#Poor local man absolutely done with his best friend's boyfriend

[bluevelvetea]

Rye: It's pretty cold outside.. wanna hold hands? We should stay close.

Scotch, blushing: Okay.

Bourbon: It's fucking summer.

[elenarodriiguez]

gym cute | l.f. & m.m.

summary: apparently being at the gym at three in the morning is all fitz needs to appease jemma and bobbi's nagging about his dating life (or lack thereof).

pairing: leo fitz x melinda may

word count: 1696

read it on ao3

There’s something to be said about having best friends as concerned about his love life as Bobbi and Jemma are. That is to say, Fitz wouldn’t wish it upon his greatest rival or worst enemy. Because his status as a happily single man for the past seven or so years means absolutely nothing to them, leaving him and his friends’ boyfriend Hunter helpless to stop their attempts at meddling.

Initially it had been very subtle comments and invites to “group” hangouts which ended up being the four of them plus whomever the women wanted to set him up with, which he could just about tolerate. But then those endeavours had disappeared and in their place actual blind dates and dragging him out to parties just to leave him with strangers he had to make nice with arose. 

And seeing as he had already been vehemently against parties since his first house party in secondary school, it wasn’t exactly encouraging him to go out seeking a romantic relationship with anyone. Especially with any one of the various men and women (and one very sweet genderfluid person and their girlfriend) who had been deemed absolutely perfect for him.

It was in fact after another one of these failed dates, which had resulted in him carting the incredibly drunk ginger man who hadn’t actually introduced himself at any point along with the very equally inebriated Bobbi, Jemma and Hunter home, that had ended with him working out at the local 24 hour gym. At half past three in the morning, of all times to be awake enough to work out. Hunter really would be proud of him.

Ever since the former SAS lieutenant had discovered that he wasn’t actually a scrawny nerd incapable of lifting anything heavier than a quantum mechanics textbook, he’d been hounding Fitz to get him to join the gym and get into a proper workout routine. However, between the amount of heavy lifting he gets done on a day to day basis, and how few fucks he could give about waking up early to cram working out into his busy schedule, it was something Hunter hadn’t seen come to fruition just yet.

But right now he was too wired to even try to get some sleep, and between staring at Bobbi’s drooling face and listening to Hunter’s impossibly loud snores or exercising until he can sleep through it, the gym is his best bet altogether. He grabs a pair of joggers and an old baggy t-shirt from the depths of his chest of drawers, slipping on his trainers before locking up behind him and walking to the gym.

It’s only a mildly strange sensation for him to be walking anywhere, because if there’s one thing that America isn’t, it’s walking friendly, but there’s no way in hell he’s willing to pay for an Uber at this time of night - well the morning - on a Saturday. But seeing as there is absolutely no chance of an angry soccer mom with a mini bus big enough to fit the entire Man U squad into it hitting him with it, he wasn’t much bothered by all of the strangeness.

As he’d anticipated, getting past reception and into the locker room is effortless, the poor uni student manning the desk letting their head fall back onto the desk the moment he walks a couple dozen feet away from them. He shucks off the clothes which live at the back of his wardrobe 98% of the time and changes into the comfier ones he brought with him, shoving them into a locker and slamming the door shut.

Throwing the key up into the air and catching it with the same hand each time, he walks in, not expecting anyone else to be there. After all, who in their right mind would be here when they could be doing far better things like sleeping? And while he doesn’t notice anyone standing there with him initially, playing music out loud from his phone as he starts his workout by warming up on the treadmill, when he sees a short figure standing behind him in the mirror he doesn’t handle the situation very well at all.

Rather than reacting like any normal individual; turning down his music, stopping the treadmill so he can look directly at the person disrupting him, actually looking at and speaking to them; Fitz does what Fitz does best: flounder and make a fool of himself. As it would turn out, trying to do all three things at once and failing miraculously never ends well for anyone, especially at three in the morning when coordination is severely lacking. 

The world goes dark for a few brief moments, and when he comes to, the sounds of the Spice Girls still reverberates through the gym, the treadmill is still going despite his best efforts to turn it off, and once his eyes finally open, he sees the most beautiful woman hovering above him, her expression so far removed from impressed it’s genuinely comical. Fitz would love to say that at this moment in time he manages to save what remaining slivers of his pride that he had left, but the unintelligible groan he lets out in response does an awfully great job at shattering that into a million tiny pieces.

“Do I need to take you to the ER?” She asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Oh god, please spare me.”

The woman barks out a short but sharp laugh at his unfiltered thoughts, and while he would normally be focused on how mortifying this is, right now all that courses through Fitz’s mind is how nice that sound is. Perhaps if he hadn’t made such a terrible first impression then he might actually get a chance of hearing it again outside of his memories. A small but strong looking hand enters his field of vision and he takes her up on her silent offer for help, enjoying the sensation of the calluses on her hand against his own.

As he rights himself, running his hands through his hair to ensure he didn’t have any major head injuries, he misses the woman’s gaze drifting up and down his body, eyeing him critically and smiling to herself before reverting to her natural neutral expression. Returning his gaze to the woman in front of him, he rushes over to his phone and shuts off the music, his face flushing bright red as he fumbles over an introduction.

However, for some bizarre reason that is unbeknownst to him, she appears to be, perhaps not endeared by but at the very least amused by his neuroses, and returned the pleasantries, giving him the option of calling her Melinda or May, stating that she responds to either. For a few painfully awkward moments, he just stands there, hands still running through his hair as he nods more to himself than to Melinda, resembling a bloody bobble head as opposed to a twenty nine year old with the vast majority of his shit together.

“I’m sorry. I’m not usually like this.” He sighs, staring at the ground and silently pleading it to swallow him whole.

“There aren’t many people who are functional at this time of day, so I think I can let you off. Just this once though.” Fitz can hear the smile in Melinda’s words, and he just manages to catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye.

He thinks it’s probably the nicest view he’s ever seen. Who knew that a sleep deprived Fitz is a soppy one? Bobbi definitely isn’t finding that fact out, ever.

“Sorry about the music. If I’d realised you were in here I would’ve put my headphones in.”

“It’s fine. You apologise an awful lot, you know that right?”

“Yeah, my therapist tells me that basically every time I see her, but I’ve been seeing her for like five years now so I don’t think it’ll be changing anytime soon. Anyway, I will leave you to your Tai Chi? Sorry, I’m not terribly well versed in any martial arts really.”

“Hmm.” Melinda says, her gaze turning all of Fitz’s body bright red. “You’ll do.”

“I’ll do what?”

“My ex-husband keeps saying that I should ‘get back out there’,” the finger quotes she makes must be the most deadpan and unenthused Fitz has ever witnessed in his life, “and you seem like you’d be a good first date. That is, if you’d like to go in with me.”

His head bobbing has shifted from bobble head to excited puppy, and his curls fall into his face more than he would like them to, but Fitz can’t seem to find any words to express his agreement at this current point in time.

“But, uh, can we wait until I’ve slept before we do anything. Wouldn’t want your ex-husband to think I’m being a bad date if I’m falling asleep.”

“No, of course not.” Melinda agrees, reaching for Fitz’s phone and putting her number into it while Fitz blinks forcefully to keep himself conscious.

“I’ll text you later, but don’t judge me if I don’t wake up until like, I don’t know, two-ish?”

“I’ll try my best. See you later Leopold James Fitz.”

“Oh bugger, did I tell you my full name? Please never use that, I’m begging you.”

“Hm. Maybe someplace else I’ll take you up on that.”

“Take me up on? Ohh! I’m down with that, but only if you are, of course.” 

As he walks backwards, still facing Melinda, whose Tai Chi routine was already back in session, he nearly falls arse over tit as he walks into one of the treadmills.

“Goodbye Fitz.” May says, not turning to look at him, the only indication she checked up on him being that her eyes had darted to his sleep deprived state in the mirror.

Jemma was going to be so pissed she missed him actually fumbling his way into having a date. But in Fitz’s book, their first meeting couldn’t have gone any better, in fact, he’s glad it was just the two of them. Well, and the poor snoozing receptionist.

[lettrespromises]

la querelle des coeurs. - kuroo, atsumu, daichi.

@luveranime​ sent a letter : ❝ Me again lmao 😂 could you do one where kuroo, atsumu and daichi’s s/o has a ex best friend and they try to take their bf away from their s/o but then their s/o like angrily lashes out? Then like a cute fluffy ending :) ❞

author’s letter : ❝ aaaaa, it’s always pleasure to see you in my inbox!! thank you so much for trusting me with all your prompts, it means the world. ooooh, i love myself some angst to fluff especially with kuroo. i hope you’ll enjoy your promised letter!

sealed with a kiss. sincerely yours, nikki. ❞

genre : kinda fluff, kinda angst. warnings : cursing, toxic friendship.

Now, now, now, Kuroo like the gorgeous scorpio he is has some kind of sixth sense when it comes to lies, basically, you could consider him as a human lie detector. This talent of his extends to being able to discern people’s true nature- given that he is someone who doesn’t trust people easily, he’s even more careful around people he doesn’t deem as trustworthy.

Truth be told, he doesn’t come as a surprise to him when you tell him that you had a succession of arguments with your best friend, to the point where you felt obligated to cut ties with them. 

You can tell from miles away that the sentence “I don’t want to say I told you so, but I told you so, kitten.” is burning the tip of his tongue, begging him to be set free so he could rub his pseudo sixth sense in your face.

From now on, Kuroo morphs into ‘super protective mode’, he just wants to protect you from any emotional harm, he knows how vicious your former best friend is, after all, he always knew.

He will walk with you everywhere, cradle you into his embrace if you feel the need to shed a couple of tears- he picks up the shattered pieces of your broken self and glues them one by one and seals them with a kiss or a heartfelt compliment.

After several days, Kuroo’s efforts and dedication to make you feel better finally sets in. Your introspection sunk in and you feel the aftereffects bloom- you feel fearless, powerful, and you came to agree with yourself on stating that you are indeed better off alone.

The plot twists in the hallways of your school- your arm is wrapped around Kuroo’s, just the way you like it. His orbs never leave you frame and anyone could tell how the gleam in his eyes reflect his love and adoration for you. 

Needless to say, his favorite time of the day was when he could have lunch with you and listen to your ramblings while observing your divine traits. However, being academically smart doesn’t prevent him from being a airhead at times : “Kitten, I totally forgot to grab myself something to drink. Will you wait for me at our spot? I’ll be quick.” “You already know where to find me then, Tetsu.”

And with that, he leaves you in the middle of the hall (but not before planting a peck on your forehead.) On his way to the vending machine, he sees none other than your former best-friend, body leaning onto said vending machine, as if they were waiting for him to come out after witnessing your discussion.

The plain expression plastered upon Kuroo’s facial expression speaks louder than a thousand words revolving around the lexical field of anger. Nonetheless, he tells himself that if he ignores them, then there will be no harm done, unless...

“Hey there, Kuroo. I knew you’d miss me! Don’t worry, baby, I missed you just as much.”

The person you once called your best friend orientates their body in a strategic way so they’re closer to Kuroo, their whole body facing him. Of course, he didn’t miss the poor attempts to get him to pay attention to them. Their whole body language screamed ‘acknowledge me.’

Kuroo remained stoic and pushed the coins inside the vending machine instead. This lack of attention only emphasized their anger and in return, their level of patience diminished gradually. But they had another ace hidden in their sleeve, and this time, attitude matched their actions- your former best friend grabbed the hem of Kuroo’s collar while their other hand was planted at the back of his neck to force him to look on what they deemed as the only important person here.

“Kuroo, baby, I’m so glad you came to see me, because let’s face it : you’re only here because you know you’d see me here. Have you finally realized that Y/N was not good enough for you? You want a real significant other, don’t you?”

If hearing the sound of their voice was disgusting enough, imagine how filthy Kuroo felt when he sensed a foreign body throw themselves on him- his skin was burning under the poisoning touch of your former best friend. 

Now, now. The ‘you’ topic was quite the sensitive one to Kuroo, given that he would and could put anyone in their place if he happened to hear a ill word about you. “I’m going to say this once : don’t play a game you can’t win so don’t say another thing about Y/N.” 

Oh, but would this stop them? Absolutely not. Their hand travelled from the back of their neck to the muscular reliefs on his chest, an area only you had the luxury you to touch and worship. “Don’t be like that, Kuroo. I know I can touch you, love you and at least I won’t fake it like Y/N does.” they concluded their sentence with a wink sent his way and Kuroo could already feel the taste of vomit invading his tastebud. 

In one sharp motion, he grabbed their wrist and yanked himself free of their intoxicating clutch. Just his luck, he thought, while your former best friend cursed silently under their breath as they saw you arrive.

“Tetsu, are you okay? What’s taking you so long?”

Oh and here it was, the pure grin which radiated nothing but pure mischief- your presence signed the end and what a beautiful ending it was for him. “Maybe you should ask them, kitten. They were rambling about how I should date them instead of you. Can you believe that bullshit?”

Your eyes darted onto a familiar frame, but just by glancing at them, you felt all the inner rage overwhelm you, including all the pain you had to go through. It was like facing your own nightmare, but you’ve never been alone to fight your battles- Kuroo has always been there by your side.

“You said what now?”

Your stare emanated nothing but pure and intense rage, your whole body language testified of your inner envy to make them choke on their own words.

“I said-...”

“If you think for a single second I’m going to let you talk, you’re dead wrong. You’ve been feeding me enough lies during all this time we were ‘friends’, and now, you’re throwing yourself on my man? You really have nothing for you, do you now? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go grab lunch with my boyfriend. I’m not sure you’ve ever heard of him but his name is Kuroo Testurou, you know, the man you’ll never get?”

Kuroo couldn’t help but to let a snicker break free from his lips, this scene was wonderful to watch. An immense wave of pride washed over him, and it struck him again, he realized for the umpteenth time how lucky he was to share his life with you.

He wrapped his arm around your waist, tugging you close to his side and delivered a peck full of love upon the flesh of your cheek. “I didn’t know you had all of this hidden in you, kitten. Not gonna lie, it’s kinda hot.” 

You playfully rolled your eyes and punched his arm as his words connected with your eardrums, “You’re so lucky I love you.”

“Don’t get it twisted, kitten, I’m lucky one here.”

“Are not.”

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

It’s safe to say that Atsumu does have a reputation that follows him around, he his the local heartthrob of his school and he secretly takes pride in that. But nothing fills his heart with pride more than being able to call you his.

Being Atsumu’s girlfriend, you are indirectly exposed to threats, insults and other acerbic remarks coming from his fangirls. Sometimes these attacks are direct like dirty talks behind your back when you’re holding his hand in the middle of the halls, and other times, it’s more subtle and the perfect example of that is how the person you used to call your best friend took advantage of your relationship status to get closer to Atsumu.

They made it clear and had no shame hiding behind their shameful shenanigans, “Did you really think I was talking to you for your personality? Get real, Y/N, I don’t care about you. I only care about your man.”

These subtle shenanigans hurt the most because they were the most vicious and purposefully hurtful, and the worst part was that they had somehow managed to become friends with Atsumu. Emphasis on the word ‘somehow.’

As per usual after school, both you and Atsumu could be found at the gym, and oh boy, did he love being able to see you everyday- not only at school but also at the gym as you were the manager of the volleyball team.

However, this time, you had quite the surprise when you entered the gym. Kita had asked all the players to gather up as he explained them the new change amongst the team : “Considering that the nationals are around the corner, the coach and I stated that it was necessary for us to hire a new manager in order for Y/N not to feel overwhelmed. Please welcome your new manager and take good care of them.” 

As his words echoed in the gymnasium, you felt your stomach sink to your heels, your mouth was set agape under the overwhelming feeling of pure disgust. Not them, out of all people. Hell, even Atsumu’s worst fangirl sounded like a better idea right now.

Of course you couldn’t blame Kita for choosing your former best friend as the new manager, but the glance Atsumu threw your way testified of how much he knew this situation was going to eat you up alive. 

After the captain dismissed everyone, Atsumu wasted no time and ran up to you, he felt the need to reassure you and make you feel at ease despite the venomous presence of your former best friend.

“Cheer up, baby, ya’ know I’m here, right? This pig isn’t gonna’ get a piece of me. Now, be a doll and gimme’ a kiss.” 

Classic Atsumu right here, but who were you to deny such a sweet request? So you did as told, and planted a kiss on his plump lips. And that’s when you could pinpoint the precise moment when your former best friend had fallen right into Atsumu’s trap.

“As your new manager, I have to say that it’s not very professional to kiss your significant other on the court. But, I mean, what else did I expect coming from Y/N?” 

Your boyfriend’s arm was protectively wrapped around your waist, tugging you closer. The root of each of his action was to protect you from the incoherent and toxic words dropping from their lips. But deep down, he knew better than to mess with you, especially when the whole team was looking at you.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Did you mean do this?”

There you went again, planting yet another kiss upon Atsumu’s lips who couldn’t help but grin at the taunting nature of your actions. Once you broke the kiss, you could feel the hot breaths of your boyfriend crashing upon your skin “That’s my girl.”

Your former best friend looked around in despair, her eyes scanned the room to seek for help, to back up her actions. Osamu let a small laugh fall free from his lips, Suna rolled his eyes so hard you thought they were going to get stuck at the back of his head, and Kita, out of all people, let out a desperate sigh. “As the captain of the team, I must inform you that it is my duty to let you know that you cannot dictate your way here, and you cannot display a clear lack of respect to Y/N.”

This time, it was their time to be dumbfounded and left in the middle of the gymnasium with their mouth set agape in pure surprise. The silence, although it was broken by a few playful laughs, was agonizing to them. 

“C’mon, new manager, tell ‘em why ya’ chose to come here.” Atsumu taunted, the smirk plastered upon his face as wide as ever, but he only found silence as an answer.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell the rest of the team? Alright then. Maybe you should tell them how you only joined our team to flirt with Atsumu knowing very well that we’re dating, what kind of person that makes you, mh?” Each word pronounced was embedded with venom of your own, and deep down, exposing the true nature of your former best friend brought some sense of satisfaction. And thus you began reading out loud each text they had sent you, justifying their one-sided reason to join the team, only to flirt with Atsumu.

“Yeah, ya’ ain’t slick! Sorry to break it to ya’ but I ain’t into snakes.” Atsumu continued, sticking his tongue out before the still dumbfounded personification of a snake.

Pure embarrassment consumed them, the more they were staying amongst the deafening silence of their sour loss, the more they felt vulnerable and the more they realized they lost their own game. The stares of the whole team became agonizing, so agonizing that they felt obligated to leave the gym, head hung low in defeat.

“Byeee! Ya’ won’t be missed!” Your boyfriend concluded his sentence by imitating the hissing sounds of snakes, and you wondered why you were dating a man-child. Nonetheless, knowing very well he couldn’t get his hands off of you and craved for a physical touch at all times, he pressed his lips against yours once more. “I ain’t into snakes but ya’ could s-s-s-s-slide your way into my heart, baby.” and with that, Osamu hit the back of his twin’s head with a volleyball.

Maybe he deserved that.

Being the unofficial dad of the Karasuno volleyball team came with its perks, one of them was the ability to be able to discern if the people you were hanging with genuinely cared about you or not, you liked to joke around and call this his “secret dad weapon.”

Much like Kuroo, he was not one bit surprised when you told him that you had to put your friendship to an end with your former best friend. Of course, he was not angry, but in typical dad fashion, he adorned the oh so famous disappointed dad expression on his facial structure.

He told you not to overthink it, and to focus on the other friendly presences in your life such as the volleyball team or Kiyoko and Yachi, mainly because he knew he could trust them with his eyes closed, but also because he knew he would be able to make them pay if they were to hurt you.

When you started dating Daichi, you grew the habit to join him outside the gymnasium after his training, a bottle of water in your hand in case he overworked himself, which he always did. 

This time, and much to your surprise, you found a note near the doorframe leading to the gymnasium. And if you were careful enough, the slight details and the precise calligraphy hinted that said note was in fact a love note. 

You found it rather amusing at first, perhaps it was a letter dedicated to Kiyoko because this woman was the living and breathing proof that God was indeed a woman. 

But everyday, you would find yet another letter, still carefully written and decorated leaning against the doorframe. This time, however, a calligraphic ‘D.S’ framed the front of the letter. You couldn’t help but let your stare roam over the fine print of calligraphy over and over again. 

As the saying goes ‘curiosity killed the cat’, and you were no exception to that common phrase. You meticulously took the letter and unfolded it- it was so beautifully written, the details were placed strategically. It was a proof of pure love in the form of a letter. 

Then, you began reading it :  “Dear Daichi,  Words cannot do justice of how much I love you. Everything about you fascinates me- from the way you spike the ball so roughly to the small smile on your face after scoring a point. If only I could tell you how much you mean to me. Don’t worry, Y/N won’t know a thing. Come to the gymnasium tomorrow at 5 if you wish, until then, accept all my love.”

You read the letter once, then twice, then an umpteenth time until the words were embedded in your brain. You thought it was just a prank, after all, Nishinoya and Tanaka were quite the pranksters amongst the team, but the handwriting was so delicate, too delicate to be theirs. 

You could feel salty pearls coming at the brim of your eyes until they fell onto the surface of the paper, resulting in the texture of the letter now being bloated under the wetness of your tears. 

You kept your discovery under silence, you trusted your boyfriend of course, but given the additional stress brought by the nationals, you refused to distract him from his goal.

But here you were, sharply there in front of the gym at five as indicated on the letter. However, Daichi hadn’t shown up like the anonymous lover requested, he was already stretching anyway. 

Knots started to form in your stomach as you wondered who the hell had the idea to write this love letter to him, after all, it’s not as if your relationship with Daichi was kept as a secret. 

And at 5:01 precisely, your orbs felt on the figure of your former best friend who had the most victorious grin plastered upon their face. Not only these letters were meant to be read by Daichi, but by you too, their main goal was to hurt you where it stung the most.

“What the hell are you doing here? Where you the one who wrote these letters?” You spat, waving the letters between your thumb and forefinger. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I know you love to make everything about yourself but I was expecting Daichi, not you.” Although they said they were sorry, there was not one ounce of genuine compassion in their voice.

Anger got the best of you resulting in the sudden apparition of veins on your neck as the volume of your voice only increased : “Who the fuck do you think you are? Are you that desperate? If you want a reply to your letter : Daichi doesn’t even know who you are.”

Your emotions controlled each one of your actions, including the severe tone of your voice. The ruckus made its way inside the walls of the gymnasium, until Daichi and Sugawara opened the door in order to find an answer as their interrogation : what was happening outside? 

Daichi’s eyes widened when he saw your frame shaking from anger, it was so unlike you, you matched him in a way because you were always so calm and collected. His mind raced as he wondered what was the cause of this sudden switch of behavior. 

He found the answer to his question pretty rapidly as his eyes darted towards your former best friend who was still wearing that victorious grin on their facial structure. “Y/N, love, what’s going on?” he asked as his hands were draped over your shoulders, forcing you to look at him.

“Oh, hey, Daichi! Have you read the letters I left for you? I bet Y/N never wrote this kind of letters for you.” It took inhuman strength for Daichi to ignore their taunt, instead, Sugawara sent a death glare their way : “Just leave, you have no business being here.”

Sugawara’s attempt at making them leave eventually succeeded after Coach Ukai’s sudden appearance before barking on your former best friend to “get the hell out of here” and “not disturb training anymore.”

Eventually, you were left alone with Daichi, your lungs felt constricted and you struggled to breathe. The aftermath of your outburst of anger made tears run down your cheeks as you sought for comfort inside of Daichi’s loving embrace. 

The pad of his thumb brushed your tears away, planting a series of kisses upon the surface of your forehead as a silent way to tell you that he was here and he was not going to let you go.

“Listen, love, I don’t know what happened and we will talk about it whenever you feel ready. But promise me one thing, never doubt of my love for you. Could you do that for me, Y/N?”

You simply nodded against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat kept the haunting thoughts in your head at bay. “I love you so much, Y/N, so, so much.” he whispered, concluding his sentence with a kiss left on your lips.

If only he knew how much you loved him. 

[thesurielships]

feysand + “you promised me a cookie!”

kiss me like your ex is in the room

note: this is super late, I’m sorry. I hope you’re doing well, and I look forward to read your next creations when you feel better. Enjoy :))

note 2: uncle Colm is a character from Derry Girls and his lines are quoted from the show. It's a really good show, BTW.

Word count: 1.6k | Masterlist | ao3

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Rita’s bakery is the best in Velaris. They specialize in finger foods and exquisite little pastries, each more exotic and original than the next; but the town’s favorite – or at least, Feyre’s favorite – will always be their double chocolate chip cookies.

These are no simple cookies. Even though they have been critiqued by many a reputed culinary writer, the secret to the complexity of their taste has yet to be uncovered. With a chewy center and crispy edges, chocolate chips that explode in your mouth and a bittersweet aftertaste that is nothing short of addictive, plus the extreme exclusivity of Rita’s services, they are nothing short of an urban legend. In fact, hiring Rita for an event earns you a spot on the local gossip column for weeks, no questions asked.

Feyre supposes she shouldn’t be surprised that her cunning devil of a sister managed to get them to cater for her wedding. Or that she only made her maid of honor in order to work her to the bone. Nevertheless, as she gazes at Nesta’s dazzling smile and the absolutely enamored look in Cassian’s eyes, Feyre finds she is glad to be here. Even though she didn’t get to the cookies in time.

Her friend Alis catches her eye from a few tables away and as she walks towards her, a familiar voice makes her pause.

“Now, I don't mind a bit of a breeze, if any, I prefer it. But that one was aggressive. So I says to myself. I say 'Colm, this is no day for a do'. ”

The steadiness of his monotone never fails to amaze her.

“When the bride arrives, and I say by this stage, the wind was fierce. I've never heard wind like it -”

Feyre dares a peek at the new victim of her uncle Colm’s boring and endless ramblings, and the sight that greets her almost makes up for the missing cookies. Rhysand - the best man and general pain in her ass ever since she met him a couple of months ago – is the portrait of boredom. He is slouching in his chair, his chin in his hand and his eyelids drooping as he struggles to focus on uncle Colm’s story. It’s the first time she sees him without his usual smirk, and she hates that she misses it.

“Howling like a banshee it was,” her uncle drones on. “So the poor girl –”

Feyre clears her throat and Rhysand starts. She bites back a laugh at the hope that kindles in his face when he sees her.

“Feyre dear, I was just telling this handsome young fellow about –”

“The windy wedding story?”

Uncle Colm smiles at her fondly. “You remember?”

She nods solemnly. “It’s a very funny story. You should hear the rest of it, Rhysand,” she adds with a smirk.

Rhysand’s eyes are wide with horror. She can almost hear him shout ‘save me!’

“So the poor girl,” her uncle resumes his retelling, “the bride now this is –”

Feyre raises a brow defiantly. Why should I?

“She arrives and –”

He glances to his side and she follows his gaze. The prick has not one, not two, but three of Rita’s cookies on a plate.

“Isn't she no –”

“Uncle Colm,” she exclaims in a high pitched tone, “I’m sorry to interrupt such a good story, but I actually need Rhysand for a very urgent matter.”

The usually unflappable best man practically jumps out of his seat. “Duty calls, uncle Colm.”

“That’s a shame,” her uncle sighs. “I was so close to the end. Are you sure –”

“Yes,” Rhysand squeaks, and Feyre coughs to hide her laugh. “Maybe next time,” he throws over his shoulder as he drags her away.

No sooner are they out of earshot that she collapses into a fit of giggles. Rhysand frowns and she laughs harder. He tries to keep his face stern but the corners of his lips are twitching. When she finally sobers up, Feyre offers him her hand, palm up.

One groomed eyebrow lifts. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? You promised me a cookie!”

Rhysand slides his hands into his pockets and Feyre’s heart sinks. “I did no such thing.”

“But, but,” she sputters, “I saw you! You looked at those cookies!”

He chuckles, low and soft. “Those cookies aren’t mine, Feyre darling.”

“You tricked me.”

She glares up at him but freezes when her eyes fall on the doors behind him. Tamlin is here. The blood drains from her face. She can feel herself quaking in her heels and she hates how he makes her feel small just by walking in the room.

“What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t answer.

What in the Cauldron is he doing here? Is he here for me?

Her chest is too tight. She can’t breathe.

He’s here for me, he’s here for me, he’s here for-

“Feyre.”

She startles at Rhysand’s voice. He turns to look behind him and she grabs him by the lapel. “Don’t,” she whispers.

He patiently waits for her to explain.

“Tamlin, my ex –”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. His smile is grim.

Feyre dares another glance over his shoulder. “He’s –” she croaks, swallows, clears her throat, “comin –”

Rhysand’s lips on hers stop her short.

Feyre just stands there, too stunned to react. He draws away slightly. His hands cup her face and his thumbs stroke her cheeks lovingly. His gaze is steady on hers as he waits for her to make the next move.

Her hands are still clutching his lapels so she pulls him close and kisses him.

She means to repel Tamlin, but as soon as their lips meet she forgets everything but the man that has been haunting her dreams for months. The kiss is slow and languorous, and Feyre wonders at the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his caress. Her fingers bury in his hair and his hands trail down to her waist, setting her skin burning on their wake. She moans and he smiles. She bites his lower lip so he allows her entry, and Feyre is so busy committing the taste of him, the feel of him to memory that it takes her a couple of minutes to realize that someone is watching.

A throat clears next to them, and Feyre pulls away. Rhysand’s eyes are a mirror of what she’s feeling: a mixture of surprise, delight and longing. His smile is slow as he reads the naked emotions on her face, his hold tightening around her waist. Her fingers are still caressing the soft hair at the base of his neck.

Tamlin clears his throat once again and Feyre reluctantly untangles herself from Rhysand, though he nestles his hand in the small of her back to keep her close.

“Tamlin,” she begins and is surprised to find her voice strong and her knees steady. She remembers something an old friend of hers told her in the dark days following their break up. ‘Only you can decide what breaks you.’ And here, in Nesta’s wedding and in Rhysand’s arms, Feyre decides she is done being afraid of her controlling asshole of an ex.

She levels a condescending glare at Tamlin and says nothing, but he’s too busy scowling at Rhys to notice. “Who. Are. You?”

Feyre’s nostrils flare. How typical of him to dismiss her, to address any one but her as though what she has to say doesn’t matter.

Rhysand’s only answer is his arrogant smirk, and she kind of wants to laugh.

“Tamlin.”

Now he looks at her, frowning at the smirk dancing on her lips, a mirror of her companion’s.

“This is my boyfriend, Rhys. But you can call him Rhysand.”

Her accomplice’s fingers poke her side in amusement. “And who might you be?” he asks, looking down his nose at the man who has been haunting her nightmares for months.

“I’m Feyre’s fiancé,” Tamlin bites back.

Rhysand’s face is disinterested, almost bored. “Darling, you didn’t tell me you were engaged.”

She shoots him a sheepish smile. “I guess it slipped my mind.” And because she just can’t help herself, she puts a hand back on his muscled chest and says in a sultry voice, “I can’t think of much when you’re around.”

The moment she says it, the truth of it resonates in her heart. She doesn’t know what gives her away, but something sparks in Rhysand’s eyes and he pulls her impossibly closer. “Yeah?”

She bites her lip. “Yeah.”

His smile takes her breath away. She doesn’t bother looking back at Tamlin as she declares, “For the record, asshole, we are not engaged. I refused your proposal three months ago.”

“You were confused. You don’t know what –” Tamlin starts but Rhysand interrupts him, “You heard the lady.”

Rhysand’s gaze doesn’t stray from hers for a second. Feyre is drowning, no, floating in this moment. She feels free, unmoored. She wants to throw her head back and laugh until she cries. She wants to dance until her feet ache. She wants to hold this man and never let go.

“Thank you,” her voice is earnest. “You saved me.”

He leans so close their noses touch. “You know, Tamlin left a few seconds ago.”

Feyre loops her arms around his neck. “Is that so?”

His eyes are brighter than stars. “About those cookies,” he begins, almost hesitantly. “I could bake you some.”

She raises a disbelieving brow.

“I know, I know. I’m no Rita, but I happen to have a mighty good recipe. Except instead of flour, I use oatmeal –”

Feyre grimaces.

“Instead of butter, coconut oil.”

She scrunches her nose in disgust.

“And instead of chocolate –”

“You’re replacing chocolate?”

“It could be a date.”

Feyre’s heart stumbles. She glances left and right then stands on the tips of her toes to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “I would be burned at the stake if the people around here found out I chose this awful creation instead of a good ol’ Ritacookie –”

Rhysand rolls his eyes.

“But it’s a date.”

Tag list: @joyceortiz13 @bailey-4244 @quakeriders @standbislytherin @mariamuses @ignite14 @1800-fight-me @velarian-trash @rhysands-highlady @queenblueoffire @rowaelinforeverworld @feeoly @buckybvrnes @dayanna-hatter @shadowstar2313 @goldfishh20 @sleeping-and-books @crackedship @your-high-lady @thesirenwashere @whiskeybusiness1776 @amren-courtofdreams @tswaney17 @julemmaes @booksbooksbooksworld @queenofbumblebees @meowsekai @awkward-avocado-s

[talesofstyles]

Mates

Hello! What have we got here? A best friend!H. Does it have smut? Yes ma’am. Have I ever written smut before? Absolutely not. Do I want to run and hide in the darkest deepest part of the earth after writing this? YES. 

Bless @waitingfortwilight (+for proofreading it!) and @all-things-fic because they’re most likely sick of hearing me talking about this in our group chat for the past few weeks, but hey it’s done now ;) also to @harrysdimplles for being excited with me!

Hope you like it and tell me what you think! xx

It was around six thirty in the morning when Harry woke up. He is one of the ten percent of the global population who are morning larks. He absolutely loves waking up early in the morning and almost never stays in bed past eight.

Meanwhile, you are the complete opposite. You are truly, definitely, utterly, completely, absolutely not a morning person. You hate waking up in the morning. You always set your alarm ten minutes before the actual time you need to get up so that you’ve got time to be pissed in bed because you have to wake up. Poor Harry made the mistake of waking you up early in the morning, thinking you’d join him for a morning run a week after both of you had settled into your new shared flat, and boy did he regret that decision. You’d given him a right bollocking, and sulked around like a stroppy child for the rest of the day.

You were never a morning person, so that was why Harry was confused when he heard sounds coming from the kitchen as he walked through to make himself a cup of coffee. He was looking down, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes as he entered the kitchen, so he didn’t realise the tall figure stirring coffee in the mug next to him wasn’t you.

“Morning mate,” greeted the man before he took a sip of his coffee.

Harry mumbled in response before it was cut with a yawn. “Mor- whoa,” he raised his palm to make a stop sign, and continued after he finished yawning. “You don’t live here.”

“Uh,” awkward silence filled the kitchen. “I don’t.”

“What are you doing here?” He knew it was a stupid question, but that somehow didn’t stop him from asking.

“Er, uh,” the guy looked down at his mug for a second before he answered. “Visiting.”

“Visiting what? My roommate’s uterus?”

The guy took a big gulp of his coffee and sat the mug down in the sink. “Uh, I’ll get going. Nice seeing you again, Harry.”

“Alright, bye bye now,” Harry said as the other guy disappeared from the kitchen, before muttering, “what a nonce,” under his breath.

Harry wasn’t usually mean. He was all about treating people with kindness, but apparently the motto didn’t apply to his roommate’s exes. It had nearly been a month since you broke up with Jamie.

Boy, was he fit. He’s still fit. He’s so fit. Legit ten out of ten. Was that the reason you keep getting back together even though you knew for sure that the relationship was toxic? Probably. But hey, you were a young woman in your early twenties; as young as a spring chicken, still naïve—and shallow, apparently—so nobody can blame you.

Jamie was your first serious boyfriend, because no—we are not going to count that nerdy bloke with glasses who used to do your maths homework in year 6. You were together on and off for four years, but you decided that enough was enough. It was your decision to end things in the first place, but that didn’t mean that you were okay with it. You did it because you knew it was the right thing to do—but deep down you knew you didn’t want it to end. Because controlling and guilt-inducing aside, Jamie was a nice bloke. He’s got a great sense of humour (unlike your darling roommate whose jokes tend to give you physical pain), and good Lord those lips always seem to know what you want to hear every single time. He’s romantic; such a good cook, and goodness gracious glory you, those abs. That face. Those green eyes that twinkle every time he talks about something that he is passionate about. He was a dream. But again, you knew ending it was the right thing to do.

You’d barely left your flat during the first week after your break up. You were so miserable, and Harry tried everything he could to cheer you up, but he didn’t have a lot of experience in helping girls get through a break up. All he knew about break ups was the fact that there were three phases (thank you Chandler) - phase one: sweatpants, phase two: getting drunk and going to a strip club, and phase three: picturing themselves with other people. He did offer to accompany you to a strip club incase you wanted to, but you threw one of the pillows on the couch at him for suggesting such a thing. So he just let you be. He threw away your healthy—re: shit—ice cream and swapped it with Ben and Jerry’s because he knew that you like to eat ice cream whilst watching Sleepless In Seattle or You’ve Got Mail, or basically any rom-coms that you decided to watch that night. He did the washing up for seven days in a row without moaning, and he even did some of your laundry too. He didn’t press you to talk it out, but he made sure that you knew that he was there for you.

You were so much better during the second week. In fact, you were too much better. Harry was surprised that it only took you a week to get over a four year relationship, but he was pleased to have his happy, bubbly roommate back. He was a little suspicious, but he brushed it off. He thought maybe you didn’t really love Jamie and that was why you were quick to get back on your feet. Or maybe you just had the emotional equivalent of a scavenging sewer rat. He’d never know.

Third week? You were back to square one.

“Well, well, well, look who’s up,” Harry greeted you as you appeared in the kitchen whilst he was beating the eggs and watching Gordon Ramsay as he did the same thing on his iPad. “Morning, love. Late night, eh? Y/N and Jamie sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G~”

“Morning,” you answered plainly. It was way too early for you to be arsed about his teasing remarks.

“So,” He paused as he added some crème fraiche into the pan. “Are you gonna tell me what happened last night? How that happened? You two getting back together?”

You sighed as you made your way to the counter where your nespresso machine sat. You put a capsule into the machine and turned it on because you needed some caffeine in your system before you could talk about it. Although you had a feeling by looking at Harry’s smirk that you were going to need a much stronger drink.

“Nah,” you replied and let out a yawn before you continued. “Was just a booty call.”

“A booty call?” Harry looked up from the pan at you. “Are you cool enough?”

“I am cool. The coolest I’ve ever been. In fact, I’m so cool that I’m gonna text him again for another booty call tonight. And maybe this time we can go out and have a booty breakfast.”

“You, my friend, are the furthest thing from cool. As the President of the casual sex society, local chapter—I call bull on your booty.”

“What?” You frowned. “It’s just a booty call.”

“Not with you it isn’t. You think that booty breakfast will maybe lead to a booty dinner, then maybe booty engaged and booty married, and have a couple booty kids and a booty retirement home, and then booty die together.”

“That isn’t true!” You protested.

“Yes it is! You know it is.” He went on. “You two keep going on and off you’re like Rihanna and Chris Brown, minus the punching and the duet.” Harry insisted as he put the eggs on two plates for both of you. “You were already doing so good last week, don’t go back there again.”

“Well, girls gotta eat!” you grumbled like a three year old whose candy had just been taken away, and Harry let out a chuckle.

“Go eat!” he stressed. “But don’t eat at the same restaurant.”

You huffed. “I don’t do one night stands.”

“So don’t stand. Lay down.” He grinned as he caught the cherry tomato that you threw at him in response. “Seriously, love, you need to get over him. He was a bellend.”

“You’re a bellend.”

“Oi! I was just trying to help!” this time he scrunched up a kitchen towel and threw it your way. “Listen, we’re going out tonight, yeah? S’gonna be fun.”

“I don’t feel like going out.”

“Alright, then. But remember, you can’t call Jamie again. I know it’s really not my business but you’re my best friend and I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“I won’t.” You reassured him.

Harry reached out his pinky finger. “Pinky promise?”

“Oh my God, what are you? Five?” You took a sip of your coffee before you gave in and reached out yours. “Fine, promise. Happy now?”

***

“Harry!”

He sighed at hearing his name being yelled again for the third time. You had been quite short with him somehow even though he did nothing wrong. You weren’t usually like that and he knew it was just because you were upset, so he gave you a dick pass.

“What?” Harry asked you as he stood up from the couch to find you. “What did I do now?”

“I just changed the toilet roll three days ago and it’s already gone! How dirty is your arse?!” You grumbled.

Harry looked at you in disbelief. “For fucks sake woman it’s three quid for nine bleeding rolls!”

“Aye! Sorry didn’t know we’re a Tory household now, splashing money around like we won the lottery.”

He raked his hand through his hair. “Alright that’s it. Let’s get you out of the house. You’re mean at home.”

“Hey!” You swat his arm in response to his remark. Then he ended up showing off the arm that you hit playfully and pointed at it to prove his point.

“See?! Come on, let’s go get changed. Spit spot. Move along now. You can go and get ready now voluntarily or I’ll just drag you out by force in your two days old pyjamas. The choice is yours.” He shrugged and opened his palms.

You huffed but you did what he told you to do anyway, because maybe he was right—you needed the change of scenery. You wanted to just get back in bed since it was Saturday and took a three hour nap, but you knew that pest of a roommate of yours wouldn’t let you, and you knew that what he said wasn’t an empty threat. So, you went to take a quick shower and get ready.

“Seriously, where are we going?” You asked Harry as you waited for him to start his orange Vespa scooter.

“Ah ah ah,” Harry shook his head. “What did I say before? No questions, just put your helmet on.”

“Are you gonna kidnap me?”

“We live together!”

“Yeah, but who knows? Maybe you’re after my kidney.”

“Oh my God woman just shush, put your helmet on and hop on so we can get going, yeah? S’gonna be fun, promise. No kidney stealing or some other dodgy stuff.”

You couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle for the first time in a while, and Harry grinned. “See? You’re better outside.”

After putting the helmet on, you hopped onto the scooter and you held his waist. But then you felt his hands reaching for your arms to wrap it around his tummy and rest it on his belly button, making you sit closer to him. Your front was nearly glued to his back, which you were sure they would be in a second when you hit the road because the slightest bump would shift you forward.

You weren’t sure what it was. You weren’t sure why you were feeling a little flustered being that close to Harry. For a second you thought maybe it was just because you had broken up recently and your emotions were out of whack. That wasn’t the closest you’d ever been with Harry. You were both—still are—massive cuddlers, so it wasn’t rare for you two to sit on the couch cuddling as you watched whatever it was on the telly. You tried to brush it off. Besides, Harry was fit—still is and forever will be—so you told yourself it’s normal and that you don’t need to fret about it.

After a million bumps and sudden brakes, you both arrived in Camden. You thought Harry was going to take you to the market, but he surprised you by stopping the scooter in front of a grey building.

“Alright, get down and wait for me here, I’ll be back in a tick, just gonna park there.” He said, and you hopped down immediately, handing him your helmet afterwards.

He was back with you shortly with a huge grin plastered across his face. “Ready t’av some fun?”

“Oh!” you exclaimed. “Is it one of those escape room thing? Oh my God Harry, we are both dumb—we’ll never get out!”

Harry protested. “Hey!”

You burst into laughter when you saw the look on his face. Neither of you had ever been to an escape room before, so you didn’t know what to expect. But you couldn’t deny that you were quite excited, although never in a million years would you admit that to Harry’s face.

It turned out that you were required to book the room beforehand, and obviously you hadn’t since it was pretty spontaneous. Fortunately, there was one room left available right away.

“We only have the Zen Room available for now, would that be alright with you?” The receptionist kindly offered you.

“Oh, what is it about?” Harry asked her.

“Basically your mission is to help an orphaned Japanese girl retrieve her priceless family heirlooms. Are you familiar with Asian culture? Also it’s not a requirement but if you can speak Japanese that would make it so much easier.” She explained.

“Well, I know a bit about the culture, yeah,” Harry nodded.

You lifted your eyebrow as you looked at him. “What do you know?”

“Well, I went to BLACKPINK concert once.” He gave a lopsided grin and the receptionist had a little chuckle.

“Oh my God.” You facepalmed. “We’re never getting out aren’t we?”

Harry insisted that it was going to be just fine and that it was going to be fun so you agreed to do it. The receptionist gave you a quick briefing before walking you to the end of the hall where the Zen Room was.

“There’s a screen inside and I will give you clues from time to time. Have fun!” she said as she opened the door for both of you. You thanked her and as soon as the door was closed, the light turned on and you scanned the room around you.

The room wasn’t big, but there was something like a sliding door that you were sure that would open at some point and there’s got to be another room behind that.

“Oh bollocks! Everything is in Japanese, I can’t read anything.” You grumbled as you began looking around for clues.

Harry mumbled nonchalantly. “I can speak Japanese.”

“What?! I didn’t know that.” You replied. Feeling a little relieved and for the first time you thought maybe you two were going to nail it.

He lifted his shoulder in a half shrug. “You never asked.”

“Alright, say something.” You requested, curious about what would he sound like speaking in foreign language. He was shit in French but you thought maybe he was good in Japanese?

“Uh, konnichiwa. Arigatou gozaimasu.”

You shook your head. “No, not just hi and thank you. Say a proper sentence.”

“I can’t. That’s the only words I know.”

“THAT’S IT?!” you hollered.

“Hey, it’s still Japanese!” he argued.

“Two words don’t count!”

“Knowledge is a knowledge no matter how small!” he insisted.

You could go on but you realised that you had a more important task. You wanted to solve the mystery before the time ran out because they gave free ice cream if you manage to get out in under an hour, and you were willing to fight for free ice cream, so you told Harry to find as much clues as he could in one part of the room whilst you searched the other part.

Harry jumped up in surprise and tumbled when the telly suddenly turned on and the receptionist’s face appeared on the screen. You cackled, and the receptionist failed to stifle her snigger. “Sorry, are you alright?” she asked.

“Well, physically I’m fine.” He replied. “Emotionally, I’m bruised.”

You howled at his response and the fact that he was looking down at the floor in embarrassment made it even harder for you to control your laughter. The girl gave you the first clue and told you to try to open the wooden box in the corner of the room. You tried to move things around before you heard Harry squeal when he found a bunch of keys.

“Hey, look at what I found!” he beamed proudly.

“What?” You asked curiously. “What is it?”

He showed you the keys that he found and shook it to make a rattling noise. “Keys!”

“Aaah! Open it! Open it!”

He struggled to get the key into the keyhole. He had tried five different keys and none of them seemed to work. “It doesn’t fit!” He grumbled, but then giggled not even two seconds afterwards. “Hehehe.”

You looked at him in confusion. “Why are you laughing?”

“If I got a penny for every time I said that.”

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t think any of those keys will work. That’s too easy. There’s got to be something else.”

It was safe to say that you both sucked at it. You had been in the room for twenty minutes and so far both of you had only found two little coins, a silk hand fan and a bunch of useless keys. You had tried to open every drawer and looked at underneath the tables but you found nothing. But then the sliding door suddenly opened and both of you looked at each other in horror.

“Did- what- how?!” you gasped.

“I’ve got no idea! Do you think this room is haunted?” he deadpanned. He knew you were a wimp and he found pleasure from the look of your face.

You scolded him. “HARRY!”

He giggled and walked behind you into the other room. Actually, he knew why the door opened—because he opened it. He was moving some paintings around and as soon as he moved that painting of a fish on the wall, the door opened, but there was no way on earth he would tell you that. And being the pest that he was, he made some creepy, breathy sound of your name to wind you up, making you shudder in fear.

“Harry I swear to God if you don’t stop, the first thing I’m going to do the second we get out of here is to kill you.” You threatened him, and he howled in response.

There was a giant sudoku on the wall, a table with some antiques on top of it and an empty aquarium. Great. You were shit at sudoku and you were sure that Harry was even worse.

“Oooh! Sudoku!” Harry clapped his hands excitedly.

You glanced at him. “Do you know how to play it?”

“Of course! I’m really good at it. I’m the best. I’m the king of sudoku!”

“Have you ever played it?”

He shook his head. “Not once in my whole life.”

“Oh God, we’re never getting out.”

“Come on, let’s just put those numbers in the slot.” He suggested as he began to take the wooden numbers out of the box.

“That’s not how it goes.” You folded your arms and Harry tilted his head at you, his forehead furrowed.

“That’s literally how it goes!”

“I mean,” you licked your lips for a second out of habit before you went on. “There’s got to be some rules. We can’t just put random num- ah! I remember we can’t put the same numbers in one region!”

“You’ll find me in the region of the summer stars~”

You smacked your forehead with your palm when he started to sing. After knowing him for a year and a half and lived together for about seven months, you knew that he sings 24/7. Most of the times it’s nice because you couldn’t deny that he’s got beautiful voice, but sometimes it makes you want to tape his mouth shut.

“Shut your trap and just put it in!”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.” He smirked at you as he put a nine and another nine but upside down next to each other in the slots.

You rolled your eyes. “That’s upside down you absolute spoon.”

You ended up doing the sudoku alone because Harry was shit at it. You weren’t much better, but you were better nonetheless. He decided to go and look for other clues. When you were done with the sudoku—re: gave up—you frowned when you looked around and couldn’t find Harry. You walked to the other room and you finally found the bloke sat on the floor in the corner of the room eating a Twix.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“I need to gain strength. You want a bite?” He replied as he took another bite of the chocolate bars. Yes, he always took a bite of both of them at once because he didn’t want one of the chocolates to get lonely in his tummy.

You chuckled. “Mate we’re shit at this we haven’t even done much.”

“But still fun, right? You’re having fun?” His eyebrows waggled as he licked his fingers after the last bite of the chocolate.

“I am. But I give up.”

He cackled. “We can still get ice cream after this if y’want? Screw free ice cream.”

“You’re buying?” You grinned at him, and he nodded.

“You know what? I’ve got a better idea. We’ll go to Shake Shack after this for some burgers and frozen custard cause daddy don’t skimp.”

“Great!” you cheered. “Am starving.”

“I swear you’re either starving, freezing or fuming.”

“I want to deny but you’re right.”

“What? Say tha’ again, can’t hear ya,” he teased.

You just sat together until the time ran out and the door opened, accepting the fact that you were just shit at it but hey at least you tried. After that, Harry fulfilled his promise of buying you a burger and frozen custard.

“Oh the cow in the meadow goes moo~” Harry started to sing again as soon as you sat down at the table with your food.

“……”

“Oh the cow in the meadow goes moo~”

“……”

“Then the farmer hits him on the head and grinds him up and that’s how we get hamburgers~”

***

“Y’alright ya wee cunt?” You greeted Harry, who had some random bird’s mouth attached to his neck. You were sure it would leave a mark or two. “How you been deein’?”

Harry pulled his neck away from the bird as soon as he heard you. “For God’s sake mate how much you’ve been drinking?!”

“Eh,” you shrugged. “Just a couple.”

“A couple my arse! C’mon let’s get you home, yeah?”

“What about your b- wait Harry, your bird’s gone!”

“S’alright. Not important. Let’s just get you home before you start calling people cunts again.”

“Hey! I don’t call people that.”

“You literally just called me that!”

“Well yeah that’s my pet name for you but I don’t call other people that.”

“What kind of pet name is that?!” Harry said as he held your hand and began walking towards the door. But just a couple steps away from the door, Rolling in the Deep came on and Harry gasped. “Oh fuck!”

“Wanna stay for this one song?” You smirked at him and you knew he wouldn’t say no.

***

The next morning you woke up feeling like you had just been hit by a truck. Your head was in bits and the rain outside sounded more like gunfire to you. You didn’t remember much from the night before and you surely didn’t know how you got home since you weren’t sure how pissed Harry was last night, but the fact that you woke up alone in your own bed made you sigh in relief.

“Morning, love. Coffee?” Harry greeted as he spotted you in the kitchen.

“Ssshh, why are you yelling?” You grumbled as you covered both of your ears with your hands.

Harry chuckled lightly and whispered. “I’m not? But alright. How are you feeling?”

“My head’s in bits. How much did I drink last night?”

“Well, the club’s gone because you drank it.” He teased. “Also you called me a cunt three times so you obviously had tequila.”

“Did I try to call him?”

“Yes. And you ran to the loo when I tried to take your phone away.”

“Did you manage to take it?”

“That I didn’t because I didn’t want people to think I was snooping in a ladies toilet. They’d kick me out.”

“Oh fuck! I called him didn’t I?”

“Nah, you didn’t. After you came in, I peeked inside and shouted so everyone could hear that you were about to call your ex. There were a couple girls inside and they talked you out of it.”

You couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle, and you wished you’d remembered it because that sounded funny. “What would I do without you, H.”

“Hey, s’nothing. What do you want to do today?” He asked you as he poured some muesli into the bowls.

“Sleep.”

And that was what you did for most of the day. After you had breakfast you took a nap and woke up around two in the afternoon. It was raining cats and dogs outside so you settled on the couch watching Friends because you spent the last few weeks watching rom-coms and if you watched another rom-com you swore you would lose your shit. You were snuggling up to Harry’s side, his left arm wrapped around you as you laughed at Joey and Rachel bickering. There were some slices of pizza left on the coffee table because none of you could be arsed to cook, along with two cans of coke.

“Do you want to finish that?” You asked Harry, tilting your head to the box of pizza.

Harry yawned before he answered. “I’m full.”

“Alright, I’ll clean that up.” You said as you rose from the couch.

“I’ll help.” Harry immediately picked up the box and you put the drinks on top of the box before you bent over to wipe the coffee table. “Watch out!” Harry warned you, but it was too late. Your back bumped the box of pizza, making the remaining coke spill all over his Rolling Stones shirt.

“Oh God, I’m sorry!” You panicked because you knew that was his favourite t-shirt. You grabbed a couple tissues right away and began rubbing the stained part of the shirt hoping it would help take away some of the liquid before it was stuck to the fabric. “Harry, I’m sor-“

You weren’t sure how it happened, but the next thing that happened surprised you. His lips were pressed against yours all of sudden, cutting you mid-sentence. He broke the kiss for two seconds to put the box of pizza and the cokes back on the table before leaning back to you and pressing his lips against yours again. You’d soften up this time around. You knew that was wrong. It was Harry and he was your best friend, not to mention that you live together and that would complicate the shit out of things. But it just felt so right. You never thought you would actually kiss him and you thought it would be awkward, but it wasn’t. You parted your lips when he swiped his tongue along your bottom lip subtly, his hands moved from your back to cup your jaw.

You couldn’t help but let out a little giggle against his lips when you felt something poking you in the stomach. Harry pulled his lips away instantly as soon as he realised what made you giggle. The look on his face made it harder for you to stifle your snigger.

“Shit,” his breaths quickened. “Sorry. I- I didn’t know what came over me. We’ve never- I shouldn’t have-“

You laughed as you dropped to your knees, and you swore Harry looked like he’d just seen a ghost. His pupils were dilated and he took in a sharp breath. “Y/N what are you doing?”

“Hunting elephants.”

“I’m serious.”

“What do you think? Is it not obvious?” You asked.

“It is. Fuck, I mean- you sure? You’re gonna-“ he blabbered.

“Suck you off, yes.” You cut him short and nodded.

He was less tense by then, a grin creeping up on his face “Such a dirty mouth.”

“Well I’m about to put your dick in my mouth so I’m not really concerned about oral hygiene right now.” You rolled your eyes.

“Hehehe.” He giggled, and you looked at him in confusion.

“What?”

“You’re gonna see my willy.”

“I know.”

“I’ve got some hair there.”

“Okay.”

“Not a lot because I still shave a little to keep it nice and pretty but-“

“Harry,”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay, sorry.”

You didn’t know what came over you to make you want to do it, but it was a bit too late to chicken out, and frankly you wanted to do it. In four years of a relationship—yes, on and off but we’re going to round that up for dramatic purpose—you only gave Jamie head once so really, you didn’t know what came over you.

You knew he wasn’t small. You saw a glimpse of it a couple months prior when he forgot to lock the bathroom door, but you certainly didn’t get a good look of it. Little did you know that the next time you look at it, it’d nearly poke you in the eye.

His eyes widened when you looked up to him, muttering a series of profanities under his breath. You took a deep breath before taking it into your hand, and he choked on his breath as soon as your hand came into contact. He felt heavy in your hand. He was hard and you could see him already leaking from the tip.

“Give it a kiss, love. Please.” He begged, and you obliged. Kissing the tip lightly, before you began licking from the base to the tip. You weren’t really sure what to do, but the noises that he made egged you on so you thought maybe you were doing fine. His head lolled back when you gently sucked the tip.

The grunts and praises that kept flowing out of his mouth encouraged you to take it further into your mouth. It felt really heavy and you could just feel it weighing down on your tongue as he pushed past your lips. You took the rest of him in your hand and you began to work your hand and mouth around him in sync. You knew that there was a slight chance that both of you would regret what you were doing, but it didn’t matter in that moment.

You knew that he was close when he started whining. You let him go for a second to ask him before it was too late. “Where do you want it?”

You could hear his ragged breathing but he couldn’t form a sentence - that was how fucked up he was. You let him go again for a second. “Okay, aim wherever you like, just don’t get it in my ha- MATE YOU HAD ONE JOB!”

“Sor- sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He apologised as he fell down to the couch behind him, trying to even his breathing. “Love, that was, wow I- wow I can’t even speak.”

You chuckled. “S’alright. You’re welcome by the way.”

“You.” He shook his head in disbelief, still grinning from ear to ear. “Didn’t know you have it in you, babe.”

“I’m gonna take a shower then we’re gonna go out and play laser tag.” You smirked as you jumped to your feet.

“What?”

“What? You don’t want to play laser tag?”

“Well yeah of course I want to. S’fun seeing you curse at a bunch of eight year olds and make them cry.” He paused to take another deep breath before he went on. “But, uh, you don’t want me to reciprocate?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Maybe later.” You gave him a lopsided grin.

“Fine we’re going. But-“

“What?”

“Wanna snog again before we go and get ready?”

You nodded sheepishly. “Okay.”

-

bow chicka wow wow

[charmingturkeysandwich]

I Could Use a Love Song - Ch 1: givin’ up on love, hey love’s given up on me

Summary: Emma Swan, small town orphan and up-and-coming country singer, is known for her voice, her penchant for leather, and her overall (earned) anger toward the world. She’s had a rough go of it – rough enough that every single song of hers is angry or sad – but on the road something (or someone) happens that might change her tune.

(Spoiler Alert: it’s Killian. Cue the gasps of shock.)

Also on AO3.

---

The upside to a truly shitty adolescence? Lyrical inspiration.

Emma Swan grew up a little bit all over the place, but primarily in a small town that was most definitely above the Mason-Dixon line and yet half its population spoke with some kind of southern-esque drawl. Confederate flags were common on Chevy trucks. Friday nights in the Fall were dedicated to high school football and absolutely nothing else. Their town’s only radio station was country, though it played seven different church services on Sunday mornings. To say that the whole town’s dynamic read like a cliché country song… it was more obvious than Emma’s bright red leather jacket in a crowd of cotton camo.

So no one was particularly surprised when the beautiful, damaged orphan with the voice of a (really pissed off) angel hit the road with a country band.

They might not have been surprised, but oh did they talk. After her falling out with the pastor’s son and her quick escape to Pittsburgh, she was every negative stereotype of famous in a small town you could conjure. Lily, the closest thing she’d had to a friend outside of Neal, son of Pastor Gold, would keep her updated on the rumors and the hearsay. Not that she wanted to know, necessarily. She’d rather imagine that her name had simply fallen out of the collective memory of that god forsaken town. But it hadn’t. Her story was on the tongues of every bar patron, Baptist, and boy scout leader north of I-80.

It wasn’t her story, though. Not really. The tales they told of Emma Swan always somehow ended up with her as the villain and not the fairy tale princess, the lost girl with no choice but to suffer at the hands of assholes.

Her parents had been shit. Drug addicts, apparently, and she’d been taken from them. She’d been passed through the foster system from ages 3-12, the best foster parents mostly ignoring her and the worst… well, she couldn’t afford the therapy to even attempt to go there.

She’d wound up with an OK but definitely half-crazy woman by the name of Sarah just before she turned 13 and that’s where she’d stayed, that hick town that just couldn’t get enough of her little sob story. That’s where she’d met Neal, the charismatic son of one of the town’s pastors. His dad had seemed nice enough, did a lot of community work and even owned several businesses, boasting of his commitment to boosting the local economy. For once she’d thought she’d found some people who didn’t suck who might make her life at least somewhat normal.

She, as usual, was wrong. Pastor Gold was… well, off. Way too angry for a dude preaching the New Testament each week. But at least he’d never hurt her. No, that privilege was reserved for Neal, who would beat her to a bloody pulp and then tell his daddy’s flock all about saving his sweet girl from a drug deal gone wrong (poor thing ended up like her parents despite the best efforts of the system, you see).

It was pathetic. And after she went to jail for having the gall to defend her own life from that sociopath, well, that was it. She dropped out of high school during the homecoming pep rally and hopped a bus to the city.

That had been years ago now, of course, but it was her origin story, as they say, and something very important to her on-stage personality. And her internal struggle.

Life had fucked her over and she was pissed. And so for five years after leaving that sleepy, secret-filled little town, all she ever really focused on was her anger. She’d write lyrics on truck stop napkins and sit in a half-stranger’s basement strumming chords on the guitar she’d stolen from the church rectory (she wasn’t sorry). She started out performing at open mic nights and then somehow found some of Her People, those who loved country music but maybe hadn’t grown up in a Dixie Chicks song (if only she could have Goodbye Earl’ed that son of a bitch high school boyfriend of hers before he ever laid a hand on someone new…).

(At least he ended up in prison. You know, eventually.)

(And, hey, her rage got her out there and selling records. But that was on her, not him. Nobody saves me but me, she always said. And she wasn’t about to thank a monster just because she survived slaying it.)

Tonight’s show was in a dive bar in upstate New York and Emma was so damn ready for it. She and Ruby had done a few shots of tequila before slipping on their tight jeans and leather jackets, and David had just finished setting up their brand new sound system that made them sound like they could actually be on CMT and not just playing from someone’s garage. David and Mary Margaret, they were like Johnny and June with their sweetness and Emma could hardly stomach it. But they were her friends, her actual honest-to-god, wouldn’t-rat-her-out-to-the-forest-service-for-underage-drinking friends and she loved them. She loved them and Ruby and even Graham in the only way she knew how: teasing insults, cases of beer, and not running away in the middle of the night even when she was feeling like her whole world could crash town with one wrong word from herself or anyone else.

(She really did need therapy beyond the catharsis of angry singing to half-drunk strangers. Someday, maybe.)

Friend love was a strange, but manageable thing. Well, mostly. But romantic love? Absolutely fucking not. After she left Neal and that town, after she drank away the pain and the frustration, well she thought maybe she’d give romance another try. Turned out the next guy was even worse, somehow, leaving her bruised and bloody when she turned down his marriage proposal at a fancy restaurant in Cleveland (yeah, those exist). The physical pain she had been used to, but the emotional… he called her every name she didn’t deserve and a few that she probably did, and when he finished her off with a few choice comments about the baby she’d lost after Neal threw her out a moving car, well she was done. For good. Never ever would she trust a man again. Preacher’s son or furniture salesman – they were all just… evil. She couldn’t ever again take that chance.

But tonight – tonight she wasn’t thinking about romance or even the past, not beyond the bits and pieces that had made their way into her songs. She was happy, buzzed, excited. Their little tour bus (well, van) family was rising in the ranks and soon she could move far away and get her own apartment overlooking the thriving streets of Nashville. Soon she would be so busy with interviews and music video shoots that she wouldn’t have a single second to spare a thought to those who had hurt her. Soon she would be so rich she wouldn’t ever feel lonely because she’d always have male company in the form of all her Benjamins she’d backstroke through like Scrooge McDuck.

The previous night Mary Margaret had tried to set Emma up with the singer of their opening act, a guy they called August who carried a typewriter instead of a guitar (who she’d definitely seen leaving with a drunk after she’d turned him down, by the way), so Emma had already had her monthly I Don’t Want Love chat with her hopeless romantic friend. Meaning today she was free and clear to just… enjoy this new life she’d spent years building on the bones of all the good girls she could have been.

She high-fived Ruby and David kissed her on the cheek as they took the stage, starting the guitar riff as Emma sauntered out to the opening words of the song. This was one of her crowd favorites, a good one to set the tone for what kind of show to expect, and she was melting into her confident, badass, devil-may-care persona easily by the time they hit the first chorus.

I’m goin’ home, gonna load my shotgun

Wait by the door and light a cigarette

He wants a fight, well now he’s got one

And he ain’t seen me crazy yet

A few people in the front row were singing along and her heart was bursting with pride that she was on this road, that she’d turned such a goddamn nightmare of a life into something positive and productive and while overall it still wasn’t healthy… she damn well was on the road to actually being someone. To finally shutting up the idiots back in Pennsyltucky who were convinced she wasn’t going to amount to anything but a statistic just like her parents (despite having never even tried any drug beyond alcohol and nicotine, the judgmental fucks).

One thing that entertained her beyond reason was listening to Mary Margaret sing backup vocals on the songs Emma wrote. Emma liked to call Mary’s on-stage persona Snow White Trash and Ruby insisted that be the name of the band’s first mainstream album when their big break finally came and Emma actually fucking laughed in the middle of performing her angry song that night because she couldn’t stop thinking about the mismatch.

So when the song was over she apologized to the crowd, told them how much she loved her band and her friends, even the hilariously innocent of them, and asked someone to pass her a beer so she could stop the chuckles from trickling out during the next song.

Next on their set list was one that had been co-written by Emma and Ruby, two girls from two very different small towns, who still had so much shared experience. It used to hurt her to sing it, the depressing nature of where she came from threatening to swallow her whole, until Graham came to her one night after the show, quieted her tearful sobs with a kiss and told her to just pretend it was a movie. She was just telling a story. It wasn’t her town or Ruby’s… it was nothing but fiction.

And that’s how she belted it all out totally devoid of those pesky feelings that made her wish she could just crawl under a rock rather than relive her trauma for the seventy third time this fucking year.

If you ain’t got two kids by 21, you’re probably gonna die alone

At least that’s what tradition told you

This song was a lesser known of theirs so they don’t have as many mouthing the words back, but the energy in the crowd is still so high, despite this song being a little more bummer than banger. So she scans the crowd, watches the faces of the drunk, the joyful, the brooding, and best of all, those who understand.

Off to the left, just at the edge of the stage, she saw probably the hottest man she’d ever seen in real life. Black leather jacket, artfully mussed hair, a smirk that could charm her pants right off if she let him.

It’s not that hot guys didn’t come to their shows. They definitely did. But they were usually more the Jake Owen or Luke Bryan type, the ones that look like they were ready to meet your mama by the third date. This guy, he didn’t seem the take-home-to-parents type (just the kind for her, having no parents and all).

But there was something else different about him. Standing just off stage, standing alone, glancing toward David every so often. He looked a bit too confident, comfortable, like he already had some kind of connection to her makeshift little family, and that set up some red flags.

She was not accepting applications for any new friends at the moment. Or maybe ever.

She’d been staring just a little and people tended to notice stuff like that so of course he eventually locked eyes with her, for just a fleeting moment, and there was something in that one glance that told her he knew what she was singing, how she felt, on a level that most others just… didn’t.

So naturally she broke the gaze and didn’t look back.

Jack and Jill went up the hill.

Jack burned out on booze and pills.

Mary had a little lamb.

Mary just don’t give a damn no more.

From there, Mary Margaret had taken over lead vocals, her cover of Strawberry Wine a nice balm to the mood-dampener that Merry-Go-Round always was. And every show without fail, she always took that transition to gloat about how she’s most definitely not the Mary from that song because she has David and loves him so much and Emma almost always makes the universal gesture for “gag me” to the crowd eliciting laughter and a few errant woo’s.

She didn’t tonight.

First taste of love, oh

Bittersweet

And green on the vine

Like strawberry wine

(sorry Deana Carter, but there wasn’t always some sweet.)

They closed the show with Kerosene, like they always did: high-energy, twangy, and true-to-form for their actual fans. The whole bar was on their feet, jumping and swaying and shouting and spilling their $4 beers on the guy beside them but no one really cared because they were sharing a moment, Emma and each of them, singing out their anger and sadness and ten years of life’s-not-fair.

Crazy how a three minute song could effectively patch the wounds of a whole life.

And, yeah, maybe it wasn’t really patching anything. Maybe it was just distraction. Maybe she was just as much a drug addict as her parents, but her drug was the stage and the music and the connection she shared with every other person in each and every bar who didn’t get the benefit of a first love like any kind of wine.

She sang her song from the diaphragm – broadway voice – but it was like it came all the way from her toes. It was always her anger that defined her, drove her, made her feel alive.

Why not lean into it?

I gave it everything I had

And everything I got was bad

Life ain’t hard but it’s too long

To live it like some country song

Trade the truth in for a lie

Cheating really ain’t a crime

I’m giving up on love, cause love’s given up on me

Songs sung, merch sold, and bar tab closed, Emma headed toward the crew’s van, ready to sleep off the liquor in the third row seats while the lovebirds took the hotel room above the bar and Ruby and Graham found someone’s bed to put their boots under for the night.

It was odd, feeling like the fifth wheel when truly there was only one couple in the band. But Ruby and Graham, they were so in sync with where they were in their life – jand it was just not what Emma was looking for – that she still ended up left out.

Which was fine. Everything was just fine.

Until her path to the van was obstructed by the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen in her life, the smoldering-eyed, confident guy who’d nearly made her forget her own lyrics before she’d promptly remembered to forget him and any other person who might possibly hold the potential to make her heart skip.

(Hearts aren’t meant to skip. That’s not love; it’s a trip to the cardiologist.)

He was definitely about to annoy her, so shouldn’t he look properly… annoying? Not like a goddamn model. That was distracting her from her annoyance and inevitable hate. Because a girl like her? Every song lyric and leather jacket was a clear message: leave me the fuck alone.

He clearly wasn’t receiving the signal.

“Swan, I presume?” he finally spoke, her eyes certainly glaring daggers at him despite her tiredness and BAC.

“Uh, obviously? What do you want.” (It wasn’t a question.)

“To introduce myself, of course! Killian Jones, at your service.”

She stopped a few feet from him, one hand on her hip and the other reaching for the cigarettes in the back pocket of her jeans.

“I’m not interested in any services beyond handing me a lighter. Can you manage that one?”

He smirked at her and reached into his jacket, the click of the zippo lighter in his hand echoing off the brick alley the van was parked in. With a quick flick of his thumb there was a flame and he offered it to her, his eyes burning with something other than the reflection of the fire.

“Ah, yes, that’s something even a one-handed bloke like me can manage.” He clicked the lighter closed and deposited it back in his jacket, only to reveal his left arm – ending at the wrist – from where it had been tucked behind him.

Emma deflated a little, some compassion left inside her despite the unwanted nature of his approaching her. “OK, Captain Hook, what exactly do you want from me?”

(She had compassion, but also very little candor. For the record.)

“Ah, yes, I’ve never heard that one before,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and finally looking like he was receiving her please-go-away signals, but he still soldiered on. “I was meant to be here before the show started, but I had some trouble finding this hole-in-the-wall. I presume by your attitude that Dave didn’t warn you I was coming?”

“You presume correctly. Can you please get on with whatever garbage is happening here? I swear if they put you up to asking me out or something I’m going to kill them. Mary Margaret especially. Because we just talked about this and I know that it’s not your fault that they’re such meddlers but I swear I’m pretty much the same girl who sings on stage in real life and I absolutely want nothing to do with men. Or women, for that matter… I’m not a person who dates and if they thought..”

“Love, please stop. No, I’m not here to ask you out. Believe me, I know I’m not what you need. I mean, technically I am, but not in the romantic sense.”

He paused and waggled his eyebrows and Emma was too tired to roll her eyes so she just closed them, willing the moment to pass. “I’ve been hired to work for you. All of you. Roadie. Can’t play notes on a guitar anymore, but I can haul them in and out of these dumps you lot perform in.”

Ah. He was the guy David had suggested they hire but the group had then rejected the idea and apparently David decided to overrule them all because why would Prince Charming listen to a democratic band vote, anyway? (Ugh.)

“Can you maybe stop insulting the patrons that pay us since that same money is going to be what pays you?”

Drunk laugher and electronic music pulsed out of the back door of the bar they’d played in not long before. Almost closing time now. Emma needed to get out of the open before she had to break someone’s wrist for drunkenly groping her. Again.

“Ah, of course, love,” he replied, finally seeming to be at least somewhat chagrined. “Now if you could point me in the direction of our sleeping quarters, I’ll leave you to your business.”

“First of all, I am not your love. We’ve covered this already and I need you to keep up. Second, do you really think we make enough to have quarters? I’m not entirely sure how we’re going to both pay you and eat. So.”

“So, what exactly does that mean for you or I, Swan?” he emphasized her last name in an effort to prove he was capable of using titles other than ridiculous British terms of endearment.

“Well, Jones, that means that either you go shack up with David and the missus (10/10 would not recommend; Mary gets very horny while drunk and her voice carries), or you do like Graham or Ruby and find a local to make gross sex noises with. Or whatever they do. Don’t know, don’t ask, don’t care.”

“And you, princess?” His tone was a challenge. He wanted her to object to the sickly sweet nickname. And she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“I sleep in the van. And I do not cuddle.”

“Oh, it’s not cuddling I’m looking for,” he purred, waggling his stupid eyebrows again. (This time she did roll her eyes, annoyed enough to expend the limited energy she still possessed.)

“Then go find someone willing, buddy. Like I said.”

He shook his head and laughed, already turning back toward the van. “Damn. David said you were difficult, but I wasn’t expecting this. I’ll sleep wherever you don’t. Unless you snore?”

“No, I do not snore!”

“Great. Then we’ll get along just dandy.” He waited next to the van until Emma pulled out the fob to unlock it, sliding open the big door a second after the beep-beep to signal entry. “After you, not anyone’s love.”

“Thanks, Captain. I’ll be in the back. Touch me at your peril.”

They each crawled into the van and settled at opposite ends. Emma tossed Killian a blanket and Killian tossed Emma a pillow that had been lodged in the front seat and they both drifted off to the sounds of Garth Brooks on the Pandora radio Ruby had bought her to ward away the nightmares that inevitably accompanied the silence.

[ladynuwanda]

The End of the World as We Know It - Part 1 (Michael LangdonXFemale Reader AU)

A/N: This is my first attempt at an AU, so I’m still a little unsure. But I liked it because it’s very different from everything I’ve ever done, and I wanted to get out of my comfort zone. Part 1 is mostly an introduction to this universe, but I hope you can enjoy it!

Warnings: None, I guess. Although there are mentions to some mental health issues that might be triggering for some of us. But that’s exactly why I didn’t ant to go too deep on the subject. It’s there, but I wanted to keep it light.

Word Count: 1,7K

“Do you know why you are here?”

I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help rolling my eyes a little at the question. This wasn’t my first time in a therapist’s office, although it was my first one-on-one session with Doctor Venable. I looked out the window, embarrassed by my own reaction. I knew it was cold outside, but you couldn’t tell it from inside Doctor Venable’s office. It wasn’t exactly cute and cosy, but it was nice enough, with elegant classic furniture. Very tidy, very neat, like Doctor Venable herself. Shades of purple seemed to be a theme in her office, as well as her life. You didn’t have to think much to figure out whose idea it was to make the wristband that carried our name-tags purple.

“I’m sorry for starting out with such an obvious question...”, she smiled with a small chuckle and lowered her eyes, “but I need to know just how far your understanding of the situation goes, if I want to help you.” Those beautiful brown eyes were burning into mine again, behind stylish prescription glasses. She had a gentle way of making you feel comfortable in her presence. The kind of therapist I’d want to be when I had my Psychology major. If I ever did.

“Yes...”, my voice was raspy for lack of use, so I cleared my throat, “I know why I’m here. You’re not gonna ask me to tell you about my mother, are you?”, I gave an awkward half-laugh and regretted my own silly joke almost immediately. My mother was probably the last thing I wanted to talk about now. I knew she was probably heartbroken by what I did, but I just couldn’t deal with it yet. “It’s only our first meeting, I’d rather get to know you better before being introduced to your family...”, she gave me a kind smile. She understood. She knew I wasn’t ready to talk about it. She wasn’t the kind of therapist that would give me a nod of fake understanding and ask me “and how does that make you feel?”, and I was grateful to her for being better than that.

The session was over before I even knew it, and it wasn’t half as bad as I had expected. I was heading back to the “common room” of Hawthorne Hospital, were I was expected to socialise with the other patients. The building had been a boarding school for boys, before being a hospital, so the corridors were wide, lined with tall glass windows. As far as a mental institutions go, I think it could be a lot worse, it wasn’t at all an unpleasant place. As usual, I sat next to Andre. It’s not that he was particularly friendly, in fact he hadn’t had a single interaction with anyone since he got to the hospital. Which made him my new best friend, of course. It’s not like anyone would go into a mental hospital with the intention of making friends, anyway.

But Coco and Gallant were friends. He was suffering from anorexia, and had a real breakdown when his grandmother found out that he was gay and kicked him out of the house. Coco was bulimic, tale as old as time, she started counting calories and grew obsessed with it, you add a pinch of body dysmorphia to it, and here she is. They obviously clicked right away. And they were always around Evie, an elderly patient with some sort of dementia. The poor lady could talk, in colourful details, about the Golden Age of Hollywood for hours, but couldn’t remember what flavour of jell-o she’d had for desert at lunch.

Those three had made a nice little family for themselves in the hospital, and I was happy for them. But I just couldn’t bring myself to follow their lead. I’d rather stay with my non-responsive friend, the only other patient who was around my age. His story was truly heartbreaking. He was the victim of a hate crime, his boyfriend was beaten to death right in front of his eyes, and he was probably gonna be next, if the police hadn’t arrived. After that he’d just closed in on himself, never speaking another word to anyone.

“You know you are supposed to use this time in the common room to make friends, exchange your experiences with your fellow patients...”, Nurse Mallory was standing beside our table, both hands on her hips in a mock scolding stance.

“I was just spending some quality time here with my friend Andre.”, I gave her my most angelic smile and she narrowed her eyes at me.

“Really? From where I was standing it was almost like you were using the poor man as a human shield...”

“It’s actually the other way around, I was the one shielding him... from her.” I shot a glance at Dinah Stevens across the room and Nurse Mallory followed my gaze.

Dinah Stevens was a minor celebrity, kind of a tv personality. She had a talk show on a local channel, or something. Apparently she had dropped her basket when her show was not renewed for another season. It was a full-on meltdown that included aggression against her crew members and a little bit of stalking at the channel’s new attraction, some former teacher named Cordelia. If Dinah Stevens was a regular citizen, she would probably be facing charges and doing some time in jail. Since she was rich, and somewhat famous, she had ended up here instead. Someone on her PR team had come up with the idea of her helping someone from inside the hospital, in order to improve her reputation. And she had adopted poor Andre as her “project”.

“Aren’t you little miss selfless... I guess you deserve a little treat, then.”, she winked and got something really small from the front pocket of her grey uniform and placed the tiny piece of chocolate in my hand.

“Mallory you’re an angel!”, I shoved the chocolate in my mouth and just let it melt on my tongue so it would last longer. Only then I remembered to look at my Andre, wondering if he’d want a bite, but as usual he didn’t even seem to notice I was there, “But, seriously, who else do you want me to make friends with? The Youngsters?”

That’s what we called Tim and Emily, the last two patients in Wing 3 of Hawthorne Hospital, the youngest of us. Tim was one of those perfect straight-A kids, but as he realised he was failing his SATs he had lost himself to substance abuse. Apparently Emily was here for that too, but in her case it was to run away from a messed up childhood. They were obviously in love, and they were absolutely adorable! Specially the way they seemed to think that no one else knew... Everyone pretended it was a secret. Their puppy-love was a beautiful thing to watch. It gave us all hope.

“So instead, you chose to stay here not talking to Andre...”

“And enjoying the magnificent soundtrack of the common room!”

“Tell me about it! Doctor Pfister and Doctor Nutter seem to think it’s relaxing...”

“Yeah but, come on, playing lyrics like ‘calling occupants of interplanetary craft’ in a mental hospital? You gotta admit that’s poor taste!”

“I do, but they own the place... they’re the bosses! Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to tell you...”

Really, bless Mallory for her snuck chocolates and good-hearted gossip! She was the only thing that made me feel slightly normal in this place. She took my mind from my own shame and guilt, and made me believe I could leave this place and live a normal life again. I was looking at her eyes through her thick glasses, waiting for her to serve the new tea.

“There’s a new patient in Wing 3, Doctor Mead’s bringing him in to the common room for the first time today...”, Doctor Mead was responsible for our group activities. She was the one trying to get us all to socialise and share our experiences, always with a new group-dynamics exercise, or just some plain physical exercise. She was very outdoorsy, Doctor Mead. I hated it about her. Although I did like the woman herself and her cheerful disposition.

“And what’s the deal with him?”

“Same as you, apparently...”

“Oh.”

So another failed suicide attempt. I was already feeling some sort of sympathy towards my new companion, before even meeting him. How could I not? He had wanted his life to end so bad, that he had attempted to do it with his own hands. Unsuccessfully. That’s something I could relate with a little too much. As we talked, the Carpenters song ended and the first notes to Patience&Prudence’s Tonight You Belong to Me began to play. I gave Mallory a side glance “Seriously! If you’re not crazy by the time you get in here, you’re definitely going to be by the time you leave...”, she laughed as the doors to the common room opened and we both looked to see who it was.

It was a tall young man, followed by Doctor Mead, walking in sure black Converse-clad steps, wearing a plain black t-shirt and a dark pair of jeans. His long blond hair was tied in a loose knot behind his head, and there were dark circles around his sharp blue eyes. Still he looked around at everyone in the room, like an eagle choosing his pray in mid-flight, both his hands behind his back. All my sympathy for him was gone the moment I saw him, simply because he didn’t seem to need any of that: He was so intimidating, I believe he would have actually been offended by it, he would tell me to shove my sympathy where the sun doesn’t shine. He seemed to be very much in charge of himself, and of everyone else, for that matter. The icy glint of his eyes fell on me and I gasped, probably rather loudly. I saw the shadow of a smug smile on his full lips before he turned his beautiful face away.

He spotted Tim and Emily in one corner and decided to join the, now terrified looking, young couple. When I came back to myself, I saw that even my friend Andre was staring, slightly open-mouthed, at the newcomer. I looked, round-eyed myself I bet, at Mallory and the sweet nurse gave me the closest thing to a pretentious smile she could muster “That’s Michael Langdon, your new buddy...”

My honey I know

With the dawn, that you will be gone

But tonight you belong to me

Just to little old me

Taglist: There are so many friends I wanna tag here, but I think I’d want to have their permission first... so if you feel like being tagged, just let me know!

[caffeineivore]

Back to the Spirits

M/K.

**

All mortal passings are different and sad, Desirée thinks, but this particular one is sad on a whole different level.

That Douglas Townsend was dying of heart failure at the age of eighty-four, this in and of itself was not exceptionally unexpected. The man, who had been a real estate magnate in his heyday, was worth millions, and that point was made exceptionally clear by the lavishly-dressed collection of family members currently crowded into his hospital room. 

“I just don’t understand why this place doesn’t serve bottled mineral water that doesn’t come out of a nasty, filthy vending machine.” Veronica, the dying millionaire’s current wife, gripes as she taps long, manicured nails against the armrest of her chair. She doesn’t look a day over thirty-five, and her cardinal-red wool Gucci coat echoes the red bottoms of her Louboutin pumps perfectly. “I am on a strict hydration schedule that I absolutely cannot deviate from. Why, my beautician would eat me alive!”

“Even your beautician won’t be able to give you class, no matter how much you pay her,” Violet, the first wife, mutters from her spot by the window. Older, with deep lines of discontent bracketing her eyes and mouth, she shoots the dying man a venomous look. “I expected a midlife crisis out of you, Dougie. Made damn sure I was ready for it, but two of them in ten years? And with her? She’s a year younger than our daughter! How do you think that makes Clarissa feel?”

“I don’t give a shit, mom,” Clarissa pipes up from a few feet away in a bored tone. “That’s what the very expensive therapist I spend two hours with every week exists for. I just want to get this done and over with. Hunter and I are flying out to Bali in two days. Second honeymoon. I can’t wait.”

The second wife, Valerie, largely ignores the sniping and maintains an icy silence from her own chair, wrapped up in a full-length mink coat with the languid air of a fashionable invalid who could hardly bear to breathe in hospital air. Every so often, she’d emit a tiny, dry, singular little cough. Also scattered around the room in various states of boredom are members of the third generation, ranging from toddler to teenager, almost every last one of whom is fiddling with the latest model iPhone. One girl in her teens keeps roaming the room, searching for the best spot and optimal lighting to take a selfie. Another is engaged in a viciously hissed argument with perhaps a boyfriend. There are more than a dozen people crowded into a small hospital room, and not one of them seems to truly care about the dying man outside of what they would be inheriting.

The very air of the room feels toxic, a miasmic cesspool of greed and entitlement and snobbery, and Desirée shivers and wraps both arms around herself as she edges over to Douglas Townsend’s bed, carefully stepping around a knot of bickering family members speculating over the dying man’s will. He has been on life support for the last few days, but just as she sidles up to the bed, his eyes blink open for a moment. His had been a life full of luxury and privilege, but not, in the end, a life well-lived or at all well-loved. Perhaps he realizes it, too, because as his gaze meets hers, a single tear tracks down one sunken cheek. He doesn’t say anything, though, and for once, Desirée has no words of comfort for him. In the common idiom, he’d made his bed and now lay in it, alone to his final rest. His eyes close a moment later without a single word, and it takes several minutes before the acrimonious family members to register the source of the newest sound in the room-- the drone of a life support machine flat-lining. 

Suddenly, there’s a woosh of air, like a cold winter wind, lifting strands of Desirée’s golden hair and none-too-gently yanking off the baseball cap on one of the boys’ heads. Time seems to stand still in that moment, teenagers’ fingers frozen mid-movement over their phones, mouths still open mid-sentence with no words coming out, stricken silent. The machine drones on, but over it, as though through some invisible intercom, comes a voice-- deep and measured and familiar, yet somehow wrathful in its very calmness. 

“For evildoers shall be cut off: but those that wait upon the Lord, they shall inherit the earth. For yet a little while, and the wicked shall not be: yea, thou shalt diligently consider his place, and it shall not be.” 

No one speaks; perhaps they’d been rendered mute, or perhaps they are, justly, terrified. All three of the dead man’s former wives share panic-stricken glances at each other, but no one moves. 

“Go to now, ye rich men, weep and howl for your miseries that shall come upon you. Your riches are corrupted, and your garments are motheaten. Your gold and silver is cankered; and the rust of them shall be a witness against you, and shall eat your flesh as it were fire. Ye have heaped treasure together for the last days.”

There are far too many people in the room; more than once, in the last few hours, harried-looking doctors and nurses had tried, in vain, to tell the family members that it was against hospital policy to crowd thusly in there, only to be told in very disagreeable tones that “our family owns half this building”. There should be no way for Kafziel to walk in, blindingly white wings unfurled, brandishing a sword aglow with fiery light, without crashing into people everywhere. And yet somehow he does, his face terrible and beautiful as he makes a beeline for her, mouth enunciating the words that echo about the cramped hospital room as though it had cathedral ceilings. His eyes gentle, though, once he reaches her, and the wings and sword blink out of view as he holds out his hand. Desirée lays her palm over his, and lets him lead her out, and it is only after she crosses the threshold that slowly, gingerly, the family members of Douglas Townsend seem to come back to life, pale and subdued now in a shadow of their former pretentious selves. With shaking hands, one of the former wives reaches for the call button to summon the medical team.

Kafziel walks quickly, up and down the brightly-lit corridors, though not so quickly that Desirée can’t keep up. “Where are we going?” 

“Away from here for a bit.” He doesn’t quite touch the main doors, but it springs open, and then they’re out in the starlit night. It’s wintertime and the wind lifts her hair, and by all rights, she should feel cold, but standing at Kafziel’s side, the chill is nothing but a breeze. “Death can be a mercy for some, a terror for others. And sometimes, it’s nothing but a meaningless end to a meaningless life.” His somber gray eyes meet Desirée’s blue ones. “Do not let them sadden you, little one.”

“It’s just that... he could have had such a wonderful life. He wanted for nothing. All of them wanted for nothing,” Desirée sighs as they made their way down the sidewalk. At this late hour, though there are still people, it is not at all crowded. No one makes any eye contact as he leads her down the street. “Ultimately, all he might have accomplished in life is in there being divided up like a side of pork at the hands of an army of merciless butchers all out to get the fattiest piece. Do you think he saw this as his end?”

“I don’t think that he wanted for nothing,” Kafziel says reflectively. “He certainly had money, and power, and perhaps even respect at times. But love passed him by-- both the giving and the receiving. Ultimately, he died a poor man in what ways truly matter.”

His hand is warm and sure against her lower back, and he gently ushers her down the stairs of the nearest subway station. At this hour, it isn’t too packed, and the car they get in has enough room in it that there are actually open seats. Neither of them take one, though, and a heavyset woman trundles into the one closest to where Kafziel is standing. 

“She works at a very popular pizza parlour.” Kafziel follows Desirée’s gaze towards the woman, whom, upon closer inspection, seems to have a smudge of flour on one cheek. and wears sensible non-slip shoes. “She’s been there for the last twenty years. Her husband works the first shift at a factory. She takes the kids-- they have three-- to school in the morning before heading to work, and he picks them up when he gets back. It’s not an easy life, but they’re happy with it.”

The train rolls from one station to the next, and in the quiet, soothing tones of someone telling a cherished loved one a bedtime story, Kafziel gives her bits and pieces about the people that come on and disembark. The teenaged boy, all bravado under his Yankees beanie and headphones, was taking classes at the local college, studying to be an engineer. He was meeting up with a few friends that night, and there was a girl that he liked who might be there. The grizzled old man reading the newspaper owned a corner store, and the highlight of his week was seeing his grandchildren at church every Sunday, after which they’d go have lunch at a diner and play checkers. 

It’s fascinating and strangely comforting, all these miniscule slices of eclectic mortal life, and as the train car goes on, Desirée gets caught up in the fun of it, and makes her own speculations about the people. She’s usually wrong, but Kafziel simply gives her a faint smile and tells her the truth about them. 

“She’s a teacher, or a social worker-- some profession focused on helping people find their best selves. Happy in love. Not a New Yorker born and raised, but she’s come to love this place as her home. No children yet, but she’d love to have them someday, have a cozy home with a daughter and perhaps a cat.” With almost a giggle, Desirée rattles off her imagined version of the life story of the latest passenger-- a trim blonde in a pink peacoat with a pretty, friendly face. But as soon as she’s done, she catches Kafziel’s eye, and he’s looking at her rather speculatively.

“You’re right about everything with her,” he says, after a moment of almost-awkward silence. “Her name is Angela Schein-- though, Angela King, now. She’s actually the wife of one of the doctors at the hospital. One of the intake physicians at the ER, whom you like fairly well.”

Desirée’s startled gaze meets his. She knows instinctually which doctor Kafziel is referring to-- the young, dark-haired one with the kind blue eyes-- and for that, she gives the blonde woman another look. If kindness and goodness were visible, she’d all but radiate it like a glowing beacon. It’s almost a breath of fresh air in spirit, clearing away the stench of materialism and selfishness from Douglas Townsend’s deathbed, and she wonders for a moment if Kafziel knew that Angela would be on this train at this hour. She wouldn’t put it past him. 

“So you see, do not despair.” Kafziel’s voice is softer than ever, a far cry from the ringing, unearthly wrath he’d unleashed upon the ears of the Townsend clan. “There is good left in the world, greater and stronger ever than the evil. Do not let the unworthy ones dishearten you.” His hand draws her just a little closer, and between that and the steady rhythm of the train, she finds her comfort. 

An indiscernible amount of stops later, they disembark with the last passengers at the final stop, walk at a leisurely pace through the subway station. They pause in front of a ragged dirty-blond urchin of a young man, strumming a guitar and singing in a surprisingly sweet and tuneful tenor. 

“Sail on silver girl Sail on by Your time has come to shine All your dreams are on their way See how they shine Oh, if you need a friend I'm sailing right behind Like a bridge over troubled water I will ease your mind Like a bridge over troubled water I will ease your mind...” 

The last time she’d heard someone playing music in front of her had been in a ballroom, at a society event where she’d danced with several eligible young men. It had been before her marriage to Antoine, and waltzing about in a pretty gown had been exciting for a young girl full on the lease of life. The present is nowhere near as elegant, and yet, with Kafziel’s hand clasping hers, it feels warmer and more intimate, the words sung seeming just for her. It’s neither the time nor place to stand up on tiptoe and twirl, and Desirée does neither. But she knows, without him saying so, that he’d understand if she did. He says nothing, but drops a crisp hundred-dollar bill in the young man’s battered guitar case, not to be noticed until later, and they walk away as silently as they had approached.

When they make it above-ground, it is to the majestic sight of the Brooklyn Bridge, a brilliantly-lit focal point at the forefront of the Manhattan skyline against a backdrop of ink-black night. There’s a brisk breeze coming up from the water and Kafziel draws her close, wrapping both arms around her shoulders. “Hold on to me,” he whispers into the crown of her hair, and she clenches her fingers around the soft material of his shirt as his feet leave the pavement with a rush of wind. Desirée untucks her face from his shoulder a few moments to see that they’re at the very top of the bridge tower. Underneath them, both pedestrian and motor traffic cross the bridge in both directions, a terrifying height below. The water below is dark and undoubtedly cold, and the spot they’re standing must be precarious at best.

And yet, she has never felt safer. Perhaps that, too, had been a plan on Kafziel’s part. The song of the busker, the unspoken message in the strength of the arms holding her. Desirée isn’t facing him, but she hopes that he can see her smile, nonetheless. 

In the morning, perhaps, there will be another death at Bellevue, bringing with it more sorrow and pain, or perhaps relief and rest. It would be another day. 

She would think, though, of the beauty of another sunrise. 

[ladyofstardust]

Love is a Glitter Cannon in an Empty Pool

Word Count: 3.8k

Rating: T

Summary: In which Sarah gets her hands on a glitter cannon, owes 500 will o wisps a favour, and gives Jareth old cereal for his birthday. Everything goes exactly to plan.

Notes: Apartment-verse fic.  Set after the events of Carol of the Goblins.  I’m also posting them over at Ao3 in order if you’d prefer to read that way.

So true funny how it seems Always in time, but never in line for dreams Head over heels when toe to toe This is the sound of my soul

- True, Spandau Ballet

“Can you,” Sarah huffed, pushing on the extremely heavy iron base.  “Lift up the front just a littttttle? I just…want to get it into…the deep end.”

“Man, you are lucky I’m even letting you borrow this thing, let alone having me carry it into this pool.  It’s too heavy for that Sarah!” Laurel complained, letting the front of the cannon drop with a thud.

“No one will know!” She said, the base of the cannon unmoving against her shoulder.  “I promise we won’t break it.”

“You promise a lot of things for a woman trying to push a glitter cannon into an empty pool,” Laurel said appraising the situation.  “I’m half convinced you only picked this day because you knew I had that wedding to attend and cannot watch the absolute shitstorm this will be.”

“It won’t be a shitstorm, it’s going to be a glitter storm.” Sarah corrected, finally giving up the ghost on the glitter cannon, settling for its place in the shallow end.  “Also it’s his birthday, I didn’t pick it!”

This was…mostly true.  She knew Jareth had a birthday - everyone had a birthday!  But she didn’t know when it was. In fact, she was pretty sure he didn’t know either.  She’d bugged him and asked him enough, and every time he gave her a different date. Some of them weren’t even real dates as the 47th of Mercury wasn’t really something she could find on any of her calendars.  So the next time he threw out a (real) date she decided to run with it. His fault for not being more specific.

She’d been planning this for the last three months.  He was always doing these surprise romantic things for her.  It was easy enough for him to take her to Prague on a whim, or twirl her around skating on the frozen over bog.  Fine, points to King. But she had a friend who was an operations assistant for the local baseball team. The local baseball team that so happened to be in off-season.  That so happened to be in off-season with a currently unused glitter cannon. Then she found out her parents were going out of town, and their pool would be drained for the season, and the whole thing just started coming together.  

But Laurel couldn’t be there.  Sarah knew there was no way in hell she was getting unfettered access to that glitter cannon without Laurel insisting on attending.  Which in fairness, given that Sarah and Jareth had been a “thing” now for a while, Laurel was past irritated and solidly into suspicion.  She completely lucked out that her friend had to go to her brother’s wedding that weekend and couldn’t be there. This was her glittery shot for romance GK style and she was going all out.  

“Why does he like glitter so much anyways?” Laurel asked.  “It doesn’t even have a purpose.”

“Says the woman with the glitter cannon,” Sarah said with a smirk.  “And who even knows - maybe he was dropped on his head in the middle of studio 54 as an infant and the glitter invaded his cerebral cortex.  Or maybe David Bowie came to him in a dream and told him to be Glitter King henceforth. Or maybe he’s secretly a magpie and is just really into shiny things.  The possibilities are endless.”

“So, I mostly know you’re joking, but given some of the things you’ve told me about him in the past, I’m unwilling to rule anything out.”

“That’s the right call.  Last time I made an assumption about him I ended up flat on my back.  Well…actually that ended up going pretty well for me eyyyy” she said holding out her hand for a high five.

“Dude.”  Laurel deadpanned.

“Listen buddy, you were the one pushing us to start banging.  Now either give me a high five like a good friend or go inside and get the smoke machine.”

With a sigh, Laurel lifted her hand for the high five and Sarah forcefully returned it.

“Do you guys just spend all your time together having sex and high fiving about it after?”

“Pretty much!” Sarah grinned, running into the house to search for the aforementioned smoke machine.

“You’re gross!” Laurel called after her.

“Nope just happy!  Deal with it!” Sarah shouted behind her.  

Sarah started digging under the kitchen sink for the smoke machine.  Laurel had offered to lend hers, but Sarah actually had a few from a halloween party her parents threw a few years ago, and they wouldn’t notice if say, a goblin decided to turn it into a vomiting purple goop machine.  Sarah sighed thinking of her poor George Foreman grill. Forever ruined, sitting with the rest of the electronic graveyard in her apartment storage locker.

“My lady, where did you want the wisps?”  Sir Didymus asked from behind her, gesturing to a large glowing collection that someone might mistake for fireflies, but it was likely to be their last mistake.

“Just take them into the basement for the next half hour or so, I still have humans around.”

Sir Didymus nodded once and called to the will o’wisps to join him.  Sarah still had to pick up a few things for the party, Karen didn’t keep non-healthy snacks in the house, but Sarah knew Toby had a secret stash of Mars Bars and Fritos under his bed.  But she wouldn’t do him like that, he was already mad at her that she wouldn’t admit her boyfriend was the Goblin King. But there was no way in hell she was risking letting that slip in front of Karen or her dad, and twelve year old boys were never the pinnacle of discretion.  

Laurel promised to finish setting up the cannon before she left (but not before extorting a promise that she’d get photos of the end result), and Sir Didymus was busy coaching the wisps for their parts in the basement.  How he managed to get over 500 will o’ wisps to agree to this was a question for another time, but she was grateful he pulled it off. Sir Didymus loved his king, and would do anything he asked. But for Sarah he’d move worlds and she knew this.  Jareth knew it too, she suspected he encouraged her friend’s behaviour.

When Sarah returned after a very fruitful snack run, she noticed her friend had done her a solid and also set up the smoke machine as well.  Pool emptied out, and cannon and smoke firmly in place, Sarah spent the rest of the afternoon putting on her best taffeta and aqua-netted look, getting all the snacks in order and hooking up her old boombox before she declared the situation Ready for Party Time.  

She chose the pool as party central because she both wanted to contain the glitter, but didn’t want anyone peering over fences and happening to catch a glimpse of any magical mayhem.  The pool was both outside, and slightly hidden from view, as long as they stayed in the deep end. Plus it kinda looked like a middle school gymnasium with all the water gone and decorated with crepe paper.  This was exactly the look she was going for and Sarah was pleased.

“Didymus, are the wisps ready on my call?” She cried out to her friend, who was standing on the diving board, preparing to conduct the wisps like a maestro.

“Ready whenever you are my lady!”  

“Okay Didymus, cue the smoke machines!”  

The pool began to fill with a slightly stale smelling fog and Sarah hit play on the boombox.  

“Alright folks,” she said to no one in particular.  “I wish the King of the Goblins would come and party with me right now!”  

“What. In. Stars. ”  She heard him deadpan from across the pool.  

That was her cue.  Covering her ears, she let off the cannon and the large boom it made nearly knocked her over, but it began to rain glitter into the pool.  The will o wisps began dancing in an array of neon colours giving their best impression of the laser light show she’d shown them, and Spandau Ballet’s True echoed against the pool’s walls.  The hundred or so balloons she had managed to get the goblins to actually blow up, drifted along with the smoke and glitter and Sarah thought it had all come together rather perfectly.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JARETH!”  She ran towards him and threw her arms around his neck kissing him.  

“I don’t…have a birthday?”  He said confused looking around at the scene.

“Of course you do, just because you don’t remember it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.  This was the date you gave me last time I asked, so I decided from henceforth, today is your birthday.  I don’t get enough opportunities to celebrate you, because despite my snarking you’re pretty freaking great.  Also you can’t call dibs on all grand romantic gestures, and I needed some points in the good girlfriend column.”

“You’ve already a good girlfriend…and I’m not sure I understand. Are those…will o wisps?  Pretending to be … lasers?”

“I’m frankly shocked you know what a laser is but yes.  Welcome to your 80s music dance party. Featuring all the trimmings.  I’ve got 80s themed snacks, 80s themed smoke, 80s themed will o wisps and the goblins are all wearing neon sweatbands, and have gotten really into Karen’s old Jane Fonda workout tapes, so they’ll be completely out of our hair.  

“You did all this for me?” He said looking around at the scene.  The glitter was still raining down into the pool and Sarah felt her stomach turn.  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, maybe there was a reason he didn’t celebrate his birthday.

“I did,” she said nervously.  “Because I love you, like a lot.  So if you hate this I’ll stop it right now and we can just go inside and watch the goblins learn jazzercise.”

He broke into a grin and kissed the top of her head affectionately.  

“I love it.  You’re the best girlfriend in this world or any other, title to Ms. Sarah Williams, I’ll arrange for your sash and sceptre in the morning.  I’m completely surprised, but admittedly this does explain a few things.”

“Yeah…yeah…I kinda thought there might be leaks on this plan.” She wasn’t so optimistic to think that there was any way to keep roughly 30 goblins sworn to secrecy but she figured that Jareth would hear “laser light show” from goblins and assume…well she didn’t think he’d jump to surprise birthday party at least.

“So what now?” He asked, catching a piece of falling glitter on his palm.

“Now we slow dance like middle schoolers.” She said seriously, placing her hands on his shoulders.  He went to place his hands in the proper dance positions but she swatted them away. “I said middle school!  Hands on shoulders mister and they better not wander.”

“But it’s my birthday,” he whined.

“Only technically,” she said rolling her eyes.  “Besides we’re going to do this right. I am committed to the theme.”

They swayed quietly to the echoing synthesizers for a few minutes until the song changed.  At which point Jareth took his opportunity to pull her closer.

“Middle school’s over,” he said giving her a twirl.  “Though I notice your dancing has improved significantly.”

Sarah couldn’t hid her pleased smile.  “Yeah I’ve been watching some youtube videos.  Something about fifty goddamn years of dance is real intimidating and...I actually had fun at the last faerie ball and you know, I could be convinced to go again.”

Jareth’s grin could have split the night it was so wide.  “They’re much more enjoyable with you, I’d actually go to more of them if you were with me.”

“Do you want to go to more of them?  I’ll go to any of the ones I’m expected to be at as Official Goblin Girlfriend but honestly I’d rather spend my Saturday nights watching movies on the couch with you.  They’re fun on occasion though. Too much Fae time is bad for the brain.”

“This is true,” he agreed.  “But I think we should avoid Samhain for the next little while as it’s always…a bit much.”

“Yeah ok fair enough,” she said.  “Besides I already have our couple’s costume planned out.”

“Sarah I don’t dress up for Samhain it’s an important date Underground and - what why are you smiling like that?” He said stopping mid-sentence.  

“Because I was gonna let you go as Elton John…” she said with a grin.  “I could go as Princess Di and you could do your trick with the fire again.”

“I’d rather not,” he said, brow furrowing in concern.

“Oh would that be because it wasn’t a trick and instead it was just you lighting me on fire?” She said, sticking out her tongue.  “What about all that ‘no Sarah, I promise it was very safe, just magic I swear I didn’t accidentally throw a fireball inside’ talk hmm?”

“I’m going to remind you again that it is my birthday and I should not have to answer questions regarding highly flammable outerwear,” he said deftly avoiding her question.

“Yeah whatever,” she rolled her eyes.  “You still owe me a new scarf.”

“Do you not have a running invoice at this point?” He teased.  “I’m fairly certain I’m several thousand in debt by this point.”

“Once you start factoring in the Goblins it does start getting up there,” she said.  “But what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is a forfeited security deposit so one of us is going to have to do some fancy talking when it comes time for me to move out.”

“Move out?” He stopped dancing.  “For what possible reason? Where would you go?  Why do you feel the need to move?”

“Hey whoa,” she said pulling him toward the snack table.  “I’m not planning on moving anytime soon. I mean, I’ve thought about it of course.  My apartment was never designed to be the nexus of weirdness and goblin halfway house it seems to have grown into but it…kinda is now?  To be honest I’ve spent more time wondering if there’s any way you could expand it so we had more room for our friends and goblins without them encroaching into our bedroom.”

“I looked into it, while it was achievable it was unlikely to be reversible.  Presenting a bit of a challenge for the next lodger after you.”

“I thought you didn’t want me moving,” she said with an arched brow.  

“Let’s just say I had a few thoughts of my own, I just thought I might be consulted before making any decisions,” he trailed off.  

“And you will be, because a glitter cannon in an empty pool says that where you go I go,” she pointed to the cannon in the corner which was now sort of sadly puking out small puffs of glitter and giving her strange high school prom flashbacks.  

“I suppose I always assumed after you left your apartment it would be to move into the castle,” he said, pouring a glass of Tang.  

“It might be,” she said with a noncommittal shrug.  “I dunno, like I said, I wasn’t planning on moving out anytime soon.  But I mean, I think we both like having a place Aboveground to call our own. I know you have all those other properties under your name though, so I was more thinking that might be a good next step.  Moving into one of your houses together. But not today.”

“Why not today?” He asked, taking a sip of Tang.  The face he pulled was, in Sarah’s estimation, 100% worth pushing a glitter cannon into a pool for.  “What is this appalling drink?”

“Tang,” Sarah said, opting for a crystal Pepsi instead.  “And because last I checked the only one paying rent on my place was me.  I’m also the one who has the utilities in their name, and the internet though to be honest it might…actually be Hoggle on my cable package.  He loves HBO.

“I like being self-sufficient, this isn’t news,” she popped a Frito into her mouth.  “If I move into one of your guaranteed ridiculously over the top homes, it’s just a hop skip and a jump from there into kept woman territory.  I know I can keep my job, but God I hate my job. If I didn’t have to do it…I’m not sure I would.”

“Something tells me this has less to do with you than it does Linda,” Jareth replied carefully, waving away the Tang and producing something that smelled distinctly like Goblin Ale.

“Yeah well, that’s the thing isn’t it?  Mommy issues run deep and true, and unfortunately they don’t die with their human counterpart,” she said.  “But regardless, I’m not down to live in some brownstone downtown just yet.”

“I was more thinking Upper Nyack,” he said glancing around her parent’s expansive backyard.  “I’m feeling a bit sentimental about this town and I enjoy your parent’s company.”

“You’re just saying that because my Dad promised to take you to a Rod Stewart concert.  Which by the way, might actually kill me.  If I wasn’t so worried about what you two would talk about I’d be coming down with a terrible flu.”

“Nice try Sarah,” he laughed.  “What was it you said, ah yes, half the fun is seeing your face.”

“Ughhhh,” she whined, throwing her head back.  “I hate that you like dad rock.”

“Consider it my birthday gift precious,” he said, kissing her on the tip of her nose.  

“Yeah and what was all this then,” she said in mock indignation, gesturing around the fog and glitter laden pool.  

“A wonderful surprise,” he grinned.  “Though I still don’t quite understand how Sir Didymus managed to get the wisps involved.  They are not known for taking direction well.”

“Oh what won’t Didymus do for me,” she said waving him off.  “Honestly, I feel I could ask him for the moon and he’d start building a ladder.”

He’s not the only one,” Jareth replied.

“I think I proved I’d build a ladder for you too tonight,” she pointed out.  “A ladder made of Funyuns and Red Vines.”

“Is there anything on this table that isn’t decades past its expiration date, or comprised of pure sugared rubber?” He said, looking unhappily at the snack table.  

“Uh there might be,” Sarah said glancing at the table filled with technicolor treats.  “But I don’t know why you’d want to eat it. Corn syrup and aspartame is the backbone of this country.”

“Is this really what you ate during your childhood,” he said, gesturing to the bowl of Smurf Berry Crunch.  “I don’t even know what species this is supposed to be.”

“Yeah I actually…don’t know?” she said tilting her head to look at the box.  “Also there was only one girl smurf, Smurfette. Which raises a lot more questions.”

“Has this been in your step-mother’s cupboard this whole time?”

“Haha no way,” Sarah laughed shaking her head.  “Karen’s way too fastidious for that. No I got some of it off eBay, some of it from the basement where she never goes, but this was an eBay find.”

“You got me used cereal for my birthday?” He said, raising a single eyebrow at her.

“It’s not used, the box isn’t even open.” She said, grabbing the box.  “Also it’s got so much sugar in it there’s no way it can actually go bad.  It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine. Pretty sure.”

“Forgive me if you don’t fill me with confidence love,” he said, delicately taking the box out of her hands.  “But have you considered, there are food options that don’t carry such a caveat of ‘pretty sure’.”

“Goblin Ale is not one of those options,” she said pointing to the glass in his hand.

“Perhaps then the saying, better the devil you know,” he said, taking a long sip.

“You’ve gotten a lot of mileage out of that saying,” she said, sniffing his glass.  “Every time I smell or decide to do something stupid like taste the thing it’s different.”

“Funny you should mention that,” he said.  “The goblins don’t actually have a word for drink.  All drinks are called ale and all ale is a drink. They are synonyms to them.”

“Yeah stuff like that is the reason I have to hide my blender,” she said sighing and taking a sip of his drink.  It burned worse than the cheapest tequila. “It still tastes like death.”

“Well it’s an acquired taste,” he said rolling his eyes, and taking his drink back from her.  “Just like you.”

“Just like you,” she said, giving him a playful poke.  “Though I did try tonight. So if there’s something missing here that you’re looking for, you have my permission to magic it in.”

“No strings?” He said with a wicked glint in his eye.

“Please do not make me regret saying this,” she said, raking a hand down her face.  “Something nice maybe?”

“I have just the thing,” he winked.  

It took Sarah a second to realize what he’d done.  Then she noticed there wasn’t any music playing. The “lasers” were gone.  She also didn’t hear any of Sir Didymus’ shrieks about the wisps breaking formation.  

“Did you just bog everyone?!” She said, anxiously looking around the pool for any errant wisps.  

“I sent them home.” He said.  “Where they are more than welcome to continue celebrating my non-birthday.”

“Jareth I’m not going to have sex with you on the floor of my parent’s drained pool no matter how real your birthday is,” she said crossing her arms.

“While I won’t say the thought didn’t occur to me,” he said, leading her back towards the epicentre of the glitter cannon explosion.  “That’s not why. Well, it might be why later.”

“It’s not,” she said.

“Nevertheless!” He replied brightly.  “Look up Sarah.”

Sarah looked towards the sky and was surprised to see a full meteor shower happening all around them.  Down into her parent’s pool, the glitter cannon started spurting again, and Jareth restarted the music.

“Better than lasers?” He asked her with a smirk.

“Always gotta show me up huh?” She said grinning.  “Yeah that’ll do pig, that’ll do.”

“Pig?”  

“Babe,” she said giving him a kiss on the nose.

“Yes?”  

“Don’t worry about it,” she said with a laugh. She wrapped her arms around him and looked back up towards the meteor lit sky.  “Happy Birthday Jareth, let’s watch these stars fall.”

[jerseycityrp-blog]

FULL NAME: Lydia Noelle Morgan GENDER: Cisfemale PRONOUNS: She/Her AGE: 28 BIRTHDAY: August 9th BIRTH ORDER: First HOMETOWN: Detroit, Michigan RELATION: Half Sibling TYPE: Solo ORIENTATION: Pansexual/Panromantic JOB TITLE(S): Bartender at Cat Scratch Strip Club FACECLAIM: Shay Mitchell

Raised -- if you could call it that -- by a mother who had an affinity for booze, bad guys and absolutely no respect for herself nor her children, it was safe to say Lydia didn’t have the best childhood. She never actually knew her father, in fact her mother was never even entirely sure “which one” he was, but Lydia always knew one thing about him: He was a better parent than her mother was, simply by not being around. Marta Morgan was an alcoholic, an abusive one at that, and as soon as Lydia reached the age of sixteen, choosing not to stick around and finish out high school, she was out on her own. Her plan was to set up home somewhere far away for she and her younger sister once she was able to leave, so Lydia made her way to New Jersey; practically paradise in comparison, and the freedom couldn’t have come soon enough.

In keeping with Lydia’s poor life, though, that freedom didn’t last very long. She lived in a small, run-down apartment in a bad neighborhood in Jersey City. Gangs and violence surrounded her, though Lydia was always cautious to remain distant from it all. That wasn’t as easy when she begun dating her now ex boyfriend Carl, though. But what he did was his business, Lydia would ignore it and act like it wasn’t happening, until she found herself carrying his baby. His not so legal activities were too much for her to bring a literal child into, so Lydia ended things between them, much to Carl’s dismay.

When she and her five month pregnant belly were pulled from her apartment one evening soon after the breakup by a couple police officers, she assumed Carl was behind it. He’d probably done something shady, and they hoped she had some information. She didn’t, but whatever. Imagine Lydia’s surprise when they stated it was her they wanted, not Carl.

Although she’d done absolutely nothing wrong, simply gotten involved with the wrong guy, they had a laundry list of offenses with her name on them. Lydia pled not guilty to every single one, and was telling the truth, but Carl was sneaky, he’d thought of everything. Everything he’d framed her for, Lydia would be punished for, and soon she found herself heavily pregnant and behind bars.

Faith was something Lydia had never truly had, but it was all she could cling to now, hoping against hope that this whole misunderstanding would blow over before her baby’s birth. The baby she would name Faith. But it didn’t… When her daughter was born, Lydia only got to hold her for the shortest amount of time, then she was being taken away and put into the foster system despite Lydia’s begging and pleading for them to give her to her sister. Unfortunately, Lina’s situation deemed her unfit in the eyes of the system, so it was a definite no-go.

Six years in prison, especially for crimes one had never committed, was enough to drive anybody crazy. Add into that the fact that Lydia’s daughter was growing up without her, and that Lydia had no idea what kind of BS Faith was enduring, and it all broke her entirely.

By the time of her recent release, enough evidence having been collected to finally prove her innocence, Lydia was an entirely different person to the strong, resilient woman she once had been. She’d lost everything, all of the sparkle she once upon a time had. She was a mess, a defensive, broken mess, and frankly, she was scared.

Despite monetary compensation, nothing could make up for the years that’d been stolen from her. It turned out that Faith had never been adopted. She’d been passed from home to home, just like Lydia had feared. The only positive was that Lydia could get her back again, since she didn’t “belong” to any one family, but it has been a few months now, and the whole process is taking too long. They’ve missed so much time together, each day she’s free and without her daughter is only adding to the damage.

Lydia never went to college, nor even graduated high school. She has no qualifications nor special skills, only bar work under her belt from her early twenties. The money she received for her “troubles” was a good sum, but she feels she needs to show social services she’s able to provide for her daughter herself, so has recently taken a job tending bar at the local strip club where her younger sister works. Truth be told, she hates it -- who wants to watch creepy old men ogling their baby sister? -- but it’s money and it’s responsibility, so Lydia is doing what she can.

Recently, a friend from before her arrest who went on to work in publishing has approached Lydia, eager to have her write about her experience in prison and having been wrongly accused, but she doesn’t really know how good an idea it would be. She wants to move on from her past and make a bright future for she and her daughter, delving back into everything bad to have happened to her seems counterproductive. But, man, does it seem like an opportunity to right some wrongs, and to bring to light everyone who has ever wronged her in the process.

[dontshootmespence]

Not From Around Here

A/N: An anon request for a Spencer x Reader where the reader works at a mall and Spencer goes to interview her to see if she’s seen anything related to the case the BAU is investigating. Since she’s so personable, she knows most of her customers and realizes why Spencer is there. 

“Have a good one, Mel!” Y/N called as one of her frequent customers left holding her medium caramel machiatto with whipped cream on top. 

Going to graduate school and working full time was absolutely kicking her ass, but as a barista in the local mall, she did her best to get to know everyone that came in. Her shift provided customers that weren’t too busy to talk to anyone because of the morning rush, so she knew most of them by name and at this point had even memorized a lot of their orders. “Hey, Dan,” she said with smile. “Work go okay?”

“The usual,” he laughed.

“Speaking of, you want a large regular coffee with 4 milks and 1 sugar packet, right?”

“You’ve got a great memory,” he replied, making idle conversation as she prepared his usual order.

It went like this every day and gave her the social interaction she needed. With such a packed schedule, she had little time to hang out with family and friends. Studies were increasingly lonely. 

That’s how she knew that the tall, lanky man with wildly fluffy brown hair, warm brown eyes and glasses was out of place. She always noticed people who weren’t part of her usual clientele. He was a cute one though. She’d seen him around the area, so she assumed he lived here, but he definitely wasn’t a typical mall patron. 

For the most part, he kept it covered, but occasionally his coat would fall open, revealing the little sliver of his gun. Law enforcement was not what she first expected when she saw him, but after seeing him pass the store quite a few times during a short amount of time, she asked the manager of the shoe store opposite her job while she was on break. “You know what that’s about?” She asked the manager, Dillon. 

“What?” He laughed. “You’re gonna have to be more specific?”

“The cute, gangly guy that came to talk to you and a few of your employees over the past few days?”

Dillon chuckled. “Oh, so you think he’s cute. Want me to set you up?”

“I can do that myself thank you very much. Who is he? He’s law enforcement?”

Dillon walked away for a second to light his cigarette before answering. “His name is Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid, apparently. I’m curious as to what doctoral degree he has. But he stopped by because we had an employee here about a year ago that might possibly be involved in something that he’s investigating. Oh, he’s FBI, not local PD.”

“Ooo, interesting. The employee he referred to, was that the creepy Abe guy that I hated.”

“Yup, that’s the one,” Dillon. “So glad I got to fire that asshole. He tried to apply over by you guys shortly after right?”

Y/N shivered as she remember the year before when he’d strolled into the shop. Reluctantly, she’d given him an application, but when it came time to actually hire people, she begged management not to hire him and they’d agreed. “Yes, I talked Brenda out of it, thank God.”

Looking at her phone, she realized her 15 minute break was nearly over. Way too soon as always.

The next few weeks went by as they always did. Y/N went to school and then came to work, assisting the same customers she always did, with the occasional newbie whose order she didn’t know. And then the not-so-mysterious Dr. Reid showed up again - this time though, he came into her shop. “Hello, my name is-”

“Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid from the FBI, amirite? Not a mall guy?” She smiled at the look of confusion upon his face. “When you were asking my friend across the way a couple questions a few weeks ago, I asked what it was about and who you were?”

Dr. Reid stammered. “O-oh okay. This isn’t about the same case. And no, I’m not. I’m not from around here. Can I ask your name?”

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N. I’m the shift supervisor. Is there something I can help you with Dr. Reid?” 

When she winked at him, he got flustered, looking at the floor for a moment. “Ummm, y-yes actually. I have a few questions about your co-worker Melissa.”

Melissa hadn’t been in for days, but Y/N wasn’t particularly close with her either. “What about her? I haven’t seen her a lot over the past few weeks. I’ve seen you here more often actually.”

“Do you know her boyfriend?” When he pulled out the picture, she recognized him as the man Melissa had introduced her to - Evan. 

“She didn’t introduce him as her boyfriend, but she did tell me his name was Evan.” A shiver ran up her spine. 

Dr. Reid must have noticed. “What is it? Did something about him unnerve you?”

“I-I’m not sure. It could’ve just been me overreacting.”

“Can you tell me anyway?” He asked, with an edge of desperation. 

“I-I don’t know. He just made me very uncomfortable. Like I wouldn’t want to be caught in a dark alley with him, you know?” He nodded sadly. Although she felt like she knew the answer, she had to ask anyway. “Did something happen to Melissa?” They weren’t close, but it wasn’t for any particular reason.

Dr. Reid hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry, but Melissa was found murdered last night in her home. It was done in a very similar way to a string of murders that have happened recently and the Bureau was called in to determine whether the cases are connected or not. Evan is a person of interest.”

An immediate sinking feeling took over her stomach. “Oh my god.” Poor Melissa. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Dr. Reid?”

“Spencer, please,” he replied. “Are you okay, Y/N?”

“Spencer. I’m okay as I can be given the news.”

“Okay, well I just have a few more questions. How often has he come here with Melissa?”

“Maybe once a week.” This was unreal. She knew somebody that had been murdered, and she might’ve even met the murderer. 

Spencer seemed to make a mental note. “And is there anything else about him that stood out as being off?”

Y/N cycled through her thoughts. “Actually, about six months ago, he came in with her and they got a couple drinks. Hers was cold and she accidentally spilled it on his hand. He had a ring on - with an emblem of some kind I think - and he got very, very angry. Saying it was a family heirloom and if it was damaged he was going to...I assume he was going to say kill her, but I told him to calm down before he could finish.”

Something sparked behind Spencer’s eyes. Apparently that ring might’ve had something to do with the case. How...she didn’t want to know. 

Grabbing her drink, she took a swig and tried to wipe her mind. If she was going to make it through the rest of her shift, she needed to try and not think about this. 

“Thank you very much for helping me, Y/N.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied. “I hope you find whoever did this to her.”

“We will,” he said. “Do you mind if I get something to go?”

Good, she could get her mind back on coffee. “Of course. What can I get for you, Spencer?”

“A large coffee with 2 milks and six sugar packets.”

“Six?” She chuckled. “Someone likes their sugar.”

“It’s one of my only vices.”

“Could be worse.”

Chuckling, he made small talk with her while she fixed his drink. As confident as she’d been with Dillon, she was always nervous being straight forward, so instead of asking him, she grabbed a marker and wrote her name and number on his cup. “Here’s your drink. And I wrote my number on it just in case you need to ask me anything else.”

He blushed so hard she almost laughed. “I-If I wanted to c-call you for something not related to the case, would t-that be okay too?”

“I think I’d actually prefer that.”

“Me too,” he said, smiling. 

He gave her a small wave and started to head out when she called his name again. “Spencer?”

“Yes?”

“Please catch him. I wasn’t close with Melissa, but she didn’t deserve this.”

“No, she didn’t,” he replied. “We’ll get him. I promise.”

@jamiemelyn @coveofmemories @iammostdefinitelyonfire26 @unstoppableangel8 @reddie-for-mileven @rmmalta @lukeassmanalvez @veroinnumera @hogwarts-konoha @lookwhatyoumademequeue

[rosemakh]

A Burden's Recompense

[Author’s note: I wrote this in 2020. It’s loosely based on true events, as recounted by a friend of mine. This story is a tragic family drama. It deals with domestic abuse, and other things that might trigger some readers (like most of my stories!)]

My mother looked me dead in the eyes, "You ruined my life by being born."

That's what she said to me.

I was seven years old. And I knew she was right.

My mother's life was hard from the beginning. Born to abusive parents, she was beaten and starved for as long as she could remember. When she was around six years old, her mother (my grandmother) forced her to tend to the farm animals before school every day, alone. That gave my grandmother more time to lie in bed, watching TV and drinking. When my grandmother's lovers visited, she'd lock my mother in the closet so she couldn't reveal their identities to her father. When her father got home from work, he'd blame my mother for every trouble in his life and beat her with a leather belt until he felt better.

Eventually, she passed that evil legacy onto me.

I'd seen the pictures. I knew my mother used to be a happy person. She smiled from the frames of faded Polaroids in our family albums. Hair flipped out in a "Farrah Fawcett" style, she posed playfully in corduroy bell-bottoms. Her eyes twinkled with the promise of a bright future.

But my birth wrecked her body. She nearly died bringing me into this world. My father abandoned her because I wasn't a son. She became a casualty of age-old traditions. Homeless and unable to work, she took me to stay at her mother's for the first year of my life. Resting her ravaged body between baby care and housework, my mother eventually became well enough to work again. Then a new problem loomed before her: lack of education.

Back when my mother had turned 13, my grandmother introduced her to my father. Eventually, she convinced my mother that my father was a good man that would take care of her. So, as soon as she turned 18, my mother got her GED, quit school, and married my father. She truly believed that her fairytale had come true. In reality, my father had desired my mother for years. He was in his 30's when they first met. He had some kind of sick arrangement with my grandmother involving money and land. For her part, my grandmother had spent years talking my mother into loving him. It was a messed-up situation.

So, when I was around 18 months old, my mother entered the workforce with determination. She planned to work her way up in a fast food place and maybe own a location of her own one day. Daycare cost too much, so she swallowed her pride and went on government assistance. She was trying desperately to give me a normal life by sacrificing hers.

The years dragged on and promotions came. She fought her way to Assistant Manager, then bumped her head on a glass ceiling. A new franchisee had bought the location and refused my mother further promotions, citing poor performance. But all the other employees knew she was just jealous of my mother's youth and beauty.

One day, when I was five, my mother picked me up from school early. She'd been crying. Her eyes were puffy and red. She smiled at me weakly, "We're going to the beach." I climbed into the rusty car and away we went.

For my mother and me, the beach was the perfect place to hang out. It was beautiful, peaceful, and didn't cost a thing. It was early February and the wind ripped through my Rainbow Brite jacket like an ice knife. My mother was cold too, but she sat on the sand in her work uniform and stared into the clear sky. The wind threw her yellow hair around like dancing pasta. My own auburn hair whipped my face but I could see well enough to navigate around begging gulls to collect seashells from the wet sand. I chose the prettiest ones and carefully placed them in a plastic bucket. I just knew my mother would cheer up when she saw them! When the important job was done, I proudly showed them to her. She smiled through tears, then pulled me close. In the waning afternoon sun, we admired them together, cuddled up against the wind.

The next day was a Friday. She should have been working but she picked me up from school early again. She told me she'd been fired. Apparently, the franchisee fired her because her husband thought my mother was pretty.

My mother frantically looked for another job and in two weeks, she was the official cleaning lady for three of the local phone company's switch stations. It was hard work. She pushed heavy buffing machines and cleaning carts and moved huge spools of cable all by herself. Her shift started after school, so I'd always go with her. I loved it! Using a huge cable spool as a table, I'd color or draw in a room filled with tall cages and blinking switchboards. The whole building was filled with metal boxes, flashing lights, and bundled wires. It was the coolest place I'd ever seen. But it wasn't cool for my mother. Her frail body, already damaged by my birth and years of farm work, couldn't stand the abuse. Within a year, she was back in the hospital, being prepped for hernia surgery.

The phone company promised she'd still have her job when she recovered. But six weeks later, when she arrived to resume work, she was flatly told that she'd been replaced by a professional cleaning crew. At the age of six, I learned a valuable lesson from my mother's hard life: Always get it in writing.

It's impossible to predict what might break someone. Nobody can stay strong forever if their life is nothing but disappointment and pain. Losing that job was my mother's breaking point. It left a bad taste in her mouth and a sour look on her face. She went back on the job hunt. On the weekends, she dragged me from business to business as she applied to job after job. She walked into every place wearing that bitter expression. I was just a kid but even I knew nobody would hire that kind of face.

On that dreadful day, she'd been turned down by jobs all morning. Exhausted, she leaned on her car and cried. Her tears fell with weak sobs. I desperately wanted to help her but there was nothing I could do. I could only offer her a little moral support. I tugged on her shirt sleeve to get her attention but she yanked away violently. Then she bent at the waist, looked into my eyes, and said it with all the putrid resentment she'd held inside for years: "You ruined my life...I never should have had you. I was so stupid!"

She knelt in front of me, grabbed my tiny shoulders, and screamed, "Why did I think your father loved me! Why did I think he'd take care of me! Why didn't I have a boy!" She collapsed to the ground, nearly dragging me down with her. She doubled over and sobbed into the filthy pavement.

The next night, a neighbor girl came over to babysit me. A wrinkle-faced guy arrived in a red sports car and gave the babysitter some money. My mother gave the babysitter some instructions and jumped into the car with Mr. Wrinkle-face. They sped away, laughing. That was the first of many come-and-go boyfriends. She was on a dating spree, finally catching up on all the things she didn't get to do because of me. Sometimes she'd come home with her hair tangled and makeup smudged. Sometimes she'd stumble into the house and pass out in the hallway. Sometimes she wouldn't come home until the next morning and slur an apology to the exhausted neighbor girl as I dug into my second bowl of Circus Fun cereal.

One Saturday, my mother got up early and started cleaning, cooking, and making herself up. She was grinning from ear to ear and absolutely glowing. After breakfast, she helped me into my best dress and shoes and did my hair up in ribbons. We both looked so good, I just knew something wonderful was going to happen!

Around lunchtime, the doorbell rang. My mother practically flew to the door. She was like her old self again! She fluffed her hair and opened the door. A man stepped in and embraced her with a gravelly, "Hey, baby." He handed her a small bouquet of flowers which she took with a giggle. She'd always said cut flowers were a stupid gift because all they did was sit there and die. I wondered if those ones were different somehow.

He released my beaming mother and bent down to me. "So, here's the little rugrat!" he said through crooked, yellow teeth. His breath was stale and rank. I made a face at the smell, "I'm not a rugrat! I'm seven years old!" Behind him, my mother put a finger to her lips in a stop-talking-or-I'll-tear-you-up kind of way. I immediately shut up and stared at the floor. "Well aren't you cute," He patted my head, "Just like your mom!" She giggled again and wrapped one of her arms around his, "Come on, Chad. I'll make you a sandwich."

With Chad around, things were great for a little while. He got us cable TV, did house repairs, and took us to the movies every weekend. My mother even cooked dinner when he was there, instead of just heating some Chef Boyardee on the stove like the babysitter always did. He was at our house all the time, like a new family member. My mother loved having him around and he loved being around her. They enjoyed each other's "company" almost every night. I started sleeping with my head under my pillow because they were so noisy.

The abuse started gradually. Sly comments about her looks, weight, and housekeeping skills slowly turned into open insults. Eventually, he began belittling her in front of his friends and refusing to let her see her own friends.

They argued every night. Sometimes, I could hear things hitting the walls of their bedroom. They screamed at each other. In bed, I'd hide beneath the covers with my pillow over my head and cotton balls stuffed in my ears.

One night, I was woken up by a loud bang. Something big had slammed against their bedroom door. I peeked out from under my covers, plucked a cotton ball from one of my ears, and listened. A whimper floated on the air, weak and hollow. From within the whimper, my mother cried, "Please, don't baby, please--" She screamed. I felt the walls shake. I heard slapping sounds. More crying and pleading. From the safety of my bed, I got the picture: My mother was being beaten by the man she had taken into her home to take care of us. But if I weren't around, she wouldn't need him.

She was being beaten because of me.

From then on, he beat her a few nights each week and continued to criticize her every day. It made her a nervous wreck, so she stopped eating and lost a lot of weight. He'd ridicule her for being too skinny. "Put some meat on those bones or I'll leave ya!" He laughed while she massaged his feet after dinner one night.

After that, she never left the house without packing on makeup to cover the bruises.

A foul mixture of hatred and guilt had been growing inside me since the verbal abuse began. In the cartoonish world of my 7-year-old mind, I'd spent weeks mulling over ways to get rid of my mother's abuser. She wouldn't kick him out and he wouldn't leave. It was clear that murder was the only option but Bugs Bunny's anvils and ACME Brand TNT probably wouldn't cut it.

One warm Saturday night, fueled by my mother's pleas for mercy, I finally formed a brilliant little scheme.

On Sundays, Chad liked to relax in a hot bath after playing goodie-two-shoes at church all morning. That blessed day, my mother drew his bath, then went into the kitchen to make lunch. With him in the tub and my mother distracted, I sprang into action.

With the measured movements of a horror movie villain, I quickly opened the bathroom door, grabbed the hairdryer from the cabinet under the sink, plugged it in, turned it to High, and dropped it into the bathwater before Chad could react.

It was cool, like in the horror movies! He shook a lot. He screamed, just like he'd made my mother scream. When I remember the way he flopped around in the tub, it still makes me smile.

After he was sufficiently cooked, the circuit breaker finally tripped and the lights went out. Luckily, the Sunday sun streaming through the bathroom's frosted window provided plenty of light for me to bask in the glory of my work.

My mother appeared in the doorway, "Chad? Oh my god, Chad!" As she rushed to the tub, I unplugged the hairdryer, to be safe. She touched his neck to feel for a pulse but immediately drew back. I still wonder what his cooked skin felt like.

She covered her mouth and sobbed, "Chad," turning to me, she yelled, "Why?"

"He hurt you, mommy."

Her makeup was smeared in places, exposing some of her purple bruises. She shoved me hard against the vanity, "Why do you have to ruin everything!"

She ran to the phone in her bedroom and ten minutes later an ambulance came wailing down the street, followed by a police car with flashing blue lights. My mother burst from her room, the bruises on her face and neck gone again. As she dragged me down the hallway by my wrist, I marveled at the wonders of makeup.

She threw the front door open and stepped aside to let the cops in. Guns drawn, they quickly checked the house for danger, then signaled to the paramedics that it was safe to enter. One of the cops said, "Bathroom, down the hall!" as the paramedics rushed past us with a medical kit and gurney. I wanted to follow to see what they'd do with Chad's body but my mother's grip was firm.

My mother said to the older of the two cops, "You won't need your guns," she nodded in my direction, "My seven-year-old is the murderer."

***

The interrogation at the police station was fun. They separated my mother and me. A nice woman joined me in the interrogation room and we played with toys and talked and ate snacks. I got to tell her all about my brilliant murder plan. She seemed shocked, yet impressed. After a few hours, I'd managed to convince her that the plan was all mine and my mother hadn't put me up to it. I had saved my mother and I was proud. The lady left, assuring me she'd "Be right back."

I looked at my reflection in the big mirror on the wall. I was pretty messy from playing, so I smoothed my hair and straightened my Transformers shirt.

The woman returned, along with my mother, two policemen, and a gray-haired man in a long white coat. Everyone smiled at me, except my mother, who looked away, frowning. The nice lady crouched beside me and offered her hand, which I took. It was soft and warm.

"Would you like to go to a place where there are lots of other boys and girls?" she asked me.

"What kind of place?"

She smiled, "A special place for very special children. You'll get your own room and get to play and watch TV and learn all kinds of new things and make lots of friends. Doesn't that sound good?"

It did sound good but I wasn't so easily tricked. I knew I was going to an "institution." I'd known it the second that hairdryer hit the water.

The nice lady stood up, "Say goodbye to your mommy, honey. You probably won't see her for a little while."

I looked up at my mother, then walked to her and hugged her legs -- the only part of her I could reach. She didn't respond but continued to look into the distance with that sour expression I knew so well.

I've been in the institution for seven years now. It's been a lot of fun. I've made friends with interesting people and I've learned a lot.

Every year, I get evaluated so the doctors can see if the rehabilitation is working. Every year, they ask me the same question, and every year, I say the same thing: "I killed him. I'm proud of it. And if I had to make the choice again, I'd still do it."

I say it every year, and every year they seem surprised. Maybe they keep losing their notes.

This year, one of the younger doctors asked if I realized that if I felt sorry for killing that man, I could go back home, "Of course I realize that," I replied calmly, "But I don't feel sorry for it. Should I lie?"

"That kind of attitude will keep you here for a long time, miss," He scolded.

"That's fine with me."

At least in here, I'm no longer my mother's burden.

[margridarnauds]

laz and solene pls

THANKS FOR MY LIFE AVERY

Lazare

Sexuality Headcanon: GAY GAY GAY. I mean, the man has a RAINBOW across his crotch at one point. (Now, you could argue that it was a trick of the lighting, but come on. We know the truth.) Possibly with a side of demi, since I really don’t think that he really has any interest in sex until Ronan comes into his life, despite having a longtime (unfortunate and unrequited) crush on Artois and I genuinely can’t see him, say, going to a brothel or even having an affair with another officer or a soldier. I just think the man, with one, single exception, is more or less completely married to his job, and given the emphasis in army training on avoiding libertinism, the idea that “vices” weren’t inherent and could be stomped out, and my own headcanons as far as his family history...it ain’t gonna happen no matter what. Like, there are probably ongoing challenges in court as to who can successfully get the D, with no one being successful. (This has led to a number of young ladies swarming him at any given function in the hopes that they’ll be the one to melt his brooding heart.) In some AUs, like the Polyam AU, he’s obviously bi, but that’s the odd one out on multiple levels and is one of the few I’d really put into its own continuity (Come on, it acknowledges R/O, for God’s sake.) Asexual homoromantic Laz is also Very Important to me, with him trying to deal with everything because Ronan unleashes SQUISHY FEELINGS in him but he still doesn’t feel any sexual attraction towards him, though he’s not 100% opposed to sex in principle, and Ronan taking it personally because it’s Ronan and, in all fairness, it’s not like they have pamphlets on asexuality in the 18th century, though eventually they decide to navigate it in a way that makes them both happy.

Gender Headcanon: Generally, I write him as more or less cis, but trans Laz has a very, very special place in my heart since it puts his need to conform to society in an entirely different light. Like, it could be a Lady Oscar-esque situation where he’s an only child and Mama Peyrol and Papa de Peyrol (mainly Mama de Peyrol because *someone* is probably either in a brothel or on campaign WHOOPS) get worried and just...straight up raise him as a guy from the time he’s about 4-5 years old and he’s okay with it because, well, he is a guy and he’s happy that they finally notice that (and since boys habitually wore dresses until about the age of 7 when they had their breeching, this wouldn’t even be a Major Deal and they could probably come up with some bullshit reason for why they’d had a daughter baptized but now have a healthy son. Or if not, they just, like, bribe the local priest. Because they’re aristocrats and can afford to do shit like that). Then Papa de Peyrol dies, Grandpapa de Fuck comes into play, and it becomes more of a Thing, with always Upholding the De Peyrol Name and Fulfilling His Duty becoming the focus rather than, idk, raising a well-adjusted kid. Like, he gets some points for not misgendering him, but on every other level? Dude’s still an asshole. Because he’s Grandpapa de Fuck.

Laz is taught that he has to be the best grandson and heir that he can be, that no one can ever have a suspicion about him, which also becomes a bit of a strain as the pressure to marry looms in the future and Grandpapa de Fuck dies without even being useful. (Typical). And so Laz tries very, very hard to conform, to not so much as bend a single rule, to be the perfect military man. He gets this reputation for being standoffish from the time he’s a young officer, about the age of 14, never really interacting with the other men, even changing his clothes in secret, always sleeping on his own when he has the opportunity to, and, despite the other officer’s best efforts, never going into a brothel or having an affair no matter how many bets they make among themselves. Until one day some reckless peasant boy charges into his life and Laz really, really tries to fight it because this could ruin EVERYTHING but. It’s Ronan. Ronan’s persistent. And also an oblivious toenail so it takes a little while to get it through his head that, no, Laz is still a man and Ronan’s STILL gay AF. (Sorry, Ronan, you can’t no-homo your way out of this one. Full homo. All the homo.)

A ship I have with said character: R/L is pretty much my be all, end all for Laz, though I also can and do ship O/L and R/O/L.

A BROTP I have with said character: Poor Laz in canon doesn’t really have any friends that we see, unless you count the one time he and Artois conspire. (I don’t.) Even though I tend to have his troops shipping Laz/Ronan, that’s out of selfishness as much as anything else (if he’s getting laid, he might not be so snappish.) In the Abomination (which...obviously doesn’t go with the whole “Peyrol wanting to fire on him”...thing from the Zuka version), I like the dynamic between Laz and Papa du Puget, where you have the latter really helping him out in terms of figuring out where he is in terms of his relationship with Ronan and getting his sense of individuality back. Like, it shouldn’t require a neon sign to say “Hey, maybe not having anything to do with your boyfriend except for when you have sex might be part of the reason why he’s not speaking to you right now, maybe cuddle with him?” but Laz is new to this, doesn’t exactly have a roadmap, and thinks that his relationship with Ronan can be neatly packaged into his schedule. Which...surprise, it can’t be. Since du Puget is also very much a man of the Enlightenment with a HUGE library to match it (really, we know this, because when the Bastille fell he demanded compensation for it), if anyone can help Laz get grounded again, it’s him. And, since Laz is about 24-ish in the Abomination, he’s the perfect age to be Du Puget’s son (with Olympe being about 19), which adds an extra dimension as du Puget (my very, very specific version of him modeled after the historical figure) really mirrors Laz’s father in a lot of ways, from his friendship with de Sade (who Laz *loathes*) to his military career and his habit of occasionally having affairs. (Which is pretty shitty, but not unexpected given the times.) The difference is, du Puget really does get the opportunity to do what Papa de Peyrol never could: Do his best to protect Lazare from Grandpapa de Fuck’s influence, even if the damage has already been mostly done, as well as ultimately give up his career and his post for his family. (For what it’s worth, I tend to headcanon Papa de Peyrol as a wannabe Validad who was just...flawed in his implementation of it. Like, my take on him is this guy who would always bring back his son toys and souvenirs from his campaign, tell him stories when he tucked him into bed, etc., but whose own weaknesses ultimately still led to his death and his widow being left absolutely destitute to the point where she had to make a deal with Grandpapa de Fuck. Because it’s the 18th century and life’s a bitch, especially if you’re a widow with weakened financial prospects and a young child and your father in law is convinced your kid is his second chance from God.)

A NOTP I have with said character: Generally, I’d say Artois/Laz in anything that’s not set pre-canon given that, for all it could be interesting in a fucked up way, there’s no way it’ll end up well for Laz, but I have also seen Danton/Laz and it scarred me deeply. Salieri/Laz is something I’ve also seen a bit, which I don’t *get* because any time they would have met it’d be like: *gay staring*

*gay staring*

*gay panic*

*gay panic*

And then both of them rushing over to their extroverted boyfriends. If anything, I could only really see the two of them bonding over having absolutely ridiculous boyfriends (and, if it gets to postcanon for both, bonding over WHOOPS I ACCIDENTALLY KILLED MY BOYFRIEND).  

A random headcanon: Oh God, pretty much everything I have on him is a headcanon. Like, even the things I take for granted on him (like Sugardaddy!Laz) are headcanons. The man is one massive, walking headcanon because no one in the writer’s room wanted to sit down and work on their contract cop-out; they were just like “fuck, let him keep Maniaque. And give him this new song. And a bit in the opening, where he demonstrates the beginning of his homoerotic tension lifelong hatred with the lead. That’s good, right?”

Laz always liked music growing up; he liked how steady the beats were, he liked the smooth texture of the harpsichord keys, he liked his mother sometimes sitting him on her knee and gently moving his fingers over the right keys, he liked the way he could channel himself into the music. Communication was hard, mired in social niceties that he didn’t always understand, things that the adults treated like they were life and death, but music was simple. Hitting the key one place produced one sound, hitting it in another produced another, every time. When his father was at home, he would sit in the drawing room and listen to the two of them play, applauding at the right moments and praising Lazare enthusiastically. This was the first time young Lazare tasted success and praise, and he basked in it. By the time his father died, when was about seven or eight, he was quite good at it in his own right.

Obviously, since this was a bright, happy period in Lazare’s life, guess what Grandpapa de Fuck did? Yep, it went out the window. A man, Grandpapa de Fuck believed, could only ever be talented at one thing, barring some few geniuses (with his grandson not being among them), and Lazare was going to be a soldier. Everything else was going to go. As with most things relating to his childhood that his grandfather robbed him of, he chose to convince himself that it had been a childish indulgence. He still felt the music, though, in the steady rhythm of soldier’s boots and the beat of the regimental drum, but he could only direct it now, never play it for himself. Once, when he was a young officer being used by enthralled with the Comte d’Artois, the latter took him to a performance of an opera, chastising him when he noticed the way Lazare’s hands moved throughout the performance. Lazare buried it even further, not even talking about it when it could be avoided, much less consuming it.

Then, Ronan comes into his life. And Ronan’s not a music critic; the most he knows are the peasant songs they played at festivals or sang as together in the winter months when things looked bleak and they had little else to do. He probably doesn’t know the difference between a harpsichord and a piano, just that they’re Rich People’s Instruments. But, despite everything else, despite the hard time he gives Peyrol for it at first, he ends up egging him into taking classes again because, Hell, it’s something besides homicide that makes Laz happy and, for all of their differences as a couple, Ronan wants him to be happy. And it’s frustrating, because he should know how to do this; for so long everything in his life has been something that he already knew and could predict and, with this, he can hear his failure. There are many times that he takes his anger out on the keys or scatters the sheet music around. But, over time, he feels himself improving, the keys start to become old friends to him, and, gradually, he starts to play again. And it’s not like it was when he was a child, there is no audience eager to praise him, but, sometimes during a late practice session, Ronan will come over from behind (with some amount of warning, since approaching the experienced army officer from behind tends to have unforeseen consequences), drowsily nuzzle into Laz’s neck, and it’s just as good. (Also, he probably reaches around to play a few notes of “Ah, Ca Ira” or “La Marseillaise” while Laz is briefly distracted because Ronan Mazurier is, first and foremost, a little shit). (Also, they totally bang on the harpsichord at one point.)

General Opinion over said character: MY SON. My useless, emotionally repressed, gay, homicidal, aristocratic son who needs to have some sense knocked in his head but is trying his best and is quite possibly the only officer in Paris who is actually doing his job. Deserves more screentime and/or cuddles from his boyfriend who is STILL ALIVE, thank you very much, if and when he gets into the position when he’ll accept them. I wish he got something resembling character development or an arc, but HE’S MINE NOW. (And, tbh, I’m a little worried that it’ll be a monkey’s paw type situation with him getting more time. Like, I’m fully prepared to sell my soul to the Toho production, but I’m also preparing myself to see a much darker take on my son than I’m used to. Including when it comes to Ronan. And that might be a bitter pill to swallow.) Even though I love all my sons equally, I prefer the opportunity for nuance that original!Laz afffords (and the amount of Done he seems to be most of the time), as the other two lean a little more towards sadistic (though sex dungeon Laz is too good for me to pass up entirely). Also, I still hold Toho!Laz as an ideal faceclaim for Grandpapa de Fuck. 

Someone please save him. I would, but I’m too busy tossing him into the Seine atm.

Solene

Sexuality Headcanon: Solene’s sexuality has always been tricky for me because bisexual Solene is very near and dear to my heart (ONE OF US, ONE OF US), but I could also make an argument for lesbian Solene who separates her working life from her private life. In another universe, she very likely would have ended up with a man no matter what, I’m not sure if she’d have been entirely content, but she probably wouldn’t have questioned it so long as she was decently secure and well-cared for, like most WLW throughout history probably did. Even in canon, I could see her taking up with a man (like in the Zuka and Toho versions where she and Danton have a longer term “relationship”), because it’s a means of security + stability so long as he’s not some abusive assfuck who thinks that he owns her, but as far as actual trust and companionship are concerned? I can only really see it with women, which makes sense when you consider how closely tied Solene really is to women, especially in the French and Toho versions where she’s got “Je Veux le Monde” which is literally her belting out about how awesome women are and how men (specifically Ronan) are too blinded by their own ambition and bloodlust + the fact that we always see her surrounded by the other women, during La Nuit M’Appelle, Je Veux le Monde, and Fixe.

Gender Headcanon: She’s most likely a cis woman. Je Veux le Monde has a great emphasis on childbirth, etc. associated with that, though I could also roll with a significant portion of that being her taking power in her own terms, using the only language she knows, like she also seems to be doing in La Nuit, while still perhaps being a little unhappy with the way gender identity is dealt with in 18th century French society. 

A ship I have with said character: Solene/Olympe. Like...was there any doubt?

“Oh, I think Peyronan’s my OTP and I can’t wait to work on all my fanfiction for them!” *Accidentally writes Solympe fic after Solympe fic*

“How did THAT happen?”

I mean, it does help that they aren’t at each other’s throats for the early part of their relationship, unlike SOME PEOPLE.

In all honesty, given how little Solene actually gets to do, there’s really not all that much room for shipping, save with the women around her and Lucille in the Zuka version. Which is an option, definitely, given that they “become friends” BUT.

A BROTP I have with said character: Despite headcanoning Solene as one of a VERY small number of people who can genuinely scare Laz, I do like to imagine the two of them bonding over Ronan’s more ridiculous moments. Like, at first she’s pissed as HELL at him for obvious reasons, but it also becomes a matter of “What did he do this time?” “He told me that my chess set was royalist propaganda. Then he jumped out the window. I have yet to try to retrieve him” “*Sigh* Let me talk to him.” And, in the Abominationverse, with the advent of the twins, Uncle Lazare is the nearest thing they have to a responsible adult when Solene and Olympe want to have a date night and Olympe’s parents are otherwise occupied, and since the children are already strangely drawn to him, well...there are worse babysitters, especially during the period of time when Ronan is off playing Hero of the Revolution and the twins are the only thing Laz really has to keep his mind off of him.

A NOTP I have with said character: Solene/Danton as a ship somewhat creeps me out, given that (1) He still has the ability to throw her out on the street with nothing and (2) ...Historically, we know how this one’s going to work out. Danton’s married, eventually he’s going to marry a fifteen year old a couple of weeks after his wife dies, and then he gets fucking guillotined. There is no way Solene doesn’t get fucked over AGAIN in this one. (Also, I just...don’t see them as a romantic couple. He was a customer, they did the do, Ronan was SUPER pissed about it and Danton’s probably forever on his shit list for it, but still. It wasn’t a *romance* for her. It was food for the day. It was part of her rent for the month.)

A random headcanon: The pink ring that Solene wears in the “Je Veux le Monde” music video (and, seemingly, in the showcase video) belonged to her mother. When Mama Mazurier realized she wasn’t going to survive her last birth, when Solene was probably about 5-7, she pressed it deep into the girl’s hand, as if hoping that she could press the ring into her memory as well. It was the last movement she would make in this life. As time went on, the taxes mounted up as one disaster after another seemed to befall the family. They sold off whatever they could, with the ring being one of the few things that remained. (And it got to the point where their debt was so high that, really, selling the ring wouldn’t have helped in the long run, and so Papa Mazurier decided that at least Solene could have it, nearly crying for the first time in front of his children when she offered it to him once before firmly putting it back on her finger). She briefly considered selling it off when she got to Paris, to the point where she had it in the palm of her hand, ready to sell to a street vendor before she decided that it wasn’t worth it, feeling the sharp press of metal when she clasped it hard. When Ronan later told her, “When people lose their dignity, it’s the end,” he didn’t know what she’d done to avoid doing just that. Ronan, as always, saw only what she’d lost, rather than what she’d kept.

Also, since I’m just returning home from the angst wars with Laz and he got a nice, long headcanon, Papa Mazurier loved both of his children equally. Really, he did. He was a true validad, which is also why he had to die. But, looking back, Ronan always felt a little bit like he was the least favorite of the two of them, because it seemed like, generally, Solene tended to get what she wanted more. In reality, though, as Solene would later tell Ronan when he, Olympe, Lazare, and her were sitting down together, it was really just that she knew how to ask for things tactfully, including when to wait, whereas Ronan went in guns blazing. Solene learned how to play the long game, and it paid off. (Also, even though she was initially pissed off over her brother screwing their father’s murderer after abandoning her to pursue a half-baked revenge plot, she is also personally amazed at the fact that, not only did Ronan get a gig that her and most of her friends DREAMED of, a furnished apartment with a faithful, devoted, aristocratic lover who is willing to buy him anything he asks for, not the least well-tailored outfits, he did it accidentally. By continuously insulting him. In prison. If Ronan ever screws this up, Solene is going to personally kill him. And then kick Laz’s ass because Ronan is still her brother dammit.)

General Opinion over said character: Hello, continuing evidence of my bisexuality. The Superior Mazurier Sibling, AKA THE ONE WHO ACTUALLY HAS SOME COMMON SENSE. Deserved better writing, hot cocoa, and to have seen Olympe at least one time that wasn’t over her brother’s corpse. She is one of the few things I think the French cast did best with, since later productions really tried to sanitize her, though I love Zuka!Solene directly calling out Ronan in La Nuit m’Appelle. LET HER HAVE A PLOTLINE DAMMIT. Also: WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T WE GET HER SHOWCASE COSTUME?  (Also, Matthieu Carnot would have rocked as her sibling, just saying.) I just...have many emotions about Solene Mazurier and what she deserves and what she got and I will never forgive the show for skimping on her storyline the entire time and then having the last thing we see of her being her crying her eyes out over the brother who abandoned her (and, okay, in other productions, they reconcile, but it doesn’t ACHIEVE anything between the two of them and it’s mainly Solene reaching out to him whereas I want him groveling). It’s a good thing she hooks up with his beard after his funeral, otherwise the angst and overall incomplete nature of her arc might be too much to bear. 

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 3: on evolution

Thursday, June 21st, 1990

“Hey, Red!”

I grit my teeth as I try my hardest not to slam the filter basket into the espresso machine before turning around. Another yuppie asshole, stinking of cologne and money, leaning on the counter like he owns it, right in my face. He’s so close that I have to keep myself from recoiling in surprise. His impeccably pressed blue dress shirt has one of those white collars. As if there could be any doubt.

“Hiya, gorgeous, how about a refill?” he fixes me with a flirtatious smile, all perfect white teeth and empty blue eyes.

“Sure thing, sir,” I reply with what I hope is a convincing smile and take his cup. He puffs his chest out a little at the “sir.” I don’t know why but I half expect him to pound it like a gorilla.

“How long have you been working here?” He blatantly eyes me up and down. “Can’t be very long? I think I would have noticed a gorgeous thing like you.”

Thing. Figures.

“Only a couple months, and only part-time,” I keep my voice neutral, but his sliminess is saturating all my senses, tuning out the chatter of the other customers, the clank of dishes, the smell of coffee. I hand him his cup.

“How about you give me your phone number too, baby?”

“Oh, uh,” I try for a natural laugh, “no, I’m taken.”

He takes the cup with one hand and grabs hold of my hand with his other one, lacing his fingers into mine before I can pull away. “I don’t see a ring,” he says in a low, unctuous voice, “so I don’t see a problem.”

“No, really, I –” I stammer as I rack my brain to try to find a way out of this interaction without pissing him off. He may be slime, but he’s paying customer slime and I’m on the clock. I’m still fumbling for words when the ding of the cafe doorbell and the thud of approaching boots cut through my thickening fog of anxiety.

“Hey bud, you wanna tell me why you’re bothering my woman?” comes a menacing voice from a tall figure who’s just materialized behind the asshole. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to laugh.

The jerk’s mouth falls open as turns around and finds himself looking squarely at Chris’s black-clad chest before he looks up. He releases my hand like he’s been electrocuted and puts his own hands up defensively. “Hey, brother, it’s cool, didn’t mean anything by it, you know how it is…”

“I’m not sure I do, maybe you can tell me.” Chris’s voice is a little softer now, a little lower, but somehow that makes it all the more intimidating as he folds his arms across his chest and scowls down at the yuppie.

“Come on, man, you’ve just got a really hot piece here, can’t be helped!” He attempts a smile, and something in his contorted face reminds me of the evolutionary origin of the primate smile. Show your fangs, clenched together, submissive, unthreatening.

Chris leans in further and says, quietly, “I’m thinking unless you want to be my next ritualistic sacrifice, it can.”

Ok, that’s it, I’m finished. I whirl around and wipe up the bar, letting my hair fall in front of my face so neither of them can see me laughing in the mirror. Unfortunately, that means I miss watching the asshole skitter towards the door, but when the bell dings I turn back around to see Satan himself grinning at me.

“Pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Crowley?”

“A simple thank you works, Cora.”

“So that’s a yes then. You cost me a customer.” I glower at him as I grab the coffee pot and make my way out from behind the bar.

“I’m thinking that’s one you won’t miss.”

“I won’t, but my boss will,” I stick my tongue out at him. “And thanks. But really. Your woman??”

“Hey, it got rid of him, didn’t it?”

“Still. You didn’t have to John Wayne the shit out of the situation. I could have handled it, you know.”

“Oh, believe me, I know, I’ve witnessed it. He just seemed like the type who wouldn’t get the hint unless he knew you were someone else’s territory.” He lowers his eyes to his boots like he’s ashamed to even admit that the type exists, but we both know he’s got it pegged.

“Well, at least we’ve evolved past territorial pissing.”

“Maybe you have, Smokey…” he looks up slowly with an evil grin.

“Gross.” I wrinkle my nose with a laugh. “What brings you in?”

“Apart from the usual terrorizing of the bastards?”

“Obviously.”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re still coming to our show on Saturday! You’re not working, right?” This is the third time in the two weeks since we met that he’s stopped by the cafe to remind me about his show. Considering that I only work here part-time, that’s a pretty impressive stalking record. Even I have to admit that the boyish eagerness is adorable.

“Not working. No lab. I’ll be there. My friend Lucy’s coming too, is that cool?”

“Is that cool??” he echoes as he pulls me into a hug that lifts me off my feet and sloshes out some coffee from the pot.

“Oh shit, let me help,” he says, setting me down and grabbing the rag from the pocket of my apron and bending down to wipe up the floor and the toe of my boot.

“You’ve done enough, I think. And you’d better let me get back to the rest of my non-predatory customers.” I raise my eyebrows and nod down the wall of dark, heavy wooden booths. He lightly takes hold of my shoulders and steers me around to face them, walking me awkwardly down the narrow row.

“I’ll see you Saturday, baby bear,” he grins in my ear before letting go and backing out of the cafe.

My nearest booth of customers is a pair of girls about my age, and from the looks on their faces they’d been watching the whole confrontation. “How are we doing over here, ladies, anyone need anything? More coffee?”

“Was that Chris Cornell??” One of them asks with wide eyes.

“That’s him.”

“He’s your boyfriend??” her friend squeals.

“No, definitely not,” I shake my head with a chuckle as I top off their mugs. “Just a friend. Can I get you anything else?”

***

Friday, June 22nd, 1990

“So, what video am I picking up?” I ask over the phone, wary of the response. Tonight’s our standing bi-monthly movie night, which is something of an odd tradition because although Cora is my best friend in this world, we can’t agree on movies to save our lives. We end up alternating in order to keep the peace, which means half of the movies are romance or comedy (my pick) and the other half are…

“John Carpenter’s The Thing?”

“No way. We did that already, I am not watching that thing with the dogs again.”

“They’re puppets, Luce!”

“It’s no, Cor.”

“I’m assuming The Wrath of Khan is still off the table?”

“As long as it still has ear-invading alien bugs…”

We go back and forth a few more rounds until she gets me to settle on The Empire Strikes Back. At least Harrison Ford’s not bad to look at. And it will be easier to find in the store than some of the more obscure ones she’s come up with in the past.

It’s a little after 4:30 when I hang up, which gives me enough time to get the last of these invoices sent out. The hallway in front of my desk is actually pretty quiet, for once. I’ve been in this job for two years now, ever since I graduated, and I honestly think my supervisor Greta gave me her old desk in the front of the station so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone anymore. Everyone treats me like a receptionist, constantly asking me questions and calling me “Excuse me, Miss?” I don’t mind too much, I guess – I actually like people, unlike Greta The Disgruntled – but it makes it a little harder to get everything done. I’m just getting down to it when I hear my name echo down the hall. Jake is jogging towards my desk with a big smile on his face.

“Hey, Jake! Done for the day?” I ask as he comes to a halt at the counter above my desk.

“Nearly. I just needed a quick breath of fresh air, seeing as I’m now in the sea of paperwork portion of the program.” he scrunches his eyes shut and then widens them with a zoned out look, as if trying to refocus.

“Oh, well then, welcome to my native habitat.” I wave a hand over the pile of papers and brightly colored sticky notes spread across my desk.

He props his elbows on the counter and rests his chin on his hands. “I like it here. The locals, anyway.”

Don’t ask me why, but talking to Jake got so much easier over the last week or so. I used to be a nervous wreck whenever he’d come by to say hello. One time I spilled a bottle of White-Out in my lap and ruined my skirt just because he waved. In my defense, he’s like, ridiculously, superfluously good-looking. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, just the perfect cliche. But last week we started chatting more, and he seems so much less intimidating now that I know what a sweetheart he is. It’s been refreshing to make a new friend, and I really don’t know what I was so worked up about.

“So, save any lives lately?”

“Today was pretty boring, thankfully,” he knocks gently on the press board of my desk, “just an anaphylactic toddler.”

“Poor thing!”

“Nah, she’s okay now. Just a strawberry-free life from now on.”

“I don’t know, that sounds pretty terrible to me.”

“Yeah, I guess it does,” he concedes, straightening up and ruffling up his hair a little. ““How was your day?”

“Compared to a lifesaving day in the pediatric ward, I’d say it was absolutely riveting,” I tease, patting the ream of paper piled up in my outbox.

“And what are you up to tonight?”

“Movie night with my friend. It’s a tradition.”

“Lucky friend,” he smiles, “whatcha watchin?”

“Star Wars. She picked it out,” I add hastily. Jake’s bright green eyes light up even more, if that’s possible.

“Oh, which one?”

“Don’t you start too! Empire.”

“Hmm. More of a Jedi fan myself. Empire’s so dark, I’m a sucker for a happy ending.” Is he blushing?

“Me too! Cora says it’s all just a little too perfect, but what does she know, she likes the weirdest stuff.”

“Cora? That your friend?”

“That’s her.” I point to a picture of the two of us on my desk, and he cranes over the counter to get a closer look. It’s a somewhat blurry, lopsided, sun-spotted photo we took of ourselves at the Japanese garden at the Arboretum in March, when the cherry blossoms were going insane. I took a whole bunch just in case none turned out, which was wise, because this is the only one where we’re even remotely both in frame, and Cora’s grumpy expression is the perfect barometer of how many pictures I’ve made her take before that one. But she’s a faker, because she’s got the same photo up on the cork board in her room.

“That picture is sickeningly adorable, you know that?” Jake beams, straightening back up. “Well, what are you up to tomorrow night then?”

“Oh, uh, tomorrow’s the Soundgarden show.” Why is he so interested in all of my evening plans all of a sudden?

“Hmmm. Busy lady. Well maybe –” Greta’s squawky fishwife voice, saying something indistinguishable but clearly annoyed, suddenly booms off the linoleum from goodness knows where, making us both jump and then laugh. “Better let you get back to it before the boss lady catches you slacking,” he teases with a smile, patting the counter a couple times with his hand before he darts around the corner.

Did he – was that – was Jake just trying to ask me out? No way, I’m imagining things.

But what if he was? I mean, I’ve been crushing on him since he started his residency here last summer. He’s so kind, and funny, and thoughtful, and… expected. He’s everything I’ve always been told I wanted. Daughter of a doctor, I always figured that would be my life eventually too. So why don’t I feel more excited that he’s finally noticed me?

…Why haven’t I run into Jeff again?

Jesus, it’s almost 5, I’ve got to finish this paperwork and get out of here.

***

June 21st. Which makes it three months and two days. My life’s changed so much since that message from Xana that it’s barely recognizable. And I don’t even have time to figure it out, because we’re still in this fucking contract, promoting the album, as though in the minds of the record company, nothing’s happened. And I guess for them, that’s true. They’ve got whatever new thing coming down the back end to fill the void. And Andy’s words are still reaching new people, just like he always wanted, but he’s not here to see it. What about our void?

I guess that’s what tonight’s about. A bunch of us are meeting out at Discovery Park, just a typical bonfire type deal, but we’ve all got this in common. This… loss. Me and Stone, Bruce, Greg, Chris, Kevin. A club no one wants to be a part of, but everyone seems to need. I don’t even have the words to make sense out of it, and I fucking hope no one tries. Just as I’m tossing the bundle of firewood and the case of shitty, cheap beer in the trunk of my car, a little Corolla rumbles into the parking lot and scatters my thoughts about Andy. It’s so ancient that it’s hard to tell what color it’s supposed to be, but I’ll settle on blue only out of charity. It’s old enough that it never even had a passenger side mirror, and the rear bumper appears to be held on by sheer willpower. The engine shuts off and that gorgeous girl from the hallway last week steps out.

“Hey, Lucy?” I call out.

Her face breaks into this warm, radiant smile as soon as she spots me, like she’s known me forever, before her shyness takes over again and her cheeks flush a little. “Hey, Jeff.”

“Hi,” I grin back, blissfully forgetting about it all, for now. “Whatcha up to?”

She waves a bag from the video store excitedly. “Movie night! Not for a while, though, Cora -- that’s my friend on your hall -- she usually doesn’t get back from the lab until around 8, and that’s on a good day.”

“Even on a Friday?” I wrinkle my forehead. What’s so fucking important?

Lucy seems to read my mind. “I know, I know. You have to love her for it, though, we need people like her to save the world. She’s a mad scientist, you know that, right?”

I chuckle a little. “No, I actually don’t know her at all. I run into that guy of hers occasionally. He’s… interesting.” My Great Plains manners are asserting themselves. I honestly can’t stand the guy, but I’m not about to say that to this friend of his.

“That’s a word for what he is,” she mumbles through her teeth to the pavement, and I feel another surge of warmth for her.

“So movie night is just you girls, I take it?”

“By definition. Where are you off to, with your firewood?”

“Oh, uh, a bonfire thing. Up at Discovery Park.” I shut the trunk and lean on it, hoping she doesn’t ask me anymore about it. Talking to her is just… comfortable, easy, and there’s not enough of that in my life right now.

“What’s the occasion?” Shit. But it’s not like she could have known. I look over her face, all open and sweet, and try to find a way to say it out loud.

“Uhm, there isn’t one, really, it’s just… a bunch of us… uhm… we… we lost a friend. Little while back…” I blink fiercely to try to stop the stinging in my eyes.

She hops up on the trunk of my car and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Jeff. I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” I swallow hard to push down the lump in my throat as she rubs her hand up and down my arm briefly before dropping it to her lap.  

I glance over at her, expecting to see the usual pitying expression, but she’s just watching me carefully, with serene blue eyes. A wisp of blonde hair is blowing in her face and she tries, unsuccessfully, to keep it looped behind her ear. I don’t know how she’s doing it, but it’s like she’s lending me some of her calm, wrapping me up in it and making it easier to breathe.

“So, uh, you work at the hospital?” I sniff, trying to regain some composure.

“How’d you – oh, I’m a ditz, my badge,” she giggles, toying with the Harborview photo ID around her neck.

I gently lift it from her fingers and inspect the photo. It’s a good one, although I’m sure this girl couldn’t take a bad picture if she tried. “Wow, your hair used to be so long.”

“Mmhmm, even longer than yours. Although I wish I’d thought to wear hats more often, I bet they cut down on the maintenance.” Her eyes linger on the oversized blue striped beanie I’ve got on tonight as a small smile plays on her lips. I pull the hat off and set it on her head, pretending to judge her like a critic evaluating a painting.

“Well? Am I pulling it off?” she giggles.

“Unfairly well, actually. Gimme that back,” I say as I snatch it off her head and arrange it back on my much scruffier head.

“So what do you do at this hospital of yours?”

“I’m a medical biller. It’s a fast-paced and exciting world.” She adopts a monotone, but she can’t keep a straight face for long before that nervous giggle bubbles back up.

“That’s right, you told me that. Living the dream. What’s your real dream?”

“It’s not important, it’s nowhere near as cool as yours.”

“Oh come on, what does that have to do with anything?”

She blushes furiously and looks down at the ground. “I just think it’s so cool, you know, that you’re a musician. I wish I was more creative.”

“I mean it, what is your big dream?” I don’t mean to hassle her, but it’s not just small talk now. I am just genuinely curious about what she wants for her life. And I just met her, what the hell?

“I want to…” Jesus, she’s almost cringing, “…be a mental health counselor?” her voice rises up, asking rather than telling.

It takes me a second to realize that the reason she’s cringing is that I’m gaping at her, and I try to pull my face back together. “Sorry,” I say, inadvertently laughing a little, “it’s just… it’s perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! What are you waiting for, you should totally do that!”

She beams at me and adds, “I just don’t know how good I’d be at it, but like, I grew up in this tiny little town, and… there just weren’t a lot of mental health services, well there wasn’t much of anything, and…” her voice trails off as she notices me grinning back. “Ha, what??” that nervous laugh again.

“It’s nothing, heh, I just, uh… I grew up in a town of like 700 people, so I sort of know the feeling.”

“You did?? Where?”

“The absolute fuckin’ Middle of Nowhere, Montana. The booming metropolis of Big Sandy.”

“Whoa, Montana! You’re a long ways from home.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She grins at me again and fidgets with that one golden wisp of hair. “Where’s your little town?”

“Brewster, it’s in Washington, a ways east of here. I mean, I guess everything is, unless you live in an island in the freaking ocean, obviously, well, I mean there’s West Seattle, obviously, but, no, you know what I mean, right?”

“Right,” how is it possible for someone to be so irresistibly cute when they just ramble on about nothing?

“Well, I should let you get going, I don’t want to keep you,” she says, patting the trunk under us and jumping back down to the ground. No, really, you can keep me.

“Yeah… yeah. Well, we’ll see each other around?” I don’t even care how desperate my voice sounds, I just want it to be true.

“Yeah, definitely,” she says with another subtle flush on her cheeks. She gives an awkward little wave and darts across the parking lot and into the building.

Definitely.

[blyanten]

THE DUCK AVENGER PK2: #8 JUST A FRIEND

Welcome to abusive ex-boyfriend, round two.

Outside Duckmall, the cops are reporting that everything is fine. So we can all safely assume that everything is not fine.

Inside, Stella is distracted. She’s so distracted she needs a *gasp* second try at wrapping a gift. And it’s the third time today! The horror! If she doesn’t get her act together, her boss will start docking the waster wrapping paper from her paycheck.

…I have worked as a sales clerk, so 1. Wrapping paper is cheap, even the fancy kind. 2. Even the best wrapper throws away a bunch of paper. And most importantly, 3. What exactly are you paying this poor girl? Because if docking the cost of a bit of wrapping paper is an actual threat, she’s not getting paid anywhere near enough.

Of course, they could just be that cheap, but if they are that’s also not saying good things about her paycheck.

Outside the shop, Rupert and Donald note that Stella has been acting a bit off for the last few days. But really, it takes her forever to get to work, she needs to change the bus five times to get to Duckmall from the Flower district where she lives.

Okay, either Duckburg is GIGANTIC, or that bus system needs a serious overhaul.

Donald suggests Stella might be in love, and Rupert towers over him, glaring in response.

So we can also safely assume that despite going on at least one date, Rupert somehow still hasn’t gotten his head out of his ass and actually done anything about his crush. That’s almost impressive.

Elsewhere, the standard new cop/experienced cop pair is getting lunch. Old guy is getting actual food, the new guy apparently thinks he can live on a single apple. Yet he claims to have taken a course in proper nutrition.

Man, these diet fads are getting out of control.

They get notified that a biker gang is trying to rob an armored truck. They take off, practically before new cop, O’Hara, is in the car. When they get to the scene of the robbery, old cop, Spader, decides to shoot out the tire on one of the motor bikes.

And now this guy is, realistically, at best busy scraping off most of his skin on the asphalt, earning himself a long hospital stay. These people have no idea how lucky they are to live in a comicbook world.

And elsewhere again, Everett is telling Birgit and Boring that Ducklair Electronics is having some trouble with quality control on microchips, and that they need to get on top of that, now. He leaves it entirely up to them, despite the fact that they’re already arguing before he hangs up.

Juniper thinks her dad is working too hard. He could use the help of a hero, like the Duck Avenger.

So that crush is still going strong.

At Duckmall, Donald tries to cheer up Stella, while Rupert… does absolutely nothing other than stare and let Fitzroy feed him obvious bullshit about Stella and Donald’s relationship.

As much as I hate to admit it, fair point. Have you offered some sympathy, Rupert?

At the police station, Spader and some other experienced cop is trying to interrogate biker-guy, but gets nowhere. The interview is cut short when Spader has to remove the other cop from the room, since the law tend to frown upon police brutality.

And this is when we get some backstory on this mess. Apparently, a gangwar has been brewing lately, and someone is supplying the gangs with pretty high tech weapons. But so far the gangs have also been busy robbing places where they can get a lot of cash quickly, suggesting they need money for something fast.

Spader decides it’s time for some theatre, and dresses up O’Hara as a rival gang member. A few insults later, biker guy loses his temper and reveals everything. His gang is buying a sonic cannon, and is going to wipe the other gang off the map!

I think this guy grew longer sleeves after falling off his bike.

While biker buy is taken away, a lab tech comes running, confirming that a microchip from Ducklair Enterprises was used in biker guy’s weapon. Spader basically says “again”, and Angus Fangus appears so fast you’d think the chance to smear anything with the Ducklair name on it was a summoning ritual.

Spader kicks him out, winning me over on the spot.

At Ducklair Tower, Birgit and Boring are still arguing.

At Ducklair Manor, Everett has called Lydia over for a talk. She’s not happy about having to go all the way out there, while Everett is obnoxiously cheerful. Turns out they’re having a disagreement over how she should do her job. Everett says one thing, Lyla says “No, and feel free to fire me if you don’t like it.”

You know, with all the stuff Angus is saying, I’m pretty sure there’s an actual, good reason for a lawsuit there. No need to leave it all to Lyla. But she dutifully promises to make sure everyone knows the truth before leaving.

Meanwhile, Donald is at work, listening to Angus’s report and looking just a tiny bit smug at Angus having turned his focus onto Everett.

Can you blame him?

The news also mention the robbery of the armored car, which took place in the Flowers District. Donald concludes that Stella has probably been worried for her safety lately, and decides to do something about it.

Later that night, Stella return home to… this guy. Lucas.

If you’re that bored, go take a shower.

He whines about her TV being boring, which is his only entertainment since he can’t go out. She claims cable is too expensive, while he tells her to not worry so much, they’ll be rich soon.

Out in the night, the police are doing patrols and getting ready to crack down on a gang meeting. The gang is about to buy the sonic cannon mention earlier, when the Avenger interrupts.

Well, shit.

The cops jump in, but too late, most of the gang escapes. On the bright side, the cannon didn’t get sold, and the Avenger has the phone of one member who was busy calling his boss. Right there. In the middle of an ambush from the cops and the local superhero.

The Avenger snatches the phone, and then decides to leave before the cops arrest him for screwing up their ambush.

Spader is pretty damned annoyed, acting like this happens all the time. Unfortunately, we’ve seen none of that, so uh, sorry, new character, I just don’t feel much sympathy for you or your unseen plight here.

Unfortunately, Everett is listening in via his telepathic network, and this seems to have given him some ideas. In the morning, he faxes Lyla a press release, which blames everything about the microchips and gangs on the Avenger.

Lyla quits on the spot.

This is another one of those things where you’d think Everett was doing it on purpose, because Lyla’s reaction is completely unsurprising, but once again Everett’s reaction to the entirely predictable response to his actions is… not that of someone who wanted that to happen.

You’re clearly deeply upset that the Avenger’s ally, which you should at least be suspecting she is at this point, and who has said before that she’s not doing that shady crap, quit when you asked her to pull that shady crap on the Avenger. I have just the thing for that!

Elsewhere, Boring is checking numbers, while Birgit tries to make fun of him.

Meanwhile, Donald is woken by his nephews going to school. He’s also late for work. Again. Also, he’s been on the internet all night long in the age of dial-up, so they tell him to at least keep the job until the next phone bill has been paid.

Now, the reason he was on the internet was to check the phone number the less than bright gang member was calling.

The joys of landlines.

At Stella’s place Lucas is drinking. The can says soda, but I’m not buying it. That’s definitely beer.

He needs to do a small job for him, and tells her to call in sick. She can do that for him, right? She hesitantly agrees, and he hands her a microchip and tells her to deliver it for him.

Ugh. Allow me to praise both writer and artist on their work with this guy. He may be a stereotype, but he’s a pretty well done one. In other words, I want to punch his lights out.

At Duckmall Fitzroy is making noises about how it must be the day of the sick, with both Donald and Stella staying at home. Wow. Two whole people sick. At a giant mall. I bet that never happens.

But he actually does seem to think Donald and Stella is having an affair, because he tells Rupert to go visit Stella in a way that suggests he knows she isn’t sick.

Can you side-eye yourself? Because Fitzroy is doing it.

See, this is what happens when you think everyone would act like yourself. Horrible misjudging of everyone around you.

At the police station, Spader is getting a talking to from his boss. Turns out that a senator is rather unhappy with the police supposedly spreading information that one of the richest guys in town is involved in a gang war. Especially since that investigation is going nowhere.

Spader points out that it’s his job to check every possibility, and that it can also be difficult to keep everything secret. Boss actually agrees, but is also very firm about redirecting the investigation. Like, maybe, onto the Duck Avenger?

Spader admits he’s considered it, but…

And with some “encouragement” from the boss, he declares that he won’t tolerate interference from the Avenger in his work.

Well, I did say he should try something other than leaving it all to the press secretary.

Stella is returning home, and Lucas isn’t there. The Avenger, however, is. And he’s taking this entire thing rather personally, saying the Stella Nice appears to be a clerk at Duckmall, but that the phone marks her as the secret leader of a gang of criminals.

I think you might be taking this personally.

Stella breaks down in tears, and the Avenger changes tracks immediately, realizing that something else is going on.

(Stella being the gang leader could have been interesting, but would have needed more build up than this.)

The Avenger asks her to tell him everything, and she does.

Lucas used to be her boyfriend in high school. He was the captain of the football team, she helped him with his studies… pretty cliché, but there you go. However, he was also a braggart, and thought he had a future as a football star. Unfortunately, he injured himself before the finals, and didn’t get to show off for the recruiters, and so that dream was shot.

According to Stella, he was never the same after that, kept apologizing for his… failure.

I really want to know what he was really apologizing for, that kind of break usually means that someone switched out the word they were going to use.

Anyway, Stella left for college and hadn’t seen him since then, until he showed up a week ago. He’d been running from someone, a group of criminals, and she invited him home. She quickly realized that Lucas was in fact a criminal, but by then it was too late. Kicking a gang member out of your home is not easy.

She did however, pick up on the fact that the two gangs have some kind deal going on, because one gang has a weapon, the sonic cannon, and the other had the microchip needed to make it work.

Lucas decided to stay at Stella’s until the deal was about to be finalized, and never left the house. Until now, as the Avenger points out. Stella is about to say more, but then starts worrying about what Lucas might do if he knew she was talking.

The Avenger points out that she should have gone to the police. Stella says that Lucas frightens her. Sometimes he’s sweet, other times… well. The Avenger tells her not to worry, he’ll deal with it, but she needs to tell him everything.

This is when Rupert arrives, thinking that him spending one and a half hour on the bus to get there will charm Stella completely. It’s such a sacrifice, you know? And then he sees the two through the window, quite reasonable, for once, mistaking the Avenger for Donald, and, less reasonably, stomps off in a huff.

Inside, the Avenger and Stella agrees that Stella will go stay with Tempest for a while, and outside Rupert has found an alley, where he’s busy blaming Donald for his romantic failures.

A woman you like, but who is not your girlfried, is hanging out with another man, and this is how you react? Totally acceptable behavior and not at all the kind of red flag that should send Stella running for the hills.

Why, yes, I did just run out of patience with this bullshit, and wow, why is it his behavior seems to be at its worst in the “abusive boyfriend” issues? 

The thing is also that, if you had just kept the romance stuff on the level of cartoonish exaggeration, this wouldn’t have stood out as much. But throw in someone like Lucas and treat him seriously, and it changes the tone completely.

That being said... that seems to be exactly the point, as Rupert does end up being a foil to Lucas. 

Where was I? Right, over at Ducklair Tower, Birgit is tired of waiting for Boring’s methods of investigation to pay off and is about to suspend production of the microchips until a solution to the problem is found. She’ll also tell Everett that Boring sucks.

Boring tells her she’s wasting her breath. He’s worked out who is selling the microchips to the gangs, a company called Fergus Inc, found evidence of it and sent it to the proper authorities.

The proper authorities being the goddamned army. They’re just waiting for another sale to go down to move in.

At the Flower District, Rupert is about to go and demand an explanation from Stella and he’ll deal with Donald tomorrow. He arrives back at Stella’s place just in time to watch the Avenger fly away.

This deflates him enough that he doesn’t do anything stupid, while Stella seems to be rather unimpressed with him in general.

Get him.

Rupert is spared from explaining himself by the appearance of Lucas’s rival gang. They’re here for Lucas’s girlfriend, to exchange her for the microchip.

Faced with these news Rupert cuts loose. Sure, it’s three or four to one, but Rupert is built like a barn. 

See, that foil thing? Already here you can see the difference.

The gang members run off, and Stella invites him in.

Elsewhere, the army and the feds are busy arresting people at Fergus Inc. Turns out Fergus has been remarking shitty Belgravian microchips with the Duckair brand, sold those to the army, and then sold the real chips to the streetgangs for their weight in gold.

And since I feel like I’m on a nitpicking roll today, I’ll just say that you would get very little gold if you took that expression literally.

While this is happening, the gangwar is getting closer to breaking out. Both gangs were going to try and screw over the other, but the Avenger interrupts before they get that far. He’s already gone and gotten the microchip. So that’s one thing down.

Don’t mock the guys with the guns.

And then the guys trying to kidnap Stella shows up, and things escalate into the cleanest gunfight I’ve ever seen.

The only people who walk out of here injured has to be the two getting kicked in the neck/troath area.

The Avenger grumbles about having to use the shield against street-criminals, but really, some exceptions should be made. So Lucas gets a fist to the face.

The police arrive, finding the criminals, the microchip and cannon practically giftwrapped for them.

“We need him, so I’m gonna try and stop him!”   

And with that, Spader can finally give the press some good news. In his opinion, anyway, Angus in not happy about Ducklair Enterprises being proven innocent. What really annoys him though, is that Channel 00 admitted that. By doing so, they’re basically admitting that Angus made everything up, and also that’s not what Angus wrote.

Too bad, says Editor Dan. He’ll have to take that up with their new Editor in Chief.

The job at Ducklair Enterprises might not have gone anywhere interesting, but this is funnier.

At Duckmall, Stella is still struggling with the events of the last week. Donald suggests Rupert go comfort her, and Rupert, apparently having had a realization where his own behavior is concerned, suggests Donald comes along.

So that thing I was babbling about higher up? This is where that really pays off. Now, I feel like Rupert’s less than good behaviors have gone on for so long, and became worrying enough that I personally would have liked a little more introspection on Rupert’s part, because that’s not the kind of thing that just goes away after you realize that, “hey, I’m overreacting badly”, but credit where credit’s due, this is way more than some would have done.

And also, wow, I am in a serious mood today. ANYway, my point is, good job.

And later that night Everett receives an e-mail from Lyla, where she informs him “I feel no resentment or gratitude. I only did my duty towards the truth.”

And then we get this.

It all seems to suggest that there was an arc planned where Lyla was involved a lot more than she ended up being. Unfortunately, she’s mostly sidelined after this, and the series got cancelled, so who knows what might have happened.

[missmichellebelle]

My Pleasure

“Yeah, because they just give free milkshakes to everyone.”

today I got a free milkshake at chick-fil-a and... that’s it. that’s the inspiration for this. lol first yoi fic and this is what I write. ofc.

victuuri. [ ao3 ] 1.8k

“Oh no.”

Phichit pauses, a fry halfway to his mouth, and blinks at him. Yuuri avoids the stare, slumping in his chair and hoping that maybe, maybe, it makes him less noticeable and also partially invisible.

“What?” Phichit asks, when Yuuri doesn’t immediately clarify his sudden need to not exist. He pops in the fry like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Yuuri wishes he could eat fries like he didn’t care about anything in the world. It must be a nice way to go about life.

“I just awkwardly made eye contact with one of the guys who works here,” Yuuri mumbles into the cowl of his turtleneck, shuffling his shoulders and fidgeting his fingertips against the tabletop.

“Really?” Phichit’s eyes brighten and he immediately turns to look behind him. “Which one?”

“P-Phichit!” Yuuri’s hand fumbles blindly across the table, nearly knocking fries and soda everywhere in his mad dash attempt to grab onto Phichit’s arm. He misses, but he manages to snag onto the fabric of his sweatershirt, and he gives it a firm, insistent tug. “Don’t look.”

But Yuuri knows that as soon as he says it that it’s useless. They’ve been friends long enough for Yuuri to know that telling Phichit not to do something is just as good as flat out telling him that he has to. Never to any severe repercussions, of course, but Phichit doesn’t really see Yuuri’s abject humiliation and embarrassment as severe repercussions quite the way that Yuuri himself does.

“Oh-ho, is it that hot one?” Phichit asks, still looking. Yuuri keeps his eyes securely glued to the laminate table top. It’s not as if the hot one is a good descriptor for Yuuri, anyway, and there is no way he is looking anywhere in that general area for the rest of their time here. “It has to be, he keeps looking over here.”

Yuuri can see enough of Phichit to see that he’s waving. He groans, and sinks further down in his chair, only for his back to protest at him. He reluctantly sits up straight again, but keeps his head ducked, wishing he had a beanie with him so he could pull it down over his face and hide his shame.

“Please stop engaging with my mistake,” Yuuri moans into his hands, and Phichit laughs, turning back to face him.

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” He asks amused, and then waves the question away with several flaps of his hand. “Well, I’m done, you can engage with him now.”

What?

“What?”

What?

“He’s coming over here.” Phichit grins, popping another fry into his mouth, and Yuuri just stares at him.

“What?”

“Hi.”

Yuuri closes his eyes for a moment, breathes, and then stares at Phichit and not at the very obvious presence of the person standing just beside his shoulder.

“Can I get you two anything else? More sauce, a beverage refreshment?” His voice is… Very nice. Lilting and pleasant and somehow drawing warmth to Yuuri’s cheeks just with the sound of it.

Maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he will die right then and there.

“Oh, no, I’m fine. Yuuri?” Phichit raises his eyebrows, a look of absolute glee on his face, like he gets some sick, sadistic pleasure out of watching Yuuri suffer.

He needs a new best friend.

“I’m fine,” he says, too quickly, shoulders hunching up to his ears, and then breathes again. “Thank you,” he tacks on, because his mother raised him better and because, for better or for worse, this exchange is now over and he can eat his horribly delicious fast food in peace.

“My pleasure.” The words are silky smooth and Yuuri feels like they slide down his neck and spine. A shiver runs up their path. “Could I offer either of you anything else? Dessert, maybe?”

Are the people who work here always this friendly? Yuuri is pretty sure they’ve never been this attentive before. He can feel eyes staring at him and fidgets against the urge to meet them. He will not, he will not, he will not.

“I think Yuuri was thinking of getting a milkshake.” Phichit tips his cheek into his hand, cocking his head coyly. “Isn’t that right?”

Yuuri’s gaze turns wide and frantic, like maybe Phichit can read the, What in the world are you doing? he’s desperately trying to convey.

Phichit grins.

“Oh, really?”

How is it even possible to hear a smile?

“Y-yeah.” Yuuri swallows. “Maybe. I-I wasn’t sure—I’ll probably go and, and get one in a bit.” He hopes it isn’t obvious how horrendously he’s shaking.

“I can go ahead and get it for you.” The figure beside him shifts slightly. “On the house.”

This time, this time, Yuuri looks. He’s too shocked not to. His eyes land on the familiar uniform all the employees here work, and then travel upwards, landing on the brilliant blue eyes which were the only thing he remembered from his awkward eye contact moment. He sees now that they’re set in a beautifully sculpted face framed by honest-to-god silver hair.

How in the world does someone like this end up working here?

Approximately three seconds later, when the beautiful stranger is laughing softly and Phichit’s grin has reached a point bordering on manic, Yuuri realizes he said that out loud.

“Uh,” strange beautiful man starts, running a hand through his hair. It falls perfectly back into place. “Work-study? I go to the local college.” He tips his head just enough that it seems like he’s sharing a secret, which is enhanced by the way he drops his voice and says, “and all the library jobs were taken.”

“Isn’t that funny, Yuuri?” Phichit pipes in. “He goes to the local college, just like us. And you know who works in the library?” Phichit’s eyes are practically sparkling with whatever it is that he’s up to, and Yuuri tries to subtly shake his head even though he knows that Phichit is like an oncoming steam train: there’s nothing stopping him now. “You!”

Okay, Yuuri is ready to disappear into his sweater again.

“Oh really?” His voice settles on Yuuri’s shoulders like a soft caress. “What a small world.” Yuuri’s eyes flash to his quickly and is greeted with a smile, and it’s so infectious that Yuuri somehow finds himself giving one in return. “So, about that milkshake, Yuuri.” The intensity of the eye contact that Yuuri suddenly finds himself involved in is more intimate than most things he’s experienced in his young adult life. “What’ll it be? Cookies and cream is my favorite.”

“O-okay.” Somehow Yuuri’s voice comes out weirdly soft and breathy and makes the back of his neck hot. It’s extremely unfair that this guy knows Yuuri’s name and he has no idea what his is—why doesn’t this place believe in name tags? Beautiful stranger has a slightly weird look on his face, and Yuuri’s suddenly wondering if he did something wrong, having all the time in the world to dwell on it as the employee excuses himself to go and get Yuuri’s milkshake.

“What just happened?” Yuuri finds himself asking, his eyes tracking the stranger’s back as he walks away, and Phichit is a bubbling and gurgling fountain of delighted giggles.

“You just got a free milkshake.” Phichit has his phone out, and Yuuri already wonders how much of what just happened is on snapchat. “Seriously, the next time you tell me you are bad at flirting, I’m using this as evidence.”

“Evidence?” Yuuri splutters. “I didn’t do anything!” If anything, it should be exhibit A of why one Yuuri Katsuki is bad at flirting and has never had a boyfriend of any sort. Phichit was here the whole time, he saw the stuttering and the inability to speak and the… Well, the everything.

Phichit ducks his head and bats his eyelashes. “How does someone like you end up working here?” It’s clearly supposed to be an imitation of Yuuri, but it sounds too… Coy. And maybe flirty? Yuuri has never been good at discerning flirtation from kindness. Phichit laughs again. “Poor guy, I think he fell in love with you immediately.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” People don’t fall for Yuuri. It’s not a thing that happens.

“Yeah, because they just give free milkshakes to everyone. That’s why he offered me one,” Phichit teases. He holds up his phone again. “The worst kinds of heart breakers are the ones who don’t even know they are ones.”

“Stop filming me.” Yuuri swats at Phichit’s camera, but he evades the attack, snickering in good humor the whole time. “Listen, he’s just… Being nice. He probably gives plenty of people free milkshakes.” The thought, however practical, is a lot more disappointing than Yuuri was expecting. He rubs absently at his chest, like maybe it’ll alleviate the feeling.

“You are hopeless.” But Phichit seems to find more delight than frustration from this, and Yuuri sighs, slumping back in his chair.

“One cookies and cream milkshake.”

The proclamation is the only thing that announces the employee’s return, and he presents the styrofoam cup with a flourish. “For Yuuri.” He winks.

He winks.

Yuuri’s mouth hangs open, but no words are forthcoming.

“Now.” His attention is fully on Yuuri, and Yuuri can’t find it in himself to look away. It’s like the Phichit, the restaurant, and all the patrons cease to exist for the moment of a single breath. “Can I get you anything else?”

You?

That time, thankfully, Yuuri doesn’t actually voice his thoughts, but he does manage a small shake of his head.

“N-no. Thank you.” It’s hard to speak when there’s a lump the size of a baseball in his throat suddenly.

There’s a sure and gentle touch to his wrist then, and Yuuri traces the fingertips to the hand and up the arm to the beautiful stranger. It feels like his blood freezes in his veins.

“My pleasure.” The smile is butter soft and warm, and then it brightens to its full power as his hand withdraws and he straightens. “Maybe I’ll see you around the library sometime.” And with that, he leaves, and Yuuri is left to stare dumbly after him, still not quite capable of processing what exactly just happened.

He looks at the milkshake, topped with a beautiful swirl of whipped cream and a bright red cherry, like he can’t really have it—when his eyes catch on bold, black writing on the cup that doesn’t belong to the design.

It says Victor in neat, printed lettering, with ten numbers very clearly written below it. Almost like a… Oh.

Oh.

Yuuri looks up, eyes wide, and catches Victor’s eyes across the lobby. He gets a soft smile and gentle tip of the head in return, and Yuuri ducks his gaze, gripping the fabric of his shirt over his heart.

He’s going to go out on a limb here and say that maybe, maybe, Victor was flirting with him.

(It is, quite honestly, the best milkshake Yuuri has ever had.)