Agatha eyes her companion carefully "How hot is this guy any…"

"Hot enough for you to talk to me, I hope," a male voice announced behind her, seemingly amused.

Not her day. Definitely not her day.

"He's right behind me?!"

Dot giggled loudly a final time before walking away to Hester's table. Very helpful. Forget what Agatha said about liking Dot. She didn't. Dot was a horrible person.

Agatha turned on her heels, facing the stranger with a sheepish smile. She was not ready for what was about to bite her.

Oh damn, please do.

…Figuratively, fuck. She meant in a figurative way.

Before we go on, Agatha would like to clarify that she blames any less than pure thoughts on Chaddick, because who knows what he put into her drink.

(Yeah, it's totally Chaddick's fault)

Amen, praise Jesus, okay?

Embarrassingly, her first instinct is to say that yes, he was totally hot enough to talk to her. Or come home with her. Or marry her (too soon for this joke, scratch that). That's not what she did, however. Oh, no, she stood there, in silence, and stared for quite a while before her brain rebooted and she finally gained control of her own body again.

Agatha is the first in line to advocate on why you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but she had eyes.

He was tall. As tall, if not taller than her, and Agatha was a tall woman. His jeans looked expensive and his light blue social shirt was tight on his chest, almost as if it were a size too small, the top buttons open, defined muscles visible to even the most casual observer. The shirt was paired with a grey-ish tie that hanged loosely around his neck, a bit too effortless-looking to be unintentional. His features were sharp, sculpted even, a certain California-sunny-surfer meets Adonis-next-door quality to them. Soft blond locks had an unnatural shine under the club's lights, as if they were made of gold.

And his eyes, my god, they were so blue Agatha felt like sinking and drowning in his arms right then and there. Unfortunately, she couldn't. Because you see, she is a grown woman and had a little thing called dignity.

Not that she didn't want to though.

Focus.

He did look kind of familiar. Had they met before? Agatha doesn't think so. This man looked like he just walked out of a Calvin Klein ad, and she sure as hell didn't know many people who look like that. One of Sophie's model friends? If so, she certainly hadn't introduced the two.

Yet, the way he was looking at her right now indicated the reality that she should probably know who he is. Maybe he was from her old gym, back when she let Sophie talk her into going for a few months? No, there were no hot guys there, just old ladies and teenagers.

Okay, so, plan B, say something smart.

"Hm…"

Say something.

"…So…"

Anything!

He doesn't look very impressed by her articulate conversation skills, but Agatha can't place where she had seen him before. Maybe they had been neighbors at some point? She moved quite a few times in these last years and keeping track of all of them was impossible. But that didn't seem quite right. A friend of one of her exes then? Did they meet at pride or something?

Seriously, who was this guy! Acting all smooth, as if she should know who he is! He's good looking enough to be memorable sure, but clearly not memorable enough.

Hell, did she sleep with him? He must have been the worst one night stand ever for Agatha to somehow forget him. Maybe he was so bad that she forgot about him completely...?

"I give up, I can't remember you."

He looked a bit offended. Maybe he was indeed a Calvin Klein model.

"The name's Tedros…?"

Tedros, Tedros… Tedros?

"Nope, doesn't ring a bell," she concludes, "but, I'm, hm, Agatha?"

"I know," he responds, curt and firm, nearly glaring at her.

"Neat."

"Nice."

"Good."

"Great."

"Awesome."

"Amazing."

"Extraordinary."

"Now, that's a big word," he mocks. Agatha suspects he just didn't know any bigger ones to keep up. Part of her wishes to strangle him with his own tie and part of her wants to call him out on his shit. He approached her, okay? She is under no obligation to recognize him.

Her eyes narrow and she sips on her fourth cup again.

"Do you need for me to tell you what it means?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine."

The passive-aggressive-ness of this conversation is starting to exhaust her and kill any buzz she had, but she can't just let Mr. everyone-knows-who-I-am-and-I-look-like-walking-sex win. He needed to go down (on her). What.

"Hm, Tedros, you're going to order something or what?"

Chaddick cuts the stare contest between brown and blue and Agatha makes a note to leave him a nicer tip tonight.

"What's the special of the day?" Tedros' tone is amused, as if he and Chaddick are old friends. Ugh, of course he would. He sounded douchey enough. Maybe he went to school with her? That sounded about right, she could picture it. Pretty-boy-Tedros, walking down the hall wearing a football jacket with a cheerleader or two on his arm.

"Nice little things I've put together," Chaddick wiggled his eyebrows. "Want some?"

"Is it safe?" Tedros asks him, cautiously.

"Well, Agatha here is still fine at four, I would say so."

Soon enough Tedros is downing his second cup, sitting on the stool next to hers.

.

.

.

Agatha wasn't sure how or why, but things went from point A to point B very, very quickly.

Point A being sitting beside Tedros at the bar and point B being heavily making out with him in a corner.

Agatha wishes she was joking. She wasn't. It just…somehow…happened?

Fuck.

It all started when Tedros eventually caught up to her and from there on they held a little amicable drinking competition.

("I bet you can't do more shots than me." "Oh, you're so on!" "You drink like a fourteen-year old, dude." "Oh yeah?" "Yeah.")

Then, they paid for their drinks. Well, Tedros did.

("Did you just... pay for me?" "It's called having manners." "Excuse you?")

After that, Chaddick kicked them out to the dance floor, something about the two of them 'grossing him out'. Agatha is not much of a dancer, so she tried to go back her table but Tedros said something (she can't quite remember what it was) that made her realize that she kind of didn't want to. Leave, she means.

They danced for a bit before she stepped on Tedros's foot, or maybe he stepped on hers first?

("Ouch." "Get out of my way!" "Make me.")

From there on it was incomprehensible screaming over loud music for a while and they somehow ended up being way too up in each other's personal space. Agatha eventually just lost it, and grabbed him by his collar, bringing him down to place a forceful peck on his lips, before backing away, partly horrified, partly proud.

It took two mortifyingly long seconds of silence and pure embarrassment for Tedros to grab her by the waist and kiss her roughly.

They stumbled to a more secluded corner, until Agatha's back hit a wall, but she was distracted from the pain of the impact by Tedros licking her bottom lip, seeking her tongue, a small sound escaping her once he found it. What the hell is she even doing, this should not be happening. And yet, she cannot bring herself to care.

This is a wild, passionate kiss and not at all Agatha's expertise. She always considered herself more of a slow-vanilla-soft kind of girl. But out the window with that, Tedros was nowhere near close enough, no matter that they were already flush against each other. Maybe this is why Sophie thinks every guy she meets is her soulmate. As cheesy as it sounds, she feels somehow connected to this stranger, almost as if they were meant to be or something.

Ha, as if.

Any thoughts, of soulmates or otherwise, are forgotten when Tedros' hands start to wander, one goes from her waist to her hip and the other moves to explore her tight, squeezing it deliciously. Agatha retaliates by pulling on his hair, not as lightly as she probably should've, but is rewarded with a husky groan and a bite on her bottom lip.

(She does it again because that might be her new favorite sound.)

What. Is. Going. On.

Her last braincells are on fire. She was on fire.

Okay, young lady, de-attach yourself from the handsome male slo…

Oh God.

She's pretty much breathless when he decides to break the kiss, her lips chasing after his for the slightest second as he pulls away. Her heartbeat has never been this loud and she has no time to overthink, as, suddenly, his lips are on her neck. Agatha lets out a quiet, but embarrassingly needy, whine (as quietly as she could, but it didn't really matter, he heard her anyway) when he nips on her ear and then trails down to suck at her pulse point. Her hands snake their way from his hair to under his shirt's collar and Tedros shivers once she drags her short nails lightly on his upper back and shoulders, but she can still feel his very attractive smug smirk against her skin.

She felt drunk. She doesn't feel like that often.

Not the completely-trashed-I-just-had-countless-drinks kind of drunk and certainly not this don't-care-keep-going-my-blood-is-on-fire kind of drunk either. Like she wanted to keep touching Tedros for the rest of her life (the idea doesn't sound half bad), as fireworks danced around them and… God, if Sophie knows this guy how she could not marry him on the spot, because fuck…

He's leaving quite a few love bites along her collarbone, teasing, attempting (and succeeding) at drawing tiny sounds from her and Agatha can't take it anymore. She drags him back up to her mouth and somehow pulls him even closer. She did not like feeling weak, but to her surprise, Tedros seemed to possess the superpower of turning her completely boneless in the best kind of way.

Wait.

Agatha is making out with Tedros.

Tedros is making out with her.

Agatha's eyes open in late realization and the two of them stare at each other for a few seconds.

So, this happened, huh?

"I… hm… have to go. Out of here. Home. Alone. Yeah, that," Agatha makes way around paralyzed Tedros, whom looks very confused and disoriented. His lips are tainted with coral lipstick, he's panting for air, his bright eyes dark with desire, clothes looking disrelished, pants looking a bit too tight, and he just looks throughfully kissed.

No, Agatha does not feel even a little tiny bit of pride by seeing him look like that because of her, what are you talking about, not sexy, not sexy at all.

… Maybe he could come along?

No. No, no, no.

She doesn't run away from him exactly, but she sure as hell wasn't walking. As she passes Hester and Anadil, the two of them raise eyebrows judgingly, but Agatha does her best to school her expression into neutrality.

If she waited a bit longer, she might have heard Tedros saying:

"Until tomorrow then."

.

.

.

Agatha regrets every single life choice that led her to this point.

She's sitting on a ridiculously shaped chair at Sophie's apartment building's terrace, brooding silently in the corner, with a big headache, while eating some diet cake that tasted like foam, listening to violin versions of bad pop songs, probably dying of heatstroke, and if that doesn't kill her soon enough, can someone please end her misery…

Hester and Anadil are not here after all. Agatha doesn't blame them. It might be for the best, because Agatha doesn't need to deal with Hester's judgy eyebrows right now. Dot is down in Sophie's apartment, at the kitchen, most likely trying to steal some wine and she is pretty much the only person here Agatha can stand.

She partly wonders if Hort will show up but decides she does not care. She's running on aspirin, her head feels like it was smashed against a wall multiple times, and it's too hot here, okay?

It's a hot sunny day and the limited shade would not be enough to cool Agatha down even if she wasn't wearing a scarf. Agatha hates this scarf. It was another one of Sophie's gifts, and Agatha hates it because it's an evil scarf that pinches her every five seconds. However it's the lightest scarf she owns, and she can't it take off.

Otherwise, someone might notice the dark mark on her neck, which her shirt could not hide, as was the case for the other ones, lower, in her collarbones.

Tedros freaking marked her. The nerve.

She's not nearly as pissed as she should be, because honestly she's kinda into it.

Taking off the scarf would lead to too much teasing and questions, she had no turtlenecks available (damn you, past-Agatha, for not doing your laundry) and if only she had the skills to cover it up with makeup. Not only was the scarf evil by itself, it made it impossible for her to not think of yesterday, therefore, making her even more irritable.

She is not the kind of person who kisses people at the club. She sure as hell wouldn't bring a guy she's just met, at the club of all places, home. What if he'd been a psycho? She doesn't know him. He'd know where she lived. She wouldn't go to his place either, that sounded even more irresponsible. But she wishes she had at least gotten his number, you know, instead of freaking out and running away. Well, he knew Chaddick, so maybe she could ask him?

No, that would be humiliating, and Agatha is trying to hang on to whatever dignity she had left.

Also, it had been almost an hour at this damned terrace party and she hasn't seen a single trace of Sophie's fiancé, but the blonde assured her he would be there soon. He's the late-type, hm.

Okay, so Agatha hates him already.

She has been to this terrace quite a few times, it was the one pro of Sophie's building, aside from cheap rent. But she was running out of both will and things to point out in small talk with all these models and small influencers. If she hears "Sophie has such a lovely terrace" one more time…

Suddenly, there was clank, signaling that someone pushed the terrace door open. As Sophie lit up and moved to greet the newcomer, Agatha felt the cake climb up her throat.

Holy hell, is that Tedros?

What is her life, really.

Agatha gets up from her chair quietly, observing the scene from behind a plant, trying not to be too obvious, just, ya know, casually chilling in the middle of the scorching sun. Sophie hugs him tightly, placing a kiss on his cheek, grinning as she laces their fingers together and starts walking in Agatha's general direction, pulling the handsome man behind her.

Hm, no.

Agatha resists the urge to pace in circles as she tries to gather her thoughts. It might be the hangover or the diet cake but seeing the two of them together made her wanna barf. Not because they didn't look good together. They did. In fact, maybe too good. Sophie's long soft hair was a shade or two lighter than Tedros', but other than that, they might as well have been made in the same Instagram-model-facility. Like a set, Barbie and Ken.

What is this feeling?

Oh no, she can see them approaching. Abort mission, leave, get out, hit the road…

"Aggie, darling!"

Agatha forces herself to fake a confident smile, as if she could always be found casually hanging out behind plants on saturday mornings. It turned out to be more of sheepish grin, especially when compared to her friend, whose pretty smile is almost too big for her too pretty face.

Sophie looked particularly gorgeous in her pastel green summer dress and peep-toe heels. Her tanned skin glows under the sun, the light catching in her green eyes on that special way that made photographers all around the industry want to work with her despite her inexperience, the grace within her movements creating an allure Agatha doesn't think she'd be able to recreate even if she were to be born again.

This is not good. Leave, abort mission, repeat, abort miss…

"Aggie, this is Tedros, you know, the one I was telling you about yesterday," she winked. "Teddy, this is my bestie, Agatha, you remember her, right?" Sophie nudges him lightly using her elbow.

Tedros looks even better now that she can see him in natural daylight. Which should be illegal, truly. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans, his hair made of pure gold looked just messy enough to not look too try-hard, yet something about him looked weirdly… staged? Agatha couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"I surely do," Tedros lets go of Sophie's hand, shoulders tensing, and Agatha thinks he might be blushing. Is he nervous? "We-"

"Nice to meet you," Agatha interrupts him, grasping his hand on a firm handshake and letting go just as fast, as if touching his skin would burn her. "Sophie told me a lot about you."

Play along, please. I beg you.

"Oh, hm, it's very nice to meet you too?" Tedros responds, confused, but not calling her out. "Nice scarf," he adds, his lips curling upwards, so very slightly she might have missed if she wasn't micro-analyzing his every movement. Smug bastard. She is all too aware of his gaze lingering on her neck, a hint of pride showing in his bright eyes, the teasing in his voice making her want to pull him down by the collar, whether to choke him or to kiss him she couldn't tell.

"Oh, isn't it cute? See, Aggie, I told you that color looked great on you!" Sophie cuts in, reaching to touch said scarf. Agatha steps back self-consciously, making an effort to not scratch the back of her neck as not to call more attention to it.

"Quite the bold fashion statement for the summer, may I add," Tedros continues as he casually leaned one elbow on Sophie's shoulder. Subtle enough that Sophie wouldn't read too much into it, but Agatha could see right through his shit. "But I like it. You look very pretty, Agatha"

How dare he, truly. No sham-

Wait.

"So, I need to get going, work emergency you see, but I'll make it up to you, Sophie," Agatha excuses herself, quickly. She tells herself it's just the heat that it's bothering her, but her brain is going 300 miles per hours and she needs to leave. Now.

"Aggie, tomorrow we'll be having lunch at the country club, don't be late!"

"Yeah, be there, alright."

Agatha sprints down the complex's stairs as discreetly as she can, which is not much. By the time she's at her car, the weight of her realization hits her full force.

.

.

.

"I'm getting married, Aggie"

"Not Hort"

"You don't know him yet"

.

.

.

"Aggie, this is Tedros, you know, the one I was telling you about yesterday."

.

.

.

"That was literally three weeks ago."

"I dare you not to remember him. Pretty sure Sophie told you about how she met him again a few weeks ago at that event she went to? The one sponsored by Camelot International?"

.

.

.

"…Oh he's so great and wonderful, he's tall, has these hypnotizing eyes, they're so intense, its like they suck you in, Aggie! His hair is just wow, it's a very uncommon shade of blonde, the undertone is beautiful, so expensive-looking, but it's natural, he swears, and his skin is so soft you wouldn't believe, his name is…"

"bla, bla, bla, perfect, bla, bla, bla, handsome"

.

.

.

"He's so different from anyone I've ever met…"

"She feels somehow connected to this stranger, almost as if they were meant to be or something."

.

.

.

"Acting all smooth, as if she should know who he is!"

"He looked a bit offended."

"The name's Tedros?"

.

.

.

"God, if Sophie knows this guy how could she not marry him on the spot…"

"Sophie hugs him tightly, placing a kiss on his cheek, grinning as she laces their fingers together and starts walking, pulling the handsome man behind her."

.

.

.

Agatha is a very bad friend, isn't she?

She bangs her head on the wheel.

Then, she regrets doing so, opening the car's door, so she could vomit some diet cake and last night's alcohol on the parking lot's floor before driving away.

.

.

.

By a miracle, Agatha survives the drive home and makes it back home in one piece.

As she walks into her own apartment, she does not feel half as guilty as she thought she would be. But she was very, very angry. Furious, actually.

At herself for being both a dumbass and a bad friend, at Tedros for being a player, at Chaddick for being a dick in general, at Sophie for being Sophie, at Dot for not warning her and even at Hester for not being at the party today so Agatha could at least not freak out by herself.

She can't do anything for the rest of the day, because trying to work, read or sleep is useless, since she can't focus with all the internal screeching her mind is doing. Her existence now doesn't make any sense and Agatha is about to tear her hair out, lying down in her bed, staring at the celling.

(There's a long crack on there and for whatever reason, it reminded her of a river. Probably because it didn't look like anything else.)

She contemplates calling Hester and telling her everything but ultimately decides against it. She can't bring herself to explain this out loud, least of all hear any possible lecture Hester might give her. Is this how Sophie feels when she decides hide things from her-

Oh my God, Sophie.

Tedros was engaged. To Sophie. He was Sophie's fiancé.

Agatha is not freaking out at all.

.

.

.

At last, ten long hours of sulking later, Agatha is feeling a lot guiltier, still very much pissed and just confused as a whole.

She made out with Sophie's fiancé. Should she tell her? Yes. Would she? To be decided.

Maybe they wouldn't even get married. Come on, a few weeks? There's no way Sophie will keep up this insanity. Telling her about the club incident would only hurt their life-long friendship over a guy who wasn't even gonna last two months. Years of companionship out the window. She had no intention of doing it again so, did it really matter? What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel, right?

She hadn't even known he was Sophie's fiancé!

But then again, Sophie had told her all about him. She didn't listen because she was a bad friend! Was she really gonna play the "I didn't know" card...?

It was the truth!

But no one would believe her. Fuck, if Agatha were Sophie, she wouldn't believe herself. Agatha was a smart grown woman, godamn it. What kind of dumb bitch even-

This wedding wasn't happening. No need to worry, right?

For now, Agatha has two long weeks of supposedly weeding-related bonding moments with Sophie to survive, without accidentally letting slip that, oh, talked, drank, danced and made out with Tedros.

Well, shit.

.

.

.

Even if one ignored the fact that the guilt was starting to eat Agatha alive from inside out, the next day would still have been a long, tortured journey of nothing but cringe and regrets. Yet she bore it, because she, even if accidentally, brought this on herself.

Agatha got up early on a sunday (name a bigger crime) to try and get something done, since she would probably have little time to work in the following weeks. Then, she went to have lunch with Sophie at a fancy country club (that Sophie couldn't afford by the way, which earned her a lecture on credit cards and personal finances) hoping to have that "red-flag" talk.

It did not go well.

Sophie had invited him along. Of course, she would. Apparently, since she was getting married soon, Agatha should be used to have him around. And, of course, Sophie would have decided to tell her he was coming the moment he walked in, headed to their table.

This is Sophie's fiancé. Do. Not. Stare.

What kind of cosmic karma is this? He isn't even her type.

WHY-

"Afternoon, ladies."

Sophie greeted the blonde with a smile and a hug, as Agatha merely nodded his way, scanning the room for the closest exit.

"Hi Teddy!"

"Tedros."

Lunch is awkward as hell and at this point Agatha is just waiting for a waiter to come and stab her. It ends up being both not so terrible and the worst lunch ever because she does talk quite a lot with Tedros, against her better judgment.

She learns that Tedros did go to her school, for three years. Sophie asks him if he remembers Agatha, and from Tedros' silence, Agatha assumes he doesn't want to admit to having been part of Chaddick's... shenanigans.

Her friend then talks astrology, and Agatha learns that he is a leo (because of course he would), is kinda proud of it but says he doesn't believe in astrology, prompting Sophie to start a discussion on why he wouldn't believe in astrology if he believed in tarot. The way he blushes and stammers is cute and makes Agatha feel horrible for thinking so, but she asks him about tarot anyway. She's just being polite, okay?

He mentions he'd turned 26 a while ago and recently moved back to the city, as he moved away to go to college in Avalon. She tells him she almost went there, but her scholarship did not include a dormroom and she knew no one there to share an apartment with. His answer is a blunt "I know", which both confuses and pisses her off.

Tedros offers her no further info on it, but they engage in conversation again after he mentions he is working at Camelot International.

("As one of the main executives on the board," Sophie adds, "it's one of the most powerful companies in the country.")

They quickly bond over their massive workloads (Agatha may not be a main executive of a huge corporate empire, but damn if being head finance director for SGE Enterprises didn't keep her busy enough), until Sophie slips that he must be very lucky to be the sole heir to the Pendragon Group.

Oh.

Tedros Pendragon. Are you kidding? Agatha remembers seeing his family's name being all over the news back in school and she feels dumb for not remembering that Tedros and 'that Pendragon boy' were the same person. Hadn't his parents had a huge cheating-divorce-scandal that caused the stock for the company to plummet a few years ago?

Tedros frowns at Sophie before saying that, "Yes, indeed, he's very lucky."

The blonde doesn't seem to notice the way his hands grip the fork tightly as he pronounces the last word, but Agatha does.

It adds on to the list of things that keep her awake later, after she does her damn laundry and stress-cleans her entire apartment. She curses as she turns and tosses on her bed, because it's 2 AM, work starts in a few hours and she needs to sleep.

.

.

.

The next four days are not much different, the routine is pretty much the same, except they have dinner plans instead of lunch. Work, eat, work, do bridesmaid shit with Sophie and Tedros somewhere, avoid his gaze, talk for a bit over something like choosing the best flower arrangements, and then hightail out of there, only to come home and be restless.

She was still very confused, because honestly, Tedros didn't seem bad at all. The more she talked to him, the least she wanted to stop talking to him. He definitely had some family issues and was doing some overcompensating, but nothing that made him, like, a total trash human.

And yet, he was still the guy who hit on her (fucking made out with her), knowing exactly who she was, while being engaged to her best friend.

She always thought herself a good judge of character.

Anyway, she did her best to act aloofly polite and if he ever seemed to hint at the night at The Woods, Agatha cut him off before he could. It was a good plan. Wait it out. And it really was working just fine.

Until the dress store.

For some reason she cannot wrap her head around, Tedros is there too.

(Isn't there a tradition against seeing the dress of your bride before the wedding or something?)

At some point, Sophie struggles to get into a particularly complicated dress at the dressing room, yelling at the poor employees like a harpy on a rampage and Agatha is about to intervene when he manages to pull her aside, his grip firm but with a certain gentleness that made her skin burn.

He semi-drags her across the store through a sea of sparkly white dresses and into this small nook between sections. Agatha does not want to admit that the main reason why he is able to do that is because she allows him to.

Things only go downhill from there.

He has her cornered, her back nearly merging with the wall as he stands close to her, his posture tense, moving slowly, like one would in presence of a startled animal. He doesn't look like he is trying to purposely intimidate her, and she doesn't feel particularly unsafe. No words are spoken between them and the silence allows Agatha's senses to pick up on a deliciously rich smell. Is that Tedros' cologne-

Agatha forces down the rash that is creeping up her neck and tries to focus on doing what she does best, aka, running away from her problems. She looks anywhere but his face, but he is not making ignoring him an easy job.

"I don't get you."

What.

"Excuse me?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Agatha scoffs, arms crossing in front of her chest.

"I truly don't."

Her response seems to annoy him, which she counts as a win, but Agatha might have declared victory just a bit too soon. Tedros, who was a couple of feet away has managed to get way too close (yet again). His hand raises her chin and forces her to look into his eyes. Her resolution to run away falters and she's scared he might hear her heartbeat speed up.

"Playing dumb doesn't suit you, Agatha. One second you don't like me, then you do like me, then you don't again… I don't understand the game you're playing here… So, I'll make this simple, you won, congratulations, now stop playing games, now you know I'm interested."

Agatha blinks. This is… not the conversation she thought she was going to have.

Of course, during her nightly overthinking sessions she thought about what she'd say if he confronted her about the previous friday, even if she didn't think he'd have the balls to actually do it. But she seems to have been reduced to this dumpster fire nonsense. Tedros never did what she thought he was going to do and it was short-circuiting her braincells.

She's way too aware of the hold he has on her, the compromising situation they're in. One of his hands cages Agatha in, placed on the wall behind her head, while the other keeps her from adverting her gaze from his. Tedros is too close, he smells too good and his mouth looks too inviting.

She hears him, but she doesn't really hear him, his presence fogging up her senses.

Agatha briefly entertains the idea of giving into temptation and kissing him. How nice it would be to grab his collar, invert their positions, slam him against the wall and kiss him senseless, so he could feel just how helpless she felt having him corner her like this. Kiss him and just leave him there, wanting, begging, and…

What. Wow, fuck. Stop.

A new thought hits her like a ton bricks.

This guy is an asshole.

Tedros looks irritated and Agatha wants to punch him.

So she does.

She's strong enough to give him a black eye, but she (unintentionally, Agatha swears) holds backs and aims for his chest. However, she can tell it hurt a lot by the way his eyes water and he backs away several steps. She hears Sophie yelling their names across the store and giving Tedros one last glare, she turns around and walks away.

The nerve.

Why would anyone marry him?

Sophie needed a wakeup call. And fast. Because while Sophie could be a nightmare, she did not deserve to be played like that.

.

.

.

Agatha was not a superstitious person.

If she forgot her umbrella at home and it started raining when she left the dress shop (Tedros and Sophie both offered her a ride but she would rather choke, honestly, and said no, forgetting that she rode here with Sophie in the first place), it's not fate, it's bad luck. If she gets sick and loses her voice (and therefore can't go do neither her work or her bridesmaid duty), it's not conspiracy, it's simply a coincidence.

Well, call it fate, call it bad luck, call it conspiracy, call it coincidence. The case is that Agatha has lost her voice and has both a running nose and a fever. She considers texting the whole story to Sophie but changes her mind when she imagines the blonde woman's reaction.

Agatha, you're such a slut.

She is going to tell Sophie about this… this… this individual. Yeah, she was going to come clean and expose Tedros. No wedding.

Why was Tedros marrying Sophie anyway? She could understand why Sophie would go for Tedros. He did seem like her type. Young, rich, successful and handsome.

(Not really what she herself looked for. Agatha tended to go for witty, responsible people and who did not mind her blunt nature. Never in the history of ever, had Sophie and Agatha been interested on the same person.)

Anyway, he would give her lots of exposure, would look great on her Instagram feed, would be able to save her from her terrible apartment, student loan and infinite credit card debt, and would open up the world of fancy designer shoes and pretty gowns Sophie always dreamed of.

But why would he do that?

Tedros was, again, young, rich, successful and handsome. He hardly expressed any special affection towards Sophie or had the usual lovesick look most of Sophie's victims sported when they found themselves bewitched by her. They didn't really agree on much, from what Agatha gathered on their conversations, had no shared interests, lived completely different lifestyles, had different moral values and overall didn't seem to have the grandiose connection Sophie spoke of at all. Maybe he was with her because she was pretty? But again, why. There werw thousands of pretty girls willing to date young rich men, why Sophie in particular?

Something about this seemed off. She needs to talk to Sophie.

…When she recovered.

.

.

.

Alright, maybe it was conspiracy. The wedding was in two days.

Two days.

She supposes time does go by quickly when you're procrastinating something you really, really don't want to do. Nearly two weeks gone by in a flash. And, as she should, Agatha finally gets herself together. She is going to tell Sophie.

Well, she was going to tell Sophie. The blonde and a few of her friends were at The Woods for a last girl's night out. Meaning:

Sophie was currently drunk.

But maybe she wasn't?

She probably was though. Sophie was the most lightweight person Agatha knew, likely because she was so skinny. Girl could not hold her alcohol and drunk-Sophie was messy-Sophie. Unwilling, untamable and unimaginably difficult to have a coherent conversation with.

But, maybe she wasn't drunk? Agatha was not going to risk it.

She forces herself to hurry. She doesn't change out of her work outfit (merely discarding the suit's jacket), stopping by her house to feed Reaper and leave some important documents. Agatha even nearly forgets to lock her front door, calling a car to the club, hoping it might not be too late to come clean. But she was late anyway, as proven not only by the 15 bucks that left her wallet (for the second time this month) but by-

"Aggieeeee! You're better! Have you taaaasted this? It's amaziiiing!"

Agatha glares at Chaddick, who has the decency to look away. He knew the amount of alcohol Sophie was capable of processing, namely: none.

"Yeah, I have…"

"You should have seen, Sophie; the other night Agatha was so wasted she ma…"

"Chaddick, don't you have somewhere to be? As in, not here?"

The ex-jock walks away with a smirk, knowing he had some nice blackmailing material on her. Could this get any more horrible?

Now what? Should she just take Sophie home? Sober her up, tell her everything then beg for forgiveness? She couldn't. Then what to do, what to do…

"Sophie, I have to tell you something, it's really important, you see…"

"Oh Aggie, I'm sure you can tell me laaaaaatteerrrr! I've been so stressed lately! Time to let it goooo! Come on, I'll even pay your first drinkkkk!"

Her friend lifted a glass of what looked and smelled like a vodka and gin disaster waiting to happen.

"Sophie, what is even that?"

"Not sure…but Chaddick told me it was good."

Agatha sighs. She should tell the truth, right here, right now, shouldn't she?

"… Alright."

And she would have if she were a better person. But to her shame, she downs five more after the first and suddenly she can't remember why she came here on the first place. Something about a guy?

(Lies, Agatha knows exactly what she is doing, but for a few more hours she gives herself the benefit of the doubt.)

Whatever, she'll just deal with it later. She hasn't said anything for the past few days, surely it can wait some more, right?

.

.

.

Said and done, five hours later Agatha concludes she is a horrible human being. She should just quit. Leave the job of human being for people who will not mess up. Like Hester. Hester never messes up shit. Yeah, great plan.

Sophie is knocked out cold, sleeping with her face in a table, drooling, besides said Hester, who has her usual judgy face on, glaring at the blonde woman, like she was some kind of disgusting creature.

Agatha doesn't think she could feel worse.

She should have just told Sophie the truth right away. The moment she found out Tedros was, well, Tedros. Instead she had gone along with a wedding that was sure to be a fiasco, because not only was the groom a liar and a player, but Agatha was therefore his accomplice, and her silence was probably the greatest betrayal of their entire friendship.

She picks up her phone to call a car, so she could at the very least wallow in misery at home, but before the app even loads someone snatches her phone.

Turns out she can indeed feel worse.

"We need to talk."

His voice sounds as it always does whenever she's around, half-annoyed and half-something else Agatha doesn't dare name. As usual, he looks nice. His tight shirt and tie are still in perfect place, unlike the last time she saw him here, signaling he too probably came straight from work.

"This is girl's night; you're not allowed here."

"Oh, I'm not?" Tedros mocks her, but she can tell his heart isn't truly in it. "Then please do tell me the circumstances in which I can talk to you, because you sure don't make it easy."

She is so tired. Trying to avoid him is hard enough, trying to avoid him knowing that she doesn't really want to is impossible. She has always read people so well, and he always seems so genuine. It makes her wanna believe he is not the bad person she knows he is.

"…I've been… avoiding you. It's not that I don't want to talk to you. Is just… that I shouldn't," she hesitates but ends up answering honestly.

Tedros' expression softens at her candor, peering at her with concern.

"Are you drunk?"

"No. Maybe."

He sighs, then digs his car keys from his pocket, still holding her phone hostage on his other hand.

"Look, I'll give you a ride home. I really just wanna talk. We have…unfinished business."

Agatha considers. All this wedding-baloney made her poor, Tedros is so pretty, he looks so wholesome and honest, and she just wants to sulk at home for the next few hours. Maybe he could stay for a day or two. That shirt of his would look great on her floor…

No, bad idea.

"I don't wanna get into a stranger's car," she blurts out the first excuse her mind can manage. In retrospect, that was some obvious bullshit, seeing as they had talked for hours last week and he had already given her a ride before. Granted, it had been Sophie's car and Sophie had been there, but still, that didn't make much sense.

"Oh truly?" he holds up her phone, the ride app now open, "You're gonna pull that one on me?"

It's Agatha's turn to sigh.

"Okay don't go using logic on me, mister. For all I know, you could be planning on kidnapping me and selling my organs on the black market," or worse, actually talking to her.

"Can never be too careful, can we?" he looks partly amused and partly annoyed. "Look, I'm serious here, okay? I'm not going to do anything to you, we can talk to Hester on our way out, I'm sure she'll hunt me and string me up upside down at her soundproofed basement in case I even dream of harming you. Alright?" Tedros's eyes never leave her face in the twenty seconds she takes to decide, and it's really distracting, but she manages to answer:

"Okay, fine."

They talk to Hester, rather, Tedros talks to Hester while Agatha avoids her gaze shamefully. Why does Tedros know Hester? Did they ever talk during school?

Agatha doesn't know and she doesn't ask. Her gaze lingers on Sophie's drooling face and she feels her chest tighten.

The two of them walk into the parking lot awkwardly, in mortifying silence, and enter a silver Porsche. Agatha notes that it looks very out of place, since most cars belonged to employees and looked rather humble next to the silver beauty. Why was Tedros here? He came in his car, so he was not here to drink. Did Sophie tell him to pick her up? Or was he here to see Agatha?

Her heart skips at beat at the thought and she doesn't ask him any of this either.

"Nice ride," she offers instead.

"Thanks."

Tedros drives in silence, with Agatha occasionally telling him to turn on certain streets. She keeps her gaze on the empty roads, but she does catch quite a stunning sight of his profile when she forgets she's not supposed to look at him at all.

To avoid getting too in her head, she decides to turn on the radio. The song that starts playing is familiar and she guesses the radio must be on CD mode. The letters in bold red on the visor tell her she is correct, and this is indeed the song she thinks it is.

"You're into this kind of stuff?"

Tedros grips the wheel, almost defensively.

"They're really good, okay? I've been listening to them for a few years and so far, they're my favorite band. I know their sound isn't for everyone and-"

"I know."

"…It's not what most mainstream artists are doi- you what?"

Agatha blushes when she feels his incredulous gaze on her face, and it occurs her that this is the first time he looks directly at her since they got into his car. She hopes he'll attribute the redness on her cheeks to the red light they're currently stuck at and hesitates before answering, in a quiet voice, meeting his stare:

"They're my favorite band too."

"Oh."

The rest of the drive is less awkward, one would even say comfortable if not for the leftover tension. They sing along quietly to the vocalist and Agatha is sure Tedros stopped himself from doing the guitar once. Not cute, not cute, not cute.

Eventually, they get to her apartment building. She reaches over and turns off the radio, the deafening silence almost too much to bear.

Agatha tries reaching for the car door, but it's locked.

"I did tell you we needed to talk."

Usually, she'd be scared if a guy trapped her in his car in the middle of the night, but Agatha's frustration just comes back at full force and topples over anything else.

"What's to talk, you're clearly into someone else."

Tedros' eyes go big, and Agatha can't help but think he must be the world's greatest actor. Oscar nomination performance. The academy is shook-

"What? Did you, like, not hear anything I sa-"

"I'm not that kind of girl, Tedros," Agatha interrupts him firmly, "I don't hook up with anyone who's in a relationship, especially in a relationship with my best friend, no matter how stupidly short said relationship may be."

"I… Did Sophie tell you-"

"She didn't need to? You guys are engaged, and I am not going to get caught in between, okay? Please, please leave me alone. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Don't give me rides when I'm drunk."

Suddenly, Tedros' confused expression is gone and his eyes are gleaming with what looks like joy. He looks like he might kiss her and Agatha is not sure how well her defenses will hold in case he does.

"Agatha, I think you got this all wrong, I'm not-"

"What, you have amnesia? Or, let me guess, it's your twin brother who's engaged to her?"

Tedros burst out laughing and he sounds like an angel, throwing his head back, and Agatha forgets for a second that she's mad at him. But eventually reality brings her back and she pushes him, with just enough force to get his attention.

"Leave me the fuck alone, dude."

…Asshole.

This time when she reaches for the door, it's unlocked.

She glares at him from the sidewalk one more time, before entering the building.

.

.

.

Agatha doesn't hear a word from him after that.

It's for the best, she tells herself. Agatha spent so much time wishing he would just go away and take these weird feelings he gives her with him that she didn't even consider that once he did go away for real, new, stronger, and even more angsty feelings would appear. She only knew him for two weeks. He wasn't even hers. She has no grieving rights.

She goes out with Sophie one more time, and now it's just the two of them. It would be the perfect time to tell her. She has no excuses. No drinking, no sickness, no Tedros-

Agatha doesn't.

.

.

.

Today is the day.

It's a clear summer night, which is unfair with how angsty and conflicted Agatha feels. Hollywood lied to us all, hasn't it?

Agatha is dressed in a silky blue dress Sophie chose for her. It suits her and she thinks she looks quite pretty. Someone who actually knew what they were doing did her make-up, and for once she managed to tame her hair into submission, putting it into a fancy-looking up-do youtube taught her how to do. She's wearing her best shoes and her fanciest earrings. Agatha is looking and smelling like a daydream outside the main room of the church, but her hands are shaking and she's terrified.

She's not ready. Far from it really.

The rules were simple. If you're not the bride you don't wear white, you don't overdrink, and you never, ever, under any circumstances, fall in love with the groom.

No matter if they were hot, if they smelled good, if their eyes made you feel weak at the knees, if they shared common interests with you, if their taste was impossible to forget, if they went out of their way to get your attention or if they felt like they just might be the one.

You just didn't okay?

Shit, this was messed up. Still, Agatha brought herself to breathe deeply, trying to contain her anxiety.

The ceremonialist tells her it's her cue and she's soon walking down the aisle, clutching a small bouquet of pink carnations like a lifeline, looking around the church.

The place is crowded. Their entire social circle and their grandmother seem to be here. People from their childhood neighborhood, people from school, both of Sophie's parents, her stepmother and step siblings, quite a few models and influencers and a bunch of people she had never seen, probably Tedros' friends, family and co-workers.

The flowers and decorations look as amazing and beautiful as she would have expected from Sophie and she might have seen Hester, Anadil and Dot on a row somewhere, but that's not what made her almost freeze, nearly stumbling on the red carpet.

The groom.

He's wearing an expensive-looking white tuxedo, his hair is an unnatural platinum blonde and his eyes are disturbingly intense. He's tall, sharp and everything about him screams fancy. He's attractive in the way some snakes are attractive, beautiful and deadly, but the big deal is:

Agatha has never seen that man in her entire life.

She goes to her spot standing by the side, her brain running a marathon, tons of data just being tossed aimlessly on her mind as she tries to wrap her head around what the actual fuck is going on when her eyes meet someone else's.

Seating on the third row on the left, Tedros' blue eyes are shinning in complete and absolute amusement, his hand is over his mouth in a barely controlled laugh. The music seems to be on his side, because no one hears him. Agatha schools her expression into anything other than the overbearing wrath she feels, but she's not sure if she's doing a good job.

She's somewhat aware of the chaos that seems to be unfolding around her; the ceremonialist's screeching, the groom's rage, the crowd's confused mumbling and Sophie's absence. But it does not matter.

Agatha really wants to choke Tedros with his tie.

.

.

.

Turns out, Sophie's groom was named Rafal. Not that Agatha would remember his name a few days from now.

He is the current CEO of Two Brothers, a huge company, often associated with the mafia for fucks sake. Known playboy and womanizer, with a criminal record for drug dealing, as well as physical and sexual assault. Also, partially involved on the illegal leaks of information that caused the media scandal around Tedros' parents' divorce all those years ago, she later learns.

Great guy, Sophie. 10/10. Husband material right there.

At least she didn't follow through, Agatha argues to try and calm herself down. Oh yeah, Sophie ran away from her own wedding. No one was surprised honestly. Maybe Rafal. He looked very, very angry. Agatha didn't really blame him, after knowing that he was the one paying for the wedding, after party and honeymoon, no matter how horrible of a person he seems to be.

By now, Sophie should be in Paris, enjoying her honeymoon tickets and reservations. Through text, she tells Agatha how lonely and sad she is and how she'll tell her everything that happened in complete details on their next café meeting in a about month and a half. Agatha suspects she is not as lonely as she claims to be because Hort's Instagram stories tell her he is currently in Europe as well, if not in Paris. But then again, she will not concern herself over this matter. "No wedding" was good news enough to keep her in a great mood for any of Sophie's shenanigans for the next following weeks.

And since the reception was already paid for, everyone just decided to come enjoy it.

Yes, when she says everyone, she means everyone.

"Hey, you."

Oh, Lord, no.

Agatha doesn't lift her head to look at him, continuing to type a half-assed reply to Sophie's whiny texts. She won't give him the satisfaction. Instead she downs whatever is left of her whisky, because that's what one does when courage lacks.

She's sitting at the main table of the ballroom, by herself, mostly because it's where she's been assigned to sit, but also because she's not up for the questions the other guests will probably feel entitled to ask if she were to sit with them. Hester is nowhere in sight, but Agatha is sure she's making herself scarce on purpose. She saw Chaddick back at the church but they politely ignored each other and Dot had been missing for quite a while.

"Not speaking to me?"

"No."

"Come on, it was pretty funny."

"No, it wasn't," she finally looks up at him and he must have sensed true resentment in her perfectly lined brown eyes, because his smug, perfect façade crumbled, and he looked very awkward suddenly. Tedros pulls up the chair beside her and she notices it has his name on it. Sophie was not being subtle on her matchmaking at all, was she?

God, Agatha was so dumb.

"Well, it wasn't very funny to me either then, but I do laugh quite a bit now," he offers, sipping on champagne, trying to keep busy.

"I'm glad my pain amuses you," she's quiet for few seconds, considering what she's going to say. "Tedros?"

"Yeah?" he looks up from his flute of champagne, hopeful blue eyes shining in the half light of the candlelit ballroom and keeping her from saying what she was actually going to say, so instead she blurts:

"I'm not sorry for punching you."

"I didn't expect you to be," his smile is friendly and contagious. He downs the last of his champagne and extends a hand to her. "Okay, let's start again. I'm Tedros, I'm so single it hurts, and when we were in high school, I had a crush on you."

The way he says this so openly, his voice so even and clear nearly drowns out the vulnerable look on his face. Agatha herself can barely register his expression because she's pretty sure her brain has short-circuited. Again.

"No, you did not."

"But I did."

Tedros proceeds to tell her all sorts of things.

He tells her about how he first saw her as a rival because of her grades (she never really paid any attention to the scoreboard, she thought it was bullshit, but in retrospect she does remembers his name was always under hers), and about how sorry he was that he laughed and partook at Chaddick's antics during junior year, mostly because he the felt like 'the new guy with a big name and no friends' and felt she was a threat.

"That's some real introspection and self-awareness right there, hm"

"I'm just fortunate enough to have had a really good therapist," Tedros responds, "Merlin is like a psychology-wizard. He was the one who kinda sorted out that maybe part of my teen angst was repressed attraction to someone who fed the cats behind the library"

"Oh, then you've been my stalker for quite some time then."

Tedros blushes and Agatha is both flattered and embarrassed at the same time.

He then explains about how shit blew up on his face during his parents' divorce, how his grades dropped, how he got kicked out of the football team and how he started to spend a long ass time sulking at the library. Which just so happened to be Agatha's favorite hangout spot at the time. Tedros tells her how he thought she was cute, how she was one of the people who hadn't changed with him (even if unintentionally) and how he wanted to get to know her.

What.

"I just… wasn't sure how to approach you? I always dragged Chaddick to your tea shop when I didn't see you at the library but then chickened out and-"

"...I take neither of you were huge tea fans?"

"Yeah?"

"That does explain a lot," Agatha mumbles.

"I was going to talk to you about Avalon when I heard you were going there, but… Since you didn't tell me that, I kinda found out when Chaddick took your math notebook to be my 'wingman', I didn't think you would have…appreciated.

"Wait, that was Chaddick playing your wingman?" Agatha burst out laughing.

"The plan was that I was supposed to casually hand back to you something you forgot, but he kinda grew tired of waiting for you to actually forget something," Tedros chuckled. "If you thought Chaddick was bad then what big word is Miss-best-in-class going to use to describe Sophie's take on playing wingwoman?"

"Horrendous," Agatha deadpans and now it's Tedros turn to laugh.

Silence sits between the two. It's not uncomfortable and kinda welcome. Agatha digests the last forty minutes of enlighting conversation as they eat the main course of the night. A waiter comes to pick up both of their plates and she decides she still has some questions.

"Well, do you still do?"

"Do I still what?" Tedros questions, his head slightly inclined, like a confused puppy.

"Have a crush on me," Agatha mumbles, her cheeks burning.

Tedros' expression goes from 'confused' back to that mischievous look he had back at the church, leaning towards her ever so slightly.

"Maybe."

"Good," she offers her hand, as he had before, "I'm Agatha, I jump to conclusions, but I am very interested in getting to know you."

Tedros however, doesn't shake her hand as she had his. Instead, he takes it to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles, relishing in the shocked look on her face before she can school her expression back to unaffected aloofness.

"Are you free at six next friday?"

"Late meeting, but I'm good at seven. Pick me up?" she asks, an unspoken challenge laced in her words.

"As the lady wishes." Challenge accepted. "Any preferences?"

"Anywhere but 'The Woods'. But make sure to text me first if it's somewhere fancy," she smiles. "You know what? I still don't have your number."

Tedros confidently stands up, his hand yet to release hers.

"A number for a dance?"

Agatha told him that night at 'The Woods' that she isn't a very good dancer but again, he insists. It's fine, because they don't dance for long anyway. By the time Tedros gives up, fumbling with his phone to call a car, his hair is already a mess, Agatha's broke free from her up-do and there is lipstick everywhere.

I'm not sorry This was so much fun to revisit. I forgot how fun SGE was. I kinda fell out of touch with the series. I did read QFG, I just can't remember what happens in it? Idk. I felt the series should have concluded on TLEA. If possible before the whole Agatha and Sophie baloney stunt, because I never bought that. Please leave me comment and share your thoughts with me! Hope you are all safe during this quarantine, friends

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence: New Life, short 35--Someday

Recovery is a tedious, nonlinear process. Demyx, Ienzo, and the others living in Radiant Garden's castle have to learn to come to terms with their pasts and their memories, learn to grow, and begin to understand what, exactly, it means to be human. While there is unexpected joy in this, there is also unexpected sorrow. A series of oneshots set after Beyond this Existence.

Current short: “Someday.”  Time passes. Those at Radiant Garden's castle continue to change and grow. Demyx and Ienzo live out the rest of their lives.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

There was a sense that things had finally settled, finally calmed. Their days, though they were busy, found a sort of comfort. Time seemed to pass quickly, the weeks becoming months… becoming years. It seemed like Demyx blinked and turned twenty-five. He woke up with Ienzo’s cold feet pressed against his calves. “...Do you have to,” he mumbled.

“I can’t help it. You’re so warm. Like a furnace.” He blinked slowly, like a cat. “Happy birthday.”

“I’m old now,” he said.

He scoffed a little. “Hardly. I’m afraid things are barely beginning.” He pulled him close, spooning him.

“...Are you actually trying to cuddle, or are you just cold?”

“Does it matter?”

Demyx sighed heavily. “Come here. Bastard.”

---

Demyx wasn’t sure anything would ever be “easy.” He carried the memories within him, and every now and again they would rise and wrap around him, like vines. He’d jolt awake, covered in sweat, convinced that this was it. But then he’d return to earth, usually with Ienzo there to console him, or vice versa. This was home; they were comfortable with each other, worn into one another like stones in a river. Demyx watched Ienzo bloom, coming into his own so slowly, until the shadow of pain faded from his eyes.

It was a slow, tedious process, this healing. Demyx guessed he too must be getting somewhere. He felt like less of a stranger than before, like the world was more real.

They worked for the committee in a sort of tandem; and then for the city council, once they were elected, when a real government started to form. The work seemed to suit Ienzo; the planning, and brainstorming, and to a degree the coding too. Demyx figured using those abilities made him feel more comfortable in himself. He felt that way too. Caring for people always had the opportunity to be harrowing, but with the bad came some good. The deaths and losses were accompanied with the new lives. Pain came with catharsis.

In their spare moments, they walked without a destination. “It’s often hard to internalize how much time is passing,” Ienzo admitted.

“How so?”

“Well--there’s so much to do still. So much opportunity for growth, for betterment. Yet… for example, this morning before you woke I was looking out the apartment window. We’ve built so much. The face of the town itself has changed. I… almost forget how much work has gone into it.”

“It’s easier when it’s work you like,” Demyx said, with a wink.

“Much,” he admitted. “It helps when I know all I’m doing will only make lives easier… rather than harder.” He smiled a little. “I can see a sort of future, all of a sudden. Before there was merely noise.”

“...I know what you mean,” Demyx mumbled. “But we made it.”

Ienzo squeezed his hand.

---

One of these mornings, Ienzo was brushing Beans, trying to curtail her seasonal shedding. “Getting chunky, aren’t you?” he mumbled to her, and the cat meowed in response.

Demyx barely looked up from Arpeggio. “We’re not double feeding her again, are we?”

“I don’t think so. That’s what the schedule is for. Chunky, chunky.” Demyx could hear the cat purring. “Wait--” Ienzo began feeling at her stomach. Then, he laughed. “Come here.”

Demyx set the sitar down and came over. “What?”

“Feel her belly.”

Demyx did so. Sure enough, he could feel small little lumps inside of her. He laughed too. “Dilan did mention that there was a feral cat colony in the upper floors. I guess Beans found a boyfriend.”

Beans swished her tail, irritated at all the poking and prodding, so they let go.

Ienzo sighed. “We’re too young to be grandparents.”

Over the next few weeks, she began building a nest in one of the rooms on the floor with stolen things--towels left to dry from their bathroom, the odd sock. One of these days she came up to Ienzo, meowed insistently, and led them to said room. In the nest were four tiny kittens. She climbed in with them and began grooming them. “I suppose I am her mother,” Ienzo said, with a shake of the head. “Good job, girl.”

She blinked. They ended up naming these other kittens similarly; Peanut, Clover, Lentil, and Tamarind, based mostly on their coat colors. They would see Beans toting them around by their scruffs, tiny scratchy kitten mews. But eventually these kittens grew up, and only came around their floor to see their mother, give her a rub, before disappearing into the rest of the castle. Beans, however, seemed perfectly content to remain a housecat.

“She’s got a pretty sweet gig,” Demyx said, scratching her behind the ears. “Comfy bed, food without foraging. Two idiots to worship her. I wish I could be a cat.”

Ienzo laughed.  

---

This was their someday. Change was continuous and expected, but love remained constant. And while it didn’t and couldn’t solve anything, it was there to give them stability.

“What do you want from life?” Ienzo asked him one rainy morning. Beans was curled at their feet in bed, purring contentedly.

Demyx turned onto his side. In this light, the thin chain of Ienzo’s scar was almost invisible. “Pretty deep question first thing in the morning.”

“Humor me, then.” He propped himself up on an elbow.

“I’m not… sure,” he admitted. “I have everything I used to want.” He touched Ienzo’s cheek. “I’m kind of okay with letting things play out how they are.”

“You know, I think I am too,” Ienzo said. “All this aching and faffing about for a higher calling… maybe this is all life is. Quiet contentment. I have meaningful work to fill my days, I have you and my family. Truthfully, I don’t need to ask for anything more than that.” He leaned forward and kissed him. “Let’s watch the world grow.”

---

In all this, something odd and funny.

As Demyx grew closer to Even, he was asked now and again for his help with the man's research project, surreally enough. Even was investigating the long-term affects of darkness on the body, the mind; he thought darkness might be something of an addiction and impact them similarly. Demyx didn't particularly want to think about it too hard, but it was good that Even again driven. Demyx helped him look at minds with his magic, as they no longer had equipment. Dilan was often there too, helping with this research. And so was Ansem, in his own time, though he was working less on the scientific and more with the council.

Demyx noticed things.

He might not do reconnaissance anymore, but that seemed to be one part of him that never quite went away--he was always observational, he guessed. Even and Ansem interacted differently. Things had shifted. They ignored each other less when they were all together, sniped at each other less. There was less tension; rather, tension of a different kind. Ansem looked at him with such warmth, and once when he thought nobody was looking he rested a hand at the small of Even's back.

Oh.

Demyx actually had to excuse himself after he saw that. He went into the bathroom and laughed into his hands. He'd known the two men had been friends for longer than he'd been alive, that they'd raised Ienzo when he was little. It wasn't surprising at all. But it was hilarious that after outing Ienzo those years ago, Even had a secret of his own to keep.

"You're not going to believe this," Demyx said, one day after dinner.

"I believe a great many things," Ienzo said, without looking up from his computer.

"Have you been paying attention to how Even's been acting lately?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Should I? He seems much the same as ever. Keeping himself busy."

Demyx leaned over the couch. He wasn't sure why he was being conspiratorial in their own home. "I'm pretty sure he and Ansem have a thing going on."

Ienzo paused. "No," he said.

"Uh, yeah."

He scoffed a little. "How can you be sure?"

Demyx presented his evidence. Ienzo raised his eyebrows.

"Huh," he said. Then, "oh, this is going to be delicious. He gave me such hell for getting with you." He grinned widely. "Let me talk to him."

Sure enough, after some prodding Even admitted it was all true. Demyx was glad for them, but at the same time the thought of getting to needle an Even in love was too tempting. The next time he was asked to go down to the lab, he was ready to tease and cajole and be incredibly annoying.

If anything, Even seemed displeased to see him. He wrinkled his nose. "Apparently there are still some things that remain of the old you," he said. "Was it quite necessary to inform Ienzo of my personal life--without asking me first?" Demyx laughed a little. "So it's true then?" He turned a bit pink, but his expression was neutral. "As I said. I don't think it's any of your business." "Why were you keeping it a secret?" "As if I need to flaunt such things," he said, waving his hand dismissively and turning back to the work at hand. "I'll leave that to you two." Demyx rolled his eyes. "Does it make you... happy?" Even looked up, as if confused he would ask. "Happiness is relative, I think," he said. Then, "I believe it is... only suitable these things happen now. Ansem and I have put one another through hell. There was a lot to mend for anything else to be realized. There still is. But I suppose... life is... not quite as heavy as it once was. And that's as much as you'll get from me." Demyx smiled a little. "Guess that officially makes you my dad too."

Even scowled. "Go on, then. We have a lot to do." "Sure, dad."

"Boy--"

---

They became older; Radiant Garden grew from something somewhat haphazard into a real city. Demyx was no longer a trainee, or an apprentice, but a full-fledged healer. Ienzo worked on a little bit of everything, but was mostly engrossed in developing mental health support with the new government. It was no longer always so easy to get out of bed; he also needed glasses now. It was only when he realized the first baby he’d delivered was now in second grade that he was conscious of how much had really changed. His thirtieth birthday loomed on the horizon; Ienzo wasn’t far behind.

The passion was still there, bright and intense and impossible to reckon with; after one of these nights they lay, holding one another. Demyx ran his fingers along Ienzo’s throat, the scars that were no longer quite visible. “You remember that day I gave you a haircut, and you said that within seven years we’d have new bodies?”

“New cells. Yes.” He blinked. “It… it’s been that long?”

“Longer, actually.”

“Every day still feels so new,” he murmured. “Am I silly for feeling that way?”

“Not at all.” He stroked Ienzo’s hair. He’d finally caved a few years ago and cut the bangs short enough to show his full face, but other than that it was all the same. Demyx was fairly sure the gray was a bit fainter now, more white. “Can I ask you something?”

“We’re beyond that, aren’t we?”

“Depends.” He took a breath. “I… I want to start a family.” Ienzo opened his mouth, but Demyx forged forward. “When I help those people give birth, you know, it makes me feel…” He trailed off. “Things are… better than they were. I really think I could be a good…” He faltered on “dad.”

Ienzo touched his face. “You’d be wonderful,” he said softly.

“...But that’s not something you want.”

His expression was unreadable; Demyx began bracing himself for the hurt. “I’ve been… weighing the options,” he admitted. “I’d be lying if I said I weren’t terrified, but if anything, it’s a… good sort of fear.” He blinked. “I’m all in, Demyx.”

---

There were only two options for them; adoption or surrogacy. Most of Radiant Garden’s children were wanted, leaving them with the other. But why would someone go through the roughness of pregnancy for nothing? Demyx was on the verge of giving up when he got a phone call from Yuffie, asking him to go for a walk.

She hadn’t changed much in the intervening years; she still did a lot of security detail, only now with the city government, not the committee. She was brash as ever. “Nice glasses. Nerd,” she said when she saw him. “I bet this was your husband’s idea?”

“Mine, because I need to see,” he said. “Used to irritate the shit out of me when Cid complained about his eyes. But here we are. So what’s up?”

“I can’t catch up with my good friend Demyx?”

“You can. Though I don’t know what’s changed since drinks last Thursday.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on.” They walked in the early spring air. The flowers were just starting to come into bloom. “So I’m going to just come out and say it.”

He had no idea where this was going. “Okay?”

“I know you and Ienzo want to have a baby. I also know that because people are having responsible sex or whatever that there aren’t a whole lot of extras hanging around. I’m healthy, I have a functioning uterus. I’d love to be the weird aunt to your nerd baby.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Sorry--am I hearing this right?”

She’d turned pink. “Make me say it again and I’ll kill you.”

Demyx blinked. He was on good terms with Yuffie, but they weren’t that close. “You’d do that for me?”

She exhaled heavily. “You two are good people,” she said, with a shrug. “Whatever kid you had, you’d love the crap out of them. I didn’t get that when I was a kid, and I don’t think you did either. Plus… I always kinda wanted to be pregnant, but without the responsibility. Weird shit happening to my body? An excuse to eat as much as I want and be a total bitch? Could be worse.”

He turned to face her. “It’s a lot to ask of you.”

“Well I’m offering.” She crossed her arms. “I mean, the way you and Aerith do things, it’s basically painless anyway.”

“But not easy. It’d interfere with your work.”

She shrugged. “You know the council kisses committee ass. They’d find something for me.” She squeezed his hand. “Talk to him about it. This thing? Has a vacancy sign on it.” She pointed to her stomach. “I’ll be around. Let me know.” She winked and wandered off.

---

“...Wow,” Ienzo said, once Demyx had told him the story.

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

He set his phone down. “Should we do it?”

“She’s offering. Pretty insistently. It wouldn’t be… hers, anyway.”

“Only by about one percent,” Ienzo said. “Mitochondrial DNA. It’s unavoidable.”

“...So we’d both jerk off into a dish, put it in her, and nine months later there’s baby?”

He groaned. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. She’d have to take hormones, to stimulate egg growth, then once those are harvested we’d have to exchange her DNA for one of ours, then fertilize the egg, implant it, and then , if you’re lucky, there’s baby.”

Demyx blinked. “...You have been looking into this.”

He shook his head. “It’s either this or trying to make some sort of replica.” He took off his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt. “There’s a… slim chance we might not be able to conceive regardless.”

Demyx sat down. “What do you mean?”

“Nobodies are sterile,” he said slowly. “We know this from our studies. Not just biological males--Larxene, too, did not have a period or ovulate. I was one for twelve years , Demyx, through puberty.”

“So then you can go in the egg and I’ll do the rest.”

“You were one too.” He exhaled. “Thankfully we can test for these things. But… even if somehow we’re fertile… it’s a long shot.”

Demyx took a deep breath. “We’ve beaten bad odds before,” he said slowly. “Let’s see what happens.”

Ienzo ended up being half right; upon further examination of their… DNA, they found that he was, more or less, completely sterile. “...Shooting blanks,” he muttered, in a moment of unusual crassness. “The more work I put into this, the more I wanted it, and here we are.”

He squeezed his shoulders. “But if it’s just you we can still make this work. And me?”

“You have a count, but it’s not great. Not ideal or even passable. Before we put Yuffie through the misery of all those shots, perhaps we should… reconsider. Maybe it’s not meant to be at this moment in time.”

Demyx sat down heavily on one of the stools in the lab.

“I’m sorry, love. I know how much this means to you.”

“No… you’re right, we shouldn’t force what isn’t meant to be.”

He took his hand. “There may still be the off chance for adoption. We merely need to… wait for the right opportunity.”

He nodded slowly, treading heartbreak. “Yeah. Sure. That.”

---

He was trying to get to work when Even stopped him. “Again your DNA taunts me,” he spat.

Demyx raised an eyebrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He softened a little. “I’ve heard of your… desire, for a child. I’ve worked with bodies for years, boy. Why didn’t one of you come to me?”

He blinked. “Well, Ienzo figured--”

“Does Ienzo have my increasingly specific skillset when it comes to molding genetic information?”

Despite himself, a spark of hope. “...No.”

---

It took time, but eventually it did happen. Even never revealed exactly how he did it--he claimed that his research wouldn’t be released until he died, “and I do not intend to do that for many years yet”--but he made the embryo, the one that might maybe be a human, and combined with Yuffie’s strange fascination that she “grow a baby” for them, it went from something that was a vague dream to a real, tangible fact.

She sat on the couch in their living room. “I gave it five days,” she said. “Nothing. Nada. No blood. Just test my pee.”

“That’s not how we look for pregnancy,” he said. His heart was starting to race.

“Well then, doc, do what you have to. The anticipation is killing me.”

“Not a doctor.”

“Shut up. You’re basically a doctor.”

He held his hand over her stomach, searching, sensing, only to feel a weak, but very present, beginning of a new life.

“...Oh god. You’re crying. I lost it, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

He wiped at his eyes. “You didn’t lose anything,” he said. “You’re pregnant.”

She screamed. “You’re going to be a dad!”

---

None of them breathed until she passed the twelve week mark; even then Demyx lived in a state of anxiety. Ienzo fussed over everything from names to what sort of detergent they might use on the baby’s linens. But it was no longer an impossibility; before long they could see it, and even feel it move.

While Yuffie took immaculate care of it with an almost uncomfortable enthusiasm, getting used to having her around was… something of an adjustment. “I make an entrance now,” she said, flopping onto the couch. “Ba-bam, here she is. Belly first. I trip over everything.”

“The human pregnancy is technically aerodynamically impossible,” Ienzo said. “I think a loss of grace is not uncalled for.”

“People keep asking me who the dad is. I think my favorite way to respond so far is to say I’m not actually pregnant.” She rubbed her hand absently over the mound. “It’s really active. I think it likes the sound of your voice.”

He turned pink.

“Come here. Feel the baby,” she said in a weird voice. She took Ienzo’s palm and laid it on her bump. “It knows who you are.”

He blinked. Demyx expected him to say something like, “well it can’t know anything, it’s just a fetus,” but instead he said, “I should hope so. The lengths we went to to get it here.”

She laughed. For the first time in a long while life felt a little weird, a little performative, especially as the pregnancy only progressed. Demyx could feel his and Ienzo’s dynamic slowly shifting. They were no longer just a married couple, and wouldn’t always be able to just do whatever they wanted. Soon there would be a responsibility. It changed the way they interfaced, especially because they didn’t agree on anything when it came to raising the child. They squabbled over things like how to educate it, whether to feed it formula or breastmilk, and more intensely, how they would one day explain their pasts to it.

Yuffie had her own opinions on this. She stroked the bump absently. “Well, you shouldn’t lie to them,” she said, adjusting her swollen ankles a little on the ottoman. “Not the way people lied to you two, right? I think you should… keep it simple, at least until they’re old enough to understand. If they’re your kid, they’re going to be smart. Yeah. Simplicity, and vagueness. Aerith’s having the same problem with her daughter. How do you explain darkness? The Fall? But kids… hear things. And with all this lying around?” She gestured to the bookshelf closest to her, which happened to contain some of Ienzo’s research. “Once it learns to read it’s all out the window.”

Ienzo sighed heavily. “I… I don’t want them to feel unsafe, though, and learning these things might make that happen.”

She shook her head. “As long as you love them, and are present with them, and are kind , I think they can accept it with a grain of salt.”

Demyx gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Like you did with Ansem and Even.”

He nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Well. Glad to know you care so much, and I’m not doing all this for nothing.”

---

They spent time, the three of them, putting together the nursery in the room next door. Kids seemed to need so much stuff , clothes and pacifiers and bottles and so many other little things. Ienzo would spend hours reorganizing everything, and Demyx kept cleaning and cleaning. It was an old space; it got dusty quickly. Wasn’t that a bad thing? It seemed like everything he’d learned about the human body seemed to go out the window.

“This is why I don’t self-treat, or heal my loved ones,” Aerith said. Her daughter kept flipping through the heavy cardboard page of  her picture book, holding it up to them and saying “Look! Blue!” “I know, sweetie,” she added, patiently. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Demyx laughed a little. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“I’m surprised as you about Yuffie,” she said. “I’ve known her for years and I can’t pretend to understand what goes through that woman’s head. Vincent’s been trying to get her to settle down. I wonder if this is something of a test run for her. To see if she can handle being a mom.”

Demyx thought about it. His niece handed him the book. “Blue,” she said. “I know!” He said to her. “What other colors do you see?”

This question seemed to blow her mind; she looked at the book. “Red?”

“On the next page, maybe.” He turned back to Aerith. “That… kinda makes sense. It did seem out of the blue, even for her. We thought she was… a little too into it.”

“She talks a tough game,” Aerith said. “But she’s… honestly, she just wants to love and be loved.”

“I can relate.” The little girl approached him and held up her arms, wanting to be picked up. Demyx obliged. “I think this is part of what started me thinking, you know?”

“Me being a mom?”

“Yeah. Being the babysitter.”

She picked up a cloth and wiped at something on the toddler’s face. “You’ve got a very nurturing personality,” she said. “It’s only natural, to want kids.” She smirked a little. “You’ve got about three weeks of freedom left. If you do anything, sleep. ” Her eyes became serious. “For the love of god.”

---

The weeks seemed to pass quickly. They all waited for the labor anxiously, especially Yuffie herself, not that Demyx could blame her. If he could take her discomfort for her, he would; all he could offer was some palliative care. She stayed with them, the last month or so, rather than do the long walk a few times a day. She tried to be in good spirits, but Demyx could tell this was wearing on her; she’d been unusually quiet, when before she chattered for hours on end about nothing much. “I can’t wait to, like, not be peeing every ten minutes,” she said. “God. It’s going to be so good. And sleep! I don’t think I’ve slept more than a few hours a night since November.”

It was rainy that day, and hot; February was always something of a nightmare. Ienzo was off at a city council meeting; Demyx was home under the guise of making medicine, but really he was trying to keep an eye on Yuffie, who was completely reticent, lying on the couch and staring into the middle distance. “...You doing okay?” he asked her. “I can get you another ice pack.”

“I feel… weird,” she said slowly.

Demyx tried to keep his face impassive. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know, just… weird. Heavy. More than normal.”

He went over to her and checked her vitals. Her temperature was a little high, but no more than an at-term person in the dead of summer. “Any pain?”

She thought about it, her eyes glassy. “I’m not sure.”

“Can I touch the baby?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said wearily.

He rested his hand on the bump, trying to sense it. He could tell without prodding much at all what was actually going on. He swallowed, feeling a little dizzy. “So you’re in labor,” he said.

“For real?” she ran a hand through her hair. “I thought it would hurt a lot more.”

“The heavy feeling could be contractions. How long have you felt like that?”

She blinked. “I don’t know, since last night, maybe?”

Nerves fluttered inside of him. “Since last night ?”

“Well I don’t know how it’s supposed to feel!” She sat up a little.

Demyx squeezed her hand. “I’m going to make a few calls, okay?” His hands were shaking; he didn’t trust himself to text. “You just lay down for a few minutes.” It was hard to be both a healer and an anxious parent. He tried to get himself under control. Ienzo answered at the first ring.

“It’s now,” Ienzo said, without prelude.

“Yeah.”

“I’m coming.” He heard papers shuffling. “Time for things to change.”

It was an easy birth, almost startlingly fast, actually. They kept her in as little pain as possible; their daughter was born just after four in the afternoon, small but otherwise healthy. Holding her for the first time overwhelmed him, and he cried ceaselessly for some time.

“She’s got your hair, look,” Ienzo said, running his hand oh-so-gently over her skull, a soft brown tuft. “I was hoping.”

Yuffie turned onto her side, flinching a little. “You know I didn’t even imagine what she would look like,” she said. “She was just, like, a question mark.”

“You okay?” Demyx asked, through tears. He passed the baby gently to Ienzo.

“I’m actually fine,” she said. “I can tell I’m going to be sore--but honestly that wasn’t so bad. I was expecting, like—”

“Screaming? Hair tearing out? Squeezing someone’s hand  until it breaks?” He tried to dry his eyes. Ienzo had drawn the baby close, his eyes shut tight.

“Well, yeah,” she admitted. “But it was like, a little pull, oops there it is.”

“I don’t even know how to begin thanking you—”

“It’s not exactly over,” she said dryly. “There’s still… the matter of this.” She patted one of her breasts. “But I… I wanted to see if I could do it. In case I… wanted to have one that’s really mine, you know? My boyfriend… really wants it.”

So Aerith had been right. “You didn’t think you could handle pregnancy?”

“That’s not it.” She shook her head. “The idea of… helping bring a life into the world, and then having to let it go. I wasn’t sure I could do it.”

“But it’d be your baby,” Demyx pointed out.

Yuffie smiled. “Mine to take care of. But in the end, they’re their own person, you know?”

“And how did this answer your hypothesis?” Ienzo asked softly. He was also teary.

“Well… if it makes us as happy as it makes you two… then maybe it isn’t a complete waste of time. Could I hold the bugger? Nine months in me and I haven’t even seen her face.”

Ienzo hesitated, holding her a little more tightly, before handing the baby to her. “Sorry you ended up with neurotic squares. But they’ll love you.” Yuffie touched her cheek. “Someday I’ll teach you how to make their lives hell.”

---

There was a fullness to their lives that there hadn’t been before. While they were exhausted, with the feedings and the fussiness, Demyx knew they had done the right thing. It felt natural , comfortable.

“She needs a name,” Ienzo said, coaxing the bottle into her mouth. “I thought the one we’d picked was it, but…”

“Seeing her changed your mind.”

“...Precisely.”

Her eyes were open, newborn blue and unfocused. She ate like she wasn’t quite sure what it was. Demyx took one of her tiny hands and felt it close around his finger. “What if…”

He looked at him. “What?”

“What if we named her after your mom? Isn’t that a… tradition, here?”

Ienzo blinked a little. “I suppose…” He thought about it a moment, then nodded. “Well that’s the one, isn’t it. Chiara. It fits.” He sighed. “You named the cat and our daughter. The next one’s mine.”

“The next one?” Demyx smirked. “We barely got this one.”

“I’m thinking ahead.” He smiled. “Who knows what the world has in store?”

---

It was a pleasure, to see her grow; even once they returned to their work, they had a slew of babysitters. Even put up a front of unwillingness, but Demyx knew he doted on her. “I feel I owe you that much,” he said, to Ienzo. “Goodness knows you two must need some time for yourselves. I think we’ll be alright, won’t we?” He addressed Chiara. She put her hand right on his nose.

“The bag should have everything you need,” Ienzo said anxiously. “And you’ll call me, if—?”

Even raised an eyebrow. “I have done this before, you know. And she returned with her head still attached, did she not?”

Chiara burped and smiled.

“Goodness, I do hope you don’t inherit your fathers’ anxiety. Off we go.”

Demyx rested his hand on Ienzo’s waist. “He loves it,” he said.

“He and Ansem are certainly vying for her heart. Little do they know that Moosie is number one to her.” Noticing the offending stuffed animal still sitting on the dresser, he swore. “Goodness. I should bring this to them--she’ll get upset if she notices it missing—”

Demyx took the stuffed animal out of his hand. “She’ll be okay,” he said. “Why don’t you spend some time with me, hm? Like adults?”

Ienzo nodded, reddening a little. “I can do that.”

---

“Daddy?”

Demyx stirred weakly. He turned on the lamp at bedside. There she was, at his bedside, thumb in mouth, bedraggled, half-rotting Moosie in one hand. “What is it, baby?”

Chiara hiccupped. “I had a bad dream.”

He picked her up. She was getting so big , so heavy. He settled her between them.

“What happened, love?” Ienzo asked, smoothing a strand of hair from her face.

“Dream about ghosts.” She sobbed a little. “They go boo.”

Ienzo and Demyx exchanged a glance. “What kind of ghosts?” Ienzo asked.

“Dark. Like.” She lifted her hands above her head and hissed. “Grandpa telling me about them?”

Something like anger flickered across Ienzo’s face before he was able to control it. “What did he say?”

���I was… playing,” she said, sniffling. “I goed… downstairs. He said I can’t goed down there because—people are sleeping.” She held a finger to her lips. “Shh. But I…” She tapped her head. “I seed them.”

“Do you see them still?” Demyx asked gently.

Chiara shook her head. “No. That’s why I’m sad. They were my friends. They play with me when I sleep. They say… hello. And manners.”

Ienzo blinked. “You mean “thank you”?”

She nodded. “They said tell daddy thank you. They say we sleep now. Shh.” She started to cry.

“Shh,” Demyx said gently. “It’s okay. You have to say goodbye sometimes. It’s okay that it hurts.”

---

Chiara got along well with Aerith’s daughter; they were both feisty, adventurous. More than once she slipped away, to explore the castle, much to Demyx and Ienzo’s horror. Even seemed to find this endlessly amusing.

“Now you’re getting a taste of your own medicine,” he said, once they had found the bedraggled child. “Not so fun that you’re on the other side, is it?” For a moment they watched her sleep, wan and exhausted, before returning to their bedroom. There was an odd look on Ienzo’s face. Very slowly, he took off his glasses and lay back. “That’s right, isn’t it?” “What is?” He laughed a little to himself. “She’s the same age I was when I first came here.” “It’s all going so quick. They said it would, but--” “I know.” He groaned a little. “She’s too much like us.” “I don’t know what you were expecting.” He took Ienzo’s hand, ran his finger over the smooth metal of his wedding ring. “But she’s… getting a more normal childhood than we ever did.”

“There’s certainly no shortage of love,” Ienzo admitted. “For that, I’m eternally grateful.” Aeleus and Dilan both, in their own ways, also doted on her. “Would you ever… want another?”

Demyx considered it. “I’m not sure,” he said. “When you look at it logistically…”

“Aside from that.”

“If there’s a chance, then maybe,” he said, with a shrug. “But I’m happy with just her.”

“I am too.”

---

Chiara was bright, much like Ienzo; but people came easily to her, like Demyx. After much debate, they sent her to public school, much to the chagrin of everyone else; but they could teach her whatever else she may want to learn. She couldn't grow up isolated. To let her go and get something like their lives back was difficult. They were able to find one another again. They were closer to middle aged, now, rather than young. He knew it would happen. It still felt strange. He was shaving one morning when he saw it. “Ienzo,” Demyx said. “Come here.” “Something the matter?” He could barely contain the laughter. “Look.” He lifted the part of his hair gently, revealing the strands of gray. Ienzo touched it. “It must be starting early, for you. After all the stress you’ve gone through in your life, it’s not surprising.”

“We really aren’t young anymore, are we?” “As though these things last forever? We’ve still got more than half our lives left.” “...Huh.” He brushed his hair back into place. The style was less radical and more functional than it had been in the past; gone were the days of the shorn scalp, the gel. His younger self would probably find him infinitely boring, he realized.

He was okay with that. Ienzo kissed him softly. “I rather like the idea of you being a silver fox.”

---

So that’s really it, then.

In his rare moments of alone time, he composes. His style has changed considerably, away from the technically difficult and more towards lightness, subtlety, expression of emotion rather than skill. He writes a sort of memoir, with these compositions; more for his daughter, and maybe her eventual children, than himself. It’s a sort of project that takes years, years of stolen minutes and endless editing. He leaves a copy of it, quietly, in the archives, on the internet. She’s almost grown up when she finds it. “...Dad?” He’s at work, up to his elbows in medicine. “What’s up, sweetie?” She has his coloring, but she looks so like Ienzo; small, delicate. She moves like him, too, using her hands when she speaks.

“You busy?” She nods her head towards the door. “I’ll get lunch. You keep forgetting yours at home. It makes Father so mad.” She chose how to refer to them herself.

They walk for a while, get lunch at some cafe. “I was studying for my entrance exams,” she begins. College around the corner at the fledgling university (how?). She still isn’t sure if she wants to pursue the arts or the sciences. “Researching folk ballads for this essay I want to write. You… left something in the library. For me.”

“...Yeah.” “Why didn’t you say something sooner?” “Because…” Any number of reasons. “Well, for a long time it wasn’t done. You know your dad and I… went through a lot. I didn’t want you to find it until you were ready. Old enough to understand.”

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” she says, so earnestly it makes him laugh. “I… I want to know how I came to be. Not just the Aunt Yuffie story, the… rest of it. The history of my existence.”

Demyx can hear both his husband and himself in her words. He takes her hand, gives it a squeeze. “Let’s play it through together.”

And they do.

She has so many questions, not just for them but for Even and Ansem, Aeleus and Dilan. Hearing about the way they suffered, the way they made suffering, makes her cry, but she doesn’t see them as at fault, not in a way that makes her love them less. The knowledge changes her. She says it gives her a deeper insight on how to help people. She goes off to college--lives with friends in an apartment. She grows up. And they move on. For some reason only then does it feel right for them to move from the castle, to a small home in town. They bring with them their memories, the great-great-grandson of the cat Beans. They have over their friends, their family; one day their daughter brings along a young woman who will become her wife.

When the time comes--and it does, it’s inevitable--they pass away gently, quietly, and against all odds, together. Demyx knows it will hurt her, her children, but he also knows this is the way things must be. They’ve both left their legacies behind, full of healing, of progress, of goodness.

So their story ends, and they sleep peacefully. She visits their memorials, teaches her children about her namesake, about what her family did and how they then atoned. The city government reopens the castle to the public, restores it to something resembling its former glory. Again, it becomes a place of learning, but they never do forget the ills they are capable of.

For the last time, Chiara stands in the rooms where she was raised, where one of her fathers played endless songs for her, the other reading to her infinite stories, both teaching her all she needs to know, stories she hopes to hand down. Rooms now empty, rooms now for someone else. Her wife takes her gently by the elbow, leads her away.

And they begin their life anew.

[curtisandlewis]

He was Always the Wife

Dean and Jerry

Almost safe for work (this fic contains sexual content in dialogue and a fade to black honeymoon)

Summary: (1,726 words in progress) An alternate universe where Dean and Jerry get married in the late 40′s.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KAYLA!!!!!

My very good friend Kayla inspired this fic from a dream she had so I dedicate this to her on her birthday :)

I swallowed the lump in my throat and set my suitcase down while taking a drag from my cigarette. Betty was watching television with a drink in her hand. “I’m leaving.”

“Where to,” Betty asked without looking at me.

“Jerry’s.”

“What for?” Betty’s eyes glanced over in my direction and grew wide when she noticed the suitcase.

“Things haven’t been working out here.” I blew out a puff of smoke.

“I can make sure dinners on the table every night. I know I’ve let things go a little bit but that’s just because of the baby.”

“It’s nothing you did, Betty. Our marriage hasn’t been right for a while.”

Betty took a drink. “I let you fuck anything in a skirt no questions asked and don’t so much as ask you for a phone call when you’re on the road. Sounds like a pretty good fucking marriage to me. When do I get to pack a suitcase? What’s it gonna be Dean? You gonna play bachelor with Jerry and bag broads two at a time while you leave me here to deal with everything that’s hard.”

“I’m not playing anything with Jerry.” I took a deep breath. “Staying here is taking the easy way out. I’m not staying at Jerry’s... I’m leaving you... for him.”

The realization hit Betty’s eyes and she moved from the couch to standing directly in front of me. “I can’t believe I expected more from you. Bastard!” Her hands hit my shoulder and head like all the other times I fucked up. “You’re disgusting.” It felt different this time because it wasn’t about me being with a broad. I half expected her to say what my mother said. Each little slap might have well been a punch to my gut.

“You’re running off with our babysitter, the former cheerleader. Does he wear the uniform for ya too?”

I had never thought about it like that before. Jerry was a cheerleader in high school but that was before I met him.

“He still wears the Irvington sweater sometimes…”

Betty hit me good on the arm again.

“That’s why you called me disgusting? It’s not because of...you know?”

“I said anything in a skirt, didn’t I? I’ve always known he wanted to shake his pom-poms for ya’ I just thought he had more respect for himself. Whether boy or girl if they’re with you they’re getting fucked. You can expect a divorce from me the day you knock him up.”

“Please, Betty. I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

“The right thing is abandoning your children so you can go fuck a twenty-two year old? Yeah, I guess that would be the right thing to you.”

“We’re not just fuckin’ around. Jerry’s different. It’s-it’s…” My chest collapsed as I tried to say the words. It was all too familiar. My throat closed up and my tongue felt swollen and too big for my mouth. During the tense, awkward moments with Jerry when he asked about how I felt I could control my shaking hand but not this time.

“Well spit it out.”

“I love him!” I didn’t hear my mother’s voice. My lungs didn’t feel like I was drowning. I could finally breathe. Like the day I realized that was how I felt. The feeling was too strong. I couldn’t cover it up or brush it aside like any other emotion. The more I ran from it, the more it felt like the walls were closing in. When I said the words and faced my true biggest fear I finally knew what freedom was.

Betty’s face had changed. She no longer looked like she was ready for a verbal fight. “I need another drink.” Her voice sounded defeated. I watched her grab the bottle and fill her glass to the brim. She set it down and locked eyes with mine. “Get out!”

I didn’t think Betty ever wanted to see me again after that. Her relationship with Jerry smoothed things over. She always liked Jerry and probably secretly wished I was more like him. I didn’t have to knock up Jerry for her to sign the divorce papers.

We talked later.

“I think I always knew about you.”

“Really?” I tried to hide my anxiety. My whole life I tried not to stand out. I tried to be like ordinary men that didn’t have a secret. The thought of somebody seeing through my carefully crafted act terrified me.

“When we had sex I felt you inside me but you weren’t there.”

“Oh... I must have had other things on my mind,” I took a nervous sip from my drink.

“Could it be any woman who looked good on your arm and give you children? Was I just the first to come along that filled that criteria?”

I spoke quietly, “it was about more than that.”

“Was it? Half of our marriage you were gone. We lived in separate states. We lived separate lives. You kept me hidden away and only brought me out when you needed me when it was convenient.”

I swallowed and wiped my mouth trying to form thoughts that made sense. “I...don’t have any answers, Betty. It happened how it happened and we got four kids out of it. You don’t regret that right? Look, I liked you. I still do.”

Betty smiled weakly and looked away. “A Catholic woman doesn’t take divorce lightly.”

“I’m so grateful to you for doing this, honestly. Me and Jerry could never thank you enough.”

“I did it because I know you love him. You walk in the room and you know Jerry loves you. I could practically feel it in the air. Please, don’t hurt him.”

“I could never. You should see me when he has a stomachache. I fall to pieces when that boys in pain.”

“It’s easy to say that before even the honeymoon. I remember all the things you said to me. All the fairytales told with that movie star smile. He believes in the magic of Dean Martin. Loving you is killing me but that boy—if you do to him what you did to me it will destroy him. There won’t be anything left.” Betty took more than a sip from her drink. “If you do one thing in your life, Dino Crocetti, let it be that you don’t punish another person for loving you.”

I was a nervous wreck at the wedding but no one saw it. Cary Grant and Randolph Scott were the only celebrity couple to do this and neither were Italian! Italians didn’t do this. I had no example to look to. Betty showed and brought the kids too. I was grateful because my family wasn’t there. Plain and simple my mother declared I wasn’t her son anymore. Jerry’s parents weren’t there either. They claimed they had a gig they couldn’t get out of. I don’t think they were upset Jerry was marrying a man, more like he wasn’t marrying a Jewish man. I looked over at Jerry and he was trying his best to wear a mask but I always knew. It’s likely he wasn’t surprised at all. His parents missed every major event in his life besides his birth. He was better off not having them here to subtly tear him down and I was better off not having my mother here calling me the bride. We both waited behind the doors. It was my idea. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted him by my side. We clasped hands as the music started to play. This is what I wanted us holding hands, not for a bit or a musical number and all eyes on us. I wanted to do this so bad in the beginning and after this, I could do it anytime I wanted. When we got to our places I couldn’t hear anything. I was too focused on the kiss. As a little boy, I didn’t dream of kissing the groom. Maybe Jerry did. It wouldn’t surprise me if he saw all of this happening. He always made us seem so easy. Frank handed me the rings. We hadn’t known each other very long but I knew him well enough to know he would have thrown the fit of the century if I didn’t ask him. Tony was Jerry’s best man and I tried my best to ignore him. I couldn’t believe how delicate Jerry’s ring finger was. It’s amazing I could even get mine on my fat finger. It was time for the kiss. My heart thudded in my chest. I looked at Jerry’s lips, leaned forward and shut my eyes. When I opened them our new life began.

I marveled at the gold band and softly kissed Jerry’s ring finger. He looked at me through his lashes and he resembled the boy I knew him as when he was just sixteen. Back when we were only friends and I didn’t understand my need to be with him every minute of the day and why it felt so good for him to call me Paul—my middle name—one no one used except for him. I ran my thumb across his bottom lip. I was fascinated by those lips. I had kissed them a thousand times over the years we knew each other but only hours ago when he became my husband it felt like the first time. Not the very first time when he kissed me as he kissed all his other friends. But like when he looked at me differently and I felt how soft his lips were against mine and knew I wanted more. Jerry’s mouth opened wide reminding me he wasn’t that sixteen-year-old boy anymore. “Close your mouth,” I whispered and gave him an innocent kiss. His neck was what I was after. I didn’t have to be careful anymore. I could taste his skin and make him call out ‘Paul’ over and over and if someone overheard who cares? I could bite and leave marks that everyone would see. That’s when it hit me. We were in bed and soon nothing would be between us like we had done one hundred times before but the reason it felt so damn new was that he was finally mine and no one could ever tell me I couldn’t do more than kiss those lips.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

my heart is hitting the ground (Chapter Two)

Second part of my Urban Fantasy/College AU for widomauk! A huge and sincere thanks to @minky-for-short for talking me through writer’s block and reminding me what colour Mollymauk’s eyes are when I forgot :’) Also thanks to my ever patient girlfriend @soft-bram for letting me go on and on about Critical Role all the time. 

And the biggest thanks ever to @rabdoidal who inspired this whole fic with his incredible fan art which I really just can’t get enough of, he’s an insanely talented artist

Please reblog and let me know what you thought, feedback really means a lot to writers

First Chapter | Ao3 | Ko-fi

Mollymauk had apparently learned nothing from last week when the pen he was chewing thoughtfully on cracked in his mouth and spilled ink over his tongue, staining it a colour not far from the colour of his skin for nearly a day. He just couldn’t help it, especially not when the random scraps of lyrics he had floating around in his brain were stubbornly refusing to properly arrange themselves into a song. He sighed in frustration at the journal page, still blank after half an hour, and rearranged himself on the sofa he was currently splayed across, throwing one leg over the back of it and flicking his tail idly from side to side, as if that would rattle something loose.

“You can do that in your room you know,” Yasha commented flatly from the kitchen table, not looking up from her breakfast or her newspaper.

“I like the light better in here!” Molly insisted, arching back off the arm of the sofa so he could eye her from upside down, “And besides, what’s the point of sighing if no one hears me?”

“What indeed…” his roommate muttered, rolling her eyes. Not that she’d expected anything else from him, “I just wouldn’t spend too much time on that couch, is all. It’s probably got fleas or something, I found it on the end of the block. Didn’t get a chance to clean it yet.”

Molly wrinkled his nose, jumping up so quickly he nearly ran into the coffee table, “Yasha! You promised me no more street furniture!”

“Hey,” Yasha jerked her spoon at him, “I carried that single handed all the way up to this apartment so some appreciation would be nice.”

Molly stuck his tongue out at her as he folded his lanky body into the chair across from her, slapping his notebook down between them, as if that was going to jostle the odd words and phrases into a proper song.

Yasha pulled a face, “Look, I’ll stop getting couches off the street if you start wearing some damn clothes around here.”

Molly huffed and twitched the silk robe he was wearing (sort of wearing) until it covered a little more of his chest and thighs, knotting it loosely. As far as he was concerned, a pair of underwear and a robe was perfectly acceptable attire for noon on a Sunday but he knew better than to push Yasha too far. She could pick him up all the way off the floor if she wanted to.

He ran his fingers through his bedraggled hair, lying tangled around his horns in the way it always did without nearly an hour of dedicated grooming in front of the bathroom mirror. “I’m having a brain block,” he announced grandly, trying to get his roommate’s attention back on him.

“Are you now?” Yasha didn’t sound particularly interested as she flicked a page over idly, wondering how her attempts to get him to go to his room had been interpreted as an invitation to disrupt her morning even further.

“I am,” Molly frowned, splaying across the table to see if he could get in her eyeline, “I’m having feelings, Yash, big feelings. But they won’t turn into songs. If I can’t properly channel my emotions into my art, I’m never going to be a successful musician.”

Yasha flashed him a look, making no effort to hide her exasperation, “You know, I bet most successful musicians don’t spend their time lounging all over their apartments in their underwear. Maybe actually doing something would help. Like sorting the laundry you said you’d do three days ago or actually getting some fresh air and natural sunlight. You could come to the gym with me? Endorphins, man.”

Molly clicked his tongue against his teeth, “Not a great idea. Hooked up with the guy at the front desk and haven’t called him back.”

Yasha pinched the bridge of her nose, scowling, “I told you…I fucking told you that was a bad idea,  if I have to avoid another place because of you, I can’t keep up…”

The tiefling drowned out her grumbling with another world-weary sigh, not in the mood to hear her opinions on his love life yet again, “I just feel so…out of sorts…” he slapped his hand on the table decisively, as if struck by an ingenious realisation, nearly upending the vase of flowers, “I should smoke some more weed! That always gets the lyrics flowing!”

Defeated, the newspaper was flipped closed and a pair of heavy lidded, mismatched eyes fixed sternly on Molly. In signing up to be his roommate, after a few months of working together at the community theatre, she hadn’t realised she’d also become his guitarist, his life coach, his impulse control and his guardian angel as well. It wasn’t exactly what she’d wanted but Molly cooked like a dream and didn’t keep her up all night so she’d learned to stomach it.

“Kay,” she told him sternly, “We’re gonna swap out the drugs for a more socially acceptable one and get you out of the apartment. Go fetch some coffee.”

The tiefling’s face fall, “Aw, come on, it’s not my turn! ! And besides, I hate ordering for you, the barista looks at me like I’m crazy when I ask for six espresso shots in one cup…”

“Bullshit, I went the day before yesterday.”

The two stared at each other, Molly’s restless red eyes fixed on Yasha’s heavily eyeliner ringed ones. After a few moments, they both shrugged holding out their fists and tapping them three times against the table. Yasha threw scissors, Molly threw paper.

He wailed at his defeat, “You always go scissors!”

She arched her eyebrow at him, “Then why don’t you always go rock, smart guy?”

He had no answer to that but to reach over and knock her paper off the table, like a particularly ornery cat, before getting up and flouncing off in a whirl of embroidered black silk and a flash of a middle finger, slamming the door to his bedroom for good measure.

Yasha huffed out a low rumbling chuckle as the noise of the moodiest shower ever taken echoed through their tiny, cramped apartment. She wondered briefly if her idiot of a best friend was actually going to realise what was bothering him so much, what was written so clearly on his face and in the way he’d been fidgeting all over the place for hours now.

If he didn’t catch on soon, she was going to have to tell him. No way in hell she was dealing with a moony eyed, love struck Mollymauk for much longer.

Knowing how much he hated the cold and seeing the fractal dusting of frost clinging to the outside of his tiny window, Molly dressed accordingly in billowy harem pants and a tight turtleneck sweater which was a bitch to get over his horns but he looked so good in it, it was decidedly worth it. As he tamed his hair, his sharp face illuminated by the fairy lights he wound around his mirror, he found his thoughts drifting away from the soft song emanating from his aged little radio, even though it was a favourite, and back to last night.

It had been a pretty good gig, all things considered. The crowd was a little thin but that was always true of their shows no matter how many flyers Molly hopefully pasted in the windows of the borough book shops and music shops and all over the academy’s campus. The underground bar didn’t have a dry ice machine, which was a little disappointing but he’d remembered all the words and Yasha hadn’t missed a single note, as dependable as she ever was. It was the kind of gig he usually firmly told himself afterwards, usually after patronising the bar itself and blowing most of their fee, would just be a stepping stone to bigger and better things.

So why couldn’t he get the night out of his head?

Well, there was that guy.

The guy with the long hair and the cute, if a little indistinguishable, accent and the look of someone who’d ran through a thrift shop with a blindfold on to choose his clothes. Molly had never actually had someone approach him after any of his shows, much less someone who’d actually praised his songs rather than asking him to keep it down. Sure, the guy had been plastered and swayed where he was standing but Molly was taking all the positive feedback he could get right now.

And he’d asked for his number. And honestly, past the slurring that meant he wasn’t sure if his name was Caleb or Callum and the spilling some of his loosely held drink on Molly’s boots, it was a face he’d be more than happy to see in daylight.

Molly turned the brush wrong, distracted, and accidentally yanked on his hair, making him hiss in pain. Sighing he tossed it over his shoulder and shrugged into his coat.

He was being stupid. As much as Yasha had teased him about the guy, asking if that was the future Mr Tealeaf he was talking to, finally found after all this searching, Molly had only flicked her with his tail and rolled his eyes, insisting that the prospect of that name would send him running for sure, if nothing else did. And it wasn’t like much searching had ever gone on, there was no sense in searching for something that didn’t exist. As nice as it would be.

The tiefling winced at the cold as he left their apartment building and began to stride as fast as he could through the nearly empty streets, everyone else clearly having something far better to be doing with their Sunday. The frost and the wind froze the last of his hope from the night before. Most likely the cute guy had woken up, probably with a gross taste in his mouth and a pounding headache, regretting their conversation with a passion. Most likely Mollymauk had been given up as a bad decision, and not for the first time in his life, lined up along with those last few whiskeys he’d noticed the guy knocking back.

Molly remembered noting it with appreciation, whiskey was such a pleasant thing to taste in a kiss…

He sighed, heading for the café they always frequented, just a few blocks away. Maybe next time.

[ontherockswithsalt]

Good For The Soul - A Jamie/Noble something

/pt. 1/ /pt. 2/ /pt. 3/ /pt. 4/

A/N: Yes, this is still happening. I’m in love with these idiots. 

“So I have to ask–” After being instructed by Noble to pull up a seat at the counter, there wasn’t much left for me to do but watch him cook from my perch on one of his barstools.

And, really, it was a view I didn’t exactly mind. He navigates the kitchen like it’s second nature to him, an easy flow to his work while he talks to me. 

I finish my question. “What are you doing having parties in the city after everything that went down?”

Tilting his head side to side as if that isn’t exactly what happened, Noble flicks the dish towel from his shoulder and dries his hands. “Only about half of it was my party,” he reasons, then turns to the refrigerator. “I didn’t really know those people.”

“But still.”

“Trust me, the guys who had it out for me run in a completely different circle. And they definitely wouldn’t find me downtown with… you know, Parsons drop-outs or whoever it was who couldn’t be cool and got the cops called on us.”

I have to laugh as I lift my glass. “Damn cops, huh?”

A smile curves on his cheek as he stirs the sauce in the pan in front of him. “Generally, yes. But ah… I’m kinda glad you guys shut that one down.”

My gaze lowers, stalling on the thick column of his forearm as he reaches across and twists a salt grinder in his hand. And before I can acknowledge that I genuinely wasn’t listening just then, I tip my glass to my mouth a finish off the last sip of spicy red wine, swallowing hard. “I remember you saying cops make you jumpy.”

“Well sure.”

“Do I make you jumpy?”

He looks up, pausing a moment before he reaches for his wooden spoon. “No.”

Tasting my lower lip, I savor the tingly heat that’s there. “Good.”

“Maybe I still think of you as just a regular guy, who sucked at day trading and tried to hook up with my sister.”

“Oh!” My brow furrows in amused, phony outrage.

“Ha.” Noble’s smile stretches across his face as he stirs a few times then turns to the other end of the counter.

Sliding my wine glass closer to him by the stem, I tap the bottom. “Alright, I need one more if that’s how it’s gonna be.”

“Nice huh?”

“Yeah, it’s good.”

“And I’m kidding.” He grasps the bottle, uncorks it once more and reaches over to refill my glass. “You don’t make me jumpy because… I don’t know. You have a way about you,” he explains. He returns to a small glass dish of spices that he pinches onto his hand. He looks down and digs the heel of the other into the crushed red pepper in his palm before he drops it into the sauce simmering on the stovetop.

I lean forward on my elbow, then run a hand over my jaw, deciding not to press him about what that way was. “You know nothing happened between your sister and me, right?”

He makes a face and he brushes his palms together. “I don’t want to know, man.”

“I’m just saying,” I laugh.

“Well… that was probably a smart decision on your part.”

“Yeah, I have one of those every now and then.”

He just looks at me as he shifts his weight against the counter and reaches for his wine glass. “So how much of Jimmy Riordan was real?”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs, pausing for a deep swallow of his wine. “The conversations we had, the stuff you told me.”

“I tried to be… you know. Forgettable.”

Noble hums this soft note.

“The job was to obtain the evidence and get out. But. I kind of screwed that up in the end.”

“How so?”

I tip my glass once more. I let the warmth of another sip swirl in my chest and hope it keeps me from admitting that I never exactly got out. That I fucked up and got attached to probably the most dangerous friend I could have made. That I agonized over whether his family would find him, the damage that I caused.

It was stupid.

Noble's actions, his choices… he brought all that on himself. Gangster justice, my brother had called it, came for him. If that bullet had found its target, it would have just been collateral damage. The NYPD had its eye on a bigger cause.

“It’s my own damn fault for seeing the best in people, I guess.”

Noble pauses, blinks down for a moment, the holds his glass out to me. Wordlessly, I tap the rim of mine out to his once more in another informal toast.

“So Jamie–” He starts.

“Mm-hm.”

“Reagan?”

I nod.

“With the NYPD.”

“True.”

He moves to check his boiling ziti while he seems to ponder this. “Catholic. From Bay Ridge.”

Amused, I sit back a little. “Yep.”

“Who sees the best in people.”

“Guess so. You piecing me together now?”

He points. “Who likes red wine.”

“Occasionally.”

Then his head tilts. “And red-haired sisters–”

I hiss and soft laugh. “Stop. That was Jimmy.”

“Ah, I see. Part of the cover.”

“Yep.”

“What else?”

“No.” I press my lips together. “That’s good for now. My turn.”

“Yeah? Shoot.”

“Where’d you learn to cook?”

He glances down to lift a slotted spoon from the boiling water, then picks up one ziti before he pops it in his mouth. “My mom.”

I think about his family, his dad, his uncle. One-time Captains in a pretty infamous crime family. And here I was, sitting with one of their sons, groomed to carry on their mafia legacy, but instead is standing in his kitchen making me dinner.

All of the people who raised him are in prison but I’d never heard anything about his mother.

“She died when I was twelve,” he says.

I blink, letting a quiet beat pass. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“But she was always in the kitchen, feeding the family. And I liked helping,” he tells me. “It’s therapeutic for me. Especially cooking for other people, so–”

“How about your restaurant? Out on Long Island?”

“I had to give it up. When l… you know.” A pause lingers there as he takes another drink. “After everything.”

“Yeah.”

“I was advised not to attempt the same gig down in Miami. Opening a restaurant isn’t under the radar enough, I guess. It sucks that I don’t get to do that anymore. So, needless to say, I’m glad you’re here.” Then he reaches for a spoon on the counter, dips it in the sauce and tastes. He considers it for a moment, before he gestures to me and heads for the sink where he drops the spoon.  “You’re good for my soul, Jamie.”

I have to laugh. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

Noble nods, pushing away from the counter where he moves to turn off the stove. “Alright. You ready to eat?”

“I am. I feel like I need to help. Like, set the table or something.”

He chuckles, quickly reaching into an overhead cabinet to pull down some plates. “We’re eating right there.” He nods to the countertop. “You’re one of those people who has to have a job, huh?”

“I have to help.” Bringing the glass to my mouth, I murmur over the rim, “My hands get antsy.”

“You need to learn to just sit there and receive.”

I nearly choke.

“I’m being generous,” he adds with a laugh, and that curvy grin on his face is killing me. If I think too hard about just how giving he is, I’ll find trouble real quick.

After managing to get the wine down in a hard gulp, I cough once, and slide off the chair to my feet. “You know what?” I mutter, reaching across the counter for the near-empty bottle of wine. “I’m gonna get drunk at your house, I don’t give a fuck.”

This makes Noble crack up even more.

I refill my glass, tipping the bottle until it’s empty, then set it down where it’s skates a little across the counter. “I hope you have more of this.”

“Take your antsy hands.” He points over his shoulder. “And get some silverware from the drawer. There’s a job for you. Damn.”

I point back as I make my way behind the counter with him. “Quit starting shit.”

He reaches to his shoulder where he swiftly yanks the dish towel there and snaps it against my chest. My reflexes haven’t slowed and I close my fist around the end of it, then lean down and check him in the side with my elbow.

“Don’t burn dinner, man,” I tease him, backing away to the silverware drawer.

“Get out of my kitchen.”

I bite back a smile as I pluck dinner forks and knives from the drawer and then slide it shut. “I’m making myself useful.”

“Shit.” Noble hisses the word and he shakes his head and moves to plate the ziti. And as I trail back to our chairs, it doesn’t go unnoticed the way we happen to catch the other’s gaze, provoked by something elusive I can’t quite grasp.

And I have to wonder if maybe it’s not just me.

[hayjeon]

Flirt Lane (ft. Jeongguk)

Drabble game prompt 53. “I’m flirting with you.” → shy!jk, aka furious amounts of fluff (from the BTS in 10 years!au) → 2.5k words

A/N: Highly recommend reading both Yoongi’s and Tae’s versions of this au! It’ll make a little more sense :) Thanks for requesting to my beautiful bby mutual, @dat-town <3 Sorry if it’s not what you expected :( but pls feel free to request more to all my readers! 

You’re feet are killing you, as you scurry around the chapel, careful to take your gig seriously as you snap pictures of every aesthetic scene you can possible capture in the hustle of the wedding. 

Picture of the altar, check. 

Picture of the bride and her bridesmaids, check.

Picture of the groom and his parents, check. 

Snapshot of his members, check. 

Side-view of the flowers lining the entrance, check. 

Long-shot of the entrance, che-- oh shit.

You panic as you screen zooms up on the face you’d been dreading to see since this spring. It was your ex-boyfriend, Jaehyun. 

The asshole of all assholes, you dated him for about four months before you caught him fucking one of the secretaries in the office the both of you worked at. After the confrontation, he’d revealed to you that there was a bet that him and his other asshole friends had made, trying to see which one of them could date you the fastest, explaining the odd way the rest of his friends had vied for your attention out of the blue. 

You left that company long ago, wanting more for yourself than just a business office job for yourself, and had been freelancing with a smaller company that focused on photography and videography. You remembered taking and loving the classes on those subjects back in college, and had decided that the incident with Jaehyun was the final push for you to escape out of your comfort zone and go do what you wanted. 

The only problem was, smaller companies definitely were a investment, and you weren’t exactly making way too much as a photographer, which was why your friend had recommended you to the bride. You’d wanted to desperately become famous and successful and show the asshole what he was missing, but you were definitely not prepared for him to walk through the door with the eye candy on his arm, looking as good as ever. 

So you do what any woman does in an emergency situation. You panic and grab the first thing you see and dive behind it, making sure to hide your face as you peek out behind it. 

Jungkook is minding his business as well, doing the job as Yoongi’s ex-member and groomsmen to greet old friends and new faces as they walk into the chapel. He was in charge of greeting and guiding guests to their tables, but had stepped out to take a quick bathroom break and was on his way back when you’d grabbed him by the sleeve and practically used him as a human shield. 

He let out a sound of protest, a choked out gurgle of surprise, and you shushed him, hissing into his ear. 

“I’m so sorry but please be quiet and act natural!” 

He sputters, straightening himself up and spinning around you face you. “E-excuse me?” 

He recognizes you as the photographer Yoongi hired for the wedding, the girl who’d scurried here and there behind the lens for the duration of the rehearsal and the set-up. He’d admired your skill with the lenses and when Yoongi showed him some example stills, Jungkook was pretty impressed with the way you skillfully balanced contrast and exposure to create the perfect shot of the altar. 

But he never imagined meeting you in this way.

“I’m so sorry, but please, just hide me,” you reply, ducking your head down as you try to maneuver yourself in a way that hides your petite figure behind his larger one. He stutters, unable to compose himself when a girl who is as pretty as you is practically inches away from his chest, the scent of your shampoo filling his nose and making him blink too much. 

His hands start to sweat and he steps back, only to have you actually step back to get a good look at who he was. Your shocked eyes meet his round ones as he sees you registering his face from the wedding rehearsal, “Y-you’re Jeon Jungkook?!” you hiss, whatever you were hiding from, forgotten. You knew that there would be celebrities at the wedding, but no one had told you they’d be this close.

He nods hesitantly, eyes darting everywhere else besides your doe-eyed gaze. “Uh, y-yes?” He was a lot shyer than you’d expected, unable to meet your gaze as his wide eyes betrayed how surprised he was at the intrusion of his space. You step back politely, smoothing down your dress and trying to figure out how to explain to an ex-celebrity that you were currently trying to use him as a human block to avoid confrontation with your ex. 

You’re about to say something, but then suddenly your eyes grow round and Jungkook turns around as the third company sneers, “Y/N? Fancy meeting you here, how long has it been, 5, 6 months?” 

A handsome guy dressed in a white turtleneck and tux jacket on top saunters up with a girl who looks oddly like one of the ex-girl group members Jungkook would see stripping their clothes off on stage only to be booed off back in the day. But he watches in interest as your surprise melds into a look of steely determination as you balance your lens in one hand and the other on your hip, glaring down at the man.

“Honestly, Jaehyun, I dont remember how long its been since you cheated on me, so no, don’t really fancy meeting you here.” You sneer, flipping your hair over your shoulder as you roll your eyes and give the plastic girl on his arm a once-over. 

He snorts, wrapping an arm around the shoulder of the girl he came with. “Aw, Y/N, you’re still bitter about that? Get a life.” 

Jungkook whips his head to glare at the guy. He had no idea who you were and what the story was, but for a man to be insulting a lady like that was downright wrong, in his book. His hyungs had practically raised him, yes, but they didn’t raise him to be a mule. 

“Excuse me, that is no way to speak to a lady.” He says, trying to make his softer voice a bit harder as he steps up besides you and meets Jaehyun’s sneer with a hard frown. He revels in the fact that he’s eye to eye with the tall guy, and squares his shoulders in an attempt to intimidate him. 

Jaehyun frowns as he sizes up Jungkook, frowning as he steps back to see the fit build of the guy, and recognizes him as one of the popular faces in the kpop industry. The girl on his arm lets out a soft gasp and immediately he whips his head towards her to see her eyes grow large and her mouth drop open as she realizes its Jeon Jungkook in front of her at the moment. 

He rolls his eyes and faces Jungkook again, quirking an eyebrow. “Mind your own business.” 

You frown, as Jungkook steps in. But he beats you to respond. “Actually, it is my business.”

Jaehyun sneers, “What’s it to you?” 

Jungkook doesn’t really know where it comes from. Maybe its the fact that he’d been through only two relationships since the group ended a few years back, and he was devastated at how much it hurt to be cheated on and knew how you felt at the moment. Maybe it was how your cute little lavender dress caught his attention during the rehearsal and he’d argued with himself in trying to muster up enough courage to ask you how to use the 450 lens versus the other ones, but you were a bit too pretty and he was a bit too shy to actually approach you. 

But nonetheless, he blurts out, “I’m her boyfriend.” as he puts an arm around your shoulder and yanks you close. He can feel you tense beneath him as you whip your chin up to stare at him for a split second before you realize what he was doing. He feels like flying away when you step closer and wrap your free arm around his waist and smile at Jaehyun. 

“You’re dating her?” Jaehyun scoffs, unable to believe the scene in front of him. You thank your stars that you’d decided to actually wear a dress to this gig, because you knew some of the bridesmaids and decided it would be better than to show up in just jeans and a t-shirt like you usually did. Jungkook is dressed to the nines in a simple but clean cut tuxedo and he smells like heaven.

To Jaehyung’s question, Jungkook responds confidently, “Yes, it’s my pleasure. Took a while to convince her to date me, but it was worth all the effort.” 

Jaehyun taunts, “You know she’s a sucker for fairytales right?” He lets out a scoff. “She quit her job too.” 

Jungkook feels you tense as Jaehyun jabs you where it hurts. And Jungkook feels a rush of anger as he clenches his jaw for a second before giving Jaehyun the fakest sweet smile he can muster. “I’m glad she loves fairytales cause I can be the prince charming to her princess. And I guess she hasn’t bothered to keep up with you but she’s currently working at a beautiful company that’s being sponsored by a bunch of important guests today, so I’m pretty sure she’s doing better than you, who has to resort to bringing an escort as his date to the wedding of the year. But I mean, do you man.” Jungkook gives Jaehyun a last cocky smirk and a shrug of his shoulders as he turns around and drags you along with him. 

You’re still sort of in shock at the insults Jungkook just fired at Jaehyun, but you smile secretly as he maneuvers you towards the altar with confident steps. The confidence only lasts for about three more seconds until you’re out of Jaehyun’s line of sight and Jungkook lets go of you with a huff and takes out a handkerchief from his pocket to dot at his hairline. 

He returns to the nervous little puppy he was when you grabbed him, and his eyes are wide open again and his shoulders cave in as his gaze stays on the ground. You’re left in shock at the whole ordeal as you watch him with nothing to say. 

Finally, he finishes and realizes you’re still here and his eyes go even wider as he stutters, “U-uh, I-i’m sorry if I intruded, he was being r-really rude and I didn’t think you deserved that because you definitely deserve more than that, and you’re really way way prettier than that girl he brought and he’s a horrible guy and--” 

You stop him, eyes wide as a playful smile glints on your lips. “Wait, what did you say?” 

Jungkook literally looks like a deer caught in headlights as he takes a moment to backtrack on what he’d just blubbered about. And his eyes, if possible, go even wider as they snap back up to yours as he realizes he’d just admitted you were really pretty and that you deserve better. The handkerchief drops to the ground as he tries to read your expression, but you have a small smile on your face that he can’t really determine is just a polite smile to get rid of the awkwardness or just amusement at what a mess he’s making of himself. 

“Uh, sorry! Sorry!” He repeats, “I didn’t mean to say it like that, sorry! I just meant to say that you’re really pretty and that guy was really a dick and I could do better, I mean,” he catches himself with a start, sputtering even more to cover up his slip-up, “I mean! No, like only if you want, and I’m not saying you have to, but yeah the 450 lens?”  

You’re silent as you take in everything he’d just said to you. Then your face breaks out in a smile and a loud laugh and he’s shyly laughing along with you because he has no idea what that means and he feels more sweat coming. 

“Hahahaha!” You’re clutching your stomach as you witness the nervous boy in front of you. “Jungkook, right?” 

He nods. 

You smile at him, because seeing the guy in front of you literally sweating in nervousness and so shy he can’t get his words straight is so endearing. “My name is Y/N.” You stick out your hand and he takes it, not before wiping it furiously on his pants before taking it. Still, you can feel how damp they are with his nervousness. 

Smiling as you let go, you pat him on the shoulder. “Thank you so much, for what you did back there. Definitely, you’re right. Jaehyun did deserve that. How about I take you out to lunch, and take up your offer to thank you for you did?” 

His eyes are legit two huge circles as a smile breaks out on his face. “A-are you serious?” 

You smile, nodding. “I gotta get back to work now, but definitely I’d be happy to let you take me out on a date.” You wink at him and you walk away and Jungkook picks up the handkerchief and dots his hairline as he realizes he’d just sort of not really snagged a date with you. 

[To: Jungkook]: So what time can you pick me up? 

[From: Jungkook]: Oh! Yes! Sorry! How does tomorrow 4 sound? Late lunch?

[To: Jungkook]: Sounds perfect! See you there! And you looked really good today, you should wear that tux a little more often. 

[To: Jungkook]: 346.jpg file

[From: Jungkook]: Wow when did u capture this? I really like it! 

[To: Jungkook]: I have a few more I can show u :) it wasn’t hard getting good shots of you. 

[From: Jungkook]: Huh?

You smile, as you type it into your phone. He’s literally sitting a few feet away from you at the head of the table with the bride and groom and is boredly typing into his phone. A giggle comes up when you see his entire face go into shock at your blatant flirting. 

[From: you]: I’m flirting with you Jungkook ;) 

He looks up from his table and goes wide-eyed at you, ignoring the odd stares from his other members as he gawks at you. But then a small smile graces his open lips and he meets your gaze with a wide smile. 

[From: Jungkook]: Hell yes 

You giggle and look up and he’s still staring at his screen, typing furiously. 

[From: Jungkook]: The prettiest girl in the room is flirting with ME?!

[From: Jungkook]: actually I can’t wait, are you busy tonight for a movie after the wedding?

[To: jungkook]: Um isn’t the bride supposed to be the prettiest? I’m telling.

[From: Jungkook]: My hyungs taught me not to be a liar. 

[thenextrush]

Did the show really need hosts?

Hosted by Nick Lachey and wife Vanessa, the show was pretty self sufficient without them as they only appeared in several episodes, they didn’t even bother to show up for the 82 minute season finale.    It wasn’t like Next in Fashion where participants needed handholding and direction each week with challenges, and it didn’t even need voiceover narration like they did in The Circle.

Total air time from this supercouple couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes in total, where do I sign up Netflix?  Easiest gig ever!

A wall within the conversation pods divides the couple who decide on who they want to “date” without the pressures of appearance and visual social cues

Not seen the show?  Here’s what you missed:

If you’ve missed the first 9 episodes, it’s different to Married at First Sight because the daters have a chance to engage and get to know prospective partners before taking a leap of faith:

The bachelors live on one side of the complex, while the bachelorettes live on the other.

From 30 singles, 6 couples got engaged and headed to Mexico for their first physical date / honeymoon

35 days is how long it took for them to date in the pods, meet in person, meet their parents, with weddings taking place on the last day

Diamonds are not this guy’s best friend:

One of the most memorable confrontations took place in Episode 4 and because of Social Media & Marketing Manger Carlton Morton‘s omission, it led to NBA Dancer, Diamond Jack making decisions without all the information resulting in a missed opportunity for the show because she turned out to be a firecracker with her dramatic exit.  Whether he wanted to or not, Carlton became the poster boy for fluid orientation and he lost whatever sympathy that could have left this story on a positive note because of that temper tantrum by the pool that will define his Love is Blind appearance for years to come.   His outrage at Diamond was misdirected and inappropriate.  But she gave as good as she got putting him in his place, she needs to come back in Season 2 or ask her to host the show if she’s got a spare ten minutes in case the Lachey’s are busy!   No one deserves to be spoken to like that especially when you drop a bombshell from them out of no where expecting them to be okay with it the next day.  Obviously, they didnt make it to the altar with the couple throwing in the towel in Mexico and going their separate ways.

The Weddings in the Season Finale:

Up until the season finale, the soundtrack of the show could rival any Weddings Greatest Hits essential playlist with its light and bubbly vibe.   As each couple uses the same reception venue to tie the knot, the music quickly turns into a dramatic symphony straight out of a Star Wars Jedi battle as the marriage celebrant ends his piece to recite vows with the question:  “Is Love Blind”, the couples then respond with an “I Do” or an “I Don’t”.

Giannina pours her heart out in a poem:

The fiery Venezuelan retail owner, Giannina Gibelli has been a ticking time bomb since she and Industry Supply Manager, Damian Powers left the pod and it started almost straight away on that yacht in Mexico.  Even her mother before the wedding says to her daughter in Spanish that she “better be serious and not treat this as a game”.

Giannina finally seemed ready, taking on board a hurt and worn down Damian’s feedback at dinner.   The love-hate exchanges with these two seemed to come from a place of passion making them so entertaining to watch because they’d somehow always make their way back to that place they found in the pod.

She genuinely seemed to be making an effort especially with a poem she wrote for him accompanied with socks to wear to the wedding:

“The beginning was rough the middle was sweet the other half was a lot and soon we’ll reach our peak. I asked you once ‘Can you handle me?’ I hope you know now and forget the rest cause ready or not, this isn’t a test So what do you want? Only you can guess”

As Giannina walks down the aisle at the end of Episode 9, Damian becomes teary.

Damian’s shocking 360:

Damian has been pretty consistent and devoted to his fiancee who on several ocassions throughout the season has gone on a tyrade.  The season finale opens with Damian responding to the marriage celebrant’s question to take Giannina as his lawfully wedded wife:

“I do not” he says quivering as tears roll down his face.

Did not see that coming at all, total blindside.  What’s weird is he thinks he can still salvage a friendship with Giannina after she runs out of the church in embarrassment leaving guests and family in a state of awkwardness.   His decision makes Giannina the only woman from the group to have been ditched at the altar.

Opposites Attract until Barnett freaks out:

Ex-Military Tank Mechanic, Amber Pike pretty much quit her waitressing job after she got engaged.  Her dream was to get married, be a stay-at-home mom and let her future husband dig her out of credit card and student loan debt and pay for the $850 custom tailoring on her wedding gown.   Meeting Matt’s family couldn’t have been easy but her unpredictability complements well with the .

Brawl for a Cause fitness professional, Matt (aka Barnett) gets cold feet and things are looking grim with a montage of his doubts if having to choose between his family and fiancee, her financial insecurity and a conversation with his rational thinking brother.  “Getting married means putting that other person before yourself.  Are you ready to give up everything for that person?”.  Matt doesn’t return any of Amber’s calls or texts the morning of the wedding and finally shows up at the eleventh hour.

Turns out it’s just a normal case of wedding day jitters and professes to Amber that he “can’t imagine a life without you”.  Classic Prince Charming Cinderella match right there!

What’s the real reason Kelly wouldn’t sleep with Kenny?

Health Coach, Kelly admitted it herself, that maybe “her whole definition of love is not right” because despite saying that intimacy in previous relationships she’s had without connection has been a total let down and kiss of death for her, she finally comes clean saying she’s “conflicted” because she doesn’t “know if she is 100% in love with him”.

Turns out she’s not physically attracted to him.  Architectural Lighting Consultant Kenny Barnes who is five years younger than her is totally infatuated like a puppy dog and it’s actually devastating to watch him being ditched at the altar.

Poor Kenny, this match really seemed like it was going to work as viewers bought in to Kelly’s stalling.  We were all so distracted with Jessica’s inability to reconcile pod and physical life that we didnt see this coming either.    Especially after Kenny and Kelly’s parents met and had similar shotgun wedding experiences themselves.  There also seemed to be great chemistry between both families in Episode 7.

“This experiment, it brought me to you.” said Kelly at the altar, “Someone who is so fabulous in every single aspect. This has been a wild ride and I am grateful that it has been with you because you’ve been nothing but supportive, and I appreciate every single moment that I shared with you. And I love you.” 

Declaring how much she adores Kenneth and loves him, after the marriage celebrant asks if she’ll take his hands, it all comes crashing down when she says “I don’t” and leaves the chapel with a dumbfounded groom.

Standing alone at the altar, a brave class act of a gentleman,  Kenny addresses the guests in a heartfelt moment that moves the bride’s mother as she whispers to her husband how much he loves the guy for his humble words:

“Obviously this is just a whirlwhind for everyone, and again, don’t want to dive too deep into it, and delve. Because you take something that is so complex, and it is authentic, and it is real, but today is not our day. Um, but I love each and everyone of y’all, and it’s something that I’ll cherish and be grateful for forever.”

Kelly later says to the camera that “I’m fucking 33 and I should know what I want” and the story ends there for now…

Everyone knew this relationship was doomed except Mark:

He was adamant that he didn’t want to “play second fiddle” when it was clear she was weighing up options.  Tech sales rainmaker, Jessica Batten was embarrassing herself continuously with her drunken rants and throwing herself at Matt with no shame and then denying when she sobered up.

All the red flags were there, love truly was blind for personal trainer, Mark Cuevas  who had to have been in denial about their connection and of course she ditched him at the altar.

No surprise there, that coupling always seemed to be doomed.   In the end, Jessica admits that emotional connections aren’t enough and that for a relationship she jumps in to, it’s a combination of mind, body and spirit.   Watching the season back, she clearly always wanted Matt and her efforts to try and make it work with someone she wasn’t physically attracted to weren’t enough.   We would’ve been more sympathetic to her if she hadn���t made indirect passes at Matt after he got engaged to Amber.

We get the happy ending we were rooting for:

The award for sweetest couple of the season has to go to Articial Intelligence Scientist, Cameron Hamilton and Content Creator, Lauren Speed.  It’s in this union we saw total authenticity and openness on both sides.

“Everyday that we’ve spent together has been a blessing to me. There’s so much I love about you. You made me want to be a btter an and you have evberythign I need in a partner and I feel very blessed to have you in my life” – Cameron

“Cameron I love that you make me comfortable being fully myself. No matter how flawed, goofy or broken I may have been. I’m thankful for our time together and how happy our moments are.” – Lauren

The lead up to their vows brought some great moments through the season.  From their first physical meeting to Cameron meeting Lauren’s father, a touching moment between Lauren and her father before walking her down the aisle and Cameron with his mother.  True Commitment.  A family that works.  A marriage that seems like it’s set to last.

The season closes with their final thoughts summing up their experience:

“She has everything I’ve always dreamed about in a partner. She’s charismatic, but down to earth, she’s confident but also humble. She’s intelligent, she’s kind.” – Cameron

“I don’t think I ever could have met someone like Cameron any other way. I’ve been looking for Cameron for over 30 years. Apparently Cameron was looking for me too, I’m glad we finally found each other.” – Lauren

Just two nuptials take place out of the remaining couples.

The final episode becomes available tonight globally 7.30pm (Australian EST). Add it to your MYLIST if you’re looking for something to binge on this weekend.

Click below to read more reviews and news on (New articles daily)

  NETFLIX NEWS & MYLIST RECOMMENDATIONS  |  DINING  |  RECIPES  |    FILM  |  TV  |    MUSIC  |  THEATRE  |  FASHION  |  HEALTH & FITNESS  |  TECHNOLOGY  |    FAMILY & KIDS ENTERTAINMENT  |  TRAVEL  |  MOTORING  |  RESEARCH  |  PEOPLE & BUSINESS IN THE COMMUNITY  |  SOCIAL SCENE & EVENTS INTERVIEWS & PODCASTS

  Love is Blind: Who gets ditched at the altar? #loveisblind #loveisblindnetflix @netflixanz #netflix #netflixuk @camrhamilton @mattdbarnett1 @sexfact01 @KennyBarnes_11 @damian__powers @gianninagibelli @wpp_aunz @need4lspeed Did the show really need hosts? Hosted by Nick Lachey and wife Vanessa, the show was pretty self sufficient without them as they only appeared in several episodes, they didn't even bother to show up for the 82 minute season finale.   

[thesportssoundoff]

So About That Tuesday Night Contenders Series

Joey

June 26th

Watch any UFC event recently and you'll notice the constant pushing and dare I say shilling of Dana White's Tuesday Night Contenders Series.  The UFC's attempt to push its own content on its own digital platform (a novel concept!) is slowly creeping towards its air date on July 11th. The concept is a simple enough one even if some aspects of it seem to be ever so slightly and ever so gingerly getting modified before the start. Five fights every week with the winners and losers competing for the opportunity to get into the UFC. It'll be held in front of Dana White and what I'm assuming are an audience of his friends and peers given how there is no live attendance. While the original concept suggested UFC fighters would get the opportunity to rebuild their careers, it seems like the UFC has walked that back somewhat given how not a single current UFC fighter is assigned to a spot on the show.

The concept is a fresh enough approach, essentially taking out Dana White's LFAF antics and bringing us what fight fans really want to see; less of Dana hanging with the BOOOOOOYZ and more of the prospects and overlooked guys with potential getting the opportunity to get a UFC gig. As of this point, much of the format is hidden although the general onus seems to be similar to Looking For A Fight's "Win impressively and depending on how the wind is blowing and the whims of one man are at that time, you might get a deal!" That's all fine and good I guess although leaving the future of athletes up to such a vague concept as an impressive win is always going to lead to some problems. At the very least, a lot of good regional talents are going to get the opportunity they all dream of chasing when they sign up for this wacky gig. The chance to fight in front of Dana White and his friends in Vegas for more than you've ever made up until that point with the allure of a potential UFC gig is all good for the sport I'd argue.  Unfortunately quite a few questions remain on how this is all going to work out BUT before we get into that, I just want to poke around a bit on some numbers I've scrounged up.

30.5- The average age of the HWs confirmed for Dana White's Tuesday Night Contender's Series.

The age at light heavyweight and heavyweight will always be a somewhat touchy subject. As has probably been discussed time and time again, MMA's ability to chase elite athletes above 205 lbs is never going to be up there with the bigger sports even though it could/would stand to do a better job at attempting to recruit them. Outside of Stipe Miocic, the UFC's HW division in its current form is a collection of aging but well known guys from the Pride/2008 to 2011 era of the UFC and a small group of guys who rose from the ashes of a broken HW division to carve out niches for themselves. Now to their credit, the UFC HAS been aggressively signing new HWs but the division still lacks depth, prospects and the ability to let guys go on winning streaks before you violently feed them up to somebody at the top. The decision to focus on the HW division is a refreshing approaching and of the six HWs they've roped in thus far, they combine for an average age of about 31 years old (30.5 to be exact). That number is heavily skewed by the 35 year old Greg Rabello. Just for a comparison point, the top 6 in the division (Stipe plus the five contenders under him) come out at about a solid 34.5 years old. So here's my opinion on this one; sign all of them even if they lose. Turn the HW division into the undercard gamblers division and load up FP prelims with big doughy guys. You might luck into one!

10-20- Record for fights either in the UFC or against fighters who have been in the UFC

Yeah, this number isn't too pretty I suppose. Now granted there are guys like Daniel Spohn, Justin Jones and Daniel Jolly who really tip the scales here but as is often the case with TUF seasons, the prospects here haven't faired all too well when they've faced UFC quality competition. People CAN improve of course but going on pure raw data, it's looking rough to start.

0- Women's MMA fights confirmed thus far

This is a concerning number. It's not that I think the UFC is deliberately ignoring the women of mixed martial arts, I just don't know if they're out there to be had. Part of the problem with having an Invicta is that the WMMA community is so small that just about everybody winds up there at some point; most before they're ready. Tuesday Night Contenders becoming ANOTHER Invicta where ladies like Rachel Ostovich are fed to elite talents over and over is probably not good for anybody. What's more with TUF 25 being flyweights, you're not going to send them to Tuesday Night Contenders because you pretty much NEED all of them for that. And of course it's like flyweight or bantamweight TUFs, chances are if you're a good one they're just going to sign you so why bother? The UFC can't keep pilfering talents from Invicta without waiting for the stock to replenish and while a guy like TheAnticool would clearly know more as it pertains to whether it IS being replenished, there needs to be concern about how long it's taking.  Ronda's ascension to the top of the MMA landscape was expected to jolt WMMA and in many ways it did---but it's 2017 and we're still waiting to see the fruits of that labor.

7- flyweights

Be it petty posturing or a genuine warning, Dana White coming out and admitting that the last three years have featured them considering the removal of flyweight has to be concerning for all MMA fans. The UFC removing flyweights from the equation would ultimately be a bad thing for MMA (a hell of a boon to 135 tho!) and would further blur the lines between sport of business and the business of sport. Even if you acknowledge that fighters can always make their money overseas, all of the US orgs (since Bellator has shown no interest in flyweights and I'm not even sure the new chain at WSOF know what flyweights are) abandoning the division would do serious damage to the growth of MMA. As such, it's refreshing to see Dana White's Tuesday Night Contender Series has thus far cornered the market on flyweights not in the organization.

4- Fighters coming off a loss

The idea of DWTCS was the best prospects vs the best prospects and old UFC guys trying to regroup and rebound after a series of losses. When names started getting announced and people started to complete the picture, there was some rankling about signing guys to compete who were coming off losses. That, at least so far, is overstated. Just four of the guys on the show are coming off of a loss.

So those are just some things I wanted to dig through and look over. Despite this, questions STILL remain. Such as....

1- How are they going to make money off of this?

Seriously. There's no TV rights deal (here or abroad) and there's no gate because the show is attended by Dana's friends and fam. One would assume that the UFC is paying for crapola even if the UFC owns the venue and etc etc. Right off the bat, you're talking about 50K going out (5K for 10 guys plus 25K on top for the winners). So how ya paying for this? Fight Pass subs?

2- Is it possible to LOSE and get into the UFC?

We see it all of the time. The "win and get in" style of UFC TUF Finale is bent slightly so that guys who put on an amazing fight and lose can still get a chance. Will the UFC keep with that mentality here? Given that so much of this is the whim of one man, is it win and get in only?

3- What will the outfits look like?

It'd be...awkward if Dana White's side league project featured fighters wearing sponsored swag. Is it going to be like 2013 where dudes had big sponsorship lapses and so they had guys wearing UFC trunks? I know that they're treating Dana White's Tuesday Night Contenders where it's like an alternate organization BUT if I'm a fighter and I make it into the UFC off the show, I want this fight to count for my UFC record.

4- Production? Any ideas?

Again with no real way to make money, what will the production look like? I hate to make the comp here but I don't think this product is going to succeed if it feels like a dark match/house show with no video packages, no commentary and no sizzle with their graphics. I'd really like to see what they do with the commentary spot. One thing I'd really like to see is different guys being given the opportunity to try their hand at live commentary. If they're bad, it's not going to be the end of the world and if they're good, as guys like Cruz proved to be, then you can start grooming your next crop of rotating commentators. I bet the UFC would LOVE a day where they can just sandblast the sports world with a show from Asia that starts at 8 on ESPN/FS1, a show from England that starts at 12 on ESPN 2/FS2 and then a big show at 8 PM that goes back onto the main network. To pull that shit off, you need developed competent commentators and MAYBE this can be an attempt to pull that off.

5- Where are the international guys at?

The current crop are 95% Americans with 5% delegated to some Europeans who live and operate within the US. I'd LOVE to see them move in some guys from Asia to get a chance. There's a lot of PXC guys who aren't good enough in theory for the UFC but could benefit from the opportunity to at least compete there.

6- Ringer Fights

Obviously any REALLY REALLY great prospects are getting UFC calls and not wasting their time on this. But let's say you do so decide to go to the UFC through Tuesday Night Contenders. Let's use Jose "Shorty" Torres for a sec, k? Would you take a Jose Torres and give him an obvious squash match set up so he looks super impressive to get the hype going? If so, can they handle the backlash if we see through it?

In the end, this is somewhere between a regional organization and a UFC lite. It's Dana White attempting to create a Looking For A Fight without having to look for it. It's a chance for prospects, veterans who live under the radar and potential organizational filler to get fights. For fighters on the regional circuit, it represents a substantial jump up in pay. There are just too many questions and concerns for this project to get out of the "cautiously optimistic" stage.

[snippychicke]

Of Monsters & Men--Six

I didn’t die. We’re going to a new charting program and since I’m on the most computer-proficient person on the ‘off’ hours (aka, when management is gone) I’m deemed the superuser for the PM/Noc shift of a 200 bed, four-unit facility. THE ONLY PERSON. I have my House RN asking me for help along with other nurses and aides. It’s insane. 

@idesinfection, @crowleys-poppet-queen-of-asgard @aislinsekhem

Title: Of Monsters and Men

Rating:  Not quite innocent (T)

Chapter: Six

You felt incredibly self-conscious as you pulled your longcoat a little tighter around your body when Graves opened the door and gave you long look. It was bad enough walking around New York all dressed up, especially with the hem of your dress actually shorter than your coat. But facing Percival  with that expression on his face...well, your face was feeling extremely warm while your heart fluttered nervously. “Ehehe, hi.”

“Date night?” he asked rather politely after a moment, and you were fairly sure you imagined the flash of...something on his face, and if there had been something, it was gone before you could even guess what it could be.

“What? Oh, no. No no no.” You hesitated before undoing the buttons of the coat, revealing the slinky knee-length dress that almost glittered in the light. “I, uh, I got the part time gig at the 90th ave. club. Back up singer with some waitressing,” you admitted, “Nahuel caught me on the way there.”

The cat, which had been watching you two with a glint in his eye, sniffed slightly before he brushed past Graves, completely unnoticed. His master shifted slightly, leaning against the doorpost as he relaxed with a slight smile on his face, which did absolutely nothing good for your blush, or your heart for that matter. It should be completely illegal for someone to look that good, you thought. Slicked back hair, pressed white shirt that was slightly unbuttoned and sleeves pushed up past the elbows, and black slacks that showcased his long legs.

“Well, you look beautiful.” He said after a brief moment, making your eyes jump back up to his, noticing that wicked little smirk on his lips at catching you. You had to glance away, embarrassed at being caught.

But, to be fair, he had ogled you first.

Oh gosh.

“I, ah, th-thank you.” You stuttered after a second. “You too....! I-I mean, uh, um, well shit.”

There was a warm, rich laughter that filled the hallway and made your stomach flutter. You had heard him chuckle before, but not a full laugh like that. Your mind blanked for a moment as you stared again, transfixed by how much his face changed with a wide smile on it. “Would you like an escort, my lady?” he asked after a moment, warm smile still on his lips.

“I, uh, I can handle it,” you stuttered out, “You don’t need to keep inconveniencing yourself  on my behalf, Mr. Graves. Not-not that I mind! I really do enjoy your company, I really do. I just really  hate to be a nuisance when you’ve been nothing but kind to me…” you trailed off weakly as he pushed off the doorpost and stalked towards you, reminding you rather of an oversized cat. Dangerous but beautiful. And for the second time you were backed up against the wall, with Percival Graves far too close for comfort.

Not that you minded this time. Not at all. Especially with that light in his dark eye. A new, far more pleasant knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you bumped into the wall, thankful it would at least keep on your feet as your knees decided to become jelly.

“M-Mr. Graves….”

“Percival.”

“Percival,” you corrected yourself a little ashamed over how breathless you sounded. How breathless you felt.

“Now, miss,” he continued, your name rolling languidly off his tongue, “I asked if you wanted company. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

“W-well, if you--if you want....”

“Do you want me too?” he interrupted huskily. By now, he was closer than when he interrogated  you over Credence. His arm braced on either side of you, his nose  nearly brushing yours.

Close enough to kiss.

Was he going to?

Did you want him too?

Ok, that was an obviously a stupid question. You unconsciously licked your lips, all to aware of his gaze follow your tongue as he mimicked it. You had completely forgotten his question; and had your mind worked, you would’ve guessed he had forgotten as well. His nose brushed against yours again, one hand coming up to brush your cheek tenderly. Your eyes fluttered close as his breath ghosted over your lips.

And a shrill alarm broke through the tense silence, followed by a curse from Percival. You were both stunned and lost as he withdrew, blinking rapidly as your mind tried to process what was going on. Or rather, what wasn’t.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but duty calls.” He pressed a quick kiss to your knuckles before  he disappeared back into his apartment.

What….

What just happened?

***

The next morning you woke to a warm body curled alongside yours.

A warm, furry, and purring one.

You pulled back your blanket, not that surprised to see a tawny ball of fur pressed against your stomach. A golden eye lazily opened, blinking slightly before he shifted slightly and went back to sleep.

“How in the world…” you trailed off, staring dumbfoundedly at the cat. “You need me to open doors for you, yet I’m pretty sure no one let you in here.”The only answer you got was a slight flick of his ear, making you sigh and give into the urge of scratching the fur between his ears. “You are one strange cat.”

You glanced over at the clock on your nightstand; nine in the morning, and thankfully your day off. Even better, the other girls apparently had respected your request not to be woken. Your gig at the club had lasted until one, and you had finally crawled into bed sometime after three in the morning.

It was hard to miss the off-white envelope leaning against the golden alarm clock, your name written in perfect penmanship. Nahuel barely budged as you reached for the letter and carefully opened it, pulling out a simple white card.

There’s a development that requires my attention. I’m afraid I’ll be gone for a few days. Don’t worry about Nahuel, he can take care of himself.

I look forward to seeing you again ~P.G.

You felt flush as you read and then re-read the simple note, especially as your mind recalled the husky quality to his voice as you read the last sentence. This could turn out to be much more than you anticipated. More than you could have even dared to wish for.

Your bedmate complained as you suddenly sat up, giving you a dark look as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. It was suddenly far too warm beneath the blankets, especially the warm furnace that was Nahuel. This was unreal. When you had announced your plans to move from your small town to New York, your family and friends accused you of having a silly dream like this. Striking it rich and meeting some ritzy man and falling head-over-heels in love.

You hadn’t; you just wanted a more interesting life than a small town could offer. You figured you could meet an average Joe that was more tolerable than the uneducated boys back home, and between the two of you make a decent life. Just along as you didn’t become a boring housewife like your sisters and friends.

But here you were, in a quasi-friendship with a quickly developing romantic twinge with one hell of a handsome, if intensely mysterious, man. Who also had one very odd cat.

Speaking of which, you noticed the edge of the note had a small, semi-circular indent rather reminiscent of a cat bite. You looked back to the light bronze cat, who had claimed your pillow as the proper place to give himself a bath. “I suppose you delivered this,” you joked, though only partially. Logic dictated that it was probably one of the girls that snuck into your room and left it. Except, you were a rather light sleeper, and you would have woken to the groan and creak of the old door opening.

Nahuel paused, shooting you a look that almost looked defensive before he resumed grooming. You chuckled as you gave into the temptation of running your hand through the thick fur, which he leaned up into, and followed your hand back to your lap, demanding more. “You are a very odd cat indeed. And as much as I care for you, Mrs. Shapiro will kill both of us if she sees you.”

Nahuel gave a small chirp in return as he stretched out on you, very nonchalant. “Fine, but if you get caught, don’t say I didn’t tell you.” Maybe you should be worried you were so used to talking to the cat as if heh could understand you...but honestly, you almost believed he could.

Nauhel virtually ignored you as you got dressed; having previously promised McNally to come in around noon or ‘whenever you get your lazy bones out of bed.’

Except as you did finally leave the boarding house, sure that the cat had still been lounging on your pillow, you found him waiting at the street corner. It surprised you for a moment, giving him a look as he more-or-less led you to work. Really, you hoped McNally was more accepting of the feline than Shapiro.

But still, it was rather odd of him...or maybe he was use to spending the day with Graves and felt rather lonely. It was still odd he knew exactly where the corner store was, and showed no hesitation in finding a spot in the shelves behind the counter to lounge and watch as people came and went during the afternoon.

“Ma’am? Is that your cat?”

You finished ringing-up a customer, glancing at Credence whose focus was on said cat behind you. Which, of course. What other cat was there? Still, you looked up at nahuel, whose eyes were just barely open as you answered. “Not exactly. He belongs to a friend. But I’m looking after him. Or maybe he’s looking after me.”

Nahuel chirped lightly, apparently finding the last one more accurate. He jumped down from his shelf and onto the counter, spooking Credence slightly-more out of the sudden movement than anything. You were rather surprised as Credence barely hesitated before reaching out to scratch Nahuel behind the ears, apparently familiar with him. And Nahuel, who hissed or ignored people, was just eating up the attention, his purr loud enough you could easily hear it.

“You know him?”

Credence looked slightly abashed, glancing only briefly at you as he focused on the cat. “He finds me sometimes. When I’m alone. He’s...a rather strange cat.”

Apparently, and more than you had realized. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?”

Next

[theculturalvacuum]

A Storm of Fan-Fic Asks Round-Up!

This is the last of the bunch that I’ve been hoarding. What we learned is that this story doesn’t have enough characters and that their relationships aren’t complex enough.

The next chapter is going to be a long one so, like, don’t hold your breath. (I promise it’ll be worth it?)

The Story: A Wedding in Sunspear

Anonymous said:

Lovin the tales you are spinnin My Lady, one little ask, why does Ormond never mention his mother when he asks about his sister and Clarion? Did she die? Run away to spouse island? Went home? Gone native and living with a paramour? Been fridged?

I mean, having one parent be mysteriously non-existent is kind of a Martin-esque tradition when it comes to Dorne… I don’t think she’s dead. Her name isn’t grey on the family tree. She may be like Senna on Project Voicebend, except she never asserts that she is also there?

I doubt Edgar pays her much attention, and the kids take their cues from him.

Anonymous said:

Wow, Daeron is a dick, but very realistic. Especially with all his privilege and probably no one ever telling him the truth. Even Jeremy probably still sugar coats things to him, given their situation and the massive difference in rank. Also for Daeron all the love matches around him he probably makes him think he deserves a bite of that pie too. Everyone else in his family broke engagements why shouldn't he. Maybe he didn't want to be left out of that club.

Daeron is, indeed, a dick.

Like, Jeremy deserves so much fucking better. Any decent thing Daeron has ever done was only because Jerry was there having a positive influence. What does he see in the spoiled dickhead?

Sorry, sometimes I forget that I made up this relationship dynamic and it makes me angry.

Anonymous said:

Are you sure you didn't get the lineages wrong with Deneza and Joleta. The one without the Martell Mama is the one who seems much more Martell (or at least the devotion of job and duty) and the one with the Martell Mama seems to embrace the Martell special status she gets from it but not take on any of the duty aspects.

Ha. Maybe that’s Joleta’s Gargalen side? I have no clue. They’re certainly more chill than Martells.

Deneza’s job is kind of a big deal. And this wedding is the biggest thing she done. Joleta is kind of being a jerk.

Anonymous said:

What's the coat of arms of House Laq? I'm guessing it's got light green on it somewhere, considering Kylie's family tree

Yes, it’s a light green field with a grey stone watchtower. Their words are “Our Ground Remains Firm”. Because, like, they live in a river valley in the middle of a desert that floods seasonally, like the Nile, so the literal ground isn’t so firm, by they are. Because they’re so steadfast and junk.

Yeah.

Anonymous said:

Well now I have to know more specifics So what fruits is Deneza into? Dates? Berries? Apples? Figs? Pomegranates? Apricots? Or is she a junk food dornish style kind of gal who? Is she secretly into dornish eggs? The ones that don't exist like spaghetti Bolognese doesn't but weirdly she likes this northern appropriation of what they think is a dornish dish.

She likes persimmons, because they’re the best and she has good taste.

She thinks all those northern “Dornish” dishes that they think are spicey but totally are not are adorable.

Anonymous said:

I feel like the big thing that's coming is dany and maron fucking in the middle of a feast or something. Am I close?

Omg. No comment.

Anonymous said:

Is Simon Leygood the indebted Simon who tried for Rohanne's hand? Or is he another Simon? Lets hope Lady Blackmont keeps him away from money if he's the same guy.

No, that dude would be, like 100 years old by now. Those Leygoods have family names, I guess.

Anonymous said:

Will we hear a bit more about how Owain is coping in Dorne in the upcoming chapters? I wonder if in the future he'll go native. His life will be interesting and a bit freer. He's there with his cousin who is going to be the consort of the Princess of Dorne and he's staying there so he'll be a well connected match for a lady of Dorne who wants to be closer connected to the Princely house. He seems quite easy going, Dorne might agree with him. Plus he's under miles less pressure than Eliott

Well, he’s Eliott’s BFF, so he’ll be around for sure.

I’m sorry, but anything like the phrase “Dorne agrees with me” just reminds me of Madison and her stupid slutty dress. Maybe Owain will start wearing a bathrobe of sex appeal?

JK, he doesn’t wear a sword on dates either.

To be honest, I haven’t given much thought to Owain’s future, maybe he’ll hook up with Alyse Ladybright. She would see all the social climbing implications that you mentioned.

Anonymous said:

Daenella is the best. Kind of nice to see a sort of somewhat anti-martell who doesn't take her responsibilities so seriously. I'm sure those poor smallfolk where she is were delighted when she came thinking that they'd get answers to their questions and then action and now they're probably sitting around wondering if they could exchange their martell for another one

Aw, poor smallfolk.

I wouldn’t call her an anti-Martell, though. Her ability to flit around doing whatever is just the other side of the privilege coin as Loree and her tyrannical tendencies.  

Anonymous said:

Yay, was cool seeing a bit more the bigger non POV characters again like Joleta and Rhona. Rhona is a superstar, she not only gets all the shit done, knows everyones name, now she's lost her bed as well. I'm glad she seems to have job satisfaction though, lol, she has a fantastic position at court in the ear of the future ruling Princess a job she'll likely have for a long while is the grooming to take over goes well, I'm sure losing her bed for a little bit is no huge price to pay

Yeah, Rhona has a pretty plum gig. And she’s good at her job and everyone knows it. I think her brand of administrative competence is admired the same way that martial abilities in men are admired. It’s the same reason Deneza is thought to be such a badass, for example.

It’s kind of a bizarre world where you can parlay a job helping a lady put on her jewelry into one collecting taxes or whatever, isn’t it?

Anonymous said:

Poor Genna that must have all been very unpleasant. I don't thik she expected that to happen probably a dornish guy wouldn't have bragged in the same way or at least not in that particular setting, plus the dynamic would have been different with a dornish guy. don't think she was quite prepared for this mess at all, nice to see her with Gallwel though, although he's a younger brother so that's probably a different kind of dynamic than one where Maron sees her as a younger sister to protect.

Yeah, Genna might have the Martell lack of perfect judgement when it comes to sexual partners, but she wouldn’t have done it if she knew that would happen. And gender roles still exist, so most women would think they need a bro to punch dudes in the face.

Anonymous said:

What do you mean you hope Joleta and Deneza don't hit any rough patches, you naughty author!!!!!! You are the boss of them don't let them control you, you tell them to behave and play nice and be together and happy forever. Thank god there isn't any bullets in this world or else you know exactly who those damn things will be attracted to like magnets. Thankfully lesbians seem to have less issues with arrows.

You know, relationships are hard.

I’m not saying arrows will be involved, but there will be exactly one death in this story.

Anonymous said: How widely known is it that Arion is Genna Sand's father? Maron, Dany, and Genna herself all seem to know, as does Ariandra Fowler (who seems to think it's her duty to know everyone's business). Is it one of those things that almost everybody knows, but it's considered rude to talk about?

Dude, everyone knows. It’s officially just a rumour, but it was obvious from day One.

Anonymous said:

How do you imagine Ormond and Olyvar Sand's relationship? Ormond squired for Olyvar and was knighted by him, but he seems to have a closer relationship with Rhod than Olyvar. Speaking of Ormond, do you see him a foil for Loree? Loree is almost a perfect reflection of her father, while Ormond is quite different from his own father. Is that just a product of being raised at Sunspear/the Water Gardens or would Ormond and Edgar be different even if Ormond were raised at Yronwood?

Yeah, I should put some work in that relationship. Olyvar is kind of intense, so I think Ormond couldn’t really turn to him for that more nurturing father role that he needed, and Rhod is a total softy. But as I said, I’ll put thought into this.

As for Ormond being nothing like Edgar… I suggest rereading “Ormond I”?

Anonymous said:

I'm really enjoying your Rowan's. I was always going to like the Martells because well duh!!, but the Rowans have really got my attention, particularly the two cutie pies of Sarra and Aelora, as well as my main man Adwin. Eliott is fun but I foresee him having a rocky road ahead before he finds any kind of solid ground in Dorne. Corret is like the typical Reach dude who even has his own courtly love story that could be a song. It's good to see them holding their own in the character stakes.

Thank you. Women with patriarchy brain are the most fascinating characters ever, and Corret is a bit of a challenge. It’s really tempting to make him a total asshole, but I have Tybutt for that.

Anonymous said:

I'm strangely positive for virgingate. I feel like Eliott needs to have his bubble properly burst before she can actually get his head around the life and marriage he's going to have. Once he's done that then he can slowly start finding a place in his new world and creating an actual relationship with Loree and learning and embracing soft power and a role he never thought he'd have. But until the bubble truly burst he'll keep clinging to the image in his head of how he thought his life would be

Well, I guess the question is if he’ll be able to get over himself.

Anonymous said:

Okay so I'm sorry, but in a modern au what are the cliche college tropes for your characters? Lewyn is the likeable jock, for instance.

Okay, here we go:

Loreza - the legacy kid who still gets straight As.

Eliott - Soccer player who everyone likes. Very good at beer pong. Secretly came to university to actually learn.

Alyse - the naturally brilliant one who doesn’t need to study.

Horas - Asshole football player who everyone tolerates because football in American universities terrifies me.

Dany - the younger sister who came for a tour and ended up drunk.

Rhona - Obsessed with her resume

Morgan - the younger brother who has all the college sweatshirts and wears them to middle school

Maron - the legacy kid who wouldn’t have gotten in otherwise

Lewyn - the good hearted football player everyone likes

Joleta - the party girl/star of the tennis team

Ormond - Double major in english and history. He didn’t make the team. He’s invited to all the parties but ends up taking care of the drunk people. His dad is in jail for a while collar crime.

Elda - the one who’s in the pictures from all the parties, but is never tagged

Genna - the cool one who also has a tragic backstory

Jeremy - closeted water polo player

Daeron - the fine arts major with blue hair. His thing is graphic design. It’s his passion.

Rolyn - IR major who likes to play frisbee on the lawn of the frat house. Member of the debate team, but he makes it cool.

Eldon - Baseball player who’s fucking a professor. He’s a really good pitcher, but chose college over the farm system. General mensch.

Mariah Florent - the cheerleader that no one finds hot

Olenna - in the marching band.

Ami - the one who you don’t understand how the hell she got into a university in the first place. Oddly devoted to her boring, and much less hot, boyfriend.

Tyia - Scholarship student who studies accounting because she’s sensible. Plays the flute in the orchestra.

Alleza - High school kid who takes college courses for fun.

Alastor - Brilliant history grad student with a substance abuse problem. He’s the TA who shows up shit faced.

Deria - Cool professor, buys the underage students beer.

Artyr - Perfectly adequate polisci grad student overshadowed by his sister.

Deneza - Economics postgrad well into the tenure track. Somehow got herself involved with a student.

Anonymous said:

Maron only likes three people? I'm assuming that means Arion, Morgan and Dany. But he seemed to like Genna well enough. Does he not like his grandfather and mother and aunts, and uncle? Even though one of his aunts and his uncle are so much younger than him, he surely can't dislike those two that much, Devan in particular is only a kid. I can imagine though when he is at Wyl him and Ariandre have an interesting relationship to say the least.

I’m not sure how much Maron like Arion, to tell you the truth. He did kind of, like, abandon him for ten years. His formative years too. And a lot of Arion’s proud papa stuff with him is guilt. (He’s still a Martell, after all.) This is another thing I should actually explore, I think….

But yeah, I meant Dany and his two sibs as the three people. He thinks the rest of his family are okay, I guess, but those are the three people he would actually get off his ass for.

Anonymous said:

My main take away from this new sumptuous chapter was, Deneza works too hard, Joleta feels neglected, probably horny and Deneza feels like Joleta doesn't care about how much pressure she's under right now. Not sure much else happened in this chapter, think there was some guy called Daeron involved in some fuckery but mainly my attention was fully on my OTP of this canon having a domestic. When this is all over Deneza and Joleta need some alone nakey time and a looooooong chat, then more nakey.

You know, if sex could solve all relationship problems like that, I would never have any relationship problems ever. What a world that would be.

But yeah, Joleza are way more interesting that Daeron had his general dickishness.

Anonymous said:

I have no idea what you've got planned (or not planned) for little Ellaria Uller but I hope we get to see her interact with her dad when Corret I around. I just want to see the contrast between them, but also secretly I want Ellaria to be the very clever type who Dylan hopes might one day be a Keeper of a Tower, or another high ranking job. And Corret is just bewildered by it all, and how Dylan is so into the idea of having a clever daughter who will help run Dorne.

I like this idea. She wants to be just like her Aunt Deria when she grows up.

And poor Corret.

Anonymous said:

Besides Daenella, would you describe any of the Martells in your fic as hot Martells? Rhod and all his siblings seem to be pretty cold (even Arion only seems lukewarm) and Loree and Lewyn both seem pretty cold as well. Would Maron and Joleta count as hot Martells because they're half Martell or are the disqualified for not having the Martell name?

Well, the Hot and Cold Martell paradigm is a gross oversimplification of complex personalities. People like neat stories.

That being said, Rhod and Loree are both about as Cold as you can get. But even they both have… moments. Keep reading.

Arion is more than fifty, so he’s mellowed out. In his youth he was as Hot as Oberyn was, even if he never managed to kill any of his dad’s bannermen. Trystana is… not as Cold as she’d like to think. Lewyn is quite lukewarm. Maybe because he’s just a kid or maybe because I haven’t really characterized him all that well.

I don’t think people in Dorne would consider Maron or Joleta Martell enough to have a temperature.

Anonymous said:

Is the lack of Fossoways at the wedding intentional? I'd have thought they'd be all over this situation given their close blood connection to Eliott?

To tell you the truth, I never considered them. This story already has so many characters.

God, this ask round-up is all about my failings as an author isn’t it? If you like you can pretend they’re there in one of the giant retinues, but never do anything worth mentioning.

[komorebirei]

Her Story | Chapter 1: A Fortuitous Meeting

Chapter word count: 1,553

Julien slammed the front door behind him, giving the door an extra tug until the bolt clicked into place. As a chilly gust blew between his jacket and his thin button-down shirt, he regretted not zipping it and took a moment to do so. He lived in cozy Greenwich Village flat, at the top of a tall, narrow set of stairs that led straight from the front door to the sidewalk. Red and yellow leaves faintly littered the steps, a sure indication that summer was over. Autumn was his favorite season, and he took a deep breath of the crisp air, knowing the season would be a fleeting pleasure before the bone-cold New York winter would arrive.

He flew down the steps, taking care not to slip on the leaves, as a painful spill would make him later than he already was. The model would surely arrive on scene before he did. Putting one hand on his camera bag so that it wouldn’t bounce as he wove through the pedestrian traffic at a rapid pace, he made his way to the rendezvous point, a small café several blocks away. He felt a little guilty for taking advantage of the client’s proximity and leaving so late, but hoped that the client would forgive him. Operating his phone with one hand, he shot off a quick text—Sorry, running late. Be there in 5.

The door to the café jingled as he pushed it open, looking around to assess the scene. There were several customers enjoying breakfast and coffee, and an attractive couple at the window table making conversation. Behind the counter, an older man was smiling at him and waved him over. “You must be Julien,” he said, glancing at the camera equipment slung over his shoulder. “I’m Fred. Glad you could make it.”

Julien reached out a hand to shake Fred’s. “Nice to meet you, Fred. I’m sorry I’m late. Is the model here yet?" 

Fred nodded his head at the couple by the window, who were apparently meeting for the first time. “I figured it would make the photos better if we threw a girl into the picture, so I hired her too. They just got here a few minutes ago." 

Julien mentally sighed in relief that they hadn’t been waiting for long. “Yeah, the girl’s a great addition. Good thinking. Could you describe the mood you’re going for and any ideas you have for the shoot? And are there any special menu items you want to showcase?" 

As Fred briefed Julien on the photoshoot, he brought out a tray of pastries that he had prepared beforehand and made his way out from behind the counter. The two of them walked to the table where the models sat, and Fred continued the briefing with more details for their benefit. Meanwhile, Julien unpacked his camera and tripod, and evaluated the best angle to catch the light from the window. After Fred left them to carry out the shoot, a young man came over with a few drinks that Fred wanted as part of the shoot. Julien nodded in thanks. “The caramel one’s for you,” the boy added before slipping away. 

Julien loved his job. He never thought he would have made it as a freelance photographer, but after a lifetime of taking photos as a hobby and uploading them to Instagram, he had gained quite a following. It hadn’t been difficult for him to start getting professional gigs, and now, the jobs came steadily enough that he had the luxury of rejecting a few without the need to worry about finances. Visiting new places and new people on a daily basis made for an interesting lifestyle, and he enjoyed how delighted his clients always were to receive the final photos. 

Bringing his camera down to review the last few shots, Julien gave a pleased nod and looked up to smile at the two models. “I think we have quite the selection. Thanks, guys. It’s been a pleasure working with you.” The models shook his hand one by one and grabbed their coats, going to the counter to say goodbye to Fred before they left. Julien glanced at the table—they had sipped from their drinks during the shoot, but the pastries were left untouched. He chuckled to himself. The life of a model mustn’t be easy. Beauty comes at a price. 

Packing away the last of his equipment, Julien slung the tripod and camera bags over his shoulder and went over to Fred at the counter. “I got some great shots,” he said, grinning. “I’ll just select the best ones, do some post processing and share the final results with you by tomorrow." 

“Awesome, thanks,” Fred smiled, then handed Julien a bag and a pastry tissue. “The pastries used in the shoot will be going in the trash unless you take them. Go ahead and help yourself." 

Julien laughed. “Sure, I’d never refuse a sweet treat." 

“Don’t worry about the tray, Mike’ll clean everything up." 

Julien nodded. “Thanks, Fred. You’ll hear from me tomorrow. Hope to work with you again sometime.” He reached into his pocket to pull out a silver business card case and pulled one out for Fred. It was black, with a velvet finish and white font, his logo embellished across the top in a glossy clear finish. 

“Classy card,” Fred commented. 

They nodded at each other to say goodbye and Julien went to collect the rejected pastries. Folding the paper bag closed, he swung open the door and almost ran into a tall man who was on his way inside. 

“Excuse me, sir.” Julien apologized, stepping aside to hold the door open for the man. 

The man was tall, wearing a black pea coat and black slacks. His hair was well groomed and parted on the side, and his face cleanly shaven. It was hard to miss a large instrument strapped to his back in a white hard case. He stood with a surprised expression, not moving past Julien as he expected, but looking him up and down. 

‘Do I know this man?’ Julien thought, finding his reaction strange. “Go ahead,” he said, wondering why the man had stopped. 

“Uhh, no,” the man answered, finally snapping out of it. His eyes hardened and he lost the surprised expression, seeming to focus. “Actually, I came for you." 

“You—what?” Julien was confused. 

“I heard you’d be here. Julien, right?" 

“Yes…?” Heard… from whom? Why was he looking for Julien? Julien ran through the emails and conversations he’d had in the past few days, wondering if he’d missed something. 

“Oh—I’m sorry to confuse you. You don’t know me. But I heard about you and—can I schedule to meet you? I uh—” the man glanced at Julien’s photography equipment. “I’m a cellist and need some promotional shots taken.” 

“Oh, ok.” So that large instrument was a cello. Julien still thought something was a bit off about this encounter, but at least it was all starting to make sense. Maybe he was an Instagram follower and had somehow gotten wind of the shoot at the café. “Sure, let me give you my card. I’ll have to confirm my schedule but you can email me the best days for you and details about the types of shots you’ll need. The more detail the better, so I know if I need to bring any special equipment.” He took out a card and handed it to the man. 

“Thanks.” Accepting the card, the man quickly passed it to his other hand and held out his empty one to shake Julien’s. “I’m Hubert. Nice to meet you." 

“Hubert? Nice to meet you. Great timing, huh? I was just on my way out." 

“Yeah,” Hubert answered with a wry smile. “Well—I guess I’ll order a coffee since I’m here. I’ll shoot you an email today." 

Julien decided not to go home right away but instead to enjoy the fall weather a bit longer and take a few practice shots. He slipped the camera out of its bag and looped the strap behind his neck. The portrait lens would be perfect for art shots. Maybe he could even sell a few to stock image websites. He was aware the camera made him look like a tourist, but didn’t really care. 

Not long had passed before he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Letting the camera hang from his neck, he stood behind a light pole to avoid foot-traffic and pulled out his phone. It was an email from Hubert with the subject line, “Appointment.” 

Hello Julien, Glad I was able to meet you today. If possible can we meet tomorrow at 3 p.m.? I’m sorry I can’t give you options, but my schedule is tight and I need the shots as soon as possible. So I’m hoping that time works for you. Let me know as soon as you can. Thanks, Hubert

Julien whipped up his phone calendar to make sure his schedule was open. He had a meeting with a client in the morning, but his afternoon was free. He switched to the email app to type a response. 

Sure, 3 p.m. works. Where should I meet you and what type of shots would you like? —Julien

Little did he know, tomorrow’s meeting would be more than just a photoshoot.

--------

Ok, I caved. Even though we’re halfway through November, I’m hopping on board for National Novel Writing Month. Maybe I’ll give myself until Dec. 12 since I’m getting a late start.

This novel is an allegory for something that is very close to my heart. The whole plot is mapped out. Here’s to hoping I can get through it all.

[fashiontrendin-blog]

What To Wear To A Job Interview

http://fashion-trendin.com/what-to-wear-to-a-job-interview/

What To Wear To A Job Interview

The world of work has changed immeasurably from when your dad was a lad. Back then, there was only one option for a job interview: a dark suit, white shirt and sensible tie. Shoes gleaming, hair combed, handshake practised. If he got the gig then he might introduce a few new shades of shirt, maybe a tie with a pattern. But officewear was, by and large, immutable. You wore what your boss wore. Your boss wore what his boss had worn. Repeat to fade.

Then the workplace exploded. Start-ups. Flexitime. Hot desking. All extremely mutable. The world’s wealthiest men took to wearing chinos, or jeans and hoodies. If you wanted to be like them, were you supposed to dress like them? If you wanted to present yourself as a go-getting, entrepreneurial sort, was this the new job interview aesthetic?

Well, no. The Mark Zuckerberg look is best accessorised with a billion-odd dollars. But also, yes. Roll into your tech interview in a charcoal three-piece and they’ll assume you’re there to discuss their corporate insurance. “You’re dressing to give a good impression to the interviewer and show that you would fit in well with the company,” says Sarah Gilfillan, founder of personal styling service Sartoria Lab. Which means your clothes need to fit their company culture.

To help you make sense of the new world of work, we spoke to some of the country’s finest image consultants, to get their read on what works where. So whether you’re interviewing at Goldman Sachs or Gold’s Gym, you’ll be dressed the part.

The Corporate Job Interview

Even the City has relaxed its dress codes somewhat over the last decade. But if you’re interviewing for a job with responsibility, you won’t get points for wardrobe creativity. “This is not the time to try a new look or mess around with convention,” says style consultant Penny Bennett. Keep it safe and nail the details. You’re going for ‘safe pair of hands’, not ‘fly-by-night maverick’.

The Rules

Number one: wear a suit. Or don’t turn up at all. In the hierarchical corporate world, you should never be less smart than the person on the other side of the table. “Dressing casually just doesn’t show respect for the person interviewing you,” says personal stylist Daniel Johnson, “the person who can potentially change the course of your career.”

But that doesn’t mean you need to overdo it. Smart is not the same as flashy; if your watch is worth more than your interviewer’s car, you could come across as a playboy. For your tailoring, stick to safe colours like charcoal and navy and avoid anything more than the subtlest of patterns. Keep your accessories equally muted; think striped or block-colour ties and, if you must wear a pocket square, white beats polka dots. Once you get the job you can add more personality, but at the first hurdle you don’t want your clothes to distract from your CV. Look at how the contestants on The Apprentice dress, then do the opposite.

More important than what you wear is how you wear it. “Always go for the best materials you can afford,” says Bennett. A grey, cashmere-blend suit speaks louder – and says better things – than polyester checks. Fit is equally important. Designers may have reinvented the boxy suit, but to the uninitiated, you’ll look like you’ve got it wrong. A safe centre ground is best: not spray-on, not baggy. Pay particular attention to cuffs and trouser hems; the former should hit the heel of your thumb, the latter should have a slight break on your shoes. “It’s an easy fix and will make a huge difference to how your outfit looks,” says Gilfillan.

Finally, shoes. “There is no point getting a bespoke suit made and teaming it with scuffed and worn shoes,” says Bennett. “In 2012, researchers at the University of Kansas found we can glean 90 per cent of someone’s personality just by looking at their shoes, including character traits, salary and political inclinations. So invest in appropriate shoes that show you are dependable and indispensable.” Think dark colours, premium materials, leather rather than rubber soles, and laces, not buckles.

The Fail-Safe Outfit

“You can’t go wrong in a navy suit with a white shirt and burgundy tie,” says Gilfillan. “It’s an ultra-classic shirt and tie combination for formal attire. The high contrast between the navy and white makes you look sharp and authoritative.”

Pay particular attention to your shoes. Brogues are too casual, so stick to Oxfords. “Wear oxblood, chocolate or black shoes. Avoid tan, which will look too casual.” And please, make sure they’re polished.

The Professional Job Interview

Welcome to the prototypical British office, home to understocked kitchens, overstocked personal politics and a dress code that’s slowly inching from not-quite-corporate to business casual. Quite what business casual means is anyone’s guess. “But don’t go too casual as it shows a lack of respect and looks like the interview is not important to you,” says Gilfillan. “If you’re not sure, err on the side of smarter.”

The Rules

Appropriateness is in the eye of the beholder. It doesn’t matter what you deem workplace acceptable, you need to meet the standards of the person asking the questions. To figure it out, grab your phone.

“One great trick that I like to use is to do a hashtag search on Instagram and search the place I’m going to,” says Johnson. “You’ll get a real, candid view of what other people are wearing and you’d be surprised at how many people post things at work.” The company’s website should also offer an idealised version of how they expect their staff to dress, and stalking employees on LinkedIn can also offer clues (bonus: they’ll see your activity and you’ll seem keen). To be on the safe side, make your outfit a notch smarter than what your hopefully-future-colleagues wear every day.

Your best bet is a suit, says Gilfillan. “It works for any kind of interview.” But you’ve got a touch more leeway with the details. Great fit is de rigueur, but you’re less likely to get marked down for a jazzy (not novelty) tie or pocket square. Coloured or even patterned shirts are also fine, although keep them classic: stripes good, florals bad.

If a suit feels too dressed-up, break things up with separates. But bear in mind that by dressing down your tailoring, everything else needs to step up a notch – white shirt, muted accessories, very sensible shoes. “Don’t forget to consider your grooming,” says Bennett. “You will undermine all the effort and effect of your outfit if you’re unkempt. Get a haircut the week before, tidy up any facial hair and check that your nails are trimmed and clean.”

The Fail-Safe Outfit

“A grey Prince of Wales check suit, ice blue shirt and dark green tie,” says Gilfillan. “The pattern of the suit and the combination of colours keeps your look interesting but still formal. Add a pocket square that includes both the colours of the shirt and tie to pull the whole look together.”

The Creative Job Interview

The adage of ‘dress to impress’ is what leads men towards garish ties and loud shirts. Instead, you should think of interview style as avoiding missteps. For formal gigs, that means colouring between the lines. But in creative offices, you’ll get marked down for being boring. You need clothes that prove you’re not, but which don’t distract from your ability to actually do the job.

The Rules

A creative interview is, perhaps, the trickiest to dress for. On one side, the risk of being dull; on the other, the ambush of flamboyance. To navigate safe passage, stick to the tried and true.

You might think a suit’s too fusty, but it’s not if you add your own smart casual spin. “It could be a cotton two-piece with a T-shirt and trainers,” says Gilfillan. By remixing a classic, you toe the line but express some personality. Which is also how you want the entire interview to go. Again (and we really can’t stress this enough) that doesn’t mean novelty. Paisley or eye-popping patterns are the wrong kind of unique. But shades that aren’t grey and navy – think beige and light blue in summer, green and cobalt in winter – set you apart subtly.

“For creative roles in creative companies, you won’t need to be tailored,” says Bennett. “But you will still need to look put-together.” Knitwear is your best friend here; as your mum knew, a nice jumper is smart, but not too smart. “You can mix good quality fabrics with relaxed silhouettes. A shirt under a knit, cotton chinos and leather trainers.” That’s right, trainers, to a job interview. If they’re as subtle and well-made as traditional work shoes – and the company’s creative enough – there’s no reason not to.

Which brings up the thorny subject of accessories. Less is more, here. Leave the eagle-headed belts for the weekend. “Carry a leather document holder or appropriate-sized bag for your CV, or samples of your work,” says Bennett. “Don’t turn up with a huge gym bag or backpack, it’s overwhelming and may give the impression you aren’t taking the interview seriously.”

The Fail-Safe Outfit

“If you are not sure how formal or relaxed you need to be in an interview, why don’t you do a bit of both?” says Bennett. “Opt for a tailored blazer in a textured fabric, and instead of a shirt try a knitted polo shirt. Adding texture softens the look but the tailoring still keeps it professional.

“Keep with the textured theme and try a brogue instead of an Oxford shoe.”

The Skilled Job Interview

Whether you’re going to be working in a coffee shop or on a construction site, your outfit isn’t the prime concern. Odds are the working day involves either a uniform or specialist clothing, so this is more about being presentable. If it’s a customer-facing job, then pay particular attention to your grooming. “Never have dirty hands,” says Johnson. “It’s so easy to solve.”

The Rules

The big risk here is dressing too far down. You’re not auditioning for a modelling gig, but you still need to show that the interview is important. “I hate when people arrive for an interview and they’re dressed for whatever they have to do later in the day,” says Johnson. Make sure you’re wearing something that’s for the actual interview – if you need to stow a change in your bag, so be it.

A suit might feel too formal, but it also shows effort. So if in doubt, make that your fallback. “I once dressed a friend for a job interview at a builders,” says Johnson. “He was going to be a labourer and had just left school. I made sure he was suited up, shoes polished and tie on. Out of 20 applicants he got the job and got promoted within six months. He’s a grafter, of course, but I can’t help but think making that little bit of effort to stand out really helps.”

Again, you’ll want to avoid too much flair and focus on the little things. “Never go in dirty or rumpled clothing,” says Gilfillan. Chinos, a jacket and an open-neck shirt are often fine, so long as everything’s pressed and pin-sharp. If you’re driving in for the interview, try to hang the blazer so it doesn’t crease. Make sure you leave enough time for a quick once-over in the bathroom, too. A lint roller in your bag will also pay dividends.

The Fail-Safe Outfit

“A charcoal suit, white shirt and striped navy tie is ultra-simple, classic and sober,” says Gilfillan. “It shows you’re serious about the job.”